#wrestling soulmates. my beloved
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oplishin · 9 months ago
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i cannot stop thinking about this moment after bayley and sasha's match at NXT Takeover: Respect 2015.
After a night of excellent heel work and "Sasha's ratchet" chants, the crowd instead starts to chant "thank you Sasha," and Sasha falls to the ground crying.
Someone had to play the villain and lose the first ever women's ppv main event, and she did so beautifully.
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rogueddie · 1 year ago
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Secretly strong Chrissy Cunningham my beloved. Arm wrestling with Steve as a joke over being Robins soulmate and all of them think Steve will win but Chrissy absolutely dominates.
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satanstruemistress · 3 months ago
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I don't go here (aew) but I am so intrigued as to what's going on bc I've been seeing posts about it all day where I almost never have before 👀 👀 👀
That’s probably because of me lol. I’d apologize but honestly it’s so good.
Honestly, AEW is my favorite wrestling promotion right now, but people don’t seem to want to give it a chance, because they’re ride-or-die for WWE. And WWE is good! But it’s geared more toward kids, where AEW is geared more toward adults. Idk how much you know about wrestling in general, so I’ll explain the whole thing as thoroughly as possible :)
My favorite storylines right now are: Deranged Blond Cowboy and Afro-goth Vampire wannabe (Hangman Adam Page and Swerve Strickland, respectively) hate each other but are inexplicably unable to free themselves from each other. There’s been stabbings, breaking and entering, blood drinking, body stapling, hanging the cowboy with a chain, and the cowboy stabbing a needle into Swerve’s face.
They’re the fandom’s OTP somehow. (They deserve it). We want them to be tag team champions. They’re wrestling soulmates. (They work together super well, no matter if they’re feuding or a team.) There’s a whole playlist I’ve watched a few times on YouTube, that goes through the whole storyline so far. It’s fantastic.
And: “Blackpool Combat Club gets Poly Divorced, violently.”
There’s a lot of history there, but what it boils down to now is: Bryan Danielson, one of the best wrestlers in the world, ever, needs to retire. He’s got a neck issue that needs to be addressed sooner rather than later, but the owner of AEW wanted him to have one last hurrah, so he basically dragged him kicking and screaming into the storyline where he won the World Title from Swerve (my beloved Afro goth vampire). Danielson said he’s not going to just give up the title, he’s gonna fight until he physically couldn’t anymore, and THEN he’d retire from full-time action.
Danielson has a group he’s in, Blackpool Combat Club (BCC for short) with dudes he’s been friends with for a long time, that was started by their mentor, William Regal who is no longer with AEW. (His irl son is in WWE’s “developmental territory - the proving grounds before they actually go in front of approximately half a zillion people).
Danielson’s BCC buddy Jon Moxley came back from some time off and was like “Hey this isn’t your company anymore” and confused the shit out of fans and coworkers alike.
But anyway, the night Danielson successfully defended the AEW World Title for the first time, his BCC team mates Moxley, Claudio (they’re hard to tell apart at first, both tall bald white dudes) and their protégée Wheeler Yuta, along with “new recruits” The Bastard Pac, and scary lady Marina Shafir. They were celebrating. Smiles, kisses, and hugs all around. Pac even hugged Wheeler.
Which is when we knew something was going down. Pac is, in fact, a Bastard. He’s not a lovey/huggy man. He was holding Wheeler back while Claudio uppercutted Danielson which shook fans EVERYONE. And then Mox grabbed a plastic bag and tried to suffocate Danielson while Wheeler sobbed and cried out for Bryan whilst being held back by Pac and ineffectively comforted by Claudio.
Danielson was escorted out on a stretcher that night.
Blah blah blah, a week or so passes, and we see Wheeler…not doing well. At all. He’s dead-eyed, almost catatonic, but he’s using Danielson’s finisher to win matches.
BCC tries to get through to him, but he’s not interested. He’s sided with Bryan.
OR SO WE THOUGHT.
Last night, Mox won the title but wasn’t actually all that interested in the Big Prize. He shoved it into a bag. He and the rest of the BCC started beating the shit out of Danielson. But here comes Wheeler Yuta and another man named Darby Allin, to the rescue.
Darby and Wheeler chase them off, but Darby’s back is turned, and when he turns to check on Bryan, who was sitting in the corner behind Yuta, Yuta hit Darby with one of Bryan’s finishing moves called the Busaiku Knee.
I’m a little fuzzy on the direct actions, because I was busy staring open-mouthed at the screen, processing, but Darby ended up taped to the ring ropes, and Wheeler suffocated Danielson this time.
As he’s suffocating his mentor, his childhood hero, Wheeler is BEGGING him to stop fighting it. Just let go. Then a bunch of faces (good guys) run from the back, and finally help get them off him. Namely three dudes named Orange Cassidy, Hook, and Daniel Garcia.
Danielson was taken out on a stretcher. AGAIN.
Here’s fan theory: Mox, Claudio, Wheeler, and the rest of them still love Bryan Danielson. They’re doing this to protect him from himself so he doesn’t end up seriously hurting himself or worse. That’s how they got Wheeler to do what he did. None of them are happy about it, they’re not enjoying it. They just think it’s their only option.
But this is a story, it’s not real, so obviously we’re thinking that this is all Bryan’s doing. He’s KNOWN to be a devil who thrives on his fan’s horror. (Which is a positive thing in this business). We think that this, not the title, was his last big hurrah. THIS is how he wants to go out, setting his irl besties up for a MASSIVE heel (bad guy) run, while simultaneously setting up the guys that came running out to help him, to be the next big faces of the company.
…Anyway, yeah. AEW is fantastic. I highly recommend it. There’s also a lot of silly and fun storylines that won’t leave you traumatized lol.
ALSO TEN YEARS A MUTUAL HOLY SHIT.
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comesitintheclover · 5 months ago
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Six Sentence Sunday Monday 📚📜🖊️
Thank you so much for the tag @bookish-bogwitch! your chart is awesome!
I will remember to try that/ a similar thing if I keep having issues with this fic I'm writing (but I should at least try to slog through a first draft of my trouble chapters first - i just get so anxious that I will fuck up the funny-conflict and make it miserable or something when it's 'perfect' (but vague af) in my brain and has been that way for 4 years...).
And thank you everyone who has tagged me in the last months/year <3 @nausikaaa, @ileadacharmedlife, @monbons, @supercutedinosaurs, @brendughh, @rimeswithpurple, and anyone else if I missed you because my tumblr notifs won't go that far back 😭💗💞💖 I love you all! Thank you for including me in the community even when I haven't been writing for a while! It's been so inspiring seeing what you all have been up to and I've finally started writing again so yay!
My goal is to finish this fic I've been writing for four years (i've written what I'm estimating is 50k words freehand and am transcribing and editing them onto my laptop and I still need to write the other half ... hahahaha 😅. But I love it. ) called *The Long Summer*, within a month (the first draft at least, I'll come back and edit it at a later date. I want to post it on ao3 over a summer so hopefully I will be ready next summer! I need to write it while I still love it!), and then I want to write the first draft of an original story for a month or so/NaNoWriMo, and then I will pick one of my Carry On WIPs to work on (hopefully just in time to celebrate snowbaz's anniversary!)
(The Carry On WIPs in question: I'm thinking I will probably pick my soulmate au fic called Meet the Parents/When You're an Adult You'll Understand, or a trans au called Fraternity house, orrrrr this magical Agony-Aunt fic called Basilton Grimm-Pitch’s 10 Step Plan for Getting Over*(letting himself be in love with) Simon Snow ).
And I'm planning to interact more with wip-wednesdays and six-sentence-sundays from now on to keep me motivated and accountable! (hopefully this works, battling my motivation is like trying to wrestle a fish or something... i'm constantly at a loss with my brain - oh why won't I do things that I love and have time to do??)
....Oh and I want to make some Carry On animations.... (this is probably why I don't do things... Too ideas many and hard to pick. I tried to make a schedule last night that included everything I wanted to do in a day and it was 35 hours long... oops).
*The Long Summer* is a harry potter fic, and since I know all of you lovely people from Carry On, and I know lots of people avoid hp stuff for obvious reasons (JKR is wrong! Trans liberation now!), I will keep the rest of this under the cut <3
here are the first six sentences from my 💗beloved fic💗:
Ron Weasley wasn't an introspective soul. By the time something actually rolled around to happening he would probably have had twelve chances to predict it, if he was Hermione. He presumed something like this would never have happened to Hermione. Summers were probably a lot more quiet in the Muggle world, as an only child, with parents who weren’t - well Hermione was so smart she probably already knew, no there was really no reason to write to her. And Harry - well he didn't want to write to Harry about it either.  Honestly, it would probably be better if he never found out.
(I wrote these when I was 16 and they may need editing but that's for future me to worry about - rn I'm trying to push out a first draft as fast as possible...)
Thank you to anyone who read this far!
Hi!'s, tags, and hand-hearts to everybody 🫶 @stitchy-queerista, @umdiasujo, @carpeosculum, and open tag to anyone who wants to be tagged! <3
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sumechiayuu · 2 years ago
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hina for the ask game :333333333
Sexuality Headcanon: Lesbian
Gender Headcanon: girl
A ship I have with said character: SAKURA AND HINA MY BELOVED they are soulmates I think and they hurt me 😭
A BROTP I have with said character: I think she would be friends with everyone but Byakuya (he’s rich and blonde smh), Yasuhiro (dumb and cringe), and Toko (it’s complicated post-udg they aren't Friends really but they learn to get along and not hate each other) She will wrestle with Genocide Jack gladly however
A NOTP I have with said character: I can't believe I'm saying this but I don't like when I see people ship her with Byakuya or Yasuhiro...i hc byakuya as gay and Yasuhiro is a grown man
A random headcanon: Hina likes to watch marvel movies 💔
General Opinion over said character: SHE IS MY BELOVED...i really like her she makes me happy and very sad
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nagdabbit · 1 year ago
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20 Questions for Writers
tagged by the ever lovely and incomparable @sybilius 💜
1. How many works do you have on AO3?
22
2. What's your total AO3 word count?
251,933
3. What fandoms do you write for?
aew/wrestling right now, stranger things in the fairly recent past, marvel in the far distant past but those fics have been lost to time and we're not gonna revisit them ever
4. What are your top five fics by kudos?
all of my top five are st harringrove fics, which checks out
lamp-bright rind - celebrity chef billy, unable to cook lawyer steve, they're neighbors, there's mistaken identities, there's cooking lessons, there's healing, there's kittens named after varying kinds of pasta
lit up like a match - soulmate au with trans billy. the idea being, what name would appear on your soulmate if you were trans
keep me in your glow - a sequel/companion to lit up like a match
sugar, butter, flour - the first st fic i wrote, a tiny stranger than fiction-ish au, but without the author narration
to carry within us an orchard - a prequel to lamp-bright rind where billy and robin get extremely drunk and bond
5. Do you respond to comments?
i used to be really good about it, but about the time i was finishing lamp-bright rind, i had what i affectionately refer to as a "hit burnout so goddamn hard i lost my entire mind and will to take part in the ever-loving hell of online existence" and just like. stopped writing for a long while. and as i started getting back into writing, and actually logged in to ao3, the number of comments in my inbox genuinely frightened me and the imposter syndrome portion of burnout recovery hit like a freight train, and i still just can't figure out how to make myself hit reply. i cherish the ones that i do get tho. like, so nuch
this has been ✨🌟 therapy appointments are only so long we haven't made it to that part yet 🌟✨ with your friend daggs
6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
i don't think ive written anything with an angsty ending, now that i think about it. not posted, at the very least. the choked out series, if id ever got around to still caring about it enough to finish it, would have had an HELLA angsty ending (the draft after mox left wwe and popped up to attack elias)
7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
lamp-bright rind. just pure golden softness. the dewy soft, morning light, quiet of a kitchen with your beloved, while a ring box weighs down your pocket kind of happy.
8. Do you get hate on fics?
not since the way back of the marvel fandom, when i could scarcely sting a sentence together
9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
i have, but not well and i generally stay away from writing it
10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?
never been posted, but there is a hobbs and shaw/13 rounds 3: lockdown wip that lives forever in my docs and will never be published
11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?
not that ive ever seen
12. Have you ever had a fic translated?
nope
13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?
no, but i think it would be fun!
14. What's your all-time favorite ship?
oof. shit. eddie/mox (/renee). they compel me.
15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
i feel like the bookshop will never get finished and i hate it. like, i know how it's supposed to end, so, just gotta get there
16. What are your writing strengths?
pfft i have no goddamn idea
17. What are your writing weaknesses?
too many words for too little meaning
18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?
i don't think ive included other languages in what fics ive posted, so i haven't actually had to think about how id do it all that much recently. i dont speak a second language, despite my entire family being and speaking swedish, so i feel like i struggle with using other languages in my writing. like, i have no real or true context for how this conversation would go, so i feel like i fumble and use the wrong words or sentence structure
whatever language is being spoken, i like to actually see it in fics. like, i don't like to see it already translated and in english until I've reached the end of the fic. when im in it, i like to actually hear the language and use the context of the story to understand it. or if the narrator isn't the one speaking, have them translate it in character, however (un)reliable they might be. that's just a personal preference tho
19. First fandom you wrote for?
i was a bandom baby in the way back of middle school and that's as close as we're getting and we will speak no more of it
20. Favorite fic you've written?
probably come through callin'
it just. kinda happened very suddenly, at a time when i really needed it and it's just really, extremely important to me
tagging anyone and everyone reading this, if you can read it you have been tagged tell em daggs sent ya
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academicdisasterfic · 2 years ago
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Threshing
drarry | 1.5k | e
A slightly late gift for the lovely @anaxandria-writes for @drarrymicrofic Wheel of Drarry mini-exchange. Thank you to my love @wolfpants for the fantastic beta.
CW for chronic/terminal illness (but with a happy ending).
Years later, Draco would think it all began when the bartender asked him, ‘Would you like the shiraz, sir, or the tempranillo?’
‘Tempranillo,’ Draco said, but as it transpired, they had run out of the tempranillo, and the bartender had to dash out to the back for more, despite Draco’s protests that the shiraz would be fine.
Draco was left to tap his fingers on the wooden counter, and as he gazed aimlessly around the crowded room, he wondered  whether thirty was going to feel any different to twenty-nine.
And that’s when he saw him; lingering by the door, flannel rolled up to his elbows, dark stubble covering his jaw. He looked tired, and Draco knew, knew before he even saw the string appear between them. He didn’t hesitate; it was like drawing breath, walking over to him, and Harry looked so relieved, as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment, even though neither of them could have known, as these things were never able to be predicted, not even by the most gifted Seers or centaurs.
The string shortened and drew them together, and Draco reached out his hand to cup Harry’s face.
‘You look tired,’ Draco said, and Harry leant into his neck, inhaling, grabbing Draco’s waist, drawing their bodies together, fitting Draco’s hip bones against his. Draco gasped.
‘Of course it’d be you,’ Harry muttered, and then, ‘we’re going back to mine.’
They fucked in the kitchen, over dirty dishes and piles of unread mail on the sticky counter, Harry eating Draco from behind until Draco couldn’t take it and wrestled them to the ground, sinking down on Harry’s cock and riding him against the hard wooden floor.
They fucked on the sofa, Draco opening Harry quickly and efficiently so he could take him from behind, Harry whimpering harder, harder into the cushions.
They fucked in Harry’s bed, this time slow and reverent, Harry sucking Draco’s nipples until Draco was thrashing and sobbing, arching up and begging to be touched, and then Harry pushed into him and held his face between his huge, calloused hands. That's when Draco fell in love with him; fell in love as Harry covered him and held him like a precious, beloved thing, like he couldn't believe he was allowed to love, and be loved, by him.
After, spent and exhausted, Draco looked at where the string joined them, and asked, ‘Why now?’
Harry smiled, crooked and sweet, and kissed the back of Draco’s palm.
‘Probably because I’m dying.’
People weren’t supposed to be Horcruxes.
When Voldemort destroyed the part of his soul that lived inside Harry, Harry’s magical core didn’t know what to do. It had spent seventeen years growing and shaping itself around something that was no longer there, and it rebelled.
Harry hadn’t noticed for the first five years or so, too lost in the aftershocks of peace. But then he noticed the exhaustion, then the heart palpitations, the weird visions, the way he couldn’t quite cast like he used to. And by the time the Healers had figured out what had happened, it was far too late.
Back then, he still had good days, and Draco took advantage of them; dragged them out to the mountains, to the seaside, to gay clubs and bars and parades. He moved into Harry’s flat and quit his job so they could spend the bad days in bed together, doing the Prophet crossword and drinking tea and watching daytime soaps. He couldn’t feel Harry’s pain exactly, not like in the soulmate stories he was told as a child, but sometimes he did think he knew Harry better than he knew himself; knew the meaning of an eyebrow twitch, or a downturned lip, or a slight hand tremor. Loving Harry had been easy, effortless; like falling through clouds, and then when Harry was writhing in spasms, or sleeping through whole days, or waking in sweats and shouts, it was more painful than Draco had ever imagined pain could be.
Sometimes, Harry would get distant and withdraw, wracked with guilt that the bond hadn’t given Draco a choice but to care for him. Draco would get angry that Harry could even conceive of such a thing; even contemplate the thought of them not being together. Harry still wanted to put everyone else before himself, and Draco was still the same spoiled boy who wanted more than he should. He never made any apologies for that.
Sex became more gentle, with more laughter. Draco snorted into Harry’s mouth once when Harry tried to wrap his legs around him and his entire back cracked; Draco placed pillows under his head and knees instead, and sank down on him slowly, just like the first time, only now appreciating every detail; the greys in Harry’s hair that Draco actually thought were really fucking sexy, the soft dark hair beneath his navel, the dark circles beneath his eyes that refused to budge. 
Sometimes Harry couldn’t finish, and Draco would try not to be upset about it. If he was, it was never in front of Harry.
The summer they both turned thirty five, Harry stopped being able to cast.
He was still magical; Draco could feel it, even when Harry couldn’t, could feel the golden warmth surrounding him, and could also feel its frustration, the way Harry’s magic so desperately wanted to escape and couldn’t.
Things got worse after that.
Harry’s fits were worse, and he was addled and confused after, taking hours to come back to himself. Draco could only sit by the bed and stroke his hair, read to him, watch as Longbottom and Lovegood came in with increasingly bizarre herbal concoctions which never did anything, but Draco appreciated them both anyway, the way they teased Harry, reminded him who he was.
Granger and Weasley were more distressed and less able to be funny, but they tried as hard as they could. Rose liked to snuggle next to Harry after his fits, tell him about her friends and teachers, knowing he wouldn’t remember the details but was always soothed by her voice.
Teddy didn’t visit very much, which Draco couldn’t blame him for; he’d lost enough parents.
One morning, Draco was woken up by Harry’s lips on his neck, and his hand over his stomach.
‘I want you to give the Invisibility Cloak to Hugo,’ he whispered. Draco’s blood ran cold. ‘James and Sirius’ mirror to Ron. The Potter fortune to Teddy. Everything else is yours.’
Draco wanted to scream at him. To point to the string, still a vibrant red connecting them, and ask him how he could even fathom leaving Draco; why his body didn’t love Draco enough to keep fighting, to stay alive. 
But Harry had already fallen asleep again.
Not even Voldemort had dared approach the fae. They took more than they gave, always, but as long as the thing they gave Draco was Harry, he didn’t care what he’d sacrifice.
The Forbidden Forest was very dark, and very quiet.
‘You called,’ came a voice. The fae never showed themselves. 
‘I require your help,’ Draco said, voice firm. 
‘For your mate?’
‘Yes.’ Draco tried to imagine Harry, seventeen and terrified, walking to his death out here. He just had to be half as brave, and he could do this. And then he thought about Harry in their bed, skin blotchy and grey, his body shaking in pain, and everything else faded into insignificance. ‘He’s dying. And he saved you too, that day.’
‘That’s debatable.’ The voice sounded vaguely affronted, and Draco stared stonily ahead. ‘It would have taken more than a mere human to eradicate us.’
‘I know. But it would have been harder without Harry.’ Draco squeezed his eyes closed. ‘You would have had to leave the Forest.’
Something squawked overhead, startling Draco's eyes open. The stars were very bright.
‘You do have the power to save your mate,’ the voice echoed, seeming closer, and Draco’s heart soared. ‘But something must be given; energy cannot be destroyed or created. A life cannot be created from anything other than a life. Do you understand?’
Harry was never going to forgive him. Draco was okay with that.
Years later, Draco would think it all actually began when the bartender asked him, ‘What do you want tonight, sir?’
Draco flicked his gaze over him, and the bartender flushed. ‘Usual spot, Sebastian. Five minutes.’
Pulses thrummed in the dark, smoky room. The night smelled like sex; arousal and sweat and blood.
Harry had started by the time he got out there. Sebastian was always too keen. It was one of the things they liked about him.
‘Hello,’ Draco said, amused, and Harry unlatched himself from the young man’s neck. He was so beautiful like this; selfish and greedy and so very alive.
Or a version of it.
‘Does he taste good, Harry?’ Draco asked. Harry and Sebastian groaned at the same time. ‘My turn.’
He did taste good, Draco thought with satisfaction. Sebastian moaned as Draco pressed his hardness against him, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Behind them, Harry was panting, and when Draco finally sent Sebastian back inside with a Blood-Replenishment Potion and a quick cleaning charm, Harry was on him in seconds.
‘Here?’ Draco asked, amused, and Harry growled softly.
‘I can’t wait.’ His voice was gruff and low and his eyes were trained on Draco’s lips. Draco smiled and lifted his hand to cup Harry’s face, string dangling between them, blood-red and taut.
‘Sweetheart. We have time.’
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stiltonbasket · 3 years ago
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And, maybe, just like a scene right after LWJ realizes his soulmate is dead + some inkling of an idea when he hears WWX dissapeared?
Lan Wangji felt his soulmate die in Hejian.
His brother will ask, in later years, what the pain of it felt like—after Xiongzhang’s own zhiyin dies, and leaves him as a shell of his former self—but even then, after nearly a third of his lifetime spent contemplating that wretched moment, Lan Wangji will not be able to explain it.
He was in the middle of a battlefield when it happens, fighting off two Wen soldiers at once. Lan Wangji saw the taller one lift his sword, and prepared to duck in time to avoid it and answer the blow with one of his own; but then his legs went out from under him, and he crumpled into a pool of someone else’s blood like a sapling felled by an axe. Over his head, he vaguely glimpsed one of the Wen cultivators gutting the other by accident, and screaming as if the very life had been sucked away from him—but Lan Wangji lay silent through it all, consumed by the dull, empty fire burning in his lower dantian, and languished in the nightmarish sleep that followed for three dark days and nights.
When he woke, the first news he heard was of Wei Ying’s disappearance, and the pieces fell into place so swiftly that Lan Wangji nearly took Bichen to his stomach before Nie Mingjue burst into his tent and wrestled the sword away from him.
Everything made sense, all of a sudden—for of course Lan Wangji’s soulmate laughed so often that even Shufu knew the tells in Wangji’s face that indicated his zhiyin’s joy, and of course Lan Wangji’s mother’s death had grieved him so deeply that nothing brought him enough joy to make him laugh again. He does not remember laughing at all after learning that his mother was gone, not once, and if a soulmate’s laugh had to be one of pure joy, then Wei Ying would have had every reason to believe that his own was dead.
“I should have been with him,” he croaks, when his brother breaks down and begs him to eat a little plain rice with tea. “Wei Ying was my fated one, xiongzhang. I should have been there with him, even—even just to hold his hand at the end.”
Lan Xichen covers his mouth in horror. The teacup falls from his hands, soaking the hem of Lan Wangji’s bloodstained robes, and he mouths Wei Ying’s name a couple of times before sweeping the shards of his teacup into a waste bin.
“Should...should I inform Jiang Wanyin? We can send one of the soldiers in recovery out as a runner, the roads—”
“Jiang Wanyin is looking for him,” Lan Wangji says blankly. “I must go to join him.”
Xichen does not order him to stay, or try to persuade him to rest before he leaves. Lan Wangji leaves for Hubei the next morning, carrying nothing but his two spiritual weapons and a small bag of dried rations, and it is all he can do to keep himself upright when he finds Jiang Wanyin and hears of his fruitless search for Wei Ying.
“He promised he would wait,” the other man insisted, his eyes alight like a couple of brands while some no-name cousin of Jin Zixuan’s remarked that Wei Ying—Lan Wangji’s bright, beloved Wei Ying—must be dead or imprisoned by now. “Wei Wuxian has never broken a vow to me, Jin Zixun. Goodbye!”
Lan Wangji joins him that very afternoon, dogging his footsteps across the jianghu for any whisper of his fated one, and nearly breaks with unabashed joy when he finds Wei Ying alive at the Yiling courier station three months later.
He knows now that Wei Ying is not his soulmate, but it matters less than nothing to him. Furthermore, Lan Wangji can’t even bring himself to admonish Wei Ying for his use of demonic cultivation, or for his cruelty in disposing of the Wens.
After all, had Lotus Pier not burned at the hands of these very men? Had some of them not been present at the sacking of the Cloud Recesses, and cheered Wen Chao on from the sidelines while he demanded that Luo Qingyang be strung up and bled to bait the Xuanwu of Slaughter?
Wangji steps over Wen Zhuliu’s cooling corpse with his heart newly pieced together again, and takes Wei Ying into his arms.
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writefightandflightclub · 3 years ago
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Promises (Frankie Morales x GN!reader)
Summary: you’ve been married to Frankie for a decade and he is your dream come true. However, you can’t help but feel that he is a dream you will one day wake from. In your experience, love ends. Can your sweet Frankie convince you he wants you forever, and then some?
Genre: some angst and then teeth-rotting fluff. Soft! Husband! Frankie - established LTR.
A/n: DON’T LOOK AT ME. Not my best characterisation of Frankie at all, but I was in some feels and I needed to see this scenario play out. Blast me. I think it turned out cute.
Rating: Teen, I think, but my blog is 18+, thank you.
Warnings: married couple; quite intense relationship insecurities (unfounded but feelings are valid); abandonment themes (past implied, fear of in future); casual alcohol consumption; language. TYPOS and mistakes. Very subtly implied sexual activity (off-screen, non-explicit); kissing.
GIF: @uuuhshiny
Tagging: @pedrostories
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“Ten years of marriage. Fuck me, Cat,” Santi breezes, accompanied by a loose, throaty laugh. “Hell. I knew from the first time you met this one” -he gestures to you with the mouth of his beer bottle and a smile creasing his eyes- “that you were in some deep shit. But who the fuck knew we’d be sitting here toasting you a decade later, hermano?”
“I coulda guessed,” Will beams and you return his easy smile. “These two got it made.”
The group all clink beer bottles and exchange goofy, beer-addled smiles. Happily, you link your closest arm into the crook of Frankie’s where he idles next to you in the booth, smoothing your other palm up and down over his soft, worn flannel and basking in the jovial atmosphere, your dearest friends and the love of your life surrounding you.
“Well. Congrats, to the Morales family,” Benny pipes up with a beaming flash of teeth as your bottles touch. “Ten fucking years, boys,” Benny adds with jumped up eyebrows and a little shake of his head with respect and disbelief at your milestone. “Power to ya, man. It’s beautiful.”
At that, Frankie twists to plant a little kiss on your head where it’s resting on top of his shoulder, his grizzled, patchy beard tickling against you. You can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks, and it makes your own cheeks hurt in turn. “Ten years with my soulmate,” Frankie purrs, his voice logged with such wet, sappy sentiment that it gains good-natured groans from the group.
Santi’s expression becomes wistful, and he swigs on his beer pensively. “Shit. I couldn’t do what you guys do. Sticking with one person? I gotta play the field a bit longer, man.”
Santi’s comment is light-hearted, you realise. You know that deep down he longs to settle, to be loved, but you indulge him in his bravado with a polite chuckle. Benny, meanwhile, almost spurts out his beer at the prospect that Santi is still trying to sell himself as a bit of player, even as the wash of grey has crept entirely over his once raven curls.
“What?” Santi says, his defensiveness spiking, even as his words are paired with a lopsided grin. “My knees have some life in them yet.”
“It’s not your knees I’m worried about,” Benny sniggers, and the two fall straightforwardly into characteristic bickering. Your eyes crease with fondness. You don’t think the two of them will ever truly grow up, even if Benny does have his partner and four kids - a fifth soon to join the family. That man wants a whole damn squad.
You let the boys’ banter wash over you, a pleasant background noise. You enjoy the slight buzz from the beer, and the sturdy warmth of your beloved Frankie at your side.
You’re happy.
You really are. Here with your husband and your best friends, in celebration.
But… there is a niggle you have been wrestling with. A whisper under the surface. A worry that you’ve had ever since you found Frankie.
How much longer can this last?
Frankie is too good to be true, and sometimes, you feel like he’s a dream you’re about to wake from.
“What’s your secret then, guys?” Will asks, politely shifting the focus back to you and Frankie, and you quickly counteract the frown that has unwittingly settled itself on your brow. “Got any sage wisdom for the rest of us?”
Yeah. Sure you do. You’d have plenty if you thought about it. Your relationship is stronger than ever. It’s a true partnership, and you take care of each other. Adore each other. But there’s something about this milestone which has your age-old insecurities flaring up.
Maybe he’s bored of me.
Maybe he’ll want someone else. Maybe he does already.
Maybe he’s unhappy.
Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore.
Maybe he regrets marrying me at all.
Maybe he’ll leave me.
How much longer can this last?
A hard, involuntary gulp trails down your throat, and you attempt to plaster over your niggles with a soft, unconvincing laugh. “Well… ten years and Frankie hasn’t left me just yet. Think we’re doing okay - I’ll take whatever I can get.”
Your comment could have been passed off as a light-hearted one, if it wasn’t for the fissures in your voice. The slight wetness in your eyes, causing the boys to exchange surreptitious glances of concern and awkwardness with each other.
“Baby,” Frankie says into your hairline, voice rich with love. “Never. I’ll never leave you.”
You want to believe him. You do. You have tried.
Frankie makes it easy to trust his love for you; but your insecurities make it hard, and it’s a constant battle. You wish you could be certain, but in your experience, the only certainty is that eventually, love ends.
Love is routinely talked about as if it’s forever, but it’s more often fleeting. Only ever temporary. No-one loves you your whole life, after all, do they? Even if you feel that you love Frankie so much that it hurts - that an eternal flame burns in the pit of you which could light the vastness of the universe and the rest of time… in your experience, love ends.
This love will end. His love for me will end.
He had promised you he would be with you until death, but you’d never had it in you to believe Frankie’s promise completely. Even as that made you feel guilty, as though you were doubting him.
You’re along for the ride, for sure, as long as it lasts. You’re invested and you’re damn grateful; but… somewhere deep down, you just keep waiting for it to run its course. To… stop. For the wheels to fall off. For it to languish into nothing. To be torn apart abruptly, intricately stitched together souls ripped painfully from the joining seams. There seem to be a million ways it could end and only one way it could last, and a part of you has been waiting for it to end since it began.
People leave you.
People have left you over and over, one way or another.
Why would Frankie be any different? Frankie is a dream come true; and dreams always end, don’t they?
In your experience, love always ends.
Frankie makes it easy; so easy. But other things make it hard.
You smooth the worry lines from your face, glossing over them with a closed-lipped smile.
“I know. I know, Francisco,” you say with as much lightness as you can muster, covering over the fissures with an attempt at humour. “But if you ever change your mind you let me know, mmmkay?”
And, you stand from the table, under the guise of buying a fresh round of drinks, that single blaring thought is loud in your head.
How much longer can this last?
He was younger when he married you.
You were younger too.
You were different.
He couldn’t know how it would turn out.
How you would turn out.
What you would become together.
Who else he would meet. Who else he might want.
A tangle of emotion burns in your gut. You wish more than anything that you could feel safe and secure in this love -it’s what Frankie deserves for the way he so diligently loves you - but some things, quite simply, make it hard.
You hasten over to the bar and join the queue, grateful that you are distanced and facing away from the group as tears shimmer in your eyes, which you try hard to bite back.
Maybe he regrets it.
Maybe you’re runing his night by getting all upset.
Maybe you’re ruining his life.
Maybe he’d be better off without you.
Maybe he’d be happier with someone else. Happier alone.
People always leave you.
You’re not good enough to be loved forever.
Love always ends.
“Never. You hear me?” Frankie asks, drawing up to your side in the queue, his warm hand appearing at your waist and smoothing the faintest and gentlest of circles there.
You close your eyes tight and maintain your position, hands folded in front of you.
Frankie knows you. He knows you in a way no-one else ever has. He is familiar then, with the weight of your insecurities. He has held you while you cried over them. He has kissed them from your bare skin. He has driven as many of them away as he could, with his love alone.
But he knows. He knows that a certain, ever present shadow lingers. That sometimes, it rears its ugly head. That sometimes, loving him hurts.
He knows you so well, in every aspect, and he shows it in everything he does. To him it is effortless to love you. Painless. Healing.
Even the weight of his hand at your back is perfectly judged. The tone of his voice. The careful balance between the amount of reassurance he knows you need and the amount of softness he figures you can bear before buckling under your emotions. He knows you won’t wish to get upset in front of the group. He knows what you need.
He is here by your side. He always is. You wish you could believe he always will be.
He’s here with you now, and you are endlessly grateful as he kisses the top of your head and reiterates his promises.
He’s a dream come true, this man.
You love Frankie Morales so much it hurts.
But there it is, all the same. That niggle. That shadow.
How much longer can this last?
One week later
“It’s been ten years, baby,” Frankie begins, his voice all choked up.
He has whisked you away on a surprise weekend to the cabin, the two of you enjoying quality time - relaxing days and cosy nights, and celebrating your milestone in the way which suits you both; together. No distractions. A “dumbass free weekend”, you call it, finally getting some time away from the squad as well as the stresses and strains of daily responsibilities.
Your insecurities have waned since that day in the bar, though they aren’t all the way gone - might never be, but they are far enough from your thoughts right now for you to be present in the moment, enjoying your husband in all respects - his company, his conversation, and his body, whether looped in his arms with your head against his chest as the fire crackles before you, or writhing, smooth and warm and tangled under the itchy wool blankets as you stave off the chill in other ways too. You are in heaven, spending slow days and nights tasting wine on his tongue and cologne on his neck and salt on his skin. Basking in him. It’s a rare and perfect treat.
This evening, you are standing out on the wraparound porch, where Frankie had hung strings of fairy lights upon your arrival, giving the place an ethereal glow.
You nod and smile through shined eyes as Frankie speaks, your husband gathering your hands up in his and bringing them to his lips. He plants trembling kisses over your knuckles, your whole middle aching with the tenderness of it.
Aching because of loving, and because of being loved in equal measure.
He drops a kiss on your wedding ring with a smile - as though he’s still happy about the promise he made you all those years ago. As though it continues to bring him joy; the fact that you are his. That you promised to love him.
Frankie has been doting on you all weekend, of course - always does- but his statement smacks of a new intensity. A depth of feeling and intent that makes you straighten up and listen.
“Ten years, baby,” he purrs in his revving, rich voice. “And I love you more every goddamn day.”
A half laugh half sob escapes your lips as Frankie’s deep eyes shine with an adoration more sublime than the starlight, creases radiating out across his cheeks and deepening that single dimple on his cheek.
You’re so happy.
So happy it hurts.
“Ten years,” he continues, his voice cracking, as though he needs to find more room in the thrum of his voice to let all the love in. Imbuing it with even more warmth than usual. The sound of it, thick with emotion, makes a lump ball in your throat. “A lot has changed along the way, cariño. We’ve changed. You’ve changed. But I love who you’ve grown into. I love who we are together.” Your eyes search his, with a rare trepidation, and you find nothing but sincerity living there. “I love the life we’ve built, together. I have roots now, baby. Something I didn’t have for a long time. I have that thanks to you.”
Your lower lip trembles as Frankie continues his praises and his professions.
Frankie is a quiet, thoughtful soul. An observer. A perceiver. A man of few words; and, when he does elect to speak, to share, his words are chosen carefully. That means when he speaks now, his sentiments are all the more profound; you know he does not say things he does not mean.
Frankie inhales a breath, a punctuating moment before gently dropping your hands and reaching inside his jacket, face cloaked with a soft, watery smile.
“I say it, that I’ll never leave you. That I don’t want anyone else but you. But I want you to know it. To believe it. And I figure, if asking you to be mine, and promising to be yours -that one time all those years back isn’t enough, I’ll ask you again. To show you I don’t regret this. That I would make that same decision -from ten years ago- a thousand times over, baby.”
Frankie pulls out a small blue velvet box, and your palms travel up to your face, covering your mouth in shock.
“I would marry you again today,” Frankie chokes, tears beading in his eyes. “In a heartbeat. I would marry you again tomorrow. And the day after that.” He gets down on one knee, wooden boards creaking beneath him as he settles in place at your feet. “I would choose you then, baby, and I choose you now. I’ll choose you every damn day of my life. I promise you.”
Frankie ceremoniously flips open the lid of the blue velvety box, and to your surprise, there is a pendant and chain pooled inside, coordinated perfectly with your wedding ring, sparkling up at you and glinting in the fairy lights.
You look down at your husband, misty eyed and entirely taken aback for a moment, causing Frankie’s face to split into a grin.
“You already have a ring. You’re wearing my promise on your finger. I’ll hang it ‘round your neck too. I’ll put my promise on every inch of you,” Frankie’s voice cracks and with it tears ball in his shined eyes. “I’ll get up in front of you and everyone all over again and show them how much I love you. Will keep loving you. So, will you marry me, baby…” - his mouth tips into a cautious smile- “…again?”
“Frankie….” you breathe, your fingers still clasped over your mouth, shaking against your lips as your husband sets the box aside, in favour of smoothing his palms up and down your thighs and hips, needing to touch you. Smoothing his promise into you with his palms like you are a blessing cupped in his hands.
Tears spill over your cheeks, confused noises of surprise and elation and emotion passing your lips.
“Frankie,” you repeat, looking down at him on one knee for you, asking you to be his.
Just like last time. A little older; sure. A little greyer. But every bit as sincere.
Ludicrously, Frankie almost looks just as nervous as he did the first time, and it causes a sweet, musical laugh to escape you as you reach down to clasp his warm hands in yours.
“So… will you?” he asks, his soft brown eyes swimming with apprehension. “I chose who you were then, and I choose who you are now. Do you choose me, to be with you?”
You choose him. Of course you do.
You choose him everyday.
You know that this is a gesture. You know that this may have been spurred on by a desire to calm your insecurities. But Frankie doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. Looking at him now, you know he means it just as much as he did ten years ago, and, here’s the kicker; maybe even more so. Maybe even more so because your love has only depeened since then. Because you have become more solid and more intertwined and know each other better. You are better able to promise. Better able to love, with all these new parts of yourselves uncovered.
“Fuck. Please say yes,” Frankie says, reaching up to scratch his mop of hair, and a small quiver in his voice - hovering somewhere between nerves and humour.
Your face splits into a grin of unadulterated happiness, adoration spilling out of you. “Yes, Frankie. Yes. I’ll marry you again.”
With a gasp of air, Frankie surges up to kiss you, sudden and tender, then his arms drawing you more deeply into his sturdy embrace.
“I love you,” he revs softly into your hair as he kisses your hairline. “You make me the happiest man alive.”
A fresh batch of tears -happy tears- wet your cheek. “I love you so much it hurts, Frankie.”
He pulls back from you then, a dull, concerned spark in his eyes, his firm hands planted on your shoulders so he can examine you. With the crook of his forefinger, he swipes away a stray tear, his eyes shining with intensity. You see Frankie select his words carefully, turning them over in his head before he settles on them. “It shouldn’t hurt to love me, baby.” A lump swells in your throat as his finger traces along your jaw - hooks under your chin. It shouldn’t. Frankie makes it so easy, but other things make it hard.
“Sometimes… sometimes it does,” you admit, the bitter pain of your insecurities flaring subtly in your eyes.
Frankie nods slowly in understanding, drawing you closer, and a tentative smile passes over his sweet face.
“I know, baby.” He does. He does know. He knows you, and he loves you. “I know I can’t take your pain away,” he admits, winding his hands around your waist, a gentle heat brewing in his eyes. “But… if it hurts… will you let me kiss it better?”
You beam at him, brimming over with love, and a longing to hold Frankie closer - skin-to-skin - spreads warmly through your middle.
How much longer can this last?
You hope it can last forever, and, as Frankie gently draws your lips to his, for once you let yourself believe it. As he adorns your whole body with his promises, kiss by kiss falling over your skin like jewels, it finally doesn’t hurt to love him.
It finally doesn’t hurt to be loved.
There is a different voice you take note of. A faint one, but one you hope to stoke.
One whispering:
This can last.
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thesmokingguns · 2 years ago
Text
Soulmate Search Chapter 8
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Minors DNI 18+
Izzy POV
My fingers ran through Jackson’s hair as she slept on my chest. Running my fingers through her hair and playing with the silky tendrils of her hair as I watched the way she seemed so content in her dreams.
She was naked in the early sunlight, laying against me more than the mattress, which I preferred. She felt safe with me and it showed with the way that she laid against my heart, the lullaby that helped her sleep.
My dream girl. My beloved. My soulmate.
What was she going to do when I told her that I needed to travel to New York to help mix the record? Would she just go with me without hesitating and just take this as part of our adventure together? I wanted her with me always and the idea of not knowing how long I was going to be there made me more desperate to have her come.
The soft sigh made me look back down at her, watching the way she shifted before her eyes fluttered open and she was looking up at me with hazy sleepy eyes. The way her smile blossomed across her face, easy as she looked at me with love in her eyes. She owned my soul, my heart, all my thoughts.
“‘Morning. Wanna take me out to brunch?” leave it to my girl to wake up and be thinking of food already. Maybe because she was always cooking for us she deserved to go out to eat.
“Good Morning, my love.” I was bending down to kiss her, letting her nuzzle against me. Her body was warm as she shimmied against me, letting me roll her over. Her hair splayed against the pillows and she was smiling as she reached up, hands tangling with my hair and pulling me down to kiss her.
Brunch was going to have to wait.
Her legs had opened and I knew her body enough to allow myself to slide into her, hand cupping her face as she shook her head, smirking at her. It was easy to make love to her, to allow our bodies to become one. The way she was soft under me, so welcoming and easy to get along with. Her hips held me in tight, ankles locked behind my thighs as she held me close.
“I love you, sweets.'' She used the nickname for me, her arms wrapping behind my neck to pull me down for a kiss. Our hips rolling together with the easy familiarity of two people who were crazy in love with each other.
“I love you move.”
“It’s not a competition, Stradlin.” she was rocking against me, rolling me so that I was pinned under her, pulling up so I could take in the way her body moved as I was inside it. “And if it was, I would always win.” she rested her hand on my chest, her fingers searching the space, palm resting against my heart, the beat seemed to set her pace.
I wasn’t going to argue with her, there was no point in arguing with her because she wouldn’t stop and it didn’t matter. Our love was so charged that it would always wrestle and be growing with passion daily.
“Izzy, I’m gonna…die if we don’t get a bottomless mimosa brunch.” she panted out, her silly smile on her face as I tsked, sitting up and placing her legs behind as her arms wrapped around me.
She was always smiling with me and I knew her smile made her feel safe. The comfort level she had with me as she shifted her hips against me, the slow rocking of my own as I nipped at her lip, stealing kisses as she softly moaned, so quiet as she rested against me, letting my body guide us both.
The glisten of her sweat on her brow, the way she was still heavy eyed with sleep. But my girl waned to go to brunch and there was only so much daylight,
The little squeak she let out, her nails digging into my shoulders as she was raised off the bed, followed by the gasp as I sunk deeper in her. My girl was greedy and as her eyes flashed like a neon sign for more I knew that she wanted to cum. But there was two hours before her brunch menu at her favorite spot switched over to dinner. And as I set her down on the sink, reaching for the shower to turn on I knew we could multitask.
“Hard. Fast.” Two words made my head snap to look at her, her feet drawing me close, trying to get me to fuck her harder, faster but in the morning I wanted to take my time with her, let things.
“Slow. Steady.” I was picking her up and bringing her into the shower, “We have time, my beloved.” I was watching her, the water over her as she pouted at me and tried to get her way with me
“Please? I just want to cum with you inside me. I want to feel full of you. I want to feel your cum inside me all of brunch. Need to know that I’m yours, only yours.”
My beloved knew how to get her way.
She was sipping her mimosa, my denim jacket draped over her shoulders because she insisted on eating outside even in the chill. Looking like a queen with her thigh high boots and tight leather skirt, an oversized tshirt half tucked in and my sunglasses. Her outfit blended between our two closets, something I loved.
“I need to ask you something.” I was nervous as she reached for a beignet, flicking her wrist as powdered sugar gently rained down like snowfall.
“The answers yes.” She was sitting back as she bit into the chocolate beignet, always going for something sweet and then Eventually she’d love over to my plate, looking at what I had gotten and asking if she could have a bite.
A bite meant I had lost my meal.
The way she agreed to something without even knowing what it was made me smirk, sipping my coffee as I looked at her.
“You don’t know what I’m going to ask you. What if it was to move to the middle of nowhere together?” She looked at me, the intensity of her eyes on me as she stared me down, the powdered sugar sticking to the side of her mouth and I craved kissing it off.
“The answer is still yes.” She was so sure of this trust for me. Since we had gone public with our relationship she was calmer, not seeming to be looking for the boogeyman to come out of the closet any longer. She trusted me and felt safe with me.
It meant the world.
“Pack your bags we leave in a few days.” She nodded her head, wiping her fingers on her napkin. My hand instinctively reached out, gripping the back of her neck as I pulled her closer to me, kissing the sugar on her lips and thinking that she was sweeter than I could have ever imagined.
Maddie POV
Jeffrey was holding my bag as I walked beside him, half asleep from the early morning flight. My hair was braided in two rows thanks to Jeffrey’s ability to be a morning person.
He had sat me between his legs after having washed me in a mix of a shower and kiss, fingers moving through my hair with easy expertise. I had fallen into the outfit he insisted I lay out the night before. An over sized long sleeve shirt he had and black boots. He had laughed, pressing coffee into my hands as I pouted in the back of the taxi headed to the airport and wherever we were going.
It didn’t matter to me where it was as long as we were going to be together.
The strangeness of soulmates had faded and I bought into his idea of this life forever. The surety of his presence something that I had just accepted as he continued to show me nothing but positive actions.
Jeffrey loved me in a way that I thought only existed in fairytales but was starting to believe was real. Maybe he was really Prince Charming disguised as a rockstar.
“Come sit, my beloved.” He was setting our bags in and sitting in the leather bench chairs of the airport.
I sat on his lap, his arm weaving around me and not commenting about how he meant in the seat beside him. His lips on my forehead, hand caressing my hip as I yawned, thinking I could sleep like this until our flight boarded and then catch a few hours of sleep on his shoulder as we traveled.
“Now boarding flight 2307 to New York.” My eyes snapped opened as I felt him move under me.
“This isn’t us, right sweets?” I tried to play it cool, easy going as I used the pet name for him but internally felt my organs twist and turn in the sick familiar feeling of his smile.
He was excited about this trip and had no idea that we were about to depart and head into hell.
“This is us. Cmon. I need to put the bags in the overhead before it fills up.” He tapped my hip as I stood on my unsteady feet.
Poor Jeffrey thought that I was shocked and excited but he didn’t know what New York meant to me. He didn’t know that my past demon had a name. He didn’t know why I believed in love so much. Or who tahg person was that still held the smallest sliver of my heart. He didn’t know about the apartment in SOHO and making love in dirty alleyways as we tumbled out of clubs. He didn’t know about the way a man had loved me in a way only he had matched. He didn’t know that man was still there, in our SOHO apartment without me.
I had left New York, trying to find my soulmate and putting a whole bunch of states between the man I loved and me. He didn’t know that I wasn’t tired anymore as he guided me into our plane seats and he weaved our hands together.
He didn’t know the reason soulmates made me ache; he didn’t know about my husband.
I had needed Jeffrey when I was a teenager. The desperation for this person to help me in my hardest times. But he had felt like an imaginary friend and not the supportive love of my life that I had been promised. So like anyone else though I dreamed of palm trees and the Hollywood sign when I turned I went for dirty wet street and tall buildings.
New York City. Where I could be important to no one.
How stupidly naive I was.
It was a month in and I was working as a nobody waitress with the wrong name stitched on my hand me down uniform when I met him.
He had a tweed jacket, long brown hair he was pushing out of his eyes with careless perfection. Silently reading The Stranger, a worn copy with penciled in notes in the margins. He was old enough to be my father but there was something in the deep ocean blue eyes that captivated me.
It was love at first sight.
He was waiting outside smoking these fragrant black rolled cigarettes when my shift ended and he shared the clove cigarette with me as our footsteps splashed in the New York muck.
In quiet whispers that he used to have me lean in to hear him he held these talks about how soulmates was some societal constraint that we all fell victim to. Searching forever without choice.
This captivated me; I didn’t want to be a victim.
He explained love by demonstrating it, making love to me for hours, his body heavy on top of mine so I suffocated under him and thought how lucky I was to be his.
He chose me. I was special.
Our marriage was an act of rebellion. At city hall they asked to see our tattoos and he calmly explained we didn’t have them. The clerk had shifted, uncomfortable as she handed us paperwork with a a pamphlet about divorce rates And the process of how to file. We took that later and he cut a snowflake to hang on our Christmas tree with it.
How we had laughed as we said a big fuck you to society. Love made us feel invisible.
It was several months of wedded bliss. Clinking our wedding rings in cheers as we drank fresh squeezed juice. It was my job as a homemaker to provide for him. The natural order of things. He bought be expensive cooking classes, introduced me to faculty wives in their sheath cocktail dresses who volunteered to take me to Saks to buy things more suitable.
I wanted to fit in so badly.
And then one night, I was serving duck confit, a dish I had mastered thanks to weekly cooking classes when I watched him move through the door, eyes downcast. His keys sounded like a bomb as he dropped them in the table, falling into his chair as his head fell into his hands.
No kiss in greeting. No touching me. He was silent.
The way the initials looked on his wrist, I felt sick at the sight of them there. I wanted to ask questions about who she was. Ask him if he was going to stay with me. Beg him. Because I loved him.
He had sold me a dream of a life that he had decided he no longer wanted to live. What was I supposed to do?
The first time I saw him kiss her I thought I was going to die. The lipstick on the collar. He forgot his ring when he went to teach Wednesday evening lectures.
My wedding ring started to feel like shackles. So I did the same thing I had done when I couldn’t have my soulmate.
I ran.
Sometimes I dreamed of the pamphlet where the instructions to file divorce were. Did he unfold our snowflake and lay it flat trying to figure out how to escape me being his? Or did he not care about the life we shared?
“You’ve been so quiet.” I jumped at Jeffrey’s words and felt guilty as I watched his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion at my reaction.
The way my lips tried to push together in a smile but the golden gleam of the clouds in the background reminded me of throwing my ring out of a car in the middle of a desert. The release of my shackles and the forging of a new life.
But apparently my old life and new life were going to collide soon.
How do I tell my soulmate about my husband
“I’m tired.” I couldn’t lie to him so I avoided the truth. Knowing that I didn’t have much longer of him not knowing. And once he knew would he forgive me?
“I’ll get you to the hotel, my beloved. As soon as we land I’ll have you wrapped up in fancy bedsheets and back into one of your pretty little dreams.” He kissed my forehead and I nodded, gulping.
Why had I said yes?
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tipsydipsydo · 4 years ago
Text
Der Geliebte
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Pairing: Jungkook x artist! Reader
Gender of the Reader: female
Word Count: 6.4k 
Rating: 16+
AU: non idol! Jungkook x artist! Reader AU!
Genre: strangers to lovers AU; friends to lovers AU! (idiots to lovers AU!); love at the first sight! AU; soulmate to lovers! AU (kinda?); unbelievable amount of fluff; a little angst (fluffy angst!!,); tiny amount of smut (one paragraph xD)
Warnings: tiny bit of smut/some sexual tension between both of them; Jungkook is a poor shy thing and is fucking nervous around the reader all the time; teeth rotting fluff; both are so in love with each other that they’re getting stupid to not realize it; both are insecure that they’re not meant for another... just fluff, fluff, fluff and painfully obvious pining over each other! 
A/N: Hallelujah, I finally did it! After I made Sibi @borathae​ wait over three months for her Christmas + Birthday Fanfic I finished it two weeks to late for my sweetest Darlings Birthday! I am so incredibly sorry that I made you wait for such a long time and really, Sweetie, you have all the rights to be still mad at my stupid ass! Nevertheless... I love you so goddamn much and I hope the fic made at least a little bit up for it... Love you!!!! 💕 💕 
Summary: You and Jungkook met right at the first day you opened your own atelier in Seoul after you had to leave your old home behind you. You love paint canvas with landscape motives, other people just roll with their eyes when they hear that you choose such usual, almost boring things to paint. Not so Jungkook, he seems to be different than most of visitors. It’s almost like he can read your feelings through your paintings...
Status: Edited (I am sorry for any still existing errors in here!) 
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「© tipsydipsydo」
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* Jungkook’s POV * 
"In what are you getting yourself into, Jungkook?"
 I quietly ask myself as I get rid of my clothes behind the paravent and throw the dressing gown over his body which you laid out for me. My hands are sweaty, they tremble slightly and my heart beats wildly, as if it wants to jump right out of my chest. Excitement spreads throughout my body, leaving a faint feeling in my stomach and a certain blush rises in my cheeks. I still can't believe what I've gotten myself into . But... you looked at me so pleadingly with your dear and downright innocent eyes that I would have done anything for you with that look of yours. I want to make you happy, see that happy and contented smile on your lips, which always makes a whole horde of wild butterflies break out in my belly. 'Normally I was the shyness and silence in person and with you... with her, I feel for the first timesomething like peace and security. Especially when I consider how shy I usually am around women.', I ask myself and I don't really know the answer to that. But what can I do against my feelings? I don't really know, on the one hand they scare me, on the other hand they feel so exciting and new that I don't want to eliminate them at all.
I don't even know exactly when the whole thing started. In which moment my feelings for you grew, when I felt more than just fascination and admiration for you and your artwork. Six months ago, a small studio had opened in my district, your own studio. On the day of the opening I simply went to it of pure curiosity, I had always had such a weakness for art and photography.
I can still remember exactly how I stood in front of one of your works and was literally speechless and overwhelmed by this picture and all his small details. This painting represents a classic image of the countryside, which was often to be found everywhere. But this work was different. So full of small details and ornaments. It was so much more... As a viewer you can see a beautiful clearing, which is surrounded by trees and protected from too many curious eyes. The ground of this clearing is overgrown with dense and lush green grass, which from the incoming sunlight almost invites you to let yourself fall into the grass. It reminds me instantly of my carefree childhood, when I rolled in it without overthinking my actions too much and those times when I playfully wrestled with my best friends around until our clothes had grass stains all everywhere. I could almost smell the scent of wild, untamed nature. The longer I look at the picture, the greater the longing became. Maybe I could visit this beautiful place one day, together with my partner, my significant other. Playing around with each other, chasing your beloved one until you fall into the grass breathless laughing and cuddling. Maybe we could have a picnic there and feed each other with homemade sweets? 
I didn’t know that such a "simple" landscape painting could touch and awaken so much more in me, in my soul. Suddenly, such a wanderlust came over me that I gasped for air and a heavy lump formed in my throat. My whole body was tingling and my heart was literally screaming to get away from this dreadfully grey and monotonous daily routine of my boring single life, for at least some weeks. I want to go to this place, where I could draw the warm and fresh, natural air could deep into my lungs and pamper myself with homemade delicacies. Just to let the soul dangle and don’t stuck with my closely clocked work life. Maybe sleep until 10 o'clock in the morning and then maybe have a nice nap later. Enjoy the warm nights and hear the crickets chirping. This longing was... irrepressible. This particular wanderlust for nature, just to be out of the city, this longing for exactly this abandoned and untouched forest clearing literally overwhelmed me. What was it for an artist who could trigger such feelings and emotions in me?
I had been so absorbed in the artwork that I had not even noticed that a person step next to me. "Do you like the work?", asked a soft melodic voice, which spoke perfect Korean, but was pervaded by a light accent, which I could not quite assign. I flinched a little, but this bright, happy laugh gave me a tingling goosebumps all over my body. What a beautiful laugh... I turned to the person who was the owner of this beautiful voice. I was startled when I realized that the artist and owner of this studio was standing in front of me personally. I recognized her again, as I had seen a small photo of her in the newspaper article that drew my attention to this beautiful studio in the first place. Already in this picture she had radiated something so strong, colorful, cheerful and lively, which caused an excited flutter in my stomach. 
I admit, I already laid an eye on her just by her appearance. Unfortunately I always had a hard time getting to know people ever since, let alone to talk to women. And now having you, Y/N, personally standing right in front of me, made me feel fluffy and excited in my stomach. Nothing is left of this otherwise so sassy and self-confident  man that I used to be. Only a nervous and stodgy twenty-three-year-old idiot, who did not know what to say or wanted to say, now stands in front of this stunningly pretty and intelligent woman.
Her eyes sparkles like jewels, full of joy, struck me with interest and a playful smile lays on her lips. "Did you not understand my question?", she asked kindly, but nobly reserved. Immediately a rosy puff settled on my cheeks and I stuttered nervously: "Y-Yes, excuse me! I... I was just somewhere else with my thoughts and was completely surprised that they were addressing me personally.... Your works are truly unique! They still show such ‘usual’ motifs and yet they are so special because of these finely elaborated details and this passion with which this work of art was painted. They really are... Unique artworks that you do not forget so quickly. Even for untrained eyes as my owns, I can see that a talented artist has worked on it. I am very impressed by your work, especially this work here!" You could hear the honest admiration from my voice and my heart leapt as she reacted bashful to all of my compliments.
"Thank you, really, thank you so much! I really appreciate to hear such nice words like yours, even if it is rare. I am often criticized for my ‘lack of creativity’, caused by my chosen motives. I just love the rough, almost untouched landscapes of my hometown, I try to depict the ‘normal’ as something beautiful, unique. I would like to ‘really see’ what we already take for granted again. As a wonderful creation, a work of art. Nature is a wonderful example of this, or the architecture of buildings as well. Architects are also artists, although unfortunately they are not seen as such. I just want to offer the obvious things a more meaningful space again.... People like you have become rare. I have observed how you have recognized the true meaning, this beauty and aesthetics in such a ‘usual-looking’ motif. And this pleases me so much that you can read 'between the brushstrokes'. Oh... Excuse me, I always talk way too much when someone shows an interest in art or music, my personal passions. Besides that, I have not introduced myself to you yet, I am Y/N! I was obviously so pleased to see your understanding, empathetic look at this work, if you understand what I mean... Anyway... I can guess that you knew my name already, don't you? What about you? May I know your name?", asked you, beautiful artist, with her really stunning smile.
I swallowed nervously, never before had a young lady mixed my emotions so much in me. Even the picture of her in the newspaper article, which I had read out of boredom in one of my lectures, got me so emotionallyconfused. I didn't want to say it in front of my teasing friends, but I had been really excited when I set off this Friday night. And now the creator of these works of art stood before me and seemed to want to have a longer conversation with me. My heart beats to my throat and I got sweaty hands from this nervousness in my poor body. Honestly, as soon as I wasn't surrounded by my clique of friends, I automatically turned into a nervous, slightly abashed blushing and stuttering guy who behave like an inexperienced teenager. 
In private life, without my best mates by the side, I am not so confident and daredevil. After all, I always had someone who could cover my back when things get tough, while I am on my own without anyone I know. You could usually only believe and trust, not control. That's probably why I struggled with interpersonal relationships. I always overthink too much and have some struggles with my self-confidence.
And now this attractive young woman looked at me with such interest and joy, just me. I was actually the reason for her interest. A joyful and blissful tingling seized every pore, every fiber of my body. Yes, in fact it was just me! Not my best buddy Seokjin, whom I have known since childhood and always sought the attention of everyone. It was no exaggeration to say that he was perhaps a little narcissistic, but only to cover up his own insecurities. Never would I have thought that someone would manage to get this personification of self-love under control. I admired his wife for standing up to Seokjin and keeping him and his dad Jokes at bay. Believe it or not, she of all people had the pants on in the house and knew how to deal with my best friend.
My gaze glided over the figure of the person in front of me and once again I took a sharp breath. I was so nervous to face her personally, a person I already deeply admired and had quite a respect for. I simply did not want to do anything wrong, even if this charm of hers was almost tangible and paralyzed my entire brain with its function. I can already picture how my mind waved wildly goodbye to myself and went to the summer holiday in the Caribbean.
This carefree smile and these beautiful eyes harmonized wonderfully with your complexion. Your features were awake and alive, seemingly always a slight smile surrounded the corners of your mouth, which provoked almost paradoxical reactions in my body. Your smile awake countless butterflies to flutter around in my stomach, which made me quite nervous and at the same time you radiated such a sense of security and calm, as if there was no reason not to get a word out of shyness. My gaze, which I hope examined you unobtrusively enough, wandered to your hands. You had long fingers, I could really imagine how they elegantly held the handle of the paint brushes and worked on these small details extensively in such a calm behavior. Which satisfied and concentrated calmness you possibly radiated while doing that...
A small, noble clearing of your throat again tore me out of my fantasies and speculations. God, what was I today but inattentive! How rude I must have seemed to you...
"Oh, sorry... I... I have not been able to keep my thoughts together all day..." I lied to seem at least a little more credible. Nervously, I pulled on the knot of my tie to loosen it up a little before I have a circulatory collapse. Before I went here, I thought for a long time about what I should wear for this occasion. Jeans and T-shirt were out of the question, too casual and almost an insult for your atelier. A complete suit, however, seemed too overdressed to me and so I decided for a black dress pants and a dark blue dress shirt.Understanding, Y/N nodded and gave me a cheering smile, which made my body tingle again. This woman drove me half crazy alone with his friendly gestures. How could it be that this polite lady got me confused right away?!
And somehow, it gave me a frenzy to leave my secure, anonymous side as a visitor to her exhibition and irrevocably reveal my true identity to you.
"My name is Jeon Jungkook."I answered in a slightly trembling voice, hardly daring to look into her eyes and rubbing my neck unobtrusively.
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* Jungkook’s POV *
If only I had guessed what would change in me, how you changed me. That so much more would develop from a pure interest and a simple formal business contact... that you want to make me one of your artworks.
I take another deep breath before I dare to step out from behind the dark red paravent. It is pleasantly warm in this room, I should not freeze, if I am already so freely clothed. My gaze wanders through the small room with the huge, floor-to-ceiling window, which floods the entire room with light. The walls of the room have been painted in a dark orange and red colors and dark wooden planks lay out on the floor. It looks so comfortable due to the warm, dark tones. The orange-yellow evening sun dipped everything into something so cozy... sensual. Somehow into even a little erotic?
Y/N wants to work a lot with the light of the evening sun in this painting, which could be a little complicated if it is not suitable or if it is cloud-covered. But if you have put something into your head, especially in relation to your art, then you do everything you can do to go through it! Also the changing forces of nature cannot stop you from trying to realize your idea. Sometimes, you’re  someone who is quickly frustrated and dissatisfied with yourself as well, especially when something doesn't work as  you wants it to. Nevertheless when it comes to your passion, drawing and painting, you don’t let your idea go away, if you want something, you’ll find a way to make it happen. These are qualities that I know all too well of myself and thus my fascination about you only grows even more. The more time we spent together and I get to know more and more sides of you, the more attracted I became to you.
Your art means a lot to you and you’re quite tough in this respect, can not be overcome by the reproaches and the crushing criticism. That’s exactly what I admire so much about you, having the courage to stand up for personal passion. When I get criticized, all too often I think about really giving up on it, so that I don't have to endure all this criticism anymore. And then I look at you. How focused you are in this moment and carefully prepare for your next project. How you adjusts you easel to the right height, let your self-stretched canvas snap into place, spreads brushes of all sizes and shapes on the small side table next to you and prepares youracrylic colours. I swallow again, as I watched this happen. I am about to become one of your next artworks.
A little uncertainly I walk towards Y/N, the thin dressing gown tightly drawn around my body... never before have I felt so naked and vulnerable. This here is something else. I feel something about it... I feel something for you. For this pretty lady, who sprays her cheerfulness around her and could conjure a smile on the lips of even the most grumpy person. This joy almost kills you, completely engrossed this person and gives you the feeling of floating. You will get the feeling of being welcome at Y/N. To be accepted, with all the flaws and weaknesses that one has. She just smiles at you so gently and lovingly and just says, it's okay. It's okay to be the way you are. Imperfect.
"It is precisely this imperfect, this contradictory and also unpredictable thing that makes us human. That makes us an individual and also interesting. If we were really all as we are expected to be, it would be boring and monotonous. The surprise is only a real gift. Each of us is a very individual gift to a very specific addressee, who is the only one who can truly appreciate this gift. Only then did the recipient find the right person as his gift... Well, if the recipient knows about his gift...", Y/N once said with such a certain look at me, when we went out to dinner together in a restaurant in the evening to clarify some details. I wanted to help her find good contacts in Seoul and help her sell her works.
I can still remember it exactly... it was a quite... extraordinary evening. I was of course once again incredibly nervous and excited. At that time, I did not want to fully realize how much I already like you. Secretly, I had observed my opposite. Your positive and friendly disposition had turned my head all around... and in addition, this beautiful body and her elegant fingers, which already haunt me in the most erotic way unintentionally in my dreams. 
I could not prevent my dream pictures from shooting through my head, which is why my cheeks turned dark red in embarrassment. These fucking fantasies in my head! My eyes stare at the cutlery as if it were incredibly interesting because I didn't dare look up. There were scenes in my mind that made my ears turn red and I would’ve loved to hide behind the menu card. Your body, which made her look like a Greek goddess.
Naked, body covered in sweat, your body shook in lust, you sit up with a wonderful moan... You are on top of me, I could admire your beautiful, almost divine body as you sat on top of me... and rode me. This breathtakingly beautiful distorted face of yours, as if all this pleasure you feel is carved in marble... lids closed, your lips, swollen from all the kissing, are slightly opened which let    your lustful whimpering escape. This grace and elegance, as you rose from me and  then lowered yourself again... as your hands glide erratically over my stomach, searching for support... you suddenly threw your head back and clenched even more tightly around my length. The addicting sounds you’ve made... it’s like the most beautiful melody in my ears... squelching noises and even more of yourjuices gushing out of your sweet, so sweet pussy when you came...
An all-too-familiar laugh tore me out of my extremely indecent thoughts, which quite relieved me at first. Until I raised my head and not too far away I recognized no one but my best friend Kim Seokjin, who made very questionable hand signals in my direction. Oh my God, no! I knew that he had recently changed his job and got accepted for a position as a chef in a new restaurant... but not in this Restaurant! He will never let me life after he found out I was on a “Date” with a woman...
Even though Seokjin was on the other side of the restaurant, I could almost feel his smirk on my own skin. Fuck it, just pretend as if you do not know each other and hit him really hard tomorrow morning in the gym where we meet up for our work out. I quickly turned all my attention back to the person sitting opposite me and tried to ignore Seokjin as best I could.
It was only at the end of the evening, when I had said goodbye to Y/N, that I realized that this meeting had much more of a date than a "business dinner". How familiar we had talked with each other... how much I had thought about licking Y/N the drop from the chocolate sauce of her lava cake from her lips... how it would be... to kiss and touch you...
A noticeable blush has settled on my cheeks as I attended our first meeting together... or even Date in this Restaurant thought back. Four months had passed since then and I suffered from longing for you. You would never see me like I saw you. The reason you wanted to draw me was simply that she needed someone as a model. In addition to landscapes and cities, you want to devote herself gradually to more other motifs. And since I have been the first inquired. Your pleading eyes made me say yes. But I know that for me you have  no more than the feelings for a casual friendship. It hurts to see how you flirt  around so casually with all those other people. I would never be the gift for you as you are for me. If only the recipient would notice that there is a given heart laying in your hands...
"Ah, Jungkook! I’m glad that you're ready!", your cheerful and melodic voice cuts through the silence of the room and you’re walking towards me with excited shining eyes. "Come~," you say and lead me to the chaiselongue, which is placed in front of the large window. The soft, orange light of the evening sun falls on the wine-red fabric of the restored chaiselounge in baroque style. The upholstery has frames covered in gold and also the lion feet on which this historic furniture stands are gilded. Everything was decorated with so many Details, it looks so incredibly elegant and luxurious. On the left side there are some cushions in the same color and an elegant design is carved on the backrest, literally inviting to get used.
"Surely you know the movie 'Titanic', right? Do you remember the scene where Jack used charcoal pencils to draw an nude coal picture of Rose as she laid on the sofa? I would like to draw you in a similar position. I hope it's okay for you if I look at you more closely without a dressing gown... i want to get an overview of your body proportions.", you say, looking me straight in the eye. I notice that you’re very concerned about my privacy and does not want to overstep any of my personal boundaries without my consent. I nod slightly at first until I get a clear yes over my lips. She looks at me silently for a few seconds before reassuring me once again that we can always stop at any time if I feel uncomfortable. Especially your patience and mindfulness of my boundaries shows me how important it is for you as well and how I actually relax noticeably. Y/N smiles cheerfully at me and I slowly loosen the belt of the dressing gown and let the last garment slide to the ground. I feel her in-depth look at me... he is not uncomfortable... only... exciting... in a few different ways.
I swallow again and lie down on the chaiselongue as instructed. You correct my arm and leg position, also rearrange all of the cushions correctly. To my own relief, you put a red cloth over my crotch area. Not that I am ashamed of anything, I am more than comfortable with you already... I just have some worries that I will get a visible problem if I constantly feel your look on my bare skin.
 "It should be able to guess something, but not be allowed to see everything right away...", she whispered with a smile, before her fingertips unintentionally glide tenderly through my happy trail. One of your last smiles are... not really to interpret. Then you return to your easel.
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* The Reader’s POV *
Carefully you sit down on your old painting stool, already quite worn out on the edges and stained with the most different types and tones of colors. It had originally been dark brown. You smile dreamily when you think back that you’re used to dangle your legs around when you were a little kid because it was way too big for you back then. For eighteen years now you have exactly this stool and this easel. They had been a gift from your grandfather for your fifth birthday. He had awakened the passion of painting and drawing in you and passed his talent on to you. A certain melancholy seized you when I thought back to how you used to paint your first real picture on canvas with your new easel in the old music room in your grandfather's country house. 
It had been the old, dusty grand piano, which must have been more than a hundred years old at that time. How the country house survived all these wars unscathed, you ask yourself to this day. Perhaps there had already been something magical about it at that time, which should remain untouched. Perhaps the small estate should remain an inconspicuous symbol of hope, the hope that at some point the sun and peace will return when the unbearable suffering and sorrow of this cruel time is over. When the wars were over and all those seeking protection who had fled to this country house were able to return to their own homes again. This house, this estate you can explain your childhood with a single word. Home.
You lift your thought-lost look from your empty, folded hands and look to Jungkook. He takes your breath away every time you see him. He is so special, such a wonderful and yet you firmly believe that he has not been chosen for you, such an ordinary woman as you are. He would belong to someone else with whom he would be happy, although he is the only one who was able to understand and read your works, the language in them. It... it had been such a beautiful moment when, six months ago, he stood in your newly opened studio, so absorbed by the painting of the forest of your childhood. All the other visitors had only looked at it briefly and smiled wearily at the fact that it was again only a landscape painting, but did not grasp what the story behind this work was. Why the artist chosed this very motif, to see, to feel what the creator wanted to communicate through the work. 
But Jungkook had been different. He had given the work, your personal heart, a chance to unravel the true meaning behind it. He did it slowly, bit by bit with his eyes... grasped with his whole mind and heart and finally let himself be influenced as a whole. You could tell from his body reactions that he felt exactly what you had felt when you painted it last summer. Longing. Infinite Longing. Mixed together with melancholy, a little homesickness and sorrow to a unique emotional color. The day you painted it was the last time you saw the house in your official possession. Your grandfather had left it to you. But unfortunately you lacked money, you had to pay some debts and with the best will you could not earn the money in other ways. So you had to sell it with a heavy heart. Your beloved birth and childhood home and the associated lands, you had to sell your true home away. The picture is the only thing left of it. And Jungkook was the only person who understood what you wanted to express with the painting. Longing. My Homesickness.
When all these sensations came upon him, he involuntarily clenched his hands tightly, his chest lifted and lowered quickly, his Adam's apple hopped repeatedly. His eyes were glassy. He experienced your longing as directly as you did. He... is so special. So infinitely amiable. He... he is the only person who’s able to read your true feelings in your works. He is able to read between your brush strokes.
So today you will try him... to paint a confession of love with this act. Maybe he could read... what you feel for him. Even if you know that you will probably never see him again. Because you would not be the recipient of his love and affection. He's just too... too... gifted for a simple artist like you. He would never be your gifted person.
Your gaze glides tenderly and caressingly over his body. Trying to absorb every little detail of his body, his charisma and his character into you and let it flow into the painting. Every birthmark you want to put on the canvas and hold on. You want to show Jungkook how beautiful he is. How godlike he lies before you on this majestic chaiselongue, how masculine and muscular he is, as if he wanted to embody an Adonis. You want to paint every muscle, even the smallest visible muscle, on the canvas in a realistic manner, you want to capture the strength and security that he conveys to you over and over again and make it visible to him. And yet... his gaze often corresponds to that of an intimidated, insecure fawn, which does not dare to want to get up on his legs on his own. The fear of falling again is too big. Through this painting you want to show Jungkook what he really is, what he represents for you and what you feel for him. He is... so contradictory. He is strong, godlike, powerful... and at the same time, so infinitely uncertain, vulnerable... almost pure.
Silence enters your little studio, only the regular breathing of the other and the muffled noise of the busy world outside the door could be heard. Here... here, it feels like time is standing still for a moment for the two of you. Your shared eternity had begun.
To your happiness that it is summer right now and it stays bright for a long time. Today you take more time than usual to mix colors. You want to mix a shade that perfectly matches his skin tone. You want to get the exact color of his black hair down onto the canvas, and the perfect brown for his beautiful eyes. The evening sun and the leaves of the huge treetops in front of the large window conjure up the most beautiful patterns on his immaculate body. A game of light and shadow. It seems to you that Jungkook's body, every single pore of his body has a tiny diamond, so that he begins to sparkle in the sunlight like an infinitely precious jewel. The evening sun warms him, lays a thin layer of sweat over his body. Every detail you try to bring to the canvas, every feeling, every movement of my heart, everything you feel for him, you want to bring to this canvas. You want to make him a masterpiece. Because for you, he is the most beautiful specimen, the only true crown of the human creation.
Some black strands have come loose from his manbun and have fallen on his forehead. It looks stunning, to see him like that. I had never seen him with a messy or even completely open hair... but even now these strands loosened from the braid make his facial features look so much softer and more relaxed. In it, the adult and strong man united with a young, vulnerable, shy boy. The result is... infinitely beautiful. He possesses both sides, so he makes the seemingly inexhaustible divine human being.
His eyes, drawing his eyes with that expression in them, cost you a lot of nerves. Too often you misunderstood this infinite longing that you find in his dark, brown eyes. Again and again you have to restrain yourself, not just to get up, to go over to him... and to kiss him.
This longing look you misinterpret is as longing as you own... according to your closeness, your touch, your affection... according to your love. Because you love him. You love everything about him, his sheepish laugh, the way of rubbing his neck shyly, the way he speaks and explains his point of views about things, how he smells... just everything... every blemish he blames on himself, you think it’s like an artwork on him. He is so perfectly imperfect that you just fell in love with him.
The sun has already set and only the last pink and purple streaks could be seen in the sky, with which the past day says goodbye to the world. One last time you can hear the velvety stroke of the brush over the canvas before you finally put the brush aside. It is finished. You have given everything that is in your power, used all of your artistic abilities and knowledge to the utmost and you have incorporated everything that you feel and think about into this artwork. And what you see put a smile on your lips, but also makes your pulse rise. What will Jungkook say when he looks at it? He will see it... can he read what you feel for him in it?
With a trembling voice, you call Jungkook and look at him one last time. The last time the sight of this male beauty was granted to you. One last time.
After Jungkook has wrapped himself in the dressing gown again, he slowly comes towards you and your easel. Your heart is throbbing as if it really wants to fearfully flight and jump out of your chest. Your body gets hot and cold at the same time and suddenly your hands get sweaty, the dried color on your skin mixes with the sweat to a uncomfortable mess in your palms, which somehow makes you even more nervous. Then he stands next to you. Looking at the canvas for the first time himself. The last brushstroke is still drying.
Once again there is silence, which makes you incredibly nervous and with every second that passes, you want to follow your instinct to escape. Jungkook's pupils are dilated and blown out, whether with bewilderment or horror, you can not recognize. One of his hands shoots up his mouth, he trembles all over his body. Suddenly you hear a suppressed, throaty sobbing. Surprised and a little appalled, you look at Jungkook, who has shut his eyes tightly and presses the palm of his hand even harder on his mouth, as if he wants to muffle every sound. Tears escape the corners of his eyes. This is a reaction... which you would not have expected...
Gently, mindful of any kind of resistance, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him. He doesn't say anything, he doesn't sob, he doesn't whimper. He just cries. Tenderly, consolingly you hold him, without wanting to distress him. He literally presses his face into the crook of your neck. Salty tears drench your blouse, but it doesn't bother you. The reason why he had such an emotional outburst, you just don't understand. But still... it's okay. It is valid.
As he slowly calms down and his breathes becomes regularly again, he carefully lifts his head out of the crook of your neck and wipes the last tears out of his eyes dry in slight embarrassment. He slowly releases himself from your embrace until you finally stand silently in front of each other.
"What title you’ll give this artwork?", he asks softly, in a rough, throaty voice. You swallow . "It shall be called 'Der Geliebte'. ...it is german and translated it means... ‘The beloved’ ", you say barely audibly and lower your head. After this confession, you can no longer look him in the eyes.
Jungkook takes a sharp breath in and you're actually just waiting for a devastating response from him that would be like a death threat. But nothing of this happened. Instead, your chin is suddenly raised by his fingertips and you look into Jungkook's beautiful eyes. He bites his lower lip a little uncertainly,his own gaze falls on your pretty shaped lips. 
"Do you... do you allow me to kiss you?", he asks quietly... barely audible for you even though you’re standing so close to each other. He doesn't dare to look you into the eyes after such a question, he is too afraid that you deny his request. But you can hardly believe your luck, a high pitched ‘yes!’ flew over your lips and before you can control yourself, you press your own lips right onto his. They are incredibly soft and kiss you back in such a delightfully and endearing insecure and shy manner as no other could ever have done it.
Your heart beats full of joy and bliss and in your belly, the butterflies fly somersaults of all different kinds that your whole body began to tingle. Your mind cannot get a grasp of all this yet, but this... you don't need any more of it at this moment anyway.
The kiss is tender, shy and somewhat uncertain from both sides. Jungkook is very insecure and shy, but before he can escape like a frightened deer again, you put your arms around his neck and let your hands rest in the nape of his scalp. Again and again you detach yourselves from each other only for the fraction of a second to get a breath of air into your lungs in order to find each other lips again... until you stopped for a few seconds.
"I like you... I like you really, really much, Jungkook... I even dare to say that I fell on love with you.", you mutter softly against his lips. His shy, happy smile was too much for you, so you immediately kiss him again. Perhaps because of the sheer joy and maybe of the certainty that he feels the same for you, the next kiss turns into something more passionate than before...
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oplishin · 7 months ago
Note
Sethie for the character asks :D
favorite thing about them
the neverending shame fueled self sabotage! that's great. also the phoenix splash! it's so pretty
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these days it's very obvious that he'll never hit it, but i liked its usage in ROH! it's his super super special finisher that's generally ill advised because it takes so long. the phoenix splash specifically continuously fucks up his matches with DBD. In southern navigation, his unwillingness to pivot to a different move means bryan repeatedly gets back up and murders him. In their last 2008 match, he's literally unable to go for the phoenix splash at the end because (spoiler alert) the top rope is Gone. uhh for some reason in the first one he hits it but DBD immediately rolls him up anyway. we don't have to talk about it. the rest of the match is good! super significant match in terms of seth's singles career
least favorite thing about them
his knees probably because he's GONE and i MISS HIM, and also these kicks, i think they look like ass
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favorite line:
"i liked the person i was before i met you" or any of his gushing over dean being his wrestling soulmate
brOTP
kevin!!! KEVIN!! like idk it's fun to imagine them having fucked many many times (2021-2022 rollowens i love you) but i like where they're at now. kevin and sami helping him leave wrestlemania. <3 scrub room forever, oh my god.
OTP
shield ot3 my BELOVED. not a pairing but. that's the one. they're so bad!! they're so bad for each other
nOTP
he honestly has insane horny chemistry with almost everyone so it's hard to think of one people ship that i hate. i'll go with seth/kane again because fuck mayor glenn jacobs. don't though
random headcanon
as the forever designated driver, he hates hates being driven by other people. it's a control thing, it just feels less safe he's not The One with his hands on the steering wheel.
unpopular opinion
from what i've seen of his ROH stuff, i generally enjoy his tag matches a more than his singles stuff. his tag work with jimmy is pretty consistent, while his singles stuff is pretty hit or miss for me. as in, i basically only like the matches where nigel or bryan are there. i'd heard good things about his match with davey richards and i ended up really disliking it! also really didn't like match where he wins the roh title. i also haven't seen that much of his ROH work, to be fair.
song i associate with them
mitski's "everyone"
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(i'm making a gifset for this, probably after finals are over grah)
favorite picture of them
FUN QUESTION!! either of these two. i recommend clicking on the left one for the full picture, the lighting is truly so erotically dramatic. right one makes me go :((( :( :(
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oneofyatosfollowers · 4 years ago
Text
Yatori Week 2021- Day 4
@yatoriweek2021
AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32090953/chapters/79500055
Fanfiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13905660/1/Yatori-Week-2021
Yukine was in the living room studying for midterms when his dad busted the door down and flounced into the room.
This was a common occurrence, as this man was not his biological dad, but rather a once concerned neighbor that adopted him and was therefore hardly a decade older than the teen. There could be many reasons why his dad, a man named Yato, was excited:
He saw something to do with Capybaras
He got an extra sketchy side job for pocket change
The weather was nice
He bought junk with said pocket change
Anything to do with his beloved girlfriend, Hiyori
Based on the way the young man skipped into the living room, high on cloud nine, Yukine could only assume it was the last option. With sigh, Yukine closed his textbook and readied himself to lose the rest of his study time. Yato tended to talk about his girlfriend for hours on end, like he’s never seen nor heard of them before her, and Yukine would not be able to focus. Now, Yukine liked his dad’s girlfriend. Loved her in fact. His dad was her art tutor- and class nude model- in college since she struggled with the subject as a medical major. Eventually she had become Yukine’s tutor in everything else except math, which was reserved for his dad. It was unclear if Yato hired her, or she did it out of the kindness of her heart, or the two just wanted to see more of each other, but Hiyori wormed her way into both their hearts.
“Yukine!”
“What?” Yukine drawled. His dad was a whirlwind of smiles and flailing arms as he tumbled towards Yukine. Used to this too, the blonde simply waited for Yato to sit directly in front of him without knocking him over. Yukine blinked as his dad struggled to find the words to communicate in a language they both understood. It tended to take some time, as falling in love with Hiyori Iki was a grand affair that wrestled your heart and tied your tongue. She tended to have that effect on people, as most kind-angels did. However, when all he did was wheeze and let out a strange coo mixed with a whine, Yukine couldn’t help but scoff and roll his eyes.
“I did it!” Yato beamed.
“Did what?”
“I finished that old lady’s kitchen and finally got enough money!” He burst. In a fit of laughter that strangers might have thought was madness, the young man rolled onto his back and kicked his feet. It took a moment for Yukine to realize his theory was somehow wrong before he crawled over top of his dad.
“What-ugh,” Yukine slapped away the hands that covered the man’s face, “what are you saving for? You never save money. I’m surprised we haven’t missed any bills yet.” Hands away his face, his dad’s bright blue eyes stared into Yukine’s hazel, full of unbridled joy . That was hardly a good sign; Yato was known for extravagant plans that he got far too excited over. Especially when they failed more often than not. Honestly, Hiyori was a saint for staying with such a spaz.
“That’s the thing!” The man gasped. He didn’t wait for his son’s answer, leaping to his feet to dash into the kitchen. Meanwhile, Yukine was rolling his eyes, of course it was about her. Yato ran back to his spot on the floor next to his son.
“Our two year anniversary is coming up in a few weeks and you know it’s around that time! The age, the lifestyle, the current situation,” he swooned, “her parents and Kofuku and Daikoku!”
“What. Are you talking about?” Yukine groaned as he kneaded his forehead. Just because his dad was capable of speech, didn’t mean he used it properly.
“I want to propose,” he said, “I want to propose to Hiyori.” The three magazines that he clenched in his hands were squeezed so tightly they crinkled. This time it was big blue eyes that watched Yukine struggle to find words. Yukine sucked in air, swallowed, stared, opened his mouth with nothing to come out, blinked a few times, then swallowed again. The logical part of this brain just shrugged, this was the obvious next step. They loved each other, were old enough, and that was usually the point of dating, what it led to. It wouldn’t change their day to day. The emotional side was shocked, blindsided, and completely convinced this would change everything.
Just the word ‘proposal’ was heavy in Yukine’s mind because ‘proposal’ led to ‘wedding’ which means ‘marriage’ which equals ‘family.’ Not that they weren’t already a family, they moved in to Hiyori’s place a little less than a year ago but that was a financial decision if anything. The more childish part of Yukine, the one that had originally protested the relationship and acted out during the first month of their dating, feared that this would take away even more of Yato’s attention. Because the fact was that marriage led to more children. But Yukine knew better than that by now. On the other hand, families, something Yukine had once before Yato, left a sour taste in his mouth. What’s more, this would without a doubt make Hiyori his ‘mother’ and this would mean Yukine wouldn’t just have a ‘parent’ but ‘parents,’ functioning ones that both loved him.
That last thought resonated in Yukine’s chest. Yato and Hiyori loved him very much, unconditionally, and he loved them. They were already a family and Yukine- Yukine wouldn’t mind calling Hiyori ‘mom’ if she ever wanted to adopt him. But most importantly, Yukine finally let his eyes drop from Yato’s and fall to the magazines. They were all for different jewelry stores, the outlines of their pages lined with little color tabs. Yukine could imagine they were covered in little notes and doodles from long before this moment. Most importantly, Yato deserved this. He was a single, smart, and kind young man that worked his way from the very bottom. Even Yukine was old enough to understand that for someone in that position- an impoverished college student- that Yato had taken on a lot, adopting him. It couldn’t have been easy to find someone. Someone as genuine as Hiyori who loved him just as much. Yato deserved this and he deserved to have Yukine support him. Which Yukine found that he truly, truly did.
“That’s great,” Yukine finally said. His voice cracked from the emotion and worry flashed across Yato’s face. But with one sniff and a genuine smile, Yukine showed that he was happy for them. The two dissolved into excited giggles and laughter, eyes blurry with emotion.
“I want you to help me pick it out. I want you with me when I buy it and help me plan the whole thing! I want you to be there with me, I need my kiddo for support,” Yato confessed. Blinking away the moist sheen, Yukine nodded once with a wobbly smile. His dad laughed with every ounce of giddiness and happiness that Yukine felt.
“Originally I was going to make one-”
“No,” Yukine said offhandedly as he wiped his eyes. Yato waved his hands and put down the magazines.
“I know! I know. This is super important and Hiyori deserves the actual ring. The best of the best! I can’t keep getting away with handmade gifts,” Yato said as he opened to a tab in each of the magazines. Yukine eyed the objects he circled and crossed out, writing everywhere.
“You make great hand-made gifts,” Yukine muttered as he fiddled with the cuff of his hand-made christmas sweater. His dad looked up to him, down at his hands, then back up with a smile.
“Well, I was thinking of making her golden knucklebusters, with diamonds of course, as an early wedding present.” Yato huffed.
“She’d like that a lot,” Yukine laughed, “just don’t let her parents see.”
“Oh god no! They already hardly like me.”
“They like you.”
“Yeah, cause I fix their house for free. Redo their kitchen,” Yato mumbled, “I hope they approve of this. I already asked them but the dad seemed more on board with it than her mom.”
“Hey,” Yukine nudged his dad, “that’s a good sign. At least you asked first.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right! This is good! She just needs to say yes.”
“She’ll say yes,” Yukine huffed with another roll of his eyes. Despite himself, even Yukine felt the small spark of fear at the possibility of Hiyori saying otherwise. They flipped through the magazines for a couple minutes longer, Yukine balking at the prices and mental math of costs per month.
“Ah!” Yato suddenly shot up and grabbed both of Yukine’s hands, knocking the book out of his hands.
“H-hey!” Yukine sputtered, wincing at his dad’s sweaty hands.
“But you can’t tell anyone!” Yato insisted, “this is a surprise. It has to stay a secret. Okay? Don’t tell anyone. Okay?”
“Okay!” Yukine finally yanked his hands away.
“You promise?” Yato urged, leaning even closer. His son shoved his face away and picked up his magazine.
“Yes! Yes! I promise I won’t tell anyone.”
They really were made for each other, Yukine thought a couple days later, like soulmates. Once again he was at home, heading to his room after Yato dropped him off. They had a family dinner later and Yukine wanted to chill at home with Hiyori while Yato went to prepare for the proposal. The house was quiet when he walked in so Yukine slipped the quarts of ice cream in the freezer and made his way to his room. Hiyori must be in bed. She hadn’t been feeling well recently, getting nauseous everyday for the past week. All those thoughts went out the window when, on the way to his room, the bathroom door cracked open and Hiyori’s head popped out.
“Yukine!” She hissed, “Yukine!” If it weren’t for her eyes being so wide and pleading, Yukine might have felt a bit more embarrassed by the sight. He stopped short in the hall.
“What’s wrong?” He said immediately. First she looked nervously off to the side, then to him, then up, then behind her, then back at him, letting out a whine disguised as a hum.
“What?” Yukine asked, a bit more nervously now. Still finding it difficult to answer, Hiyori’s arm slipped out and waved him over. Fearing she might have a broken bone, Yukine took one look at the house phone then walked over to the bathroom door, heart in his throat.
“Are you ok-ay!” Yukine squawked as the front of his shirt was grabbed and he was yanked into the bathroom, the door slamming behind him. He quickly glanced behind him, at the barrier, then back at his friend. She looked nervous, which made Yukine nervous. He would even say she looked anxious, scared, but the air buzzed with an excited tension. In front of her, Hiyori played with her fingers as she struggled to meet his gaze.
“Hiyori, are you okay?” Yukine finally got out. She looked okay, well not ‘okay’ okay but physically safe. The sweat that beaded her brow and the way her knees almost knocked together said otherwise.
“Um,” Hiyori looked up then down, “yeah, yeah, I’m okay. I- I think so?” Terrified at the thought of anything bad happening, Yukine quickly approached her with his hands up.
“What happened? What’s wrong? Do you need me to call Yato? We should call-”
“No!” Hiyori blurted out, causing Yukine to flinch. At this point he was almost shaking, Hiyori was rarely against calling Yato, especially during emergencies. More than just being the man of the house, Yato knew everything! He was calm and cool under pressure and could take on any problem without delay, dropping everything to help. Yukine certainly didn’t want to deal with whatever this was without at least telling his dad. Seeing the panic bubble, Hiyori reached forward and gently held Yukine’s hands like she often did during these times.
“No, no, no, it’s okay! It’s nothing bad! Nothing’s wrong!” Hiyori comforted, “I just got worrie- excited! I’m nervous about something and I wanted to tell you in private. It’s okay, nobody’s in danger,” her words quickly calmed Yukine back down.
“O-oh, okay,” Yukine nodded, “so, so what’s up?” He stuck his hands in his pocket to hide their shaking while Hiyori went back to fiddling with her fingers.
“I have a, uh, surprise! For Yato. And I, uh, wanted to hear your thoughts first.” She stammered out. This was rather confusing, but Yukine was relieved to hear that was all it was. Maybe she had a big anniversary present planned that she wanted his opinion with.
“Oh okay, what is it?”
“Well it’s not an ‘it’ exactly. It’s more of a, uh, uh, thing? Not a thing! It’s not a thing! I’m a thing? I’m something? I-I-I have something to give to Yato. And you? The family. My family too, you know, once I tell them. I’m just not exactly sure,” Hiyori babbled just like her not-yet-fiance, looking all around. Yukine resisted the urge to roll his eyes- he stopped doing that to her ages ago- and he refused to rush her.
“It’s okay,” Yukine offered a smile, “I’m sure whatever the thing is, Yato will love it. You know how sappy he is, he’ll love it cause it comes from you and you mean it.”
“Haha, yeah,” she didn’t sound too convinced and Yukine worried about why.
“I mean it, he will.” Yukine tried again. This time, Hiyori seemed to get rather bleary eyed and she hugged herself.
“Maybe not this time, Yukine, I’m just not sure. I mean we talked about it but it’s too soon and- who knows- maybe he won’t?” She continued looking around the room, biting her lip. Yukine was still an awkward sort of a teen and not very good with crying young women so all he could think to do was squeeze her hands.
“Don’t say that, Hiyori, there’s nothing on this earth that he-”
“I’m pregnant.” Her confession rang throughout the empty bathroom, echoing against the tiles and Yukine’s ribs. The boy’s mouth clicked shut as all those images he’d imagined, with Yato fawning over another child that was actually his, flooded in. When Hiyori sniffed again, the pictures shattered, leaving a frightened young woman holding her stomach.
“Yukine, I’m pregnant,” she repeated. Swallowing Yukine let his hands lightly rub her arms up and down.
“That’s,” he breathed, “amazing.” The honest wonderment he felt bleed through his voice and Hiyori looked up at him, eyes shining with pure hope.
“Really?”
“Yes,” Yukine promised. They deserved to be happy and experience having a baby and raising them with all the love and care they gave Yukine. After all, they already saved his life. What more can he ask of them? Once again he found himself blinking away the moisture in his eyes, Hiyori trying to do the same.
“But, what about Yato? Do you think he’ll,” Hiyori bit her lip and Yukine struggled to find the words and push away any jealousy he felt. Of course he wanted to be Yato’s one and only, for the man to never have kids of his own cause he had Yukine. But that was as selfish as it was stupid. Yato had a lot of love and Yukine knew he was no different than a son to him. Yato would never abandon him for something he deemed better and Yukine would be there to support him. Both of them.
“He will absolutely love them,” Yukine assured her, letting out a dry sob, “he’ll make the best dad.”
“Well, hehe, I think he already does?” Hiyori wiped under her eyes and Yukine found himself laughing.
“That’s right!” Yukine said, joyfully, “he’s the best.”
“Yeah, he is. The best I could ask for,” she murmured happily. The room was considerably warmer, lighter as Hiyori set her palms gently over her abdomen with a soft smile.
“Now I just have to tell him,” Hiyori said, “and my parents.”
“I’m sure they’ll be happy too,” Yukine sighed as he leaned against the door, “you haven’t told them yet?”
“No, they’re old fashioned and I would rather tell Yato first. So you can’t tell anyone!” Hiyori suddenly stepped forward with pleading eyes.
“Huh?”
“It’s a surprise! I want to tell him on our anniversary but I really need you to be there as support, so you can’t say anything, okay?  Promise me you’ll keep it a secret!” She begged. Yukine gave his answer before he could think, not realizing until later what it would entail.
“I-I will! I���ll be there! And I promise I won’t say anything!”
The anniversary dinner reservation was booked at the restaurant Yato took Hiyori to on their very first date. It stood on the corner of an annual festival that followed the date and where Yato often took them every year since. In the car ride, various levels of anxious excitement is so palpable one of them could cut it with a knife. The excitement mostly came from the two adults in the front seat. Yukine, who sat behind Hiyori, was the majority of the anxiousness. Both hands were stuffed firmly in his jacket, balled up in his right hand was a little box protecting a diamond ring, his left was gently pinching the image of an ultrasound. He kept trying to rip his hands out of his pockets, worried about the cold sweat ruining such valuable commodities.
“So Yukine, are you excited about the festival?” Yato peaked at him through the rear-view mirror, smiling gleefully. It was unclear if his dad noticed Yukine’s flinch, but he quickly shoved his hands tight in his pockets and tried a smile.
“Y-yeah!” His voice cracked and Yato let out an awkward laugh. In the passenger seat, Hiyori turned around to look at him with an equally wobbly smile and a nod.
“We’re glad you can come with us to dinner this time,” she said, “right Yato?”
“Sure are! Soon you’ll be too old for us to force you to come on our dates!” Yato laughed. Even with the implication, the air in the car was considerably lighter. Yukine found himself laughing too, secretly knowing that there would never come a day he would need to be forced. While anniversary dinners were different, dinners with your parents hopefully lasted forever.
“Yato!” Hiyori chided through her giggles, giving him a good whack on the arm. The family continued to snicker as Yato pulled into a parking spot. He ran around the car to open the door for his beloved, taking her hand and helping her out. Yukine’s amusement sank like a rock when both the adults gave him a pointed look and a nod, he was reminded of what was to come. Giving his name, Yato could barely contain his excitement as the waitress brought them to a raised booth in the back.
“Yato,” Hiyori said with a light gasp. It was unclear if she noticed that this booth was the only one with fake roses strung up along the back but Hiyori wore a look of awe as she sat down on the other side of the candle.
“Two years,” he sang in reply.
“Yukine, you can take off your coat,” Hiyori suggested.
“N-nah that’s okay!” Yukine said. Both of them must have understood the implication because neither of them pressed it. They took a glance at the menu and eventually, the waiter came to take their orders, offering the most expensive bottle of champagne that Yato had already paid for.
“Oh, uh, no thank you, I’ll just have water, please,” Hiyori asked as she shut the menu and handed it to him. Yukine watched the waiter flash Yato a lost look who just nodded as he handed his own menu.
“I’ll have a colosi,” Yato said. The meal picked up quickly after that, the three of them ordering good dishes. Shortly after they started to dig in, the violinist Yato had called from college- a man with glasses named Kazuma- came over and began to play.
“Mmm!” Hiyori slurped down her pasta, “this is our song!”
“Hmm?” Yato cocked his head.
“Our song! You know, the one they played at the after party for the art exhibit? Our first dance,” Hiyori said. She ducked her head, looking suitably embarrassed until Yato hummed.
“I remember! Of course I do,” Yato smiled, “best night of my life.” Love in the air, they finished their meal, sharing a dessert Yato treated Yukine too. Once the dinner was complete, Yato distracted Hiyori long enough for Yukine to run and give Kazuma a tip and the next phase. Then Yukine jogged after them, the three of them walking out into the festival. Hiyori, rather obviously, tugged Yato off to the right. The woman on track to being a doctor was clever enough to know her romantic boyfriend would be taking them to the spot of their first kiss. Of course he did that every year, but Hiyori hoped being in such a nostalgic place would help the news to be received more positively.
Still, the two of them put a lot of effort into making sure Yukine felt included. Part of him thought this was just done out of gratitude for his help, but they’ve taken him here more than enough times for Yukine to understand they just wanted him to have fun too. Of course, this was still part of Yato’s extremely detailed plan. A handful of the game stands held certain prizes that Yato planted for the proposal. So far, Yato carried a hand-made scarf that mimicked something Hiyori used to wear while they were dating, a small wooden house that was used in sketch class, a box of sparklers, and binoculars. Currently, Hiyori was selecting another prize Yato and Yukine won for her by playing darts. Based on Yato’s instructions, the man offered Hiyori the prize box of fake jewelry, one of which was real and hand made. Knowing her, she would notice the pink-flowered charm and select it.
“I’ll have to go back for that bottle,” Yato sighed as he watched his love look over the options.
“I can go back and put it in the car,” offered Yukine.
“No, no, no, I need you here with me,” his dad looked at him, “I can’t do this without you.” He sounded confident but his eyes were so scared that Yukine couldn’t help but nod. Yukine had made a promise to himself some time ago that he would protect this eccentric, kind-hearted man that saved his life, from others who would try to take advantage of him or go out of their way to hurt him. Just like Yukine once did.
“I have tissues in case she says no and I put the ice cream in the freezer for you.”
“Haha! That’s my boy,” Yato let his fingers noogie Yukine’s hair and they laughed. The moment of truth was upon them. As Hiyori came back to them, showing off her new bracelet with the claim that it was something Yato would make for her. They walked to the edge of the street, the overview circling out over the park with a fence and benches. Yato handed the house and sparklers to Yukine, wrapping the light scarf around Hiyori’s neck. The fireworks would start in exactly seven minutes and Yukine still had both objects in his pockets.
“Yato,” Hiyori suddenly said, “I need to talk to you.” She looked at Yukine who stared back at her with wide eyes.
“What is it? We can talk here, you know,” Yato tried to get Hiyori to come towards the railing, but she remained firmly where she was.
“I just decided that I want,” she looked around, “some cotton candy!” Hiyori frantically pointed towards one of the mini carts.
“Wha-? Right now?” Yato’s shock and fear cracked his voice but he quickly tried to cover it with a laugh.
“How about after the fireworks? They’re going to start soon and you know how much I like-”
“Please Yato?” Hiyori put her hands together and cocked her head. From the middle of them, Yukine sucked air through his teeth and looked at Yato. Those were the big guns, Yato rarely said no to begging.
“Uh, um, okay, Hiyori. One-one sec!” Yato started towards the treats, “come on, Yukine!”
“No, no! That’s okay! Yukine can stay with me!” Hiyori insisted. She smiled when Yato just sputtered then ran off to retrieve the sweets.
“Okay, give it to me,” she frantically hushed.
“You’re going to do it now?” Yukine gave a quieted exclamation.
“I have to! I can’t let this continue without him knowing!” Hands shaking, Yukine handed the ultrasound to Hiyori who stuffed it under the top layer of her shirt against her spine. Once glance at the clock told Yukine there was four minutes until the fireworks would light up the sky and Kazuma would light the sparklers next to the matching mini wooden house just below them.
“Okay! Okay, here!” Yato ran back to them, “here you go, Hiyori!” He handed her a pink mass of sugar, shoving it in her face.
“Wha-! Yato!” Hiyori sputtered. As she struggled to get the sugary treat out of her face, Yato dove his hand in Yukine’s pocket and plucked out the ring.
“Heheh, sorry,” Yato said as he stuffed it into his pocket, “I tripped?” he offered as she moved the candy out of her face. As Yato smiled awkwardly at Hiyori’s narrowed eyes, the first firework of the night boomed in the sky. Slack-Jawed, the three of them looked up at the sky, then back at each other.
“Ah! It started!” Yukine gasped.
“Let’s go get a closer look Hiyori-”
“Yato, I have something for you!”
“I have something for you too, but, uh, it’s over here. So let’s go over here!” Yato was quicker, and louder, than Hiyori and managed to grab her wrist and pull her towards the railing. Deciding that his job was done- and that he didn’t want to really get caught in whatever was about to happen- Yukine chose to stay a couple feet back.
“Yato, I- '' Hiyori's words were caught with a gasp as she looked over the railing. On the stone patio that surrounded the park were a bunch of pigeons eating the seeds Yato had Kazuma put down just as they left the restaurant. Feeding pigeons was something Yato did a lot in college and one of the places Hiyori would find him sketching before they started dating.
“Look at them all!” She gasped at the massive heart made purely out of hungry pigeons. In the center of the feathered shape was a small note, leaning on the matching mini home, with fancy calligraphy made clear by the sparklers that were stuck on either side.
“Is that a note?” Hiyori squinted, “I wonder what it says.” She looked at Yato when he cleared his throat.
“Why don’t you use your binoculars?” He offered them. Hiyori didn’t seem to think much of it, taking them and leaning over the railing.
“It says ‘Will You Marry Me?’ Aw I wonder who that’s- for?” Hiyori’s sentence fell off her lips, drifting through the wind as she lowered the binoculars and turned her head. Yukine watched her eyes drop to Yato on his knee, who was gently holding up the box and the ring. When she gasped, eyes growing wide, he nudged the box up higher and cocked his head with a forced smile.
“Will you?” he asked. It took a moment but Hiyori finally moved, closing her mouth and blinking rapidly.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Really?” Yato sprang up with a gigawatt smile, Hiyori laughing at him.
“Yes! Yes!” She professed, bouncing up and down with Yato. Quickly putting the binoculars around her neck, Hiyori quickly grabbed Yato’s face and they joined in a passionate kiss. From his spot, Yukine found himself bouncing on the balls of his feet and clapping with the few people surrounding them. Through their love-sick laughter, and Hiyori’s many kisses, Yato took her hand and raised her to the ring. Before the rock could slip onto her finger, Hiyori jolted, finger freezing.
“What is it?” Questioned Yato, terrified at the way she took her hand back.
“Before you give me the ring, I want to give you my thing,” Hiyori said. Her weak words were slightly drowned out by the fireworks display and chatter of the audience but Yato just nodded with tight lips. Eyes downcast, Hiyori’s fingers slipped under her shirt. Then, she handed the ultrasound to Yato who blinked at once before he gently took it. Yukine watched him stare at it, almost incomprehensibly, for a little longer than necessary. Yato blinked again, turned it around and blinked once more. Adam’s apple bobbing, Yukine watched Yato’s lips say something that was too quiet to hear. Hiyori nodded, a jolting movement, trying to force a smile around her wet eyes. This was it, Yukine thought, they were a little family; a mother and her future husband. Yato was a husband, a father, a man of the house. Yukine’s clapping hands stopped and gripped his shorts.
Yato suddenly got his breath of life back, his head jolted up and he looked to Hiyori with an open jaw. He couldn’t force it close until he tackled her into a hug, holding her head and waist so close, like she was the only thing keeping him standing. Whatever Yato said convinced Hiyori it was time to slip the engagement ring on her finger as they squeezed each other tight. Their laughter sounded again, overshadowed by the fireworks and sounding considerably more breathless than before. Lit up by the dancing colors, Yukine watched them alternate between laughing, talking, kissing, and pointing at the objects in their hands. Just as Yukine’s happiness was starting to be completely overshadowed with loneliness and isolation, he watched both of them point at their gifts then turn and face the blonde.
“Yukine!” They cheerfully called his name, arms open to welcome him into their hug. Heart leaping for joy into his throat, Yukine ran forward without a thought. By the time their arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly against their bodies, Yukine’s wet laughter was bubbling out of his chest.
“Yukine! You double player you!” Yato exulted.
“You did such a good job!” Hiyori complimented with tears, “thank you so much!” The family gave another tight hug before pulling away.
“We really couldn’t have done it without you,” Yato sighed. He kept his arms around their shoulders, holding the ultrasound up against the sky, the three watched the final colors of the fireworks illuminate the tiny bundle of life that would be greeting them soon. As the final boom pounded against their beating hearts, Yato finally gave it back to his fiance.
“I’m glad it all worked out,” Yukine said, mostly to himself.
“Are you sure?” Yato asked him.
“Huh?”
“We just want to make sure that you’re okay with all this,” Hiyori started, “we know this is a lot and we just want to hear your thoughts about all this.” She gestured to everything but when Yukine gave them a blank look, Yato put his hands on Yukine’s head.
“Our family is getting a little bigger, are you happy?” He asked softly. Warmth spread throughout Yukine, building in his heart and fanning the heat behind his eyes.
“Yeah,” Yukine breathed, “I’m happy.” He blinked and let out a hum of a laugh as Yato and Hiyori smiled at each other.
“That’s great because we have something for you too,” Yato grinned.
“For me?” Yukine blinked. What could it be? What more could they possibly give him?
“Yes, a surprise for you too! Mostly from me to you,” Hiyori offered. When she looked at Yato, smile matching his, the three separated and Yato lifted his top shirt to reveal a folded packet. He handed it to Hiyori who handed it to Yukine with a shy smile.
“If you want,” she tacked on. Yukine kept his eyes on her as he unfolded the paperwork, already knowing what it was before he looked it at. It was so familiar, nearly identical to the one Yato gave him so long ago, the one that now sat in a protective folder in Yukine’s bedroom.
“You want to? Adopt me?” Yukine asked. He squeezed the papers tightly against his chest. Unable to say anything more, Hiyori pressed her trembling lips together and gave a short nod, a couple tears falling from her eyes. He was back in her arms just as she opened them, sniffing against her collar bone.
“Is that okay? Will you have me, Yukine?” She tearfully asked as she brushed his bangs out of his eyes.
“Yes,” Yukine cried, “I’d love that. So much.” He had a mom now. Not that woman that gave birth to him, a real mother figure that loved and cared for him and his dad properly. He had parents.
“See?” Yato sniffed, “I told you he would gladly welcome you into the family!” He tried wiping the tears from his cheeks but it hardly made a difference.
“The family?” Yukine repeated, feeling the word on his tongue.
“Of course! Can’t be a family without you, kiddo!” Yato insisted. He pulled them back into a hug, each of the gifts to each other- sealing their love and connection- squishing under the force of their laughter. They came together in a rather unconventional way, and they were nothing Yukine imagined for himself, yet they were everything he could ask for.
His parents.
His family.
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that time I watched Antony + Cleopatra
I don’t even know where to start with this one. Please don’t mistake my criticism of the episode with my hating it, because I actually think there’s a lot going on here with Xena (and Gabrielle too, but I am less focused on her arc) that’s quite nuanced and compelling. I love that Xena’s role in orchestrating Marc Antony’s downfall contributes to her moral and emotional conflict. What I abhor (and refuse to accept) is the suggestion that it’s born out of her falling in *love* with him, especially when there are far more consequential things in Xena’s life, past and present, fueling her angst in this moment. I have my own reading of what’s causing Xena’s uneasiness here, but more on that in a bit.
First: I think my greatest frustration is with the show itself. Like, THE FUCKING AUDACITY to foist a Boyfriend of the Week on us with just a handful of episodes left in season five. After everything, *everything*, that Xena & Gabrielle have suffered through (actual, literal HELL), and the continued devotion they show for one another, it’s just not believable that Xena would fall in love with someone else, let alone a ROMAN GENERAL. The emphasis here is important, but patience grasshopper, I’ll get to that.
Now, here’s where we start to get into the weeds with this notion of ‘Xena falling in love’ and there’s a lot to unpack around it, but before I do, let me just finish unspooling the threads of frustration I have with the show and it’s AUDACITY. Because it’s important to note that the show’s intention *was* to frame Xena’s attraction for Marc Antony as romantic - on top of whatever else she may have initially felt (indifference, intrigue, lust) - and not just sexual. And while I’ll concede that a story where Xena is forced to sacrifice her heart for the greater good by killing the man she loves is intriguing, it’s one we’ve already seen (Immortal Beloved). More than that, it’s a story that doesn’t fit with the Xena we know now, and the show, better than anyone, should have recognized this.
I know I’m being hard on the show runners here, so allow me this small tangent to give a little contextual understanding before furthering my arguments. As much fun as it is wrestling with the internal logic of this show (a surprisingly uphill battle all the time), I understand the unfortunate truth is that character motivations don’t always drive the story in the ways you would expect. Sometimes external factors complicate the stories XWP wants to tell and the ways it’s *allowed* to tell them. I get that.
I also get that Xena: Warrior Princess - both the show and the character - was expected to be sexy (hello, an easy win because Xena & Gabrielle). And that means, from time to time, it had to tease the audience with sex and seduction and romance (I guess fighting demons in Hell for the soul of your SOULMATE is not romantic enough, but I DIGRESS). What that often translated as on screen was a parade of Boyfriends of the Week for our two favourite Gal Pals, and by this point in the show, well, frankly it had been a while since Xena had had her a boyfriend (the Ares arc in season 5 doesn’t count). Simply put: a Marc Antony type was past due.
In this case, he wasn’t just past due, he served a dual purpose - fulfilling their Boyfriend of the Week quota, but also helping to re-establish Xena’s sexuality after she’d had her baby. I happen to think the latter take is overly simplistic and misguided (because, what, pregnant women are not also capable of being sexual creatures?), but it’s something Rob Tapert has commented on. So, ok, sure, fine whatever.
To be fair, I’m not sure if the show was deliberately signalling the return of Sexualized!Xena, or if it was simply a byproduct of the chemistry between the characters, and the inherent sensuality of the story’s setting. Regardless, the end result was certainly titillating. And I get it. I get why they want Boyfriends of the Week sometimes. Sex sells, and this episode was a blockbuster.
And before I return again to being hard on the show runners about dumb boyfriends, I just want to point out that my specific problem isn’t that Xena has been given a *boy*friend. Xena is bisexual, so men are always going to be an option when she’s considering a romantic or sexual partner. My issue is that she’s considering *any* romantic partner at all! By the gods, she’s essentially married to Gabrielle at this point.
Ay, but there’s the rub. Because the same expectation that dictated XWP should be sexy, also dictated that it should be heteronormative. The show can repeatedly double down on Xena’s & Gabrielle’s emotional and spiritual fidelity but it can never be seen explicitly to be sexual too (just a reminder, I haven’t seen S6 yet). That’s the unfortunate and uncomfortable reality of television in the late 90s and early 00s.
But this is where I take umbrage: XWP may’ve been limited (by studio notes) to giving us a chalk outline of what Xena’s & Gabrielle’s relationship really looked like, but they most definitely had the ability to control how they coloured the relationships Xena & Gabrielle had with their Boyfriends of the Week. And again, in ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ the show chose to frame it as a love story, a romance, when simply playing it off as Xena’s libido run amok would have satisfied the episode’s need for sex appeal, while also honouring the fact that her heart has long been spoken for (don’t worry: taking Xena’s heart out of the equation won’t lessen her moral or emotional conflict any - I’m getting there!).
Because here’s the thing: Xena getting caught up in the heady thrill of a seduction play, especially with a man as attractive and powerful as Marc Antony is totally believable. And really, Xena taken in by *lust* makes sense, especially at this point in her life. I mean, it’s been a while since she’s had to play this seductive cat-and-mouse game (Ares doesn’t count) and maybe she’s forgotten how easy it is to slip into this character, how much fun it can be. Maybe it’s even a little liberating - this return to form from when she was wild and free - because a lot has changed since she last had to do this; she’s changed and in ways she never anticipated. She’s settled down, even if she’s still travelling the known world. Made a commitment to Gabrielle to share a life together, had a baby, and now the three of them are carving out their own little domestic sphere. And all of this is happening while she’s still reconciling the person she was before with the person she is now. Maybe she’s a little itchy.
Because this… this tension, the cadence of a feint and parry charm offensive, it’s familiar. Comfortable in a way she didn’t know she missed until she felt it again. It would be easy to see her drunk with dark delight, to momentarily lose sight of her head. It would be believable. What’s not believable is that she - a pragmatist - would ever lose sight of her heart. Because the stakes of the game are so high, for Egypt but also for her. (And for you in the back who’s clearly read ahead on the syllabus and is about to point out Xena’s checkered romantic history and her self-proclaimed soft spot for Bad Boys Who Love Like Fools - don’t worry, we’ll get there too.)
What I’m taking a generous amount of time to say is this: if they simply wanted to give us a lush and sexy episode, they could have delivered on the sexiness without attaching it to a love story! We are long past believing Xena only kisses people she’s in love with, or that she’s in love with all the people she kisses. There’s no need to pretend her sexual agency is only relevant or operational within the confines of a romantic plot line. But more than that, throwing an unbelievable romance into the mix really only serves to threaten the integrity of Xena’s motivations, because it risks reducing the entirety of her turmoil to: Xena loses another boyfriend, how le sad. And that is absolutely not the point.
Because the point is this: Rome fucking corrupts and perverts everything it touches. And Xena’s motivations are built from her (and now Gabrielle’s) tortured history with the empire and the men who run it. And if you’ll permit me, like 4,000 words, we can get into it and, hopefully, you’ll agree that shit is heavy enough on Xena’s mind without a ‘star-crossed lovers’ storyline. Remember, it was only a year ago that they both were nailed up by Romans and left to die under a cold, grey sky at the foot of Mount Amaro. That cross alone, and the long shadow it casts, is more than capable of supporting the dramatic weight of this episode, never mind the crosses that came before it.
So, I can’t overstate the importance of Xena’s past connection with Caesar and Rome. It informed so much of who Xena was to become, as a cruel and bloodthirsty warlord, and then later, as a warrior fighting for good. Even now, after Caesar’s death, that connection is still informing her. It will never stop. And, Rome will never be absolved of its sins against Xena & Gabrielle. There’s simply too much trauma in that shared past. Trauma that‘s telegraphed onto every interaction Xena has with Rome and its strongmen going forward.  
And it’s exactly the reason Xena would never fall in love with Marc Antony. She might well lust after his body, but she will never pine for his devotion. Because, even in that moment under the stars when he is just a man with his chest cracked open, offering up to her his heart, beating strong and hungry in want of her affection, she can’t help but see the hardened, black veins where the love of Rome - like a creeping scourge - has left its vile mark. Of course she recognizes it, her own heart bore the same disease. A gift from Caesar. The pretty boy with his pretty words and his pretty promises, who so subtly disarmed Xena and then skillfully stripped away her defences until she had bared her heart to him. Who didn’t hesitate to flay it with a knife of her own making, it’s blade poisoned with his love for Rome.  
He did not take her heart - sometimes she wished he had - but left it to rot in her chest, slow and angry. And it nearly destroyed her. Nearly drained her of every ounce of humanity she had left, as hatred and spite and cold brutality filled her up instead. He had weaponized Xena’s affection for him and used it against her and she was forever changed. In that singular moment she saw Caesar, and Rome - because Caesar was Rome and Rome was Caesar and they were one and the same - for what they truly were: insidious and unrepentant in their calculated villainy. And she hated - not just the man who betrayed her, but the monster who nursed him with poisoned milk, and all the other strongmen who nursed at the same teat. Because in that moment too, Xena learned that all the men who kneeled before Rome and lusted after her glory were the same.
But she didn’t let her hatred go unproductive. She had been careless and imprudent in her dealings with Caesar, and nearly paid for it with her life. Except she survived and then thrived, in her own insidious, unrepentant, calculated villainy. And she never forgot what Caesar had done to her, how he had done it. She turned it over and over and over again in her mind. Studied it from every angle. Studied *him*. Until she knew how he thought, how he moved, where he was weak and unsuspecting. Until she knew every single one of his plays, and how best to counter them. Where and when to lay siege. A secret weapon she cultivated, not just to destroy the man who destroyed her heart, but to lay waste to all the fools who followed in his footsteps. She wouldn’t be taken in by Rome again.
And, to be fair, the episode doesn’t try to run from this history. It just doesn’t linger in it any longer than is necessary to give a brief nod to Brutus and the crucifixion (which is a shame, because it informs so much of both Xena’s & Gabrielle’s psychology, but we’re getting there!!!). Even still, Gabrielle’s first words are loaded with its legacy, if not also quiet resignation: “Are we really going to do this?” Because: Fuck! Rome, again? They’re only willing to go another round with Rome because of Cleopatra, only willing to embrace the ghosts this will stir up because they feel they owe it to a friend.
So, of course they’re going to do this. Only, it’s no longer about vengeance, at least not the white fury that once burned hot in Xena’s veins. This is different. Xena’s ire still seethes, but she doesn’t plan to wield it like a mighty sword, rather she’ll channel it with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel poised to excise a tumour, deliberate and clinical. The plotting is easy - Xena has a library of schemes stored away in the vast reserves of her grey matter - but made easier by the fact that she knows Caesar’s playbook so intimately. The man may be dead but he lives on in Rome and the hearts of all the faithful men who love her - proud and predictable. Puppets whose strings she knows she can deftly manoeuvre.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            The problem is that Xena’s too comfortable in her self-assuredness. Her plan and her assumptions of how Roman strongmen operate and her ability to manage everything is founded on her understanding of Caesar. And none of these men are the next Caesar.  And it’s a problem, because this was supposed to be a quick and straightforward trip up the Nile to Memphis to do a little housekeeping on behalf of a friend and it’s been complicated by the fact that her pawns are not being cooperative.
This entire endeavour is not what she was expecting, Antony is not at all what she was expecting. He’s disarmingly handsome and charming, like many of Rome’s great strongmen, and their chemistry is electric - a bonus when you’re really trying to sell your part in a seduction play - but she realizes a little too late that the game she plays with him is not the one she had planned on. It’s actually much more dangerous.
And, I get that many fans believe Xena’s sexual attraction to Marc Antony is meant to telegraph an underlying romantic attraction as well. That as their physical encounters become more intimate and intense, so too must Xena’s feelings for him. And it’s easy to read it this way because Gabrielle’s own jealousy seems to reinforce the very idea, and Xena, herself, looks increasingly unsettled after each interaction. But I think it’s too simplistic an answer. Xena’s unease about Antony is growing because her plan has been frustrated by unforeseen hurdles, none of which include her falling in love with him.  And Xena is frustrated in return.
We totally see this play out in Xena’s treatment of Gabrielle. She is curt and cool and dismissive (at least until their balcony talk), especially after Gabrielle puts a spectacular halt to Xena’s picnic with Marc Antony. But Xena’s distance here is not because she’s being defensive (at Gabrielle’s continued suggestions that she’s lost the plot), or because she’s angry for the interruption (ok, I’m sure there’s a very base part of Xena that *was* disappointed), or because she’s hurt (how could Gabrielle not have faith in her?). It may come across that way, but, really, Xena’s just acting out her frustrations.
Because this whole situation with Marc Antony, if a little intriguing at first, is irritating. And Xena’s frustrated. On many levels. The most obvious, and least surprising, being that Antony’s attentions have left her itchy and it’s distracting. And not because the chemistry between them has set off a chain reaction of romantic feelings for him - Xena is not spending her free time daydreaming about the man behind the General. It’s simply because there’s a kind of fire in her veins now that she wasn’t expecting to deal with this time out and it has the tendency to keep her on edge. And it’s not that she can’t handle it - spontaneous combustion is sometimes an occupational hazard when she’s playing at desire - it’s just that this particular element was not part of her plan.
That’s the real frustration: Xena’s not used to her plans being stymied. Her opening move - rolling herself, naked and chained, out from a carpet - though, brazen, should have been the perfect lure, should have painted her Cleopatra as an easy, if not unwilling, target for Antony’s ambitions. Because all Roman strongmen are the same: pretty boys with pretty words and pretty promises and pretty predictable tastes for cunning and seduction that they weaponize for the glory of Rome; heartless but for their love of res publica.
And so, this exact play is one Xena is confident any ambitious Roman would pounce on - remember: she knows their playbook, was once herself on the near-losing end of such a gambit, back when she was still a little naive and the right words could soften her heart; before her legs and her psyche endured the full force of Rome’s wrath. Except Antony doesn’t take the bait, like she expects, and it catches Xena flat-footed, a position she rarely finds herself in and one she isn’t particularly fond of. And so now she finds herself having to regroup and change tactics on the fly, which is fine - she’s used to that too - it’s just that her forward momentum is frustrated by the fact that she can’t get a good read on Marc Antony, doesn’t quite know his angle. He’s an unknown and unpredictable variable in a plot that already has a lot of moving parts and it introduces just the tiniest element of doubt into the equation.
Which is why it doesn’t help that Gabrielle is dubious of Xena’s motivations surrounding Antony. Not that Xena blames her for her concerns. She knows they aren’t really meant to provoke - that they come from a place of genuine anxiety, born from Gabrielle’s intimate understanding of Xena’s unhappy past with both bad-boy types and the ravages of Rome. Knows that Gabrielle, whose heart has traced all the scars of that past and let her love be a salve, is steadfast in her belief in Xena, even when the wheels are falling off. But Gabrielle’s questions do provoke. They pique Xena’s frustrations. It leaves her feeling cagey - like her back is up - and she hates it because it means she’s dangerously close to being on the defensive.
And really, by the time Marc Antony invites her to meet him under the pyramids, Xena is running out of options. Her back isn’t just up, it feels dangerously close to being backed up against a wall. She’s only playing this game because she’s confident she’ll win - that’s why she led with such a shameless opening bid, presenting herself to Antony as she did - but with each round Antony’ coyishness has forced her to up the ante while she waits for him to play his hand. Once upon a time she might have enjoyed and encouraged this slow, deliberate back-and-forth - would have been willing to play it out until she was out of chips (and her clothes) - but she no longer has the patience. Not that she’s entirely immune now to the thrill of what they’re doing - Xena has always enjoyed the hunt and then playing with her food - it’s just that she needs him to reveal his hand before he can call her bluff because there aren’t anymore chips to spare and she has too much on the line to go all in.
But Xena’s emotional conflict isn’t just being driven by her frustrations with the way her plan is playing out - it’s priming the engine, to be sure - there are other feelings at work here too. And chief among them is a deep and growing unease with the roles she and Gabrielle have cast themselves in and the very real consequences that will come from their interference. It doesn’t sit well with Xena, the way they’re toying with the futures of Egypt and Rome - as if they are just prizes to be won and Brutus, Antony and Octavius are the game pieces that need to be maneuvered around the board until a winner appears. As if there aren’t millions of lives at stake. She hates it. Hates that she has been somehow cast above it all, to dabble, like some unworthy god, in the lives of so many, and yet also stuck in the thick of it, an unwitting pawn herself.
And the longer Xena’s game is in play, the murkier everything becomes. What seems like a straightforward plan on paper, is actually a mess of competing interests, each as cold and ruthless as the next. And right at the heart of it all: Xena (and Gabrielle too), judge, jury & executioner. Because despite her business-like approach when they arrived in Egypt, Xena’s ability to remain detached and objective is under pressure, especially as all the players in her game reveal themselves and their motivations resolve into finer focus.
And there’s something about Marc Antony. He’s truly unnerved Xena. Because he didn’t play by her rules, the rules she owed to Rome - and he, a Roman no less. Maybe there would have been a time in her past when this would have endeared him to her, but now it’s left her uneasy. He needles at her resolve, the confidence she has in her plan. There’s a part of her that starts to wonder if she’s mis-read him completely, and that’s the start of a slippery slope into thinking she has mis-read this entire situation. And she doesn’t have the time for back-sliding.
But the problem is this: no matter how she looks at it there’s no clear answer, only devastating consequences if she’s wrong. For herself, for the lives she’s playing with, and probably for most of the known world. Because Rome and her strongmen will stop at nothing to take it all. And that thought never leaves her. Rome is a constant drum beat in her mind: Rome Rome Rome. Xena knows what Rome is capable of, what these three men jockeying for her power are capable of, even if Xena doesn’t know *them*. It echoes in her mind every time one of them is before her - even as Marc Antony’s kisses leave behind a fever in her blood - Rome Rome Rome.
And while her mind whirls constantly, turning over strategy and tactics, she’s tried to keep her heart mostly out of this affair. Left it unburdened by the machinations of statecraft and violent political intrigue. Except for a dull ache - when she thinks about Eve downriver in Alexandria, or when her eye catches Gabrielle in an unguarded moment - Xena could almost believe the desert sun had turned her heart to dust. Almost. Except that ache is there and, like her frustration and unease, it’s been growing more persistent.
Because Xena has more than herself to consider now. Sure, she’s spent the last five years dedicated to preserving the greater good - whether fighting for her closest friends or the nameless, faceless masses - but it’s different now, she’s different, and not just because she has a daughter who needs her to come home. She has Gabrielle too. They have a little family. And even though Xena has loved Gabrielle for years, she feels fiercely protective of Gabrielle’s heart and love now, in a way she’s never felt before, with anyone. But then, maybe it’s not surprising: they did battle demons in hell for each other’s soul. That sort of thing changes everything.
And Xena can see how this is affecting Gabrielle, even if she doesn’t say it out loud. Remembers the pierce of iron through the flesh of Gabrielle’s hands as surely as she remembers it through her own. Rome has robbed them both and Xena sees the weight of it in Gabrielle’s gaze. Sees, too, the way Gabrielle traps her bottom lip in her teeth as Xena smiles seductively at Antony. Watches the flush creep across Gabrielle’s pale skin when Antony’s kisses become more emboldened. Catches the dangerous flash in Gabrielle’s green eyes. The one that hasn’t gone away since they arrived in Egypt. Xena sees and it makes her heart lurch. To watch her beloved watch her take delight in the charms of another. And to know the sight of it is a white hot grip on Gabrielle’s heart. Xena feels the burning clench around hers too.
And this is the Xena we see when she meets Marc Antony under the pyramids. Frustrated and uneasy, heart aching. Tired. Tired of this game and her role in it. Tired of Rome, but mostly tired of all the horrible things that happen by her hand because of Rome. And then there is Marc Antony waiting for her. Disarmingly handsome and charming, unnerving in his refusal to play into her hands, a Roman above all: a pretty boy with pretty words and pretty promises. And like all Romans, she expects the promises to be lies. Except, there’s something in the way he’s played his hand, the way he’s held back all this time, that tells her there might be truth in his words when he tells her he wants her love.
She can sense his confession even before the words are out. Maybe on some level she always knew, had seen the inevitability of this moment even as she refused to believe in the possibility. But his words pierce the haze that has kept her from seeing her own folly. And it’s like lightning in a bottle. The way every frayed nerve snaps and jumps and arcs all at once - the rain of sparks illuminating everything that had left her mind and heart unsettled - in an instant of sudden, total understanding. It steals her breath and slices at her heart, this clear and unbearable realization. What she’s done and what she still has to do to bring this absurd game to a close.  
See, she’s made a terrible miscalculation. Because in her mind Roman brutes are heartless. Capable of loving only Rome. And her seduction of Marc Antony was only ever meant to be a power play. How could it be anything more? She had weaponized lust and sex in the past to get the things she wanted, this was to be no different. Except that it was. And her hubris - her prideful overconfidence in her infallible, little plan, coupled with her resolute belief that all Roman men are Caesar at their core - has led her to overplay her hand. Not that she won’t still find a way to win. It’s just the cost will be much higher than she could have anticipated.
Because she has unwittingly weaponized Marc Antony’s affection for her and now she is going to have to deliberately use it against him. It is devastating. To see his chest bared to her so willingly, and to know that she must flay his heart with a knife of his own making. It shakes her resolve. It brings tears to her eyes.
But of course it brings tears to her eyes. She has done the unthinkable: she herself has become Caesar. The thing she hated most. The man who won her trust and her love and then betrayed her. Cold and hard and heartless. Brutal and ruthless and willingly so. In this moment she is Caesar. And soon she will become Rome, sacrificing another man, who might yet have been good, in the name of her unrequited love.
This moment under the pyramids is so important. Everything hangs on this declaration from Marc Antony, on Xena’s tears. I know people see it as confirmation of Xena’s feelings for him - and she has feelings to be sure - but they’re not romantic. Xena’s emotional reaction, and the genuine unease she wears thereafter do not hinge on her being in love with him. Xena’s humanity is enough to soften both her heart and her regard for Antony in this moment. Her compassion and regret are not dependent on attraction or attachment. And so the story doesn’t need to frame her tears for Marc Antony as a lover’s heartbreak, because her heart was always going to break for him, as it breaks for herself and Gabrielle and the ruin left in their wake.
And there will be ruin. Xena is certain of it. Although, for a moment, she might have held a glimmer of hope for Antony. This Roman who’s willing to give up his army for love. For love. Not that she wants what he’s offering. She just wants to believe he could be different. Not for her. For Rome. But then his sword is hilt deep in the belly of one of Brutus’ men and then slicing through the throat of another. And Xena knows - even as she and Gabrielle dance around the subject hours later, bathed in moonlight and disquiet - that any hope for him is misplaced. Knows exactly what he will do with Brutus’ army and Octavius if he prevails. Is keenly aware of what awaits if he learns of her deception and is allowed to live.
Because once upon a time she was the one who trusted and loved and was betrayed and lived. And thousands paid the price at the end of her sword for Caesar’s treachery. Xena can’t even imagine what Marc Antony, favoured son of Rome, might do. Can’t risk the chance. So he must pay the price at the end of her sword too. Xena wishes it weren’t so, tries to avoid the fight that will take his life - because now that she’s seen the humanity in her enemy she wants no further part in this madness she’s helped to orchestrate - only she doesn’t have a choice now. Alea iacta est - the die is cast, and her blade and her betrayal find Antony’s heart all the same. And when the end comes, there’s Xena, soaked in blood and rain and tears, in the middle of this fucking mess, the dead and wounded scattered about her. She can’t escape the truth of it then: she did this.
And it’s this! All of this - the many layers of trauma in need of reckoning and Xena’s tangled heart, twisted further by the part she is forced to play in Egypt and the goddamn fucking senselessness of it all - that carries the emotional weight of the episode. Who needs a Boyfriend of the Week when there’s already all this angst?
And, ok, I hear you say: Pattie, you’ve made some valid points about Xena’s state of mind, but why can’t Xena’s emotional and moral conflict be born from this fraught personal history AND from the fact that she *was* falling in love with Antony? Wouldn’t that make it an EVEN MORE dramatic and powerful story? Because she was specifically falling in love with a ROMAN GENERAL, the very epitome of the thing she has spent most of her adult life hating?
I would like to agree with you, dear skeptical reader, but the simple truth is that there isn’t room for both in *this* story. The reality is this: a 44-minute-long, action-focused show like XWP just doesn’t always have a lot of extra time to linger on the emotional beats. And this episode, in particular, already so busy with all the palace and political intrigue, has even less. So much of what we’re able to read of Xena’s psychological state - and *why* it’s so deeply fraught - doesn’t even come from this episode. It relies on past emotional beats to inform our understanding of her behaviour. (And, I don’t know, perhaps this is why a casual viewer might pass off Xena’s and Marc Antony’s interplay as romantic - because most of the horrible things that have happened to Xena by Roman hands are left unsaid, and surely, if we’d been reminded of them we would never accept that Xena would fall in love with a golden boy of the empire.)
As it is, there’s barely space for any kind of meditation on how either Xena or Gabrielle are feeling about the roles they are being forced to play and the seemingly callous and ruthless tactics they increasingly use to do so, let alone a tenuous romance. And the former is what this episode should be actively engaging with: the moral ambiguity that has been driving season five and will continue on through the end of the series.  
Further complicating things with a love story, doesn’t make the episode more dramatic, it just takes up emotional bandwidth that could be better served elsewhere. Because, yes, Marc Antony is the epitome of the thing Xena has spent more than a decade hating! Xena’s history with Caesar and Rome (and everything they both stand for) is richly layered and devastating. It cannot be erased or ignored. To suggest that she is capable of falling in love with Antony (and to ask us to then believe it) without also deliberately exploring the tension inherent in that act is obtuse.
Those kinds of emotional beats need room to fucking breathe. And the episode doesn’t do this because there’s just too much happening. It tries - in broad, moody strokes - to capture the tenor of Xena’s emotional landscape, and it succeeds in wrapping us up in the same angst that drapes Xena, but the source is nebulous. Her haunted looks and tears - under the sphinx and when her sword finds Antony’s belly - can only telegraph so much, especially when we have been given very little reason to feel invested in her supposed affection towards him.
And here’s where we finally touch on Xena’s checkered romantic history - and her self-proclaimed soft spot for Bad Boys Who Love Like Fools (10 points to Ravenclaw for your patience) - because I’m sure you’re about to suggest that Marc Antony’s air of a Bad Boy is itself cause enough to garner Xena’s affection. Powerful, disarmingly handsome, and charming? Check, check, check. Capable with his ‘sword’? Bonus: super check. But just because her past is littered with dysfunctional relationships and Bad Boys - though I’m sure not all were bad, and some were definitely women - doesn’t mean she’s interested in repeating her mistakes. The Xena of old is vastly different from the one we know by season five, even if there are parts of her that are very much the same.
The principal driving force in her early adult life and formative romantic relationships was lust. It ruled over every part of her. Lust for: power and for violence and for blood and for riches and for infamy, and, of course, for sexual gratification. And so, she sought out partners - themselves driven by the same hunger - who could satisfy all of her desires, not just her (very) carnal appetite. She fell hard and fast and burned white hot until something, or someone, else came along and made her feel even more incandescent. In those early days, Xena wasn’t looking for *love*, she was looking for a good time.
Now, that’s not to say Xena’s past romantic entanglements were frivolous or lacking in genuine sentiment. At the very least, I suspect many were sustained by the warm affection that comes naturally from the intimacy of sharing your life with someone, whether they’re riding into battle alongside you or just warming your bed over a long winter. Nor is it meant to be dismissive of whatever fondness she felt for her lovers. Because: not all love looks the same. There are different kinds of love and different ways to love.  
For Xena, though, whose heart had been so thoroughly and devastatingly mangled by Caesar’s betrayal, love was immaterial. At best, it was the unintended, if pleasurable, byproduct of a mutually beneficial arrangement. At worst it was a weakness that her enemies could exploit. Mostly, it was just a silly notion to scoff at. And the feeling Xena would come to associate with love - whether she acknowledged it as such, or not - was informed by both the dynamics of her relationships with Bad Boys and her own dark, irrepressible designs. It was selfish, and often cruel. Grounded in hot blooded impulses and savage desire, rather than growing out of an honest and patient connection.
And it became so thoroughly ingrained in her psyche. It was her overriding view of love. Even after she came to recognize how different love could be - and look and feel - once it was no longer centred in selfishness, when it was open and giving and kind, it was a struggle for Xena to undo her conditioning, to rewrite her love language. Because: first, she had to accept that she was worthy of this new kind of love, and then she had to actually accept it once it was offered.
But, old habits die hard, even for Xena, and I’m sure there were times - when she was just beginning to reframe how she viewed love and was learning how to reopen her heart - that she slipped back into her outmoded ways of thinking. Conflating lust with something else; allowing herself to be tempted by dalliances with partners who stoked her selfish desires, instead of tempering them. And maybe if Xena had crossed paths with Marc Antony then - back at the beginning of the series when her history with Rome was still messy but not nearly as tortuous as it is by the end of season five (you know after Britannia and its fallout which was the beginning of The Rift, and the deaths of Crassus and Ephiny and Pompy and the countless others who were the collateral damage surrounding those events, and, of course, Xena’s & Gabrielle’s own death on the cross) - I’d be willing to believe that she could love him.
Because, at one time Xena might have been interested in a man like Antony, might have been able to look past the Roman tunic and pursued him, taken in by his magnetism and allure. But by this point in the series Xena just isn’t interested, and not because her duplicity has made it impossible for her to be, but because by now her entire understanding of love - of being loved and giving love and nurturing it and making room for it to grow - has fundamentally changed. It’s been re-centred in selflessness, and everything that Marc Antony represents is antithetical to this new appreciation.
And I get that there’s an argument in here somewhere, that suggests Xena’s new approach to love might have softened her heart in such a way that she’s both able and willing to see the man behind the General, and be open to loving him too. But I would argue that the very things, the very people, whose love has transformed Xena’s heart are also the very things that would stop her from ever letting her heart go there. It’s not just that her point of reference on love has changed, it’s that she’s had years now of lived experience to break that cognitive dissonance between her attitude - knowing the kind of love she wants, the kind of love that’s *good* for her - and her behaviour - choosing that reaffirming, selfless love instead of the tempestuous, selfish one. She’s not blind to her past weaknesses, she knows exactly the sort of temptation Marc Antony offers - as surely as Gabrielle does the moment she lays eyes on him - but recognizing it is not akin to considering it. Because: Xena’s already found the love she needs and wants (and knows she’s earned and deserves).
Ok, but what of Xena’s admission on the balcony, when she cops to having a soft spot for Bad Boys Who Love Like Fools? I think it’s less about admitting (to herself as much as Gabrielle) that she’s developed romantic feelings for Marc Antony, as it is about Xena acknowledging a certain sort of fondness she feels for these ‘Bad Boys’. A fondness that’s born from a mutual understanding. Because: I think Xena sees herself in these men - at least an earlier version of herself - when she was ‘bad’ and foolhardy at love, and her heart tugs at the memory of it. Some curious mix of nostalgia and empathy, that softens her regard for them.
And she certainly sees herself in Marc Antony. The parallels between her story with Caesar and the story she’s now playing out with Antony are unavoidable, and if she’s cast herself as Caesar in this shadow play then Marc Antony is her younger self. Of course she would have a soft spot for him, she knows how this story ends. Knows, specifically, what it’s like to be willing to give your trust and your love only to be betrayed in return. And, of course, it’s made only more complicated with the knowledge that she’s the one who will ultimately be his ruin.
So, finally, exhausted and exasperated and, like 7,000 words into this, I hear you ask: what does it really matter? Xena doesn’t choose Marc Antony in the end, so what does it matter if it was lust or love or guilt or a fucking mid-life crisis that was driving her in this episode? Well, dear, patient reader: it matters because Gabrielle deserves better (THIS IS A BOLD STATEMENT, I KNOW, AND IT’S NOT AN INDICTMENT ON XENA’S CHARACTER EITHER, IT’S JUST THAT I FEEL VERY PROTECTIVE OF GABRIELLE’S HEART, OK! AND THE ONE THING THIS EPISODE DOES IS GIVE GABRIELLE THOSE LITTLE BEATS WHERE WE LINGER ON HER VISIBLE REACTIONS TO XENA’S TETE A TETE WITH ANTONY AND SHE’S CLEARLY JEALOUS AND HURT AND WORRIED AND SO, LET’S NOT LOSE SIGHT OF THE FACT THAT HER EMOTIONAL STAKES ARE ALSO INCREDIBLY HIGH IN THIS EPISODE, NOT JUST BECAUSE HER LIFE PARTNER IS SEDUCING SOME DUDE, BUT ALSO BECAUSE THE LEVELS OF BRUTALITY SHE’S INCREASINGLY HAVING TO EMPLOY ARE ALARMING. AND SO, SOMEONE IN THE WRITER’S ROOM WAS THINKING ABOUT THIS WHEN THEY WERE OUTLINING THE STORY - UNDERSTANDING THAT THERE’S AN UNDERCURRENT IN XENA’S & GABRIELLE’S RELATIONSHIP THAT WOULD MAKE SEEING XENA WITH ANTONY UNCOMFORTABLE, BUT THEN NOT ALSO RECOGNIZING THAT THAT SAME UNDERCURRENT WOULD MAKE IT EQUALLY UNCOMFORTABLE FOR XENA. AND IT’S JUST LIKE: TEAM, WHY DO YOU HAVE TO DO THAT TO GABRIELLE? HER HEART MUST HAVE BEEN IN A TERRIBLE STATE. AND WHY DID YOU HAVE TO MAKE XENA COMPLICIT IN THIS?)
But, seriously, I’ve spent all this time diving deep into this episode and the ways it comes up short and why, and while I’ve alluded to it, I’ve mostly avoided the elephant in the room.
We need to talk about Gabrielle.
Because: Gabrielle is at the heart of why a romance between Xena and Marc Antony feels contrived and unconvincing. At this point in the show, it’s clear Xena & Gabrielle are fully and completely committed to each other (and, yes, I know that doesn’t necessarily preclude either of them from also seeking romantic or sexual partners elsewhere... I just don’t think they’re the sharing types, but I DIGRESS) - I mean, we *just* had ‘Kindred Spirits’ where they were nesting and talking about domestic bliss and privately teasing each other about their sex life in the most blatant way possible and failing miserably at breaking up but winning at being cute and married and adoringly in love. And I think it’s important to acknowledge the weight of Xena’s decision to very clearly have Gabrielle as her *life* partner - because implicit in the act of choosing to commit yourself to another person is a vow of fidelity, a bond that would be near-holy to Xena, whose word means everything.
But more to the point: Xena loves Gabrielle and Gabrielle loves Xena, and their love has been the beating heart of this show from the beginning. Gabrielle’s care and tenderness has been transformative - everything that Xena has come to understand about love, everything that she does to honour and protect it, is because of Gabrielle and the heart she’s so selflessly given of. And it’s this love story - and how the show has framed its slow and beautiful unravelling - that becomes the bench mark, the gold standard, for how all other love stories in this universe should be viewed, for how Xena, herself, now views love.
So, I guess what I’ve been saying all along is this: Xena can’t possibly be falling in love with Marc Antony because she’s already in love. Deeply, profoundly, bound-for-all-eternity in love. And no one, in this life (or any other, let’s be real) will ever compare. Not pretty boys with pretty words and pretty promises. Not Bad Boys Who Love Like Fools. Not even a god himself. There is only Gabrielle.
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pikapeppa · 4 years ago
Text
Samson/Roman Hawke smut & feels: Home
A tale of how Samson ends up at Roman Hawke’s Hightown mansion for the first time. Mildly angsty feels, as much “fluff” as these two ever get, and smut. Recommended listening: the eponymous song by Depeche Mode. 
For beloved soulmate @schoute! ~9800 words; read on AO3 instead.
***********************
The thug took an aggressive step closer to Samson. “Come on, you sack of shite,” he sneered. “What’s wrong, too much of a ponce to throw a punch?” 
The thug’s two buddies jeered and snickered. Samson tucked his hands in his pockets and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. “Listen, fellas, I’m a waste of your time. Ain’t got a single coin to my name. I’m just trying to make a living on my corner here.” 
The thug stepped even closer. “I didn’t say you could talk back.” He glanced at his beefy buddies. “Did you ‘ear me say he could talk back?”
“I didn’t,” one crony said.
“I didn’t neither,” the other said. 
A real brain trust we have here, Samson thought sourly. He wrestled his expression into a pitiful hangdog sort of look. “I wasn’t bothering no one. I swear I won’t bother you if you just let me on my merry way.” 
“Shut your fuckin’ hole,” the main thug snarled. “Unless you’re looking to die today?” 
Samson didn’t reply. After a few seconds of awkward silence, the thug curled his lip. “What, now you decide to go all quiet?” 
Samson still didn’t reply, and the thug scowled. “The fuck’s wrong with you, eh?” 
Samson gritted his teeth, then bowed his head slightly in a would-be-polite gesture. “You said to shut my hole. Just trying to accommodate.”
He should have known better than to speak. The main thug pulled a dirty switchblade from his pocket. “We got a smart one ‘ere, boys. What say we teach him a lesson?”
Samson sighed. “Come on, there’s no need–”
The thug suddenly swiped at his face with the blade. Samson instinctively lifted his left arm to deflect the blow, and a red-hot stripe of pain lashed across his forearm.
You don’t have gauntlets anymore, idiot, he told himself angrily. He ignored the pain in his arm and held up his hands in surrender while backing away — backing his way toward an alley that twisted into a narrow passage that these burly thugs wouldn’t be able to follow him down. “Please,” he begged. “I’m not lookin’ for a fight here.”
The thug ignored him. “Grab him,” he said to his cronies.
The cronies stepped toward him. He backed away and prepared himself to run–
“Back the fuck off. Now.”
The harsh command came from Samson’s left, and he wilted. A second later, Roman Hawke was standing in front of him with her arms folded.
She narrowed her eyes at the three huge thugs. “I said back it up. Right now.”
Samson sighed, then edged closer to her. “Bird–”
The main thug laughed nastily. “What’s this, then? The beggar’s got himself a whore?”
Roman swelled to her full height. “What the fuck did you just call me?” she barked.
Here we go, Samson thought tiredly. The main thug guffawed, then turned to his buddies. “Listen to this… hey, what’s wrong with you?”
The thug’s two friends were holding back and looking apprehensive. “That’s Hawke,” one of them said. 
The main thug frowned. “Eh?”
“It’s Hawke,” his other friend hissed. “You know, Hawke. The one who blew up the deep roads and took down a bunch of golems with Varric Tethras a couple months back.” He gave Roman a scared look. “I hear she’s an abomination.”
“I heard she’s a demon,” the other one said tremulously. He looked like he was ready to piss himself, and Samson had to work hard not to laugh.
The main thug scoffed, then turned back to Roman and Samson. “This scrawny–”
Roman suddenly brought her elbow up and around in a sharp swing, and her elbow collided with the thug’s face with a solid thunk. The thug yelped and stumbled to the ground, and Roman grabbed a fistful of his hair. “I said back the fuck off, or I’ll fucking kill you,” she snarled. “Is that clear enough for you?”
The thug whimpered and clutched his cheek, and Samson watched with a weary sort of amusement as the other two men bolted. Roman roughly shook the thug’s head. “Answer me. Is that fucking clear?”
“It’s clear, it’s clear!” the thug bleated. “Andraste’s tit, you’re hurting me!”
“Good,” Roman said vindictively. She released his hair, then kicked him in the hip for good measure. “Now fuck off before I change my mind about letting your sorry ass live.”
The thug stumbled to his feet and ran away. Samson folded his arms and gave Roman a sarcastic little smile. “My knight in shining armour,” he drawled.
She ignored him and eyed his left forearm. “Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.”
He followed her gaze. Sure enough, his arm was a mess; there was a four-inch-long jagged cut running from below his wrist toward his elbow, and it was steadily weeping blood that was soaking into the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.
He sighed. He only had two other clean shirts to his name aside from this one. “Maker’s bloody balls,” he muttered, and he pushed his sleeve up higher on his arm. 
Roman untied the red scarf from around her wrist and held it out to him. He hesitated, then took the scarf and gingerly started wiping the blood on his arm. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Bird,” he said quietly.
“Clearly you do,” she retorted. “Why the fuck didn’t you fight back when he pulled a knife on you?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of playing dead?” Samson said, only half-jokingly. “If you don’t fight back, they lose interest.”
Roman scowled at him. “Pulling a knife on you isn’t losing interest, you fucking dumbass.”
He shrugged. “Ah, I guess you’re right. Must be losing my touch.” He gave her a wry smirk, then studied his semi-clean arm.
Blood was still oozing from the wound. Samson sighed and pressed Roman’s scarf to the cut, then glanced at her. 
She was still frowning at him. He raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“You need to get that treated,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’ll stop bleeding on its own.”
“It’s too deep and long to stop,” she retorted. 
A dirty comment rose to his mind, but he didn’t dare to say it, especially as Roman was still talking. “You keep moving your arm, that wound’ll keep opening back up again. You need stitches.”
He clicked his tongue. “Bird–”
She cut him off. “You want it to get infected and for your arm to get gangrene and fall off? Fine. Be my guest.” 
He frowned at her, then exhaled loudly and lifted his eyes to the sky. “Fine. Fine, I’ll get it bloody well stitched up, all right?” 
She shrugged, and they started walking – both in different directions. 
Samson paused, and Roman shot him a quizzical look. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“To Anders’ clinic,” he said blankly. He frowned at her. “Where were you going?”
“To my house,” she said, to his surprise. “I was going to…” She paused and hunched her shoulders. “I can stitch a wound,” she muttered.
He raised his eyebrows. Wait, did that mean… was Roman was inviting him to her house? That was the last thing he’d expected. But why was she offering to stitch him up if she could just pawn him off on Anders? 
He ought to say no. He ought to just go to Anders’ clinic in Darktown like he usually would. He often told Roman he wasn’t proud enough to say no to charity, but for some reason as the years had gone on, he’d started to wish he didn’t need to rely on Roman’s pity to survive. 
An invitation to her house, though… What must her house be like? Samson knew she’d never wanted to live in the Amell’s Hightown mansion; she hated Hightown. How had the rough-and-ready Roman Hawke decorated the big fancy house she didn’t even want? 
“You know what, forget it,” Roman said suddenly. 
Samson looked at her. Her shoulders were hunched up almost to her ears, and her cheeks were turning pink. She glared at him. “Forget I said anything. Go to Anders, see if I care. I was just–”
“No,” he blurted. “I — er. If you, um. If you want to stitch me up, I’d be much obliged.” 
“I don’t want to,” she snapped. “I was just offering. Do what you want, I don’t care.”
He scowled at her. She was so surly and so fucking confusing. He really would be better off going to Anders’ clinic on his own. It would be much less of a headache.
Curiosity about her house finally got the better of him, however. “Bird, I’d be thankful if you stitched me up, all right?”
She gave him a hard stare, then finally relaxed her shoulders and jerked her head in the direction of Hightown. “Come on, then.”
They made their way through Lowtown in a rather dour silence. As they were walking through the Hightown market, Roman finally spoke. “Seriously though, why didn’t you just fight back?”
He gave her a chiding look. “You saw my odds, right? Three against one ain’t something to sneeze at.”
“You still should have fought back,” she insisted. “I know you’re trained in combat. You could have done some real damage if you wanted to.”
“I didn’t want to,” he said doggedly. “I told you, I was hoping he’d lose interest. Berks like that want to make themselves feel big by beatin’ up someone smaller. The more beaten you look, the faster they lose interest.” He shrugged and peeked at the wound again, then pursed his lips; it was still bleeding. 
He pressed her scarf to the wound once more. “Sometimes being invisible is better than being strong. Not that you’d know anything about being invisible,” he muttered.
She shot him a sharp look. “What do you mean with that crack?”
“You’re a bloody wildcat who doesn’t know how to stay out of a fight, that’s what,” he said bluntly.
“Well, you suck at being invisible if you’re getting stabbed,” she retorted.
“Are you going to break my balls all the way to your fancy house?” he complained. “If that’s the case, I’d rather my arm get the rot, thanks very much.”
Roman glared at him, then said nothing more for the rest of the walk. It was awkward enough that Samson half considered turning around and not coming the rest of the way with her, but his wound was still bleeding freely, so he suffered the unpleasant silence until they reached her house. 
She unlocked the door and shoved it open, then started pulling off her boots. “Lock it behind you,” she said gruffly. 
Samson closed and locked the door. A moment later, Roman’s mabari came barrelling through the foyer toward them.
Monty barked happily, and Roman smiled faintly as she rubbed his jowls. “There’s the good boy,” she crooned. She rubbed the mabari’s ears while he wagged his tail, and Samson studied Roman’s rare smile from the corner of his eye. 
Monty licked Roman’s cheek before looking up at Samson, and Samson stood there awkwardly as the mabari approached him. He’d met Monty several times before, but it never paid to take a mabari’s acceptance for granted. 
He cautiously held out his hand. “Dog,” he greeted. 
Monty sniffed his fingers, then licked his hand and trotted away, and Samson released his breath. 
“Come on,” Roman said, and she padded silently into the house. 
Samson looked around with unabashed interest as he followed her. The Amell mansion looked… nothing like Roman, in fact. The walls were done in a delicate pink-and-gold wallpaper, and the furniture was clearly expensive but pretty standard for a noble’s house. Most of the floors were carpeted, and Samson awkwardly studied the trail of dirt that his filthy shoes had left behind. There were a few paintings on the walls, but they were boring pastoral scenes. There was a writing desk in the corner that was covered in a mess of letters that Samson suspected was Roman’s workspace, but aside from that, he wouldn’t have guessed that Roman lived here. 
“Not what I’d have expected from a dog lord,” he remarked.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “My mother’s family are Kirkwall nobles, not Fereldans.”
“Ah, right.” He studied the elaborate chandelier that hung over the main room, then looked her in the eye. “This place doesn’t look like you.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What the fuck were you expecting? Half-melted candles and bowls of blood in every corner?”
He smirked at her sarcastic tone. “Yeah, that’s right. Maybe some ritual circles painted on the floor. But I guess that would make a mess of your nice carpet ‘ere.”
She snorted, and Samson raised his eyebrows in surprise. Had he actually managed to make her laugh? Unfortunately, he couldn’t check; she’d turned away and was disappearing into the kitchen.
He followed her. She was arranging some items on the kitchen island, a towel and a needle and thread, and Samson leaned casually against the island as she filled a porcelain bowl with hot water.
Monty sat beside him and leaned against his leg. Samson warily looked at the mabari for a second before gingerly patting his furry head. “I thought there’d be servants,” he said to Roman. “Big house like this? Must be a lot for your mum to manage on her own.”
Roman scoffed. “She doesn’t–” She broke off suddenly, and Samson raised his eyebrows. 
When she spoke again, her tone was gruff. “We do have a couple of servants. But they’re probably at the market. They sell enchanted items on the side.” 
Enchanted items? He raised his eyebrows. “You’re talking about the dwarves, right? Bodahn and the simple one? They work for you?”
Roman shot him a hard look. “Sandal’s not simple. He’s just… he doesn’t talk much.”
Samson held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”
She didn’t reply. She placed the bowl of hot soapy water on the counter, then gestured for him to come closer. “Give me the scarf.” 
He sidled up beside her and handed her the scarf, and she immediately tossed it in the fire in the kitchen hearth. 
Samson raised his eyebrows. “You burn those?”
She looked up from the bowl of soapy water, which she was dipping a washcloth into. “Huh?”
He jerked his chin at the fire. “The scarves. You burn them? I thought you just washed ‘em after mopping yourself up.” 
She shook her head and wrung out the washcloth. “Too risky. Leaving any blood lying around is like asking some fucked-up asshole to use it against you.” She roughly took his arm and started wiping it clean.
He flinched, and Roman paused. “Hold still,” she muttered, and she wiped the wound more gently. 
He watched her face for a moment before speaking. “You’re telling me that you, the blood mage, are worried about other people using blood magic against you?”
She shot him a venomous look. “Mages aren’t the only ones who use blood for shitty reasons. Don’t think I don’t know all about Templars and the way they use those fucking phylacteries.”
Samson raised an eyebrow. “It was mages who came up with the phylacteries.”
“You think they came up with that by choice?” Roman snapped. “There’s no fucking way they came up with that idea of their own free will. It’s the Templars and the Chantry who use the phylacteries. Those fucking things are just as much of a leash for the mages as lyrium is for the fucking Templars.” She went back to wiping his arm.
He sighed and leaned against the island. “Yeah, well…” He trailed off.
She paused in her ministrations. “What, no clever fucking comeback?”
He shot her a weary look. “I’m tired, Bird. I’m not in the mood for a comeback.”
She pursed her plump lips, then went back to cleaning his arm. When his arm was free of blood, she dropped the washcloth in the bowl of water and looked at him. “You agree with me, don’t you? You think phylacteries are fucked up, too.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t change anything.” He studied the smarting wound on his arm. Maker’s balls, it was still bleeding slightly. It was a good thing Roman had insisted that he get it stitched up.
She didn’t reply. Samson finally looked up and met her gaze, and his heart did a funny little twist behind his ribs. The way she was eyeing him was… she looked less pissed than usual. Her pitch-dark eyes were as bottomless and deep as always, but she was looking at him in that way she did on occasion — looking at him like she was seeing someone whose opinions were worthy of respect. Like he was someone whose presence in the world could be worth some good.
She was looking at him like he was someone he wasn’t. 
His heart felt like it was migrating up toward his throat. He swallowed hard and gestured at his arm. “Well?” he said roughly. “You going to stitch me up then or what?”
When her usual scowl returned, it was almost a relief. “I’m going to freeze your arm a little,” she said. “Just the surface of the skin to numb it.” Without waiting for an answer, she placed her palm over his open wound. The skin instantly started to cool, and Samson waited tensely as his arm grew colder and colder. 
Finally, when the smarting pain of his wound had nearly turned into a smarting pain of cold instead, she lifted her hand. Without speaking, she silently threaded the needle she’d brought, then started sewing up the cut. 
He clenched his jaw as she worked. Despite his chilled arm, he could still feel a tiny pinch of pain every time the needle pierced his skin, but he didn’t want to point it out in case Roman got angry and told him to leave. 
Then he wondered why he even wanted to stay. She always made him so bloody tired with her constant scowl and the way she was always picking arguments with him. And she was such a hypocrite, trying to insist that his life was worth something when she was always cutting her own arms and throwing herself into nearly-fatal situations as though she didn’t care what happened to her.
He pursed his lips and looked away from her. When the stitching was done, she took a roll of linen strips and bandaged his arm, then stood back and folded her arms. “Done,” she said. 
He inspected his bandaged arm, then tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up at her once more. “Thanks, Bird.”
She nodded. She didn’t say anything more, and as the silence stretched on, Samson started to feel awkward. 
He took a step back. “Well, er. I’ll–”
“Have you eaten?” she said. 
He paused. “You mean today, or…?”
Her eyebrows jumped up. “When was the last time you ate?”
He hesitated and tried to remember. “Yesterday. Yeah, that’s right, I think I ate yesterday. I…” He trailed off. She’d walked over to the kitchen hearth and was stirring the contents of the cast-iron pot that was hanging over the fire. 
She grunted, then went to a cupboard and pulled out a dish, and Samson watched in bemusement as she returned to the pot and ladled some of its contents into the dish. She returned to the kitchen island and plonked the dish of stew in front of him, then rifled around in a drawer and thrust a spoon at him.
“Eat it,” she said. “If the meat’s tough, too bad. I think it’s supposed to cook for a few more hours.”
He stared at her for a second. There was a lump in his throat again. He must be getting sick.
 He gingerly took the spoon. “What’s with the hospitality?”
“What are you talking about?” she said sulkily.
He jerked his chin at the spool of thread and the bowl of bloody water. “This amateur healer business, the food… you’re being real hospitable today, Bird.”
She glowered at him. “Look, if you don’t want the stew, you can just get the fuck out of my house. No one’s stopping you.”
For some perverse reason, her hostility made him feel more at ease than her kindness. He dipped his spoon into the stew. “And turn down a free hot meal? Not a chance.” He blew on the stew and took a bite. The meat was rather stringy; it clearly needed to simmer for a few hours more, as she’d said. But it was still the best thing he’d eaten in weeks. 
He took another big bite of stew and burned his tongue, then forced himself to slow down. Roman leaned back against the island and folded her arms, and Samson eyed her from the corner of his eye while he ate. 
She glanced at him, and her eyebrows creased into a scowl. “What?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me?”
He chewed slowly to stall for time. He couldn’t tell her he was admiring the way her stubborn jawline blended into the delicate line of her neck. 
He finally swallowed his mouthful of stew. “Can I take a bath while I’m here?” he said.
She curled her lip at him, just as he’d known she would. “What the fuck does this look like to you, a boarding house?”
He lifted his loaded spoon. “I’m askin’ for your benefit, Bird. You’re the one always complaining about how I smell.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, and he slowly chewed another bite of stew as he waited for her response. Finally she unfolded her arms and sighed loudly. “For fuck’s sake. Fine. You can use the bath in my room. Come upstairs when you’re done.” She pushed away from the counter and patted Monty’s head before leaving the kitchen, and Samson watched in mild surprise as she walked away. He honestly hadn’t been sure if she would agree or if she’d just tell him to get the fuck out. 
He quickly finished his stew, then scratched Monty’s ears and made his way toward the stairs. He headed up to the one open door on the second floor and peered cautiously into the bedroom.
He instantly recognized it as Roman’s room. The decor was a stark contrast with the rest of the house: it was lush and dark and eclectic, bursting with furniture and fabrics that looked like she’d picked them up piecemeal over the years instead of trying to foster a cohesive theme. The wallpaper was dark red with an intricate grey pattern of curlicues. The bed was dark mahogany hung with heavy rust-red velvet curtains. The curtain was drawn across the window, leaving the room dimly by with the warm glow of candles and an oil lantern despite it being the middle of the afternoon. An ornately framed full-length mirror was propped carelessly in one corner, and in another corner was a fancy version of the sort of folding screen that Samson had seen at the Blooming Rose for the prostitutes to change their clothes. Roman’s folding screen was draped with a multitude of scarves: scarves that he rarely saw her wear, aside from the crimson ones she tied around her wrist. 
He slid his hand into his pocket and self-consciously rubbed his thumb over the crimson scarf he kept in his pocket — the same one Roman had used to mop herself up after that one time they’d had sex in the alley. She’d shoved the dirty scarf into his hand, and Samson still wasn’t sure why he’d kept it. He’d even used some precious soap to wash it out, and now it was tucked deep in the pocket of his trousers where he always carried it. 
He stepped into her bedroom and followed the sound of running water to the en-suite washroom. Roman was sitting on a wooden stool while the bathtub filled up, and Samson could see the faint red glow of runes around the bottom of the tub.
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that an enchanted bathtub?”
She shrugged. “It came with the house.”
He leaned against the doorjamb. “You really are the upper crust now, eh? Golden chandeliers, enchanted bathtub… must be nice.”
She frowned at him. “The bathwater doesn’t have to be hot, you know. I can chill the water if you’d rather freeze your balls off.” She held up one hand, and a little ball of ice appeared over her open palm.
Samson shot her a chiding look. “And you wonder why people are afraid of apostates.”
She scoffed and threw the ball of ice into the tub, where it promptly melted. “I know why people are afraid of apostates. Because they’re fucking sheep to the Chantry.” 
He huffed. “Should’ve seen that one coming, I s’pose.” He shucked his vest and started kicking off his shoes while pulling his shirt over his head. 
“Oh, for fuck’s — you’re not even going to wait until I leave the room?” Roman demanded.
He winced as his sleeve brushed over his freshly-bandaged arm, then glanced at her unconcernedly. “Why bother? I’m not modest.” He smirked. “Are you shy, Bird? You going to blush like a country milkmaid or something when my cock comes out?”
“No,” she said loudly. 
He shrugged. “All right then.” He unlaced his trousers and shamelessly pushed them down. In truth, he’d long grown used to taking baths in front of other people — first the communal baths in the Templar barracks, then in the one half-decent public bathhouse in Lowtown when he could spare the coin to bathe.
Roman scoffed and folded her arms. “If this is your way of trying to get me to fuck you again, it’s not working.”
He shot her a scathing look. “Relax. I’m not trying to trick my way into your twisted knickers.” Not that he would say no if she were ever to offer, but he knew better than to get his hopes up about anything anymore. 
He stepped into the tub and immediately sighed in relief. “Damn, that’s nice,” he groaned. 
“Don’t get that bandage wet,” Roman scolded. 
“I know, I know,” he said. He really hoped she wasn’t going to nag him the whole time he was bathing. 
He kept his left forearm above the water and submerged himself, and for a few long seconds, he enjoyed the way the hot water pricked his scalp and the skin of his face. He slowly broke the surface of the water and rubbed his face with his right hand, then opened his eyes. 
Roman was still sitting on her stool next to the basin with her arms folded. Samson lifted one eyebrow at her. “Are you going to watch me to make sure I don’t piss in your bathtub or something?” He reached for the soap and started washing his arms.
Her face twisted with disgust. “Why would you even suggest that? Is that something that you would usually do?”
“No, Bird,” he said flatly. “But I’ve seen some things at the bathhouse, let me tell you.”
Her pouty lips twisted even more. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Probably for the best,” he said. He washed his chest and his back as best he could with one arm, then started washing his hair. 
She tsked. “Don’t use the soap for that.”
He looked up at her. “Why not?”
“There’s shampoo,” she said slowly, like she was talking to an idiot. “Use the fucking shampoo.”
He sighed, then put the bar of soap down and picked up the glass bottle of shampoo. He poured a measure of it into his palm, and the scent of it pulled at something deep in his belly. 
It smelled sweet and smooth, almost like the filling in those amandine croissants that the Orlesians made: like warm vanilla and almonds.
It smelled like Roman’s hair.
Maker’s balls, his cock was starting to get hard. He was suddenly grateful that Roman couldn’t see his body over the high edges of the tub. He inhaled the shampoo fragrance once more, then started washing his hair. 
A few seconds later, Roman tutted again. “You’re not doing it right. You’re not washing the roots.”
He lowered his hand and shot her annoyed look. “I’m a bloody grown man. I know how to wash my own hair.”
“Apparently you don’t. You’re only washing the surface of your hair,” she said. “You need to wash your fucking scalp.”
“I’ve only got one hand,” he complained.
“So?” she said snidely.
He glared at her. “If you’re such a bloody expert, why don’t you come and do it for me, eh?” 
She glared back at him, then stood up. “Fine,” she spat. “Fine, I will.” To his immense surprise, she dragged her stool over to the tub behind his head and sat down bad-temperedly, then held out her hand. “Give me the fucking shampoo and dunk your head.”
He dumbly did as he was told. When he emerged from the water once more, Roman slid both of her hands into his wet hair.
He tensed slightly, expecting her to roughly scrub his hair. What he didn’t expect was gentleness. 
She pressed the tips of her fingers into his scalp and started to rub in a slow and careful massage. She stroked her fingers through his hair and started lathering it carefully, and Samson sat stock-still in the tub, paralyzed by how fucking gentle she was being. 
“Tilt your head back,” she said quietly.
He silently obeyed her. She smoothed the water and shampoo away from his forehead, and then her fingers were moving in a careful circular motion from his temples toward his nape. To his horror, he suddenly felt like crying. 
There was a pressure in his chest, like a weight that seemed to be throbbing up toward his throat. As Roman continued to gently massage his scalp and run her fingers through his hair, the ache in his chest only seemed to worsen.
Samson closed his stinging eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently. Had he ever been touched this way before – in a way that insipid romance novel writers might almost call tender, if it was anyone else doing the touching other than the rough and cranky Roman Hawke? 
He swallowed hard. “I thought you’d be pulling my hair by now, Bird,” he said. His voice was husky to his own ears, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice. 
She huffed. “Unlike you, I know how to wash hair. I told you, you were doing it wrong.”
He grunted in response. If the gentle work of her fingers was right, then he’d definitely been doing it wrong. 
“How d’you know how to wash other people’s hair?” he asked. “You used to help your mum with washing Carver and Bethany?” 
“No,” she said shortly.
He waited for her to say more, but when she didn’t speak, he glanced over his shoulder at her. 
She was scowling. When she met his eye, her scowl deepened. “Don’t look at me,” she said defensively. 
He turned around with a sigh. “I was just making conversation,” he grumbled. “I wasn’t trying to piss you off.” 
She said nothing in return, but she kept combing her fingers through his hair and running her nails gently over his scalp, and Samson eventually just relaxed into the soothing touch of her hands. His hair must be clean by now, and he should probably ask why she was still massaging his head. But it just felt… Maker, it felt too damned good, and he knew that the moment he asked what she was doing, she would pull her hands away. 
He closed his eyes once more. Her hands continued to stroke and smoothe their way across his scalp and down to the back of his neck, and it was hardly a stretch for him to imagine her hands stroking other parts of his body just as intimately. 
A flare of longing came to life low in his gut. A few heartbeats later, his cock was unfurling and straightening in the bathwater.
He shifted restlessly, annoyed at himself for getting horny and at her for making him feel this way. Then she pushed on the crown of his head. “Rinse,” she said. 
He sank into the bathwater and used his right hand to rub the shampoo out of his hair. When he rose to the surface once more, Roman was on her feet and moving toward the door. 
“You can have some of Carver’s old clothes,” she said. “He doesn’t need them anymore as a fucking Templar.” She left without looking at him or waiting for a response. 
He sighed, then sat there in the cooling bathwater for a moment and brooded over his traitorous cock and the traitorous heavy feeling in his chest. He eventually dragged himself out of the bath and pulled the drain, then started drying his hair with the towel she’d left on the edge of the basin.
His idle gaze fell on his clothes that he’d abandoned on the floor, and he paused. He considered putting on his own clothes rather than taking even more charity from Roman, but now that he was clean and his hair smelled like vanilla and almonds, he could really see what Roman was talking about when she complained about his smell.
He sighed, then wandered back into her bedroom as he rubbed his hair. A second later, she opened the bedroom door and came back in with an armful of clothes. 
“This stuff might be too big, but maybe–” She stopped short, and her eyes fell straight to his groin. She stared at his upright cock for a second before raising her eyes back to his face, and he hunched his shoulders. 
“Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of monster,” he said defensively. “It’s your fault, anyway.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “How is your hard-on my fault?”
He couldn’t tell her it was the way she’d been stroking his hair. He felt perverted enough already just from the way she was eyeing him. “Just… I’m a man, all right?” he muttered. “Can’t always control my own knob.” He tied the towel around his waist. 
She dropped the pile of clothes on the bed. “Pick what you want from there,” she said. 
He glanced at Carver’s hand-me-downs. “Thanks,” he muttered. He reached for the closest piece of clothing, intent on putting clothes on as quickly as possible. But before he could pick anything from the pile of clothes, Roman stepped closer to him.
He shied away from her. “What are you doing?” he said suspiciously. 
“I thought you weren’t modest,” she said.
He double-taked at her. “Eh?”
She reached for the towel around his waist, and he was so stunned that he didn’t stop her when she pulled it off.
She shoved his hip. “Sit down.”
He sat dumbly on the edge of the bed. When Roman dropped to her knees in front of him, his whole brain seemed to freeze with disbelief. This wasn’t real, was it? Maybe he’d drowned himself in the bathtub and this was some kind of out-of-body thing. 
His throbbing cock felt real enough, though. And when Roman suddenly grabbed his shaft, he gasped with pleasure. 
Well, that was certainly real. 
She pumped her fist along his length, and he clenched his fingers in the blankets. “Bird–”
She suddenly took his cock in her mouth, and it felt so fucking good that his vision actually went black for a second. His mouth fell open in a silent moan – silent because he’d forgotten how to breathe. Roman was suckling him, those plush red lips of hers moving up and down his cock, and he couldn’t – his body couldn’t – it was like his body could only handle so many tasks, lungs moving and heart beating and his arms keeping him upright, and when the velvet heat of Roman’s mouth on his cock was added to the mix, something had to give, and apparently it was his ability to breathe. 
Samson stared stupidly at her as her lips moved up and down the length of his shaft. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a blowjob – certainly not for several years. And now here he was, an ex-Templar beggar addicted to lyrium with no home and barely a coin to his name, sitting on a bed in Hightown while a pretty woman at least ten years younger than him was sucking his cock.
He must be dreaming. Maybe he’d fallen asleep in the bathtub. It was the only possible explanation. 
Roman fondled his balls and angled her head over his lap to take his cock deeper in her throat, and Samson finally dragged in a lungful of air. He released it in a pleasured groan and gave in to the silken smoothness of her throat, savouring the way she squeezed him when she swallowed with the head of his cock all the way at the back of her tongue. A couple of minutes later, when his growing climax was trembling in his limbs to the point that he couldn’t take it anymore, he reached down and slid his fingers into her hair.
She growled around a mouthful of his cock, and he exploded in her mouth with a helpless cry. She swallowed his come without pausing the smooth up-and-down of her lips along his shaft, and when his trembling had stilled and he could finally open his eyes again, he curled his fingers in her hair and pulled. 
She released his cock with a gasp and pushed his hand away from her hair, then stood up and folded her arms, and Samson studied her belligerent posture with a reckless sort of laziness. It almost felt as though she had swallowed not only his release, but also some of the jaded disbelief that had been stopping him from asking her again to fuck him.
No, not asking. He’d only had her once, but already he had a visceral sense of what she really wanted, it wasn’t to be asked.
He boldly met her gaze. “Take your clothes off, Bird.”
A tiny sardonic smile touched the corners of her lips. She scoffed at him and turned away.
He stood up and grabbed her arm. “Take them off now,” he said.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped.
She was glaring at him, but importantly, she hadn’t pulled her arm out of his grip. He pulled her closer until they were almost nose to nose. 
“Roman,” he growled, “take your bloody clothes off right now.”
She bared her teeth and leaned in closer. “Make me,” she hissed.
Gotcha, he thought vindictively. Without warning, he kissed her hard. 
She gasped and parted her lips, and Samson blissfully delved his tongue into her mouth. Half a second later, Roman bit his tongue. 
He gasped in pain and recoiled from her. He couldn’t taste blood in his mouth, but fuck, that had hurt. 
He glared at her. She was smirking again and watching him in an obnoxiously arrogant way, and Samson finally snapped. 
He grabbed her arm again and pulled her close, then started roughly pulling her shirt out of her trousers. “Take this shirt off or I’ll rip it. I swear I will,” he threatened. 
She scoffed and tried to shove his hands away. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”
He fisted his hands in the deep v-neck collar of her shirt and started to pull, and she grabbed his wrists. “Fine!” she blurted. “Fine, for fuck’s sake, don’t rip my shirt.” She pulled the shirt off and tossed it on the floor, leaving her torso bare except for a surprisingly lacy little bra covering her nearly-flat chest.
She gave him a withering look. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
He chuckled, then pulled aside the cup of her bra and ducked his head low to nip her tidy little breast. She gasped and grabbed his shoulder, and Samson dragged his tongue over her nipple before taking it in his mouth. He sucked hard on her nipple and savoured the sharp sound of her moan and the sharp bite of her nails in his shoulder until she shoved him away. 
She glared at him, and he watched in satisfaction as her chest rose and fell with her heavy breaths. “You’re going to leave toothmarks on my tit, you dick,” she accused.
“I sure hope so,” he said snarkily. He grabbed her by the waist and shoved her down on the bed. “Trousers off, or I’ll rip those off too.”
She scoffed and propped herself up on her elbows. “These are leather. You couldn’t rip them off if you were a fucking qunari.”
He crawled onto the bed so he was straddling her hips, effectively trapping her beneath his body. Then he reached down and curled his fingers carefully around her throat. 
She gasped, and he smiled slowly at her. “Take the trousers off, Bird. I know you want to.”
She arched her spine. “I do not,” she panted. 
He gently squeezed her throat until her eyelids fluttered. “Yes you do,” he taunted. “You want to take them off, because you know what’ll happen when you do.”
She glared at him, but her restlessly twisting hips betrayed her. “What?” she said belligerently. “What’ll happen?”
He tipped her chin back. “I’ll bury my face in your pussy and lick you until you’re begging me to fuck you,” he growled.
She let out a harsh little laugh. “I’m not going to beg you for anything. I don’t beg.”
He huffed, then pressed gently on her throat to force her down onto her back. By the time she was flat on her back, she was practically gasping for breath, and her bottomless black eyes were feverish and unfocused. 
He leaned in close to her. “Take the trousers off now,” he snarled.
“Fuck you,” she whimpered, but she finally reached down and started unlacing her trousers. 
He shifted his position over her body so she could untie her laces. Once the laces were undone, he released her throat and shifted to a kneeling position between her legs.
He curled his fingers into her unlaced trousers and dragged them down. He ran his palms up along the smoothness of her thighs, then shoved her legs apart and bit the inside of her thigh.
“Ow!” she yelped. She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “You fucking asshole–” 
He ran his tongue smoothly along the length of her sex, and she broke off with a moan and twisted her hips eagerly toward his face. 
Samson lifted his mouth and smirked at her. “I knew you wanted this, you bloody wildcat.”
She bucked her hips toward his face. “Shut the fuck up and lick me,” she gasped. 
He chuckled and lowered his face between her legs once more. He kissed her sloppily, taking all her musky wetness onto his lips until he could taste her at the back of his tongue, then swirled his tongue around her clit.
She fisted her hands in the blankets and thrust her hips toward his mouth, breathing hard all the while, and Samson eventually looked up again. “Look at you, trying to fuck my face,” he taunted. “I knew you wanted this, even when you was acting like you didn’t.” 
She gasped and arched her spine, then glared down at him. “Stop fucking talking!”
He scoffed, then teasingly smoothed his fingers over her swollen folds. “So bloody rude all the time. I’m going to make you change your tune.”
She bucked her hips and let out a snarling little laugh. “Never.”
He grinned at her, then gripped her hips to hold her still. He lowered his head once more, but instead of licking her, he nipped the skin of her inner thigh with his teeth.
She yelped and tried to buck her hips, but Samson firmly held her down and sucked the skin of her inner thigh between his teeth. 
“Fuck,” she gasped. “Fuck fuck — Maker’s fucking balls, ah!” She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, but she didn’t pull him away, so Samson kept sucking at the tender patch of skin. A few seconds later, he released her and inspected her inner thigh.
Her skin was marred with a small purpling bruise in the shape of his teeth. He smirked, then looked up at her. “I left toothmarks,” he said. “Now what are you going to do?”
She sneered at him, and he noted the wildness of her eyes with a surge of heated satisfaction. She pulled his hair and tried to buck her hips again. “Lick me, you asshole,” she commanded. 
He brushed his lips teasingly over her clit, but instead of licking her as she’d asked, he turned his head and bit the skin of her other thigh. She let out a sharp little gasp, and when he started sucking and nipping her skin, she moaned. 
“F-fuck…” Roman scratched his scalp and parted her legs even wider, and his cock started to stir once more at her obvious eagerness. He sucked on her skin, and when he eventually lifted his mouth, the sight before him was enough to straighten his cock completely. 
Roman was slick and soaking wet for him, and on her inner thighs were two matching hickeys in the shape of his mouth, like two perfects brands framing her sex.
He snickered, and Roman strained toward him with a moan. “Come on, Samson, don’t be such a fucking tease,” she whined. 
He lifted an eyebrow. “That almost sounded like begging.”
“It wasn’t,” she snapped. “I’m telling you what to do, you asshole. Put your mouth on me!”
He tsked. “All right, all right. Calm down, Bird.” He dragged his tongue roughly along the length of her folds to make her flinch, then gently traced his tongue around her clit. 
She shivered and widened her legs even more and arched her spine, and Samson focused on the dual pleasures of his throbbing cock and her swollen little clit against his mouth. He brushed the little bud with his lips and teased it with his tongue, and when Roman suddenly shuddered and cried out, he slid one finger inside of her.
She jolted and clenched her fingers in his hair. “Samson, fuck me!”
He lifted his mouth and pulled her hand away from his hair, then curled his finger inside of her. “Not until you beg me nicely, Bird,” he taunted.
She moaned and bucked her hips, then reached down and dragged her nails along his unwounded right arm, and he gasped as the pain rippled across his skin. Incensed by her scratch, he pulled his finger free from her body and stood up. 
He crawled onto the bed to join her, and she gasped excitedly as she shuffled back on the bed to accommodate him. “Come on, come on,” she panted, and she reached for his cock.
He knocked her hand away, then grabbed her hips and pulled her close before roughly looping her legs over his arms. A second later, he was looming over her, her body trapped and helpless beneath him with her knees hooked over his elbows. 
He rubbed his cock between her legs, and she jolted and dug her nails into his chest. “Samson, fuck me!” she cried.
“No,” he snapped. He slid his cock through the slickness of her folds and forced himself not to moan at how good she felt, then gave her a stern look. 
“Say ‘please’,” he said. 
She laughed in his face. “Never,” she snarled.
He sneered at her, then slid his cock more slowly through her wetness  — bloody Maker’s balls, she was so fucking wet that she made him want to beg. He pumped his hips slowly through her silky wetness, then pressed the very tip of his cock inside of her.
He groaned at the blissful heat of her pussy embraced the tip of cock. Roman gasped and tried to buck her hips, but she could barely move with her legs hooked over his arms. “Yes,” she yelped. “Yes yes, come on, come on...”
He clenched his jaw and forced himself not to move. “Not until you beg,” he gritted.
She mewled and wiggled her hips and clawed his chest, and he gasped as the pain pulsed through his cock as a flare of pleasure. “Come on, Bird, sing me a pretty song,” he coaxed. 
“No!” she yelled. 
With a huge effort of will, he pulled his cock out of her, and she sobbed. “Fine, fine, please!” she wailed. “Fuck me, please!”
Finally, he thought, and he slammed into her. 
A visceral cry burst from her lips, and Samson shuddered at the sound of her pleasure and the silken heat of her pussy. He pumped into her and gasped – Maker’s balls, she was so tight, tighter and wetter than he remembered, and he had been thinking about this a lot but it was still even better than he remembered… 
He pumped into her again and again, and then he was fucking her in a desperate blur, so aroused and so pleasured by her inimitable heat that he couldn’t control his pace. Her breathing was a sharp staccato gasp in his ear and her nails were digging into his biceps now instead of his chest, and fuck, fuck, it felt so fucking good.  
She scratched his arms. “You got me to beg, you asshole,” she gasped. “Are you happy now?”
Her voice was snarky but breathless with pleasure, and Samson couldn’t help but smile. “I am, yeah,” he said smugly. He lowered himself to his elbows, curling her pelvis even more, then thrust into her again.
She cried out sharply and dug her nails into his arms, and Samson fucked her for a second longer before kissing her. He pumped into her and blissfully licked her tongue and savoured the plumpness of her lips–
She bit his lower lip. He gasped and tried to pull away, but her teeth kept his lower lip for a second before releasing him. 
He glared down at her, and she raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Now what?” she taunted.
He sneered at her, then slammed into her hard, and she let out a wild cry. Samson fucked her in a fast and punishing blur, and the harder he fucked her, the more her face twisted with pleasure and the faster his own pleasure was building and roiling in the depths of his gut–
His climax suddenly burst, and his breath left him in a guttural groan. “Bloody fucking balls,” he blurted. 
Roman sobbed and scratched his arm. “Don’t stop, don’t stop!” 
He shuddered with bliss and kept fucking her, pounding into her as his climax pulsed through his limbs and his cock, and a few thrusts later, she cried out as well and slammed her head back into the pillows. Samson kept fucking her for as long as he could, and when he was finally too spent to continue, he slumped over her and studied her face as he tried to catch his breath.
Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were flushed. Strands of her raven-black hair were stuck to the sweat on her neck, and despite the heavy rise and fall of her ribs, she looked more at peace than he’d ever seen her. 
His heart did that stupid squeezing-twisting thing again. He gazed silently at her, dazed with pleasure and fatigue and the surreality of seeing Roman Hawke looking so relaxed. 
She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Samson tensed, ready for her to snap at him and push him away. 
Instead of pushing him away, she stared at him in silence, and his pulse started to rise. Her gaze was steady and serious, and her face was calm but neutral, and he had no idea what she was thinking. 
He met her eyes unflinchingly despite his pounding heart. Then she pursed her lips and pushed his shoulder. “Get off,” she said.
A pang of disappointment tugged at his belly, but he rolled off of her. She slid off of the bed and start unclipping her bra, and Samson watched dully as the evidence of his climax trickled down the inside of her thigh. 
She dropped her bra on the floor. “I’m taking a bath,” she said, and she padded away. 
He watched her in bemusement as she went into the en-suite washroom. He listened to the sound of the bath being filled and tried to decide what he was supposed to do now. Should he leave? She hadn’t told him to stay, and he wasn’t in the mood to have her snapping at him to get the fuck out. 
If he wasn’t in the mood to be snapped at, he really should just leave; she was always picking at him, and it was so fucking wearying. 
He slowly rose from the bed and put on some of Carver’s old clothes. Then he went into the washroom. 
Roman was in the bath, and she looked up at him with a frown as he came in. “What do you want?” she said. 
“Relax, Bird. I’m just getting my shoes,” he grumbled. He put on his shoes, then stood back and gestured at the rest of his clothes. “I guess you can throw those out.”
“I’ll wash them and get them back to you,” she said. “They’re not a total lost cause.” 
She wasn’t looking at him. She picked up the soap and started lathering a washcloth, and Samson watched her awkwardly for a second. 
Then he remembered the crimson scarf in the pocket of his dirty trousers – the trousers that Roman said she would wash. 
His heart stopped. Maker’s balls, he thought. Could he get the scarf out of the pocket of his trousers without her seeing it and accusing him of being a pervert?
He gritted his teeth. There was nothing for it; either he got the scarf back now and risked her seeing it, or she’d find it later while washing his trousers. 
He bent over and started picking up his dirty clothes, and Roman glanced at him. “Leave them,” she said. “I said I’ll deal with them.”
“I’ll fold them,” he said, and he rifled surreptitiously in the pocket of his trousers.
“Why bother?” she asked. “They’re just going to go in the laundry anyway.”
He gave her a scathing look. “Stop nagging me for one second, will you? Just let me fold the bloody clothes.”
Her face creased into a scowl, and she looked away from him. “Fine. Fold your dirty fucking clothes. See if I care.” She started washing herself aggressively. 
He’d pissed her off. A pang of regret plucked at his chest, but it was too late to fix it now. 
His fingers finally found the scarf in his pocket. He relaxed, then swiftly tucked her crimson scarf into the pocket of his new trousers before folding his dirty clothes and setting them on the wooden stool. He stepped back and tucked his hands in his pockets, feeling increasingly at a loss. He knew he should leave, but if he was perfectly honest, he didn’t want to. 
But Roman hadn’t invited him to stay, and he’d already taken so much charity from her today, and the last thing he wanted was for Roman Hawke to pity him…
He awkwardly scratched his stubbled neck. “I’ll be off, then.”
“Whatever,” she said without looking up. She pulled her wet hair over one shoulder and started washing her back. 
He watched her for a second longer. Then, before he could change his mind, he stepped over to the bathtub.
He placed his hand on her bare shoulder and turned her toward him, and she glared at him. “Hey, what–”
He bent over the bathtub and kissed her firmly on the lips, then pulled away before she could bite him. “Thanks for the fuck,” he said bluntly. “I’d do it again.”
Her cheeks turned pink, and she scowled. “Fuck you,” she muttered. 
“Anytime, Bird,” he said seriously. “I mean it.”
She harrumphed and splashed some water at him. “Go away.”
The water hit him in the eye, and he flinched. He straightened and wiped his face, then scowled at her. “Thanks for that,” he said flatly.
She shrugged and went back to washing her back. Samson studied the bony line of her spine for a second longer, then left the bathroom without another word.
She’s such a bloody bitch, he thought resentfully as he made his way down the stairs. Splashing him in the face and clawing his arms while he was fucking her and looking at him like he was some kind of animal before sucking his cock… She was a pain in the ass, and he didn’t know why he bothered with her. 
Monty was curled by the fire in the main room. As Samson made his way toward the door, the mabari stood up and followed him. 
Samson paused by the door and looked down at the mabari. “Guard the door, eh?” he murmured. “I can’t lock it after I leave.” 
Monty sat down attentively and let out a little woof. Samson reached for the doorknob, but just before he opened the door to let himself out, a memory crossed his mind: Roman’s peaceful face right after he finished fucking her.
Bloody Bird, he thought wistfully. He looked at Monty once more. “See you soon, maybe,” he said. Then he opened the door to the Amell mansion and left. 
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sasskarian · 4 years ago
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Fanfic Masterpost ... sort of
In honor of Fanfic Appreciation, I put together a list of my fics for anyone who’d like to look 
Under the cut, because length
Dragon Age:
After the Glitter Fades (Glitterverse):  Hawke x Fenris, modern AU. (Long fic, WIP) Hawke and Fenris are movie stars in a torrid love affair. Fenris has a mysterious past. Also Cassandra is investigating a murder mystery? Varric, as ever, is a delight. (*this is borrowed from @nug-juggler‘s excellent and shorter summary!)
Memorable quote:   Fenris observed candidly was something sacred. For a moment, Hawke fiercely wished she were an artist. The scene in front of her was too… every word she could think of— beautiful, elegant, breathtaking— was trite, a pale description of perfection. 
In the Heart of the Woods: Lavellan x Fairbanks rarepair. (WIP) Inquisitor Lavellan’s heart is broken by a certain Commander, Fairbanks has an appreciation for her, and a love story blooms like elfroot in the Emerald Graves.
Memorable quote:   This kiss, she thinks, two mouths moving in perfect unison, is a spell of its own. Not quite love, not yet, but close enough she can pretend it is. Hope wells up, a solid thrum beating in counterpoint to her heart, and for one perfect moment, the world just bows down and… stands still. All that exists, all that ever has existed or ever will exist is wrapped up right here, right now, in Fairbanks’ lips on hers. Motes of dust turn golden in the sunbeams splashing through the roof, and a touch— his thumb, her cheek— says a million more words than words ever could.
Yesterdays: Surana x Zevran, mild Surana x Alistair pining. Post Origins, complete. A Warden’s sacrifice means something only as long as someone remembers it. A king looks back, balancing regrets with happiness.
Memorable quote:   With a half-sob, he realizes he’s forgotten the sound of her voice. Oh, he remembers how it made him feel, all those years ago, all the glorious, shining moments where happiness dwells still. But what she truly sounded like, what sounds she made as she buried herself in books, the snap of her magic, the low buzz of her and Zevran whispering in their tent, all of that is gone. He knows it happened, but the memory is lit dimly in his mind, a torch burned too low to be flame but not low enough for embers yet.
If You Ever Did Believe (for my sake):  Lavellan x Cullen. (On temporary hiatus) A wary Commander. A lost Dalish mage. Two hearts beating alone and exhausted on a battlefield, their only rest coming from each other.
Memorable quote:   “Does your Maker hate us so much?” Isera asked bitterly, and for a moment, Cullen felt as though years had rippled, bringing his past self— still clanking through the halls of Kinloch Hold in Templar plate— and his current together. He’d asked Ser Greagoir the same question once, after a Harrowing went wrong and the body of a former apprentice lay at their feet. So much potential wasted, so much fear in the mages’ eyes after that. For once, Greagoir had shown a hint of emotion, clapping Cullen’s shoulder briefly before walking away, but hadn’t answered.
Voiceverse:  Lavellan x Solas/Dread Wolf. (WIP) Building off of the great works of @khirsahle and @athreehundredthirtythree. All mages are born with a soulmate--a voice they hear in the darkness of the Fade all their lives. The lucky ones find their soulmates and forge a bond strong enough to threaten the very foundations of the Chantry. At least, that's what they claim. So what happens when a Dalish mage hears the voice of their most reviled and feared god shaping her dreams? 
Memorable quote:   Accompanying the thundering voice, great fissures ruptured around her hiding spot, green light streaking upward as they gathered into a roiling cloud. A wave of raw sound— howls, cries, pleas— rolled over her, forcing her to her knees. Iveani clapped her hands over her ears, losing her own scream among the agony thundering through the Fade. All caution, all her hard-won lessons about walking the Fade, vanished into the back of her mind under the need to simply ride out the explosion and survive.
Mass Effect:
Home is Where You Are: Ryder x Jaal (WIP). Ryder didn’t cross two galaxies and 600 years in search of love. But damn if she didn’t find it anyway.
Memorable quote:   “I should take a shower,” he mumbled, as the same time as Sara said, “Would you like to stay?” Both of them broke off, staring at the other, and she laughed nervously. That feeling was back, the one from the tech lab, fragility and strength and affection turned fierce and bright tumbling over and over one other.
A Song of Sea and Stars: Garrus x Shepard x Thane (WIP). Our favorite turian badboy sees right through the mask the galaxy’s most famous Commander projects. Neither of them expected to fall in love on a host of impossible missions. And both are taken by surprise by a pious Drell who steals both their hearts.
Memorable quote:   (He opens his eyes, shocked how it feels to look into her face, intimate and hungry. He hazily notices that up close, her eyes are thulium-gray. There's a hot, tight knot in his chest and she's pressed so close, he thinks he could count each faint freckle on her face.) (They look like tiny stars.) (…there are twenty-eight on her right cheek. Thirty on her left. And fourteen, right across the bridge of her nose.) (Those are his favorite. They remind him of his own markings.)
the sound of shattering glass: Generic Shepard, post-Tuchanka, pre-Citadel II. The Shroud explodes, taking a beloved friend with it. Shepard only has herself to blame.
Memorable quote:   “Damn Reapers,” he said, striving for nonchalance. “Always throwing us around.” “Banged us up pretty good,” she agreed, and he knew she wasn’t talking about their bumps and bruises. “So what do we do about them?” “Get back on our feet. Keep fighting.” Garrus hummed as she shifted closer, pressed her forehead against his neck. “Maybe find a way to use some really big canons I spend half my time adjusting.”
Star Wars:
He Might Like That: Mandalorian x Cara Dune pining. So they argue. So they took down Gideon, and have a magic green frog baby older than both of them. That doesn’t make them a thing. Does it?
Memorable quote:   He tunes back into the not-so-friendly argument in time to hear Greef splutter. “You trash talked while holding hands! If that’s not flirting, I’m a kowakian monkey lizard.” “It was arm wrestling, not holding hands,” Din points out mildly. 
Star by Star:  Post TRoS. Ben x Rey pining, Finn x Rey x Poe. Can three hopeless idiots in love fill a wound as deep as the death of a dyad? Maybe not, but they’re out to try anyway.
Memorable quote:   “You know,” Poe whispers, a glint of mischief in his eyes, “if we ever did tell him we loved him, he’d probably sleep right through it.” Rey touches her fingers to his lips, tracing the shape of his questioning smile. It’s an invitation to play, that smile. A careful offer of love, of comfort. And though she’s not sure if he can really understand when even she doesn’t, she’s finally ready to try a little. 
Counting The Days (Since Exegol): Finn x Rey x Poe, Ben x Rey. Its been 42 days since Palpatine’s death. 42 long days since she felt the surge of light in Ben Solo. And in her dreams, something whispers on the edge of the Force. But she’s shut it down too tightly to hear it. 
Memorable quote:   True to form, Poe can’t resist the urge to kiss away Finn’s troubles whenever possible, and Rey looks away to give them a moment. Some love stories work out, yes, and she loves Finn and Poe more than almost anything else. But that doesn’t stop the way bitterness floods her mouth as the memory of Ben surfaces, and it isn’t until Poe gently squeezes her knee (and she throttles back the near-instinctive urge to break his fingers from a lifetime of fending off handsy scavengers on Jakku) that she comes back to the moment. His brow furrows and she reaches for him, smoothing out the lines of his frown with her thumb. “I’m okay,” she says, answering his unspoken question. It’s mostly a lie, but she has to say it. Most days, she’s okay enough.
A Language Made for Lovers: SWTOR (NSFW). Torian Cadera x Bounty Hunter, gender neutral. Reflections on love and marriage under the glow of hyperspace.
Memorable quote:   He murmurs in your ear, words that should sound harsh in that still-new tongue scalding your mouth, molding you from aruetii to mandalorian. But the love in his voice softens them, steeps them in warmth and adoration. Still the language of a hunter, of those brave souls willing to be reforged, but with a gentle side, a language reserved for lovers. Words like cyare and riduur, words that mean I love you and forever and home.
Malicious Compliance: SWTOR (NSFW). Malavai Quinn x Sith Warrior, gender neutral. Far away, in an apartment no one knows about, a Sith Lord plays dire games of control... and trust.
Memorable quote:   It takes a man with the courage of an entire fleet of Mandalorians to love a Sith, and oh, how he loves you. Like you hung the moons and the stars and all the spaces between. Like you are his other half, like loving you is his sole purpose in life, does Malavai Quinn love you. Your old masters spoke nothing of this, of this enraging hunger gnawing at your bones and curling into the hollows of your rib cage. ... Is it really even love if you don’t want to devour him just a little?
Misc:
Tumblr Prompts: Grab bag of every fandom and series listed above. Prompts filled originally here on tumblr.
Visual Files: Collections of art and commissions from talented friends and artists here on tumblr.
Every Beautiful Thing: Crimson Peak. Thomas x Edith, Edith x Alan. Edith learned, in the dark halls of Allerdale, not to take ghosts lightly. But still she waits, every year, for a chance to see Thomas again. Until the night their son tells her he can see him too.
Memorable quote:   Snow heralds nothing but pain in Edith’s world: first her mother’s funeral, smothered in fat white flakes wet on her lashes like tears, then her father’s. Smaller ones, then, rain slowly freezing and scattering on the ground; the ones that night at Allerdale were the smallest yet, more ice pellet than snow. Jagged, hateful things scraping at her with a cold that burned through skin and encased bone.…God, how she has come to hate the snow.
Where I Can’t Follow: Co-authored by @suspendnodisbelief. show!Witcher, mild Geralt x Jaskier. (Temporary hiatus) Drawing from a variety of inspiration, including greek mythos. Geralt takes a blow meant for Jaskier, finally granted the death by battle he expects Witchers to end by. And Jaskier is not having it, at all. It’s his turn to save Geralt, even if he has to walk the entire bloody underworld to do it.
Memorable quote: “Geralt, get up. Come on, open your eyes. You’re going to upset Roach if you keep this up, and she’ll bite me. You know you aren’t allowed to be dead, because Yennefer didn’t give you permission, and neither did the Princess, and I’m pretty sure they both outrank you.”  
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