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lupically · 3 years

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#3B797A | XIAO.

genre | angst

word count | 1707

warning | mention of death, mention of blood, faint mention of injury

note | this was originally posted on my other writing blog, i am moving it here because... well, i have a genshin writing blog now. and, once again, this is not very good. let’s hope i get better at this!

if karmic debt is a real thing, this must be xiao’s worst one yet.

he swore he would keep an eye on you after the first time you died on him.

he has never felt anguish like it.

of all the invisible chains tied around his struggling limbs and his fragile neck, of all the pain and misery he has been put through over the years of his catastrophic life, of all the repressed memories and emotions he kept fighting back to keep his sanity at bay, he has never felt anguish and manic like he did when he saw your lifeless body on the ground with an arrow stuck to your back.

it was the worst one yet, especially when he was the reason why you ended up with a bed of bloody roses underneath you.

he swore he would keep an eye on you after that.

and then came the second time you died. that was also because of him.

the blood that trickled down your lips as you smiled at him was vivid in his memories. he was supposed to be fond of the way you felt relieved to see him there, after he had carried you behind a fallen wall so you didn’t have to see him deal with the treasure hoarders who put you in such a bad state for trying to take a pair of emerald earrings back.

he was, to a certain degree, when you choked out his name in that god-awfully brilliant voice of yours. it was faint, but he could hear the genuine happiness in you when you called his name.

you were always so excited to see him. ever since you dropped atop of him from the sky, apparently coming from nowhere, you have been happy to see him. he was undeserving of that; the chances you have given him at experiencing how soft this world can be was undeserved, but nonetheless, xiao was fond of the way you make him feel, more than he would like to admit, more than anything he has ever seen or heard or felt in this world.

you were the fondest he has ever felt. it was all you.

but the fondness goes like dust and ashes when you reached up with the pair of emerald earrings you bought him, which he dumped in the middle of the ruins because he was being petty about something insignificant he could no longer remember.

the sight of them gave him a moment of realization—you were here because of him.

and then you took your last breath—you died because of him, again.

he didn’t know how to feel when you didn’t respond to your own name. he kept calling for you—[name], wake up, he said. [name], stop playing around, you know you’re not funny, he said. [name], [name], [name]. but your eyes remained closed, so he held you close for the first time, and he exchanged the tears with apologies.

he promised he would keep an eye out for his actions after that.

yet here he was.

don’t die. please don’t die.

he dropped his spear and crouched down frantically next to you. he was still panting from the fight with the three ruin guards patrolling around fallen pillars and buildings, but what made him stress, even more, was less because of his sore body and more because of your bleeding head.

“[name]? [name], open your eyes, right now!” he said—scolded, in the voice he always talked to you with, the fondly defeated tone that showed he has surrendered his annoyance for your happiness, but with more urgency this time.

you coughed, feeling more lifeless than ever. there was a rush of deja vu back then, just a few moments ago when xiao gently laid you against the wall and left after telling you to stay still and keep your eyes open for him. it was like you have lived through this moment before, but you were hurting too much from your head wound to think into it.

xiao breathed out a sigh of relief.

thank the archons.

“hey, xiao…” you greeted with a faint smile, then you reached your hand up to give him the quingxin you picked. “flowers… got you flowers… for crowns… ”

he pursed his lips. you silly! you bone-head! why did you not just buy them from the flower shop? was what he wanted to say. even though knowing you, you would probably spill some weird argument like how flowers picked by other people wouldn’t have the same freshness and love in them, and he would say nothing because there was no winning for him when it comes to you.

he never has anything to say. nothing to go against your favors, and certainly nothing that makes you worry ever again. nothing that will get you running into forests alone to pick him flowers and risk the chance of you stumbling into ruin guards, or hilichurls, or treasure hoarders, or abyss mages.

(maybe the one you should avoid is him.)

“come on, let’s get you to the doctor, okay?” he said as he discarded the flowers at a frantic pace.

he looped your arms around his neck and hoisted you on his back. his spear sparkled next to the white flowers on the ground, reflecting a halo glow upward as if telling on him to the sky about what he did to you again. he took off running back to the city, praying to the archons that he could end your pain quicker, that he could find someone to stop the hurting faster.

but it seemed destiny had other plans.

he paused for a second to catch his breath. he did not notice the way your arms had long gone slack around his shoulders, and how you kept slipping off his back as if you could no longer support yourself. he was deliberately ignoring the details that signified your death, his delusional consciousness wishfully thinking that he would make it to the doctors in time.

“we’re getting there, [name],” he said as if he could still feel your short breath against his neck.

“you’re going to be fine, i will make sure,” he said as he began walking as if he could still feel your chest heave against his back.

“i will keep you safe next time, i promise,” he said as he leaned forward a little because your lifeless body was starting to slip off his back again.

“and then we can go pick flowers together, and you can make me flower crowns,” he croaked with guilted tears running down his cheeks, a smile on his face as if he wasn’t just given hope that he could save you this time, only to have you die on his back.

all because he said he would never put on a flower crown, and you insisted that he has to try.

(maybe the one you should avoid is him.)

the evil archon was silent when xiao appeared before it with your dead body. this was the third time. it was starting to see a pattern, and all it felt was glee that the pattern it has carefully cultivated was working in its favor.

because what better to keep the adepti under control than to make him feel indebted to itself? what better to keep the adepti under control than to keep reviving his dead lover and make him think they have a surviving chance this time around? what better to keep the adepti under control than to kill his lover and use his guilt against him every single time?

“dead again? what have you done?”

“please… help me…” xiao laid your body before the archon, which was just a statue without a face.

“reviving a human that was consumed by death takes a great deal of power, alatus.”

xiao gritted his teeth, but he said nothing when he could feel your skin under his gripping fingers. he lowered his head, pushing down the horrendous amount of anger and humiliation to the back of his mind, and he begged.

he begged for another chance to see your beautiful eyes smile under the moon again, he begged for another chance to hear you talk on and on about the wondrous world you two live in together, he begged for another chance to feel your radiant soul live near him and to let you show him around the city as if he could not already navigate through it with his eyes closed.

(he could not. he knew the concrete roads and the old stone walls, but he could never know about the smooth flower petals dancing with the wind and the tender glow of the sky everyone shared without you taking his hand and dragging him across all parts of the world.)

(just like cotton candy, you told xiao. his frown melts like cotton candy, whatever cotton candy was.)

“i’ll do anything,” he said.

“for the mortal. really.”

“i will do anything,” xiao declared again.

the golden flair in his eyes almost made the evil archon shiver.

it was radiating off of him—the heat of anguish and terror that he had once killed you, the heat of unfairness and humiliation that he has to stoop so low as to meddle with life and death, the heat of extreme affection for a lover he now has nowhere to cast upon because the sole receiver has long died in his arms.

all for a mortal. a special mortal. a mortal who has made someone who hates, love. a mortal who has made him, him who hates and scorns, love. not just themself, but everything else around him—music, flowers, lights, cities. a mortal who made sure he will always love, still, even after the sole reason for his affection is gone and he no longer has a reason to be gentle.

the archon wanted to laugh.

truly. the only thing more maleficent than love itself is the act of using it against someone.

looking at xiao right now—inadequate, fragile, chained, and so miserable.

oh, how it worked in its favor.

it has done so many things to the poor boy, but this one, oh, this would be the worst one yet.

#genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact imagines #genshin x you #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact #genshin xiao #xiao imagines #xiao x you #genshin impact xiao #genshin xiao x reader #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin fanfic #genshin scenarios #genshin impact scenarios #xiao scenarios

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miss-bridgerton · 3 years

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for real l anthony bridgerton x you l part one

word count: 1,887 words

pairing: anthony bridgerton x you

author’s note: part 1 finally! it’s not much going on, but this is just the beginning.

taglist: @fact-fictionx @alainabooks143 @michael-loves-chickens @misstonybridgerton

summary: Everyone knew that the Viscount was a rake. Except for, apparently, three young women who clung to his every word. Anthony Bridgerton was in fact charming. But he was absolutely terrible at dating three women at once. Some would call him a dunce for doing so. Others might call him a hero. Adelia Byron called him dead when she found out. Set out on revenge, she and the other two young ladies, Bette DuPont and Siena Rosso, decide to transform a lonely bakers girl into someone who can break the heart of the Viscount.

PART 1: THE SOCIETY PAPER THAT CAUSED A SCENE

YOU HAD NO IDEA that a gossip column would be the cause of a brawl in your family’s tea shop and bakery: The Fancy Teapot.

Overly priced earl grey tea? Oh, absolutely.

Chairs that pinched the bottoms of debutantes and their mammas? Pinched bottoms surely caused nasty sneers a plenty.

But the latest gossip from the squares’ paper? You certainly didn’t see that coming.

It was all because of the Viscount. Lord Anthony Bridgerton was indeed charming. He had that smile that they all seemed to fawn over. His hair was swept in all the right places. And he was a British nobleman.

What more could a young lady want?

You rolled your eyes at the words that frequented that paper. What more could a young lady want? Well, for starters, you wanted freedom. You wanted to bake. You wanted to explore different cities. Eat exotic foods. Tell stories to your future nieces and nephews of your adventures. You didn’t care about marriage, no matter how many times your sister-in-law pushed it on to you. You just simply wanted to. . .experience life.

Unlike the young women who frequented The Fancy Teapot. They were all scouring for eligible unmarried men. It was what they were taught. It was all that they knew, really.

And two debutantes who enjoyed sipping tea in The Fancy Teapot had no idea that they were both courting the Viscount. Until it came out on paper, that is.

It was a sunny spring morning and the social season had sprung in London. You loved the social season for the money it brought the tea shop, but you absolutely loathed the social season for the debutantes and their snooty behavior. They were all perfect. Beautiful gowns. Rosy pinched cheeks. The stink of wealth swarmed them like bees attracted to honey.

You had none of those things. You came from a working family. You came from two different countries. Your father had travelled to (a country of your choosing) where he met your mother and they fell in love and married within a week of him being there. Your father had convinced your mother to leave everything behind to be with him in London, but her one condition was to open a tea shop and bakery.

He clung to his part of the condition. Soon after opening the shop, your older brother Jack was born. Five years later, you were born. For a short while, it was the four of you. Kids running through the tea shop, experimenting with teas, you found the love of baking with your mother, and your parents were still so madly in love it was almost embarrassing. Sadly, your mother became ill and passed away two years ago.

The death was stricken. And hard on you. But it was your father that you and Jack worried after, for it was almost as if he became a different person. As if he lost a part of himself when your mother died. He tried to drink his sorrows away at the pubs, and fancied spending too much money on gambles and bets.

That morning, he was nowhere near the tea shop, probably somewhere betting on poker chips, when you had to break apart two debutantes from nearly mauling each other.

Adelia Byron was with her friend, Cressida Cowper, at a small table near the colossal windows. She didn’t say thank you or even acknowledged your existence when you set down her steaming chamomile tea and slice of cornish hevva cake. You rolled your eyes at the way she gloated over the attention she received at the Warwick ball. Adelia was still on a thrill from two nights before, where the touch of the Viscount’s hand on her back as they danced was still on her. She dreamt of his gorgeous eyes. And when she saw the bouquets of roses addressed to her that morning, she was in total bliss.

Her friend, Cressida, was jealous. Adelia knew it. And if there was something Adelia Byron was known for, it was that she enjoyed bragging. Her father was a Baron, which made her quite eligible for marriage to a Viscount. She had elegant features: Dark red hair, stormy eyes, high cheek-bones. She had already received three proposals but Adelia knew what she wanted. Who she wanted.

Simply put, nobody else would do. She was going to marry the Viscount. And God help her and anyone who got in her way.

On the other side of The Fancy Teapot, situated at a round table underneath an elegant painting by your brother Jack, was Elizabeth DuPont and her overbearing mother, Colette. Elizabeth, often called Bette, was the daughter of The Marquess of DuPont. So her marriage to a man of great wealth and a powerful title was extremely vital. To her mother, at least.

Bette was fond of the Viscount. He swept her away with his words, he was impressed with the way she could speak French and German, and the kiss he laid upon her gloved hand sent a thrill through her body. She couldn’t bear to tell her mother that when she went out to the balcony for a quick breath of fresh air during the Warwick Ball, she was accompanied by Lord Anthony Bridgerton.

Her mother would have been furious. She wanted Bette to charm the Prince - not the Viscount. She wanted her daughter to marry a title higher, not a title lower.

You had just set down two tea cups of herbal tea at their table when one of the young newsie boys stopped by the Fancy Teapot to drop off the new Society Paper.

“Hey, Sam,” you greeted the ten year old boy. He often was the one who sauntered in here to deliver the paper and he did it eagerly, knowing fully well that you were going to give him some free wrapped biscuits, like always.

“Y/N!” He greeted with a boyish grin. “What’s on the menu today? I hope it's something drowned in sugar!” He said excitedly.

You laughed and grabbed the box of warm treacle tarts from under the front counter. “It’s not drowned in sugar, but I think you’ll still enjoy them,” you told him.

He grinned widely. “You’re a real magician, Miss Y/L/N!”

You smiled warmly as the little boy went off and you were so busy handing over his desserts that you didn’t even notice, Dorothea, your sister-in-law, completely captivated by the latest Lady Whistledown’s writings.

“Bloody Hell,” she muttered, leaning her back against the counter and reading the paper. A mama and her daughter were standing by the counter, awaiting some assistance and looking very peevish. You sighed at how unobservant Dorothea was.

You took care of the customers and then turned to Dorothea, who looked as if she had acquired the most scandalous news.

“Y/N! Have you read this yet? It’s so scandalous!”

“No,” you replied, though you were a bit curious. “Who is it about?”

“The Viscount.”

“Hard pass,” you replied.

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “You are impossible. It’s not just about him but about the women he’s apparently leading on. And,” she took a moment to look around the tea shop and then in a hushed tone continued, “two of them are in here. Right now. Unaware of all of it!”

Well, surely just a peak at the new Society Paper wouldn’t do any harm. You grabbed the paper and took a look:

At the Warwick ball Thursday evening, Viscount Bridgerton was seen dancing with not one eligible young lady, but two. Now, I assume you dear readers know quite the reputation of our charming Viscount, as this behavior isn’t quite unusual. If you are familiar with the season’s doings, dancing with eligible suitors is normal.

Except Lord Anthony Bridgerton was seen with Miss Bette DuPont awfully close on the brink of the balcony and also seen later that evening with a certain opera singer, Siena Rosso, nuzzling her neck in a dark corner of the opera house.

How will the ladies take this embarrassment? Well, this author predicts that Miss Bette DuPont will turn a rather shade red and Miss Adelia Byron’s eyes will flash with a colour quite similar. Miss Siena Rosso will probably be locked up in a bedroom with the Viscount to even notice.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,16 APRIL 1814

Oh, brother, you thought. This better not cause anything stupid in here -

“HOW DARE YOU!!!!”

You and Dorothea looked up in bewilderment at the sudden outburst. And there it was. Lady Adelia Byron, looking absolutely furious, clutching the society paper, and standing over Lady Bette DuPont who was sitting at her table, looking between a mix of surprise and confusion.

“I beg your pardon?” Bette said to her appalled.

“You!” Adelia yelled. “You are involved with my suitor! How dare you?! You - you - harlot!”

Bette’s jaw dropped but it was her mother who spoke. “My, I never! That is quite unladylike behavior, young lady. My Elizabeth is not some harlot, clearly you cannot read because you have been thoroughly mistaken.”

Adelia rolled her stormy eyes and handed over the paper. Bette hastily read it before gasping, throwing a pretty gloved hand over her mouth.

“This cannot be true. My Lord would never do such things.” Bette told her.

“My Lord?” Adelia mocked. “He’s not your anything. I am going to marry him. So this little rendezvous is finished.”

Bette raised a brow. “I don’t think so,” she simply replied and took a sip of her tea.

Adelia looked as if she was going to chuck that steaming tea pot at the young lady’s head, so you had no choice - you had to get involved.

“Ladies, please, there is no need to act in such a manner,” you told them. They both looked in your direction, looking at you as if you were just a nobody. As if they were thinking, who the hell are you and who makes you think you have any say in this?

You cleared your throat. “He’s just a man,” you tried to explain.

Adelia snorted. “Idiot,” she said under her breath.

You narrowed your eyes at her. “You know, instead of getting mad at each other for something neither of you two were unaware of, you should be mad at him. Instead you are fighting over the tosser. Now that is an idiot.”

Both girls’ jaws dropped at what you said. But both didn’t say anything in retaliation. Instead, Adelia lifted her head high and walked away with what dignity she possessed and Bette went back to her tea, ignoring her mother’s angry stares.

Dorothea was nearly bursting in astonishment and the tea shop, which went quiet during the whole argument, went back to the bustling noise it always had.

All went back to normal. Until later that evening.

While you were cleaning up and closing down The Fancy Teapot for the day, you found a folded napkin at the same table that Adelia Byron sat with Cressida Cowper. Inside was a perfectly scrawled note addressed to you.

Not many people can inspire me, but you, Miss Bakery girl, did. Visit my estate as soon as you can manage. We have a lot to discuss.

X Miss Adelia Byron

#bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton fanfic #anthony bridgerton fanfiction #Anthony bridgerton headcanon #mine #my writing #fanfiction #fanfic #bridgerton fanfic

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lemonsandstrawberries · 3 years

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When Zombies Attack

fandom: Stony (Steve x Tony), Superfamily (Tony and Steve adopt Peter Parker as their son)

summary: Peter once again has the misfortune to witness one of the awkward moments between his parents.

length: 907

a/n: Sunday is a day for family for me, so have some Superfamily! fic based on this prompt. hope you like it, feedback, reblogs and likes are welcomed and needed!

—————

When Zombies Attack

SQUREEEEEWAAAAAAAA!

Peter jolted his head up, the loud, screeching noise getting to him despise the music blasting in the headphones. That kind of scream could mean only one thing.

His and his dad's project was completed and they successfully recreated a breathing, living pterodactyl.

Feeling a rush of excitement, Peter turned around on the swivel chair, abandoning his biology homework, trying to leap out of his chair, just to be yanked back, when the cord from the headphones held him back. Damn the day he lost yet another pair of Starkpods and his dad refused to gift him new ones. He shook the headphones off and rushed out of his room, following the screeching, eyes shining in excitement of seeing the flying reptile and -

And being painfully let-down when he saw the reality. Scratch that, he definitely didn't want to see that reality. Eye bleach should be a thing.

On the couch were his parents and at the first sight, it looked like Iron Man and Captain America got into a fight and were wrestling. The truth was very different, and Steve, with the widest grin spread across his face, kept reaching hands forward and grabbing at any part of Tony with tickling fingers, Tony letting out a screech each time the move was successful, guarding himself.

"Eh," Peter whined in disappointment, leaning over the door frame, longingly looking at the ceiling and imagining the pterodactyl circling around it. That would be quite a sight.

"Hm?" Steve heard the sigh and briefly turned his head around, shining a grin at the teenager. "Hi, son!" He said, still climbing on Tony and causing Iron Man to squawk and giggle.

"Pete! Get hihihihim off!" Tony squeaked, trapped under his husband and uselessly trying to bat away the attacking hands.

Peter looked back at his parents, some irritation mixing with a fond feeling. He heard Steve teasing Tony about asking their son for help, Tony trying to snark back, but the offensive comment got lost in another wave of laughter Steve proudly caused.

Of course, there was something awfully disturbing about the image he was seeing, but he thought back to his school friends, coming from divorced families, dividing their time between two arguing parents. This was better than arguing. He was lucky his parents were as much in love as they were - well, since he could remember. He didn't know how it was before he came into the picture, but he heard enough stories from uncle Clint and aunt Natasha to know that his parents were always pretty handsy with each other. Even if deep down, seeing his parents in love made him happy, it didn't mean Peter couldn't complain about it.

"You know," Peter said loudly, crossing arms on his chest, "I wish you two would act your age."

Steve laughed loudly, hearing the complaint and Tony laughed too, although from a different reason. "If I acted my age, which is well over one hundred years old, I would be a pile of dust!" And then he gasped, having an idea, and fell limp, like a sack of potatoes, right on Tony who yelped in pain, smothered with his husband's weight.

"OOF! Steve, what the-!" Tony demanded explanations, his whole face heated from the stopped attack and too much laughter. Peter heard his parents talking, hearing the phrases 'one hundred years old' and 'a pile of bones' repeated when Tony sucked in an outraged breath and looked at Peter with faked anger. "You killed your father!"

Oh, Lord...

"Yes, I killed my father," Peter agreed, rolling his eyes, "or worse, he will come back now as a zombie and terrorize us."

That was supposed to be a sarcastic remark to point out the stupidity of the situation. Too bad, Tony and Steve had no problem with sarcasm and fooling around, and soon, very stiffly, Steve lifted himself, looking at his husband.

"Braains," Steve muttered out in a hollow voice.

"There is your brain, leave my brain alone!" Tony giggled and played along, pointing at Peter.

With a snarl, Steve turned around, locking eyes with Peter and limping in his son's direction. "Braaaains..."

"Okay, very funny. Pops, I am not playing with you," Peter said firmly, standing his ground. Steve was limping closer and closer. "Pops, I said, I am not playing, stop it!" Peter tried again, some uncertain note making its way into his voice. Of course, Peter knew it was all a game. But there was something very unsettling in the way, Steve moved closer and closer, muttering in that empty voice, his head crooked to the side, eyes not blinking...

"BRAINS!"

Steve launched forward, Peter screeched, and Tony laughed as he watched his husband attacking their son, holding him trapped in his arms and drilling fingers into Peter's stomach and under the arms, sometimes squeezing at the thighs and knees when Peter tried to kick him.

"POPS! STAHAHAHAP!" Peter tried to wriggle out, but he never before managed to escape Captain America's clutches and today wouldn't be the day either.

"Braaaains!" Steve continued to wallow, looking in all wrong places, not bothered by Peter's screams of protest and ongoing laughter. Or maybe it was part of the zombie tactics, to first tire the victim out and then savor the brain. Tony decided to find out, taking a moment to rest and having absolutely no intention of being involved and saving his son from his zombie husband.

#stony #superfamily #steve rogers #peter parker #tony stark #tony stark is ticklish #peter parker is ticklish #ticklish!peter #ticklish!tony #domestic #domestic fluff #humor #tickle fic #tickling #fanfic #fanfiction #yes i know i am kinda reusing the title #gimme a break i am writing for almost a decade now

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aelin-queen-of-terrasen · 3 years

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𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐎𝐧𝐞

full masterlist - fic masterlist

Rowan glanced at his pocket watch and attempted to swallow his irritation.

How was it only nine-o-clock still? He had already suffered through enough social niceties to last a lifetime.

Now, he listened with but half a mind to his cousin drone on about the night's guests. His head was filled with all the tasks he needed to see to, including searching for a new governess for his sons. His boys kept chasing away every woman he employed and he was hesitant to hire a tutor, because he believed they needed a woman's influence too, now that his own wife was too ill. The physician had done all he could but there was not much hope she would wake, loathe as he was to admit it. Perhaps he should have accepted his mother-in-law's offer and send the boys to their her after all?

"--and Arobynn's here too—"

That caught his attention. "He is?"

"Mhmm. Look, over there, no, no, to the left—besides the pretty redhead, yes, just so."

A man stood by the entrance with a red-haired woman on his arm, tall and muscular, with a fine-boned face. His auburn hair were pulled back into a bun, offsetting his pale skin and the fine cut of his suit was a stark reminder of his prominent position in society, despite the whole stigma around tradesmen.

"I knew he was fond of flaunting convention but escorting his mistress to a ball?"

"You haven't heard?" James approached them with a drink in his hand. "She is not his mistress but an adoptive daughter of sorts and his apparent heir."

Fenrys choked on his drink.

"He named a girl heir to his trade empire—and not even his own blood—stupid!"

"Spoken like a man," said the gentleman and shook his head. "He raised her himself, is introducing her to all his associates and she doesn't look dumb either."

James nodded towards the redhead he had seen earlier, dressed in the finest black silk with a neckline low enough, it bordered on scandalous. Her copperish-red hair were pinned into an elegant coiffure with pretty, gold hair combs and a simple, pearl necklace completed the striking picture she made. Her sharp, defined features were barely beautiful until she laughed—a musical sound in itself—and he wondered whether he had seen anyone prettier.

"If hers was the last face I ever saw, I'd die a happy man." Fenrys sighed and walked off.

James rolled his eyes. "He's about to seek an introduction to her, isn't he?"

Rowan's lips twitched up.

He had always liked James. The man was completely without artifice and his enthusiasm for everything was so infectious, no one could remain angry with him. He had spent a few summers with the Galathynius children, until their youngest daughter was abducted and the visits stopped.

"I say you must frown a little less, sir, unless you wish to give offense."

Rowan looked up, startled at being addressed by the object of his thoughts. She looks even lovelier up close, thought he.

"I detest these events."

"So do half the people in this room and yet, appearances must be maintained."

"Deceit is not in my nature."

The lady frowned. "It is not deceitful to pretend you are interested in an event in order to spare your host's feelings."

"Your motive may be charitable but it is no excuse for dishonesty."

The lady looked amused but did not pursue the topic further. "I hope you will forgive me for speaking without a proper introduction, sir. I am not a fan of convention."

Rowan smiled.

An unmarried woman, not even of age, and already a heiress to a trade empire—by all accounts, she did not seem like one.

"I will, if you allow me to remedy the situation now." He bowed with exaggerated formality. "I am Mr. Rowan Whitethorn of Harcomb, in Doranelle."

Her cheek dimpled. "Miss Celaena Sardothein—my father—"

"Mr. Hamel, yes, I know." He almost cringed at how rude he sounded. "He and I, we are—"

"—business associates, yes, I know," she teased with an impish grin, replying in a poor imitation of his own deep voice.

Her eyes twinkled with amusement, filled with laughter and mirth—turquoise orbs, ringed with brilliant gold.

All of his resolve flew out of the window. "Miss Sardothein, will you allow me the pleasure of leading you into the first set? The dancing is about to commence."

"The pleasure will be all mine."

In hopes of starting a conversation, he said, "You are a fine dancer."

"I would have believed you to be a liar if we hadn't already established that deceit of any sort is your abhorrence."

He smiled. "And if I were being insincere?"

"I would take it as a compliment to myself, for it will mean that you are acting on my advice from earlier about lying for the sake of appearances."

They fell silent again.

"We must talk some, you know," said Rowan. "For someone who claims to be concerned with appearances, do you not think it would look odd for us to spend a half hour together but in silence."

She startled at the sudden statement. "Introduce a topic then and I will do my poor best to maintain the conversation."

Rowan complied and was pleasantly surprised to find her lively and good-humored and well-informed on most subject from current fashion disasters to books to political bills and movements. Her arguements were passionate and far from taking offense at his dry humor, she matched it with witty quips of her own; and to top it alll off, she was as skilled a dancer as a conversationalist.

Rowan was almost annoyed when the song came to an end. He could not recall the last time he had been half as well entertained.

"You will be the death of me, you foolish, foolish chit!" screeched the old matron.

Fenrys had allowed himself to be dragged into a bookstore, which happened to be one of his least favourite places, by his cousin, James—the second son to his uncle, Lord Rhoe, the Earl of Narrowcreek—and was now eager for any sort of amusement. He turned towards the high-pitched shriek with interest.

A young lady stood near the shelves, tall and proud, even in the face of her mother's ill-bred manners.

Her blonde hair fell down in waves, half pinned by dragonfly-shaped hair combs. The fabric of her dress was fine enough for her to belong to the first circles and yet, he could not recall seeing her—or her mother—anywhere.

"Ungrateful child! Wait until I tell your father what you did; he will be most displeased."

She bit her lip to contain her mirth, though her cheeks flushed with embarassment. Her eyes flitted to the door and back, as if she was looking for some escape.

"Poor girl," the bookshop owner murmured.

The following words had the unfortunate attention of drawing the mother's attention towards the owner.

Lord Fenrys almost laughed at the alarmed look on the owner's face when she began lamenting to him instead and then looked over at the lady who was staring at the door with a thoughtful look, as if wondering whether or not to attempt an escape.

She must have decided in it's favour because she gathered her skirts and made a mad dash towards the door.

Fenrys realised he was standing in her way and hastened to move but it was too late—

"Darn!" cried she.

The commotion drew her mother's attention and upon spotting her wayward daughter lying on the floor with a grimace, she rushed over with a whole new litany of complaints.

Fenrys could have sworn the lady cursed under her breath.

"Stubborn, stubborn child! I told you not to run off without me but oh, how you love vexing me," shouted her mother in her high-pitched voice. "And what are you doing, bothering this fine gentleman over here? You had better not to talk to anyone if you are determined to refuse them all. You broke that poor man's heart—"

Fenrys quirked an eyebrow in interest, looking thoroughly entertained.

Her cheeks flushed further.

He frowned.

Up close, her face looked awfully familiar. He searched his brain for an answer.

A memory flashed in front of his mind. A highly unconventional black dress, a tinkling laugh and a ballroom.

Realisation dawned.

"Miss Sardothein! Fancy seeing you here," said he. "I almost didn't recognise you because of the hair."

"The hair? Oh, yes, I am very fond of dyes, but you have caught me in my natural state."

"I find you lovelier than ever. If you will forgive me for prying, I could not help but observe you haven't bought a thing yet, even though I know you to be a great reader! Is the reading material not to your taste, Miss Sardothein?"

Celaena answered wryly, "As a matter of fact, the books here suit my tastes very well—It is only that I am not allowed to buy books for a month—as punishment."

"No books! And what awful crime did you commit to merit that?"

"I rejected a marriage offer."

"A capital offense!"

Celaena smiled, "Indeed."

"I hope you are appropriately ashamed of yourself!"

"Horrified at my own audacity, really."

The lady looked up at him and grinned; Fenrys' own face turned pale and his mouth fell open in surprise. Ashryver eyes! She had ashryver eyes—like James, Aedion, and their mothers Helen and Evalin and—gods. The little poem his cousins had made up in childhood came to the forefront of his mind.

"The fairest eyes, from legends old,

Of brightest blue, ringed with gold."

But how...?

He looked at the woman again: her eyes bright and mirthful and thick eyelashes resting on her cheek, the face tugged at his memory; and she smiled so impishly, he had seen that smile before—

"Aelin," he blurted out.

He was startled when her smile dropped and recognition flickered in her eyes.

Fenrys shot an alarmed look towards the shelf behind which James had disappeared. Aelin was here! But how could this be? His heart thumped loudly inside his chest.

"Aelin?" She inclined her head in question.

He smiled uncertainly.

Was she really his little cousin? Aelin had been five year old when he last saw her.

But if he was wrong about this, could this come to bite him in the ass? She was certainly as old as his cousin would have been, had she been alive and she had the same unruly blonde curls and those ashryver eyes, teeming with life.

It couldn't be...

Arobynn's adoptive daughter.

"Yes, Aelin was my favourite cousin—you, uh, you remind me of her."

"If she is your favourite, then I am inclined to take that as a compliment." Celaena—Aelin?—smiled again, though her eyebrows remained drawn still. "The name does sound familiar. Perhaps I would have heard of her in the newspaper? The society column is a great source of amusement to my father. He reads it aloud to us from time to time."

Father? He wondered if she was talking of Arobynn or Mrs. Rhunn's husband.

Fenrys smiled sadly. "That is not possible for you see, my cousin died when she was five."

At least I thought she died.

"I am sorry for your loss." Then, with an arch look on her face, she asked, "If she was like me as you say, she must have been delightful."

He chuckled. "An absolute troublemaker."

"Definitely like me then," said she, sparing a look towards her mother. "I should leave now, before my mother lists you off as yet another suitor!"

And before he could think to stop her, she curtsied and scurried off.

Fenrys stared at the door, somewhat dumbfounded. Aelin is alive. He marvelled at the thought and then wondered how on earth he would inform her family—James would be ecstatic and his father would have to be informed, and Edward would have to be called to London, gods. Edward!

Aelin had been missed by all but no one grieved her as the poor man had.

Edward would be ecstatic; everyone would.

Fenrys ran towards his cousin out of breath, who was still examining titles in one corner.

"Fenrys, god, slow down, man! Whatever happened? You look like you saw a ghost."

He blinked.

Then, without any attempt at tact or discretion, he blurted out: "Aelin is alive."

"Aelin, Aelin, stop that—no, look at your frock, mother will be so angry, no, Aelin! You will hurt yourself like that."

The man watched, concealed behind the ridge as a little girl skipped from one mud puddle to another, blonde curls bouncing up and down as she moved. Her elder brother followed at a more sedate place, calling out admonishments and threats, not that they had an effect on her.

Aelin grinned over her shoulder and ran, leading her brother on a merry chase.

The man was still debating how to go about abducting the girl when fortune smiled upon him; she twisted her leg and fell down, prompting the boy to run towards her.

"It hurts," she whimpered, refusing to stand.

The man smiled maliciously and waited as the boy looked around. "Very well," he said finally. "If you promise not to go anywhere, I will fetch papa. Do not move, Aelin."

The boy rushed towards the manor house, ignoring the twisted knots in his stomach and burst into his father's private study. In his panicked state of mind, it took a few attempts for Rhoe to make sense of his garbled words.

A foreboding feeling rose in his stomach.

She will be fine, he tried to reassure himself. Aelin, troublemaker that she was, had had a lot worse than a twisted ankle.

But his alarm grew the nearer they came to where she was supposed to be and his heart pounded inside his chest. All colour drained from his face when they didn't find Aelin where she was supposed to be.

"Are you certain this is where you left her?"

Edward nodded.

Rhoe suddenly felt dizzy, his knees buckled and bile rose up in his throat.

He reined himself in and with admirable composure, organised search parties to search around the estate and the neighbourhood.

The search carried on until late that night, when an express rider from the nearby magistrate arrived with a letter: a nearby warehouse had burned down earlier that day and two bodies were found: a man in his forties, who could not be identified and a seven year old girl who had on a silver anklet bearing the word fireheart and requested Mr. Galathynius' presence tomorrow at the warehouse to confirm the girl's identity.

Rhoe folded the letter, excused himself from company and sent his sons to their beds.

Then he entered his study: the study no one was allowed to enter without permission—except his Aelin—slumped into the armchair by the fireplace and wept.

note: ...and it's here. I have so many drafts of this chapter lying around, I'm surprised I actually finally posted it lmao.

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#throne of glass #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfiction #tog fanfic #throne of glass fanfiction #rowan whitethorn #aelin galathynius #sarah j maas #rowaelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fluff #rowaelin regency fic #valiant #aelin-queen-of-terrasen

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bracefacefreak · 3 years

Text

So I just finished the first fic I have written in AGES and the first thing I’ve ever written for TMA, so I thought I’d post it here.

It’s an alternate take on S3 from about MAG 98 in which Nikola kidnaps Martin, not Jon. Basically very angsty with some realisation of feelings and implied canon-typical violence because I like to make my boys suffer apparently. May write more if I feel like it but for now this is just a peek at my idea.

CW: implied violence, knife violence, strongly implied graphic violence, implied blood, implied skinning, captivity and kidnapping, restraints, stalking.

I cut you a piece of me

also available on ao3

“Martin? Tim?”

Jon pokes his head out of his office, tired eyes squinting through murky lenses to try and make out anything moving amongst the shelves and teetering boxes. A chill creeps up his spine, the sensation akin to the slow tickle of spider’s legs over his skin. It makes his stomach turn; the sour taste of bile rises at the back of his throat. A light flickers somewhere on the other side of the archives. It is brief, likely nothing more than some dodgy wiring - or a plastic body passing in front of a bulb. Jon bites down, catching his tongue between his teeth.

His fingers twist in the wool of the cardigan he wears, tugging at the well-worn fibres as if they are some sort of lifeline. The garment is too big on him, the fabric spilling over his shoulders and bunching in thick folds around his wrists. He had found it shoved under a shelving unit in document storage, the crumpled, butter-yellow lump too inviting to ignore. It has quickly become a comfort for him during long nights in his office poring over statements, something soft and warm to counteract the increasingly dark world he finds himself inhabiting. He pulls it tight around him, but finds today it offers little more than a thin veneer of safety.

CLUNK.

He starts.

His eyes flick towards the stacks to his left, scouring the shadows that rest heavily between the shelves. The noise comes again, more drawn out this time and followed by a series of metallic taps. It doesn’t take much imagination to hear the snap of huge, mechanical jaws in the rhythmic sound.

Jon swallows thickly.

“Martin? I-is that you?”

The hollow clang comes again; this time Jon is able to trace it to somewhere above. Lifting his eyes, he half-expects to see a grinning plastic face staring down at him from the highest shelves. Instead, he is met by the sight of decrepit pipes, quivering slightly as the ancient heating system struggles against the pervasive chill. His shoulders droop as the pipes rattle in reassurance.

Slowly, he turns back to the original source of his suspicion, staring down the narrow walkway that leads to the assistant’s office and break-room.

Beneath the occasional clang of the heating, the archive is silent, still.

But he could have sworn he’d heard footsteps earlier: the soft shuffle of shoes over carpet and the squeak of the bottom stair that no-one seems bothered enough to fix, despite the numerous emails Jon has sent to maintenance. He had been recording a statement, one from the early 2000s about disappearances from a travelling funhouse, when he had heard it. He was certain. But then again…He takes a shaking breath; could this just be his rearing its ugly head?

No.

NO.

He was over that.

He knew what he had heard. Jon squares his shoulders, knowing that his small stature and bright yellow cardigan will hardly strike fear into the heart of any evil creature that has managed to get into the Institute. He pulls the pen out of his hair anyway. It will not be much use if it comes to a struggle, but it is better than nothing.

Measured steps lead Jon across the archive floor.

He calls out in a tight voice, rising to shrill at the end.

“Melanie?”

His pulse thuds in his ears.

“Tim? Basira?"

Sweat coats his palms and pools in the well of his clavicle, turning cold and tacky.

“Martin?”

He rounds a corner and is greeted by three empty desks.

Since arriving, Melanie has settled at Sasha’s old desk; it no longer bears its previous look of organised chaos but is strewn with shredded paper, a few crumpled fast-food wrappers, and pages covered in black scribbles that are indecipherable to Jon. It sends a pang of grief through him that echoes around the empty space where Sasha’s memory should be.

Tim’s desk is clear, no work having been done there in months.

And Martin’s is….

Jon frowns.

Next to an empty mug and a collection of pastel fine-liners Martin sometimes uses to make notes, is a cassette tape. It is unmarked, the brand different from any he has seen before in the archive. Jon reaches for it, hesitates, and then snatches it up. He turns it over in his hands, the shape and weight familiar. Something is building beneath his skin, fizzing, crackling, a flurry of static that rises and rises the longer he holds the tape. It calls to him. The white noise is a siren song drawing him in until he is moving towards his office and the tape recorder he keeps on his desk. His hands shake as he pushes the tape into place and snaps the recorder shut. For a moment the world narrows down to the feeling of the play button beneath his finger, its weight as he presses down, the soft whir-like a sigh-as the tape begins to play.

“Hello, my dear archivist.”

The saccharine voice that spews from the tape washes away the frantic desperation that had sent him scurrying to his office like a starving dog. He shivers, the memory of hard plastic hands around his throat making it hard to breathe.

The Eye drinks in this flash of terror, consuming it with abandon.

“It’s so luvely to be able to talk again. I was hoping to see you in person but ….I’m sure we’ll get to that later.”

There’s a tinkling laugh; the sound of fairground chimes, or blood dripping on porcelain.

“I thought now would be a good time to check in about that old skin you’re supposed to be getting for us. Not that I really need to. I am having you followed. It’s not because I don’t trust you but…well, I don’t trust you and I want to be sure that when you find it you don’t do anything silly. It is very powerful after all. I have to say, little archivist, I’m mighty….disappointed….by your lack of progress. It’s been a week now and nothing and I am on a bit of a deadline, you know. The world won’t dance itself new on its own.”

Nikola stops with a breathy gasp.

Jon waits, fingers clenched in the sleeves of his too-big cardigan.

He can make out the creak of plastic, followed by what sounds like a heavy door being opened. He leans in, straining to hear the dull thud of feet on stone. The jaunty melody of carousel music lingers in the background, ever-present and just flat enough to set his teeth on edge.

“Unfortunately for you, that means I need to up the stakes a little. We can’t have you getting complacent, that just won’t do.”

Another grating sound, metal against concrete and then a jumble of muffled grunts, almost as if someone is trying to speak against restraints.

“Do try and keep him quiet.”

Nikola hisses to someone whose response Jon cannot hear.

Something coils in his gut, cold and heavy.

“He spotted one of us outside the Institute one evening, tried to follow us. A rather stupid move if you ask me. You may want to rethink your hiring strategy.”

The mumbling intensifies.

Jon feels sick. His stomach churns, a deep sense that something is very wrong knotting up his insides.

“He seems awfully fond of you, I must say, putting himself in all that danger to try and keep you safe. What on earth did you ever do to deserve such devotion, little archivist?”

He shakes his head, trying to speak around the hard lump in his throat even though he knows Nikola can not hear him.

“P-pl…”

“Would you like to say hello?”

There is a painful ripping sound, then a scraping and a few ragged breaths.

The cold dread in Jon’s gut begins to unfurl, spreading out, freezing him to his chair.

“Jon?”

His heart stutters.

“Jon, p-please….please…d-don’t…”

Martin’s familiar voice, shaking and edged with panic, erupts from the speaker like a scream.

The copper tang of blood spills over his tongue. He looks down, realising he’s been biting his knuckle so hard his skin has split. Even as he watches the blood pool and trickle down his fingers, he feels no pain.

Nikola laughs again, something knife-sharp behind the sweetness.

Jon is cold, so cold, even beneath his tea-scented cardigan. His hands are like ice as he claws at the tape recorder, smearing blood over the plastic casing. He is not sure what he’s trying to do, his thoughts too muddled. He thinks he may be trying to reach through to wherever they are, to wherever Martin is.

“You see archivist, now we have some collateral. So, if you don’t manage to find that ancient relic, well….shall we have a demonstration?”

A strangled whimper is all Jon can manage as he listens to the squeak of plastic fingers, the tearing of fabric, the clear zhing of a blade. His eyes lock onto the tape recorder, transfixed with horror as he hears Martin grunt and then…..

Jon has never heard screaming like that before.

It cuts through him, reverberating down to his bones and settling in his marrow, so deep he will never be rid of it.

At the same time, it drowns him. Each new cry washes over him, relentless, never giving him time to breathe. He is suffocating beneath the sound, helpless and guilt-ridden, hands twitching as if trying to pull himself up for air. He can’t think, can’t speak, can’t breathe – chest too tight, pulse racing. His vision swims, blackness creeping in from the edges as Martin screams and screams and screams.

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, cold tears spilling down his cheeks. He presses his hands over his ears, but no matter how hard he tries he cannot escape it.

It feels like a lifetime before the screaming begins to quiet and an eternity until Nikola speaks again, high and airy.

“Impressive. That was even through a gag. What fun we’re going to have!”

A sob fills the silence, faint and broken. Jon matches it with his own.

Somewhere the Eye swells and glows in gluttonous satisfaction. Jon can feel it preening, brimming over with stolen terror. He shoves it away in disgust.

“Lucky for us there’s plenty of him to use.”

Something slaps wetly. There’s a squelch, like fingers being shoved into dough.

Jon retches.

“This will make a luvely pair of gloves, don’t you think?”

He doubles over, heaving dryly into his wastepaper bin, for once glad he didn’t have lunch. Sweat beads at his hairline, spots dancing in front of his eyes as he gasps around the convulsions of his nauseated body.

“Now now archivist, no point getting upset. The sooner you find us the gorilla skin the more of your assistant there will be left. I wouldn’t wait too long if I were you. Goodbye.”

The voice fades, leaving only panting breaths and pained groans before the recording ends with an abrupt click.

Jon lets it run on while he struggles to find a rhythm to his breathing. The background whir is a comfort, something to dampen the horrific shrieking that still rings in his ears.

Guilt sits heavy on his shoulders, a deadweight. First Sasha and now Martin. How many more people will he fail before the end? Who else will have to suffer because of him? He curls himself up in his chair and tries to consider what he should do, but his thoughts either will not come or fly past too fast to crystalise into an actual plan. Eventually, he gives in to the lingering heaviness of his limbs and the hollowness in his chest and he cries.

---

He isn’t sure how long he sits there.

The tape finally finishes and cuts off with a burst of static and the pop of the play button.

He is sat in silence when Basira finds him, folded up and trying to ignore the screams in his head. Her firm footsteps alert Jon to her presence as he can barely see out of his tear-swollen eyes. Her breathing pauses as she takes a moment to assess the situation.

Jon can picture the scene clearly: he sits, knees to his chest, hands tangled in his greying hair. The tape recorder perches haphazardly on the edge of his desk, smeared with blood that has dried a rich, rust colour. There are gouges in the surface of his desk and matching splinters beneath his fingernails.

“Jon?”

He thrusts out an arm, knocking Basira’s hand out of the way. The tape recorder falls to the floor with a crack, the cassette flies out, magnetic tape spooling on the floor. He stares at it for a moment. At least now she cannot….will not….and he does not have to either.

“Jon!?”

Her voice is clipped, hard. There is no room for argument or bullshit, no hint of concern. He would expect nothing less of Basira, and he has always respected her bluntness and the ability to bury her emotions so she can get the job done. As much as he would like to believe he can do the same, he knows it is a lie. Today has just proven that.

“Jon!?”

He opens his mouth to answer but only manages a strangled whine, which devolves into a sob. He takes a shuddering breath before trying again.

“M-“

It hurts. His throat is raw, almost as if he has been the one screaming. He is not entirely sure he hasn’t been. No one would have heard him all the way down here. He thinks Elias meant for it to be that way.

“Ma-“

The name sticks in his throat, coats his tongue with a sour taste, and lodges itself behind his teeth. He can not say it….does not deserve to say it…Nikola’s words repeat in his head, over and over.

What on earth did you ever do to deserve such devotion?

Jon thinks of all the times he has berated Martin, the mornings he has purposefully left his tea undrunk just to spite him, the cold manner he has used to decline every offer of help or comfort. And still, Martin had smiled, had rinsed out his mug and stubbornly left another on his desk made to his exact taste, had even pushed himself to research the Vittery case, almost risking his life just to try and get a good word out of his boss.

Martin, who writes poetry that overflows with tender melancholy. Martin, who had stayed up into the early hours with Jon while he had been staying in the archives, somehow aware that Jon was alone and afraid. Martin, who had persuaded the ECDC to hand over a jar of Prentiss’ ashes so he would feel safe. Martin, who had made it his mission to ensure Jon got at least one hot meal a day. Martin, who had lied on his CV to help his ailing mum. Martin, with his mop of curls and goofy smile and stupid hipster glasses and…oh…Martin....

Jon buries his nose into the yellow wool at his shoulder, inhaling the faded scent of Early Grey and spearmint toothpaste and lavender laundry detergent. It only leaves him feeling emptier.

Nothing, he wants to shout in reply to Nikola’s question, less than nothing!

“JON! What's going on?”

He sniffs, lifting his eyes to stare blankly down at the ruined tape recorder.

Basira’s gaze flicks to the device, before landing back on Jon.

He shivers, licking his parched lips and forcing the words out, voice cracked and tight.

“M-Martin….I-I need to f-find Martin.”

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zealouswerewolfcollector · 3 years

Text

Foiled Intentions

Russingon, 2215 words, M

On Ao3

Maedhros was behind the door, which at the moment appeared more impenetrable than the gates of Angband. Fingon stood and waited, a tiny part of him still hoping that Maedhros would open the door without him knocking. Maedhros knew he was there, Fingon was certain. But he wouldn’t, he would never open the door. He would pretend he couldn’t feel Fingon standing on the other side, his heartbeat loud enough to count as knocking. He would put another brick on the wall he had started to build between them almost as soon as he was able to think coherently.

If Fingon didn’t talk to him now, there was no telling when he would have another chance. Maedhros would leave for his camp, which was in the middle of packing, then they would ride to the East, so Maedhros could put physical distance between them too. Fingon couldn’t let it happen, not without trying to talk to him. He knocked.

The moment of waiting stretched as the endless night had over the Ice, and then Maedhros said: “Come in.”

He was getting ready for bed, leaning against the headboard with a book in hand, his hair bound in a bun on top of his head, the sleeves of his nightshirt loose and flowing. There was a sudden tremor in Fingon’s knees, so he bit his lip and centered his gaze on the headboard to avoid distractions.

“Were you looking for something?” Maedhros asked mildly.

“For you,” Fingon said, already frustrated by the dismissive tone.

“Well, you found me.” He didn’t sound very pleased about it. “What did you want? But make it quick, please, I am tired and I still have a council and a ride to my camp ahead tomorrow.”

He didn’t even offer Fingon to sit. He intended to do what he always did – to offer empty phrases, to feign weariness, and to send Fingon on his way. But not this time, Fingon wouldn’t let him.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said, slowly lowering his gaze from the headboard to Maedhros’s eyes.

“I presumed we had discussed everything at the meeting with your father today.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What else is there to talk about?”

“Drop the pretenses. You know what I mean. I am not going to leave until we have talked about us.”

Maedhros gave him an indulgent smile. “Oh, Fingon. Are you still on about that? I thought we had agreed that it was a bad idea.”

“We haven’t agreed on anything. You decided that it was, and even that I had to guess because you never told me. You just started to distance yourself from me, and you did it so stealthily that at first I didn’t notice.”

His voice didn’t quiver, but from the way Maedhros’s smile faded, Fingon knew his cousin had noticed the effort it took him to hold steady.

“I hate seeing you so miserable,” Maedhros said.

Those must have been the first sincere words Maedhros had spoken to him in months. Fingon decided to answer him in kind.

“You hold my happiness in your hands,” he said.

“Not a very secure place,” Maedhros said, raising his right arm.

Fingon didn’t flinch. “You know what I mean,” he repeated.

Maedhros ran a hand over his face. “You are determined to get what you want, aren’t you? All right, then.”

Without waiting for Fingon to confirm or deny the claim, he rose smoothly and stood before Fingon, too close for comfort. Fingon made to step away, but Maedhros’s hand was suddenly at the hem of his breeches.

“What are you doing?” Fingon asked when it was already too late, when he was naked from the waist to the knees.

“Can’t you guess?” Maedhros asked.

The only indication that Fingon wasn’t the only one affected was the color that rose along Maedhros’s neck.

“Sit,” Maedhros said.

He put his palm on Fingon’s chest, and Fingon dropped down on the bed. He opened his mouth to say something. He didn’t know what, but surely he had to. But then Maedhros knelt before him, squeezed his knee, lowered his head, and Fingon forgot all the words.

It lasted for an eternity, and simultaneously it was just a moment not long enough to blink. Fingon was hyperaware of everything – the coarseness of the woolen blanket under his fingers, Maedhros’s bun brushing against his stomach, Maedhros’s mouth on him – and at the same time, he was lost, absent from his own mind, drifting somewhere unreachable. He was nailed to the bed, he wouldn’t be able to move even if the world broke right at that moment, and yet he was rushing upwards with dizzying speed; or perhaps he was falling down; there was no way to tell, no sense of direction, nothing.

Someone was patting his thigh. He opened his eyes and saw Maedhros sitting on the floor in front of him, a teasing smile on his red lips. Fingon’s own lips were smarting. He must have bitten them to pieces. A few strands of Maedhros’s hair had been freed from his bun and had fallen down his face. Fingon must have done it. He recalled the softness of Maedhros’s hair in his hand but couldn’t remember the action of touching it.

He found himself smiling back carefully, still not willing to trust this sudden turn of events but hopeful that it was for the better.

“Happy now?” Maedhros said.

Even sinking underwater after stepping on a treacherous piece of ice hadn’t frozen him so swiftly and suddenly. If only Maedhros’s words had been taunting or resentful. But they were genuinely meant, and it was worse.

Maedhros’s face fell. “You are not happy,” he said. Slowly, he moved back on the bed, sat on it cross-legged, and stared at Fingon. “Tell me, then. Tell me what will make you happy, and let's finally be done with it. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” Fingon said shallowly, mechanically, as if compelled by an external force. "I want all of you. I offer you all of me. I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours. But...” He licked his lips, cracked and wounded from biting. “If you do not want it, then neither do I. I don't just want you to make me happy, I want you to be happy too.”

“Fingon,” Maedhros said in a voice he hadn't used since Valinor, the one he saved for when Fingon said something endearing but entirely impossible.

I wish there would be a way to grow wings and fly like a bird, Fingon would say, I wish I could hold a star in my hand, I wish we could go away together, I wish your father would accept mine. And Maedhros would smile and say Fingon in that voice of his. And even though it was a denial of his wish, it was still a tender and fond one, so Fingon would sigh and bask in the particular flavor of tranquil happiness he felt whenever he was with Maedhros. It didn’t make him happy now. Now it made him livid.

“Fine!” he said, scrambling to his feet. “If you are so determined to make your own existence miserable, who am I to stand in your way? Wallow in your guilt and self-pity as long as you want. I will disturb you no longer.”

He turned to leave, but Maedhros caught his hand. A startled gasp left Fingon’s lips, and he stood still, heart pumping a furious, knife-sharp hope through his veins.

“What?” he said.

“Don’t leave angry.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to leave here still angry with me. It was not my intention to antagonize you. I hoped you would understand.”

“What is there to understand?”

“Fingon, you have seen as clearly as I have that our closeness brings you nothing but misery. To chase that closeness again is counter-logical, suicidal almost. I cannot allow that.”

“So our closeness just now that you initiated, incidentally, was what, a hallucination, a fluke?”

“I hoped that would be enough for you, and we would put an end to this.”

Fingon snatched his hand away and rounded on Maedhros. “Are you serious? Who do you think I am? Do you even realize how condescending, how insulting that sounds?”

“That wasn’t—”

“Your intention, I know! Nonetheless, it was what it was. Stop it. Just tell me you don’t want this, and I will leave. I will understand. I will know it’s not what you want, and I will adapt. No reasons, no justifications, no explanations of why it would be a bad idea. Just tell me your heart doesn’t want me. Can you? Can you do it?”

“Fingon,” Maedhros said patiently, as though Fingon was a child and not even a particularly bright one.

“Stop it!” Fingon exclaimed. “I know what I want. I know what it means. Did you really believe that you could throw me a bone and be done with it? Is that who you think I am? Is that all I am to you? I just want to talk to you about us, not even about us, about anything except strategy and politics without you pushing me away in that infuriating way of yours that screams for everyone to hear that you know better. For all your humble act, that’s awfully arrogant. I did what I did knowingly. I want what I want knowingly. You didn’t force my hand in Alqualondë.

“No,” he cried before Maedhros would interrupt him to object. “You didn’t. I did it by my own free will. I crossed the Helcaraxë because I wanted to. I reached Thangorodrim because I wanted to. Not everything is about you, you know? Can’t you respect me enough to treat me as anything else but a reckless youngster chasing after his fleeting desires? Even now, after everything that happened? Why does your opinion in this matter prevail over mine when it’s about my feelings and my desires? Why are you so sure you are right, and I am wrong? Why do you think I don’t know what I am choosing and you do? If I asked you if you truly believe yourself so wise, you would spare no ugly word to disparage yourself. And yet here you are, acting as if I know nothing and you know everything.”

His voice was threatening to break, so he stopped shouting. In the silence, the only sound was his harsh breathing. Maedhros had his eyes shut tightly, and Fingon worried that he had gone too far. Then Maedhros sagged against the pillows and raised his head to look at him.

“You are right,” he said.

The shock of those three words almost knocked Fingon out. “What.”

“You are right. I treated you irreverently. I was condescending and insulting, and I am sorry.”

Fingon hated that he couldn’t tell if Maedhros spoke true, or if Fingon had just bullied him into surrender. He had done that before, during Maedhros’s recovery. Had had to do that for Maedhros’s own sake, had pestered him to eat, to sleep, to accept medicine so stubbornly that Maedhros often had just said yes, so he would be left alone.

He couldn’t ask, though. If he did, Maedhros would just deny it, even to himself.

“I am sorry for shouting,” he said instead, sitting on the bed.

“You had a point.”

“Still. I shouldn’t have.”

Maedhros smiled weakly. “Apology accepted. Do you accept mine?”

“What does it mean for us?” Fingon asked cautiously.

“What do you want it to mean?”

“What do you intend it to mean?”

“Fingon,” Maedhros laughed. “After your impassioned speech about knowing what you want, I would think you would be bolder.”

“Fine,” Fingon said. If he wanted Maedhros to trust him, he had to extend the same trust to Maedhros and accept that his words weren’t just the weary response of someone who didn’t want to be yelled at anymore. “I told you what I want. I want you not to push me away if your heart desires me. No matter what you believe is sensible or right, if your heart tells you so, I want you to let me be yours.”

“All right.”

“All right? That’s it?”

“Well, I still don’t think trusting my heart is a good idea. But that’s what my mind is telling me, and I don’t trust it either. So I will trust you as I should have done from the beginning. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

Fingon sighed. “Not really, but I’ll take it.”

Maedhros thought for a moment. “Good enough,” he said. “Well? Do we have an agreement then?”

“We do.”

“And if my heart wants to have you in my arms, should I listen to it?”

“You should.”

“I’m going to trust you on that.”

Fingon tried not to smile, still disoriented from the sudden change and not a little angry, but it was so hard when Maedhros was smiling, when Maedhros was reaching for him, when Maedhros was wrapping his arms around him, leaning his head against Fingon’s temple and pressing his lips to his jaw. He stopped fighting, releasing a breath and with it all the remaining anger and worries, and then turned his face to catch Maedhros’s lips.

#fingon #maedhros #russingon #silmarillion #here's my fic for april #it's not the one i thought i'd write #but i still did it so i'm happy #pretty self-indulgent i have to say #yes this is the clown fic #i actually thought if i could do maedhros's line in comic sans #i don't know what's with me and making my otp argue #at least they make up in this one?#zwc fic

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deathduty · 3 years

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Stairway to Deirdre || Nora & Deirdre

TIMING: Set after A Portrait of Morgan Grey LOCATION: Deirdre & Morgan’s house PARTIES: @fearfordinner & @deathduty CONTENT: Head trauma tw SUMMARY: Nora wants to visit a friend.

Nora’s last conversation with Morgan had gone really well, but it had left Nora with a burning question. What did Morgan’s actual house look like? The answer was. Rich. Nora didn’t know why that surprised her. Other people were rich, she knew. It was easy to assume that most people in White Crest were poor. They just didn’t have the same…. affect of the ‘too rich for their own good’ people she’d grown up around. The front door had been unlocked. Just as Nora had requested, that must mean Morgan was expecting her. A cat ran by Nora, hissing at her before skittering to a different room. A new friend. Nora nodded at the receding cat before starting to slink around the large house. It looked like it could have been on TV. Not Nora’s taste, but if she was to believe the media it was the ideal set up for homes.

In Nora’s hands objects were picked up and placed back down. Examined and discarded. Everything was returned to the exact place she’d found it a little bit to the left. She thought that would be a funny joke for Morgan to discover later. Done with the first floor Nora finally decided to check out what secrets the second story held. Hopefully she’d get a glimpse of that bone room Morgan had promised. Morgan had a very impressive spiral staircase. Nora slid her hands on the railings as she ascended the steps, completely transfixed by the light fixture that hung about it.

Doors were an utter inconvenience to Deirdre. Why houses didn’t adopt the automatic sliding doors featured at grocery stores, she didn’t know. And while technology was often confusing to her, and though she was fond of her dated family home, she just really hated the inconvenience of a door. Maybe that was why she had forgotten to lock the front door—locks were an even greater inconvenience—or why she had been staring at her bedroom door for minutes, hoping it would magically open. She’d really have to teach the cats how to open doors for her, one of these days. But finally mustering the strength to turn a door knob, she exited into the hall, and had begun her descent to procure some fruits for snacking, when she froze. She adjusted her silk robe, to make sure nothing was exposed, and stared. Then blinked. Then stared some more. “Who the fuck are you?” But there was one easy answer to strangers on a staircase, her staircase. Deirdre reached out, and with practiced ease and great delight, she shoved the stranger down.

A woman in silk robes emerged from an upstairs room. It wasn’t Morgan. Nora wondered who it was. Nora even considered asking ‘Who are you’, but the woman spoke first and she thought it would be polite to not speak over her. So instead she opened her mouth to answer. The only thing that came out of that open mouth was a soft “Oh.” As she suddenly found herself being shoved down the stairs. First there was bouncing, limbs and head slapping on carpeted steps until finally there was sliding. In an attempt to defend herself Nora did the only thing she could think of. She shifted. Her clothes tore around her, her body quadrupled in size and the bear emerged. When she got to the bottom of the stairs, the only thing she could really think about was the pain coursing through her body. Staggering up to her four legs Nora looked up the stairs, asking “Why did you do that?” Of course she had a bear’s mouth with a bear’s vocal cords. It came out more of a mournful yodel, something that Babadook would be proud of.

There was a bear. For all the shoving of people Deirdre had done, none of them had ever turned into a bear. Deirdre’s eyes rose up and she turned back to her bedroom. She closed the door, a horrible unnecessary thing, and then opened it again, emerging as she just had. Again, there was a bear at the bottom of her steps. “I’m sorry,” she blinked, “I think I must be in a dream. Or perhaps I’m the one who suffered a tumble down the stairs. But you appear to be a bear.” And she was the one talking to the bear, which wasn’t any better. But the bear noises were commendable, almost as great as her screams. In honour of them, and in an attempt to communicate, she offered her own yodels, more like Irish lilting. “What do you want from me?” She gave up after a moment, demanding answers from the bear. If this was a dream, it was a terrible one. Where was the naked Morgan? Or the bones? Or Kaden being set on fire? Or all three at once?

Nora looked down at the bottom of the stairs where she’d fallen, up the stairs to where the lady still stood. She looked familiar, in a ‘might have seen her picture before’ way but Nora couldn’t quite place it. Probably due to the fact that her brain had just been rattled around in her head. Yodeling again, Nora got her front paws on the first step again. “You made me bear myself.” The bear tried to say, the words colliding into meaningless bear noises. With her two front paws on the first step, Nora realized that she had no clue how to walk up stairs when she was this big. The length of her paw was about the width of the stair. She, in her rattled state, instead of thinking it through decided to stand on her two bear hindlegs. She used the railing to hoist her giant upper half up. “Why did you push me down the stairs?”

Did bears eat fae? Deirdre considered this as the bear appeared to be climbing up to get her. A supernatural deer had ravaged her home, once. And somehow, the bear was still more strange. “I know I look delectable—I am, as the kids say, a snack—but you shouldn’t let looks deceive you.” Well, if the bear ate her, then she supposed she really did deserve that. She’d known a few to snack on pixies, but really, with the way those things zipped around, even she’d thought about chomping on a couple just to shut them up (she loved them as she loved all fae, she would remind anyone who asked). The bear continued its rumbling and Deirdre thought she might have seen a spark of intelligence in its eyes, or maybe that was just the chandelier’s reflection. “I can give you fish,” she finally offered. They’re must have been some salmon in the freezer, beside the brains.

A snack? Nora didn’t eat people. Although, she had some questions about what people would taste like. Someone once said chicken, but she doubted the strange on that internet form had actually eaten human. Weren’t there tonnes of creatures in the surrounded forest that ate people? They liked the taste of humans. No no, Nora had decided long ago that normal meat was enough for her. Fish? The offer was on the table, and Nora with her grumbly tummy was always hungry. As she started struggling her way up the stairs, a pain still throbbing in the back of her head she sang in bear “I am short, fat, and proud of that and so with all my might I up, down, up-down to my appetite's delight. While I up, down, touch the ground I think of things to chew, Mmm, like honey, milk, and chocolate, with a hefty-happy appetite. I'm a hefty-happy Pooh.” For reasons surely unknown, Nora had always loved the Disney character Winnie the Pooh. Of course the whole thing just looked like a yodeling bear climbing up the stairs to maybe eat the human, not asking for the proffered fish.

Weirdly, it was like the bear was singing at Deirdre. Whatever had happened for her to hallucinate this, it must have been potent; singing bears were her least favourite kind of bear. But she noted the song-song quality of the bear’s yodels now; quite beautiful, if only she weren’t so confused. Well, there was just one way to deal with strange hallucinations. Some silly people might have suggested pinching herself to confirm reality, but Deirdre much preferred her own technique. She reached out, prised the bear’s paws up, and shoved it down the stairs. All of this was done swiftly, as she was trained for excellence, not deliberation, but it felt awfully slow in her head. But the bear had felt real, and so, after throwing someone down a flight of stairs twice, she deduced that this was not a dream.

It was the shock, wasn't it? As Nora once more found herself bouncing then sliding down the stairs, her limbs going everywhere and the carpet sliding against her, she instinctively changed back. Blood trickled down her arm, her left eye pulsed and a searing pain with shooting through her left shoulder. “Ow.” She mumbled. Having landed securely on a pile of her torn clothes, the naked Nora did absolutely nothing to change this situation. She hurt and quite frankly she wasn’t here for it. The second fall had knocked a little bit of sense in her, if climbing up the stairs resulted in pain, then stay at the bottom of the stairs. Nora opened her mouth to try and say something like, why did you push me? Or Who are you. Instead all that came out with a second, less monotoned “Ow.”

But the only thing worse than a bear at the bottom of her steps, was a naked, injured person. Deirdre finally went down, staring at the stranger. “Are you okay?” She asked, with all the concern of a woman who hadn’t just shoved this intruder down the stairs. Twice. Although, she hadn’t exactly figured out why the stranger had been a bear for some of it. But along with the memory of fur under her fingers, the torn clothes also told her she hadn’t just imagined it. “You’re bleeding,” she stated, though moved not an inch to help. Instead, she shrugged off her silk robe and tossed it upon the stranger, as if discarding it into the trash. Now she was the naked one, which was usually how she liked things. In her shock, she just couldn’t figure out what she was supposed to do. She imagined the silk robe helped, somehow. “Are you okay?” She asked again.

There was a world of questions Nora expected someone to ask in that situation. The question Nora hadn’t expected was the one she got. ‘Are you okay?’ Are you okay from the woman who pushed her down the stairs. Nora stared up at the lady, brown hair, brown eyes, beautiful facial structure. The light structure above them made a perfect halo around her face, framing her how she imagined an angel was framed standing above Lucifer as he fell. “You…” Nora’s mouth felt dry as she tried to speak through the pain going through her. “You.. never showed up for our wedding.” She finally recognized the woman standing over her. Deirdre. Her poor brain, that had been rattled around alot decided this was more than enough for Nora today. Darkness overwhelmed her as unconsciousness greeted her.

“Oh,” Deirdre said. “Nora.” She wasn’t sure what she expected Nora to look like, but a bear and naked were not among the considerations. Lydia did say Nora wasn’t human, so there was that. What were those things that turned into bears? Boob-bears? That explained the nudity. “Well, this is just funny, isn’t it, Nora?” She paused. “Nora?” Deirdre nudged the slumped body with ehr foot. “Noooooraaaaaaaa?” She waited. Oh well. Deirdre stepped over the body with a whistle, off to get her fruits. She picked the salmon out of the freezer and a pillow from the couch on her way back to the staircase. She wiggled the pillow under Nora’s head, noticing the dark coloring forming around her left eye. She put the frozen fish there. Nora wasn’t dead, which according to Deirdre, meant there was no cause for concern. Not that she had much concern to begin with. She noticed the bleeding arm and shifted the silk robe to lay on top as a sort of expensive, ineffective bandage. She shrugged, good enough. And then she went about the rest of her day, Nora forgotten and salmon left to defrost on her purple eye--which was also promptly forgotten. Vaguely, she thought she might invest in some home security, but she didn’t know why the thought came to her. Oh well, must not have been important.

#wickedswriting #c: nora #chatzy #stairway to deirdre #head trauma tw #(not in excessive detail but its there)#this is set before lydia #also i love ishie so much #this was.....everything i wanted in my life #SOFT

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creacherkeeper · 5 years

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5 + 1 kisses through the years

1. kiss on the forehead

It’s 1148, and Aziraphale isn’t sure these wars are ever going to end. The Holy Land is drenched in blood, and he can only wonder if this was how it was all supposed to go. He doesn’t take questioning the ineffable plan lightly, but one has to pause sometimes, when one has seen something only described as an immeasurable tragedy, and ask if it was really meant to be seen at all. If it was meant to be seen by anybody, immortal and otherworldly or not.

He slinks into the room, just far enough away from the main fray that no one should be bothering him, at least for the night. This building has been abandoned, and he’s sure no one minds if he borrows a bed for a little while. He doesn’t need to sleep, but he wouldn’t mind if he slipped into it on accident. Mostly, he just wants to lie down. His body aches and his eyes sting, and he wants to grip his calloused hands around a pillow and just drift.

Something shifts, and his hand goes to his sword. It’s dark in here, but not so dark he can’t see. Just dark enough that he’d missed the figure sitting in the corner of the room, slumped against a wall.

“I should have guessed I’d find you here,” he says, and he isn’t sure if he means his voice to come out so harsh.

“Where else would I be?” Crowley responds, and he sounds tired. Bone-achingly, world-weary tired. “Where else would anybody be?”

Aziraphale glares, and then softens, his eyes too tired to keep it up. He closes them, one hand coming up to rub with his palm. “Shall we just agree not to bother each other for the night, then?”

Crowley scoffs, his head tilting back against the wall. “You’re the one who found my hiding spot.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Aziraphale says, crossing the room to sink down onto the bed. For some reason, the room seems too big, and his head seems too full. His chest aches. He stands again, and this time sits next to Crowley on the floor. The feeling eases.

Crowley lifts an ornate glass bottle and holds it out to him. When Aziraphale puts it to his lips, he expects it to be alcohol, but it’s only water. Somehow, that’s better.

He holds onto the bottle, swirling the contents inside as he stares down at it. Crowley’s head is tipped back, yellow eyes staring at the opposite wall.

“I want this bloody war to end,” Aziraphale whispers. His throat burns, and he takes another swallow.

“I just want to sleep.”

Aziraphale sighs, nodding. His eyes flick to the other side of the room. “There’s a perfectly good bed.”

Crowley swallows, and holds out his hand. Aziraphale passes the bottle back.

“Can’t,” Crowley says, and doesn’t continue.

Aziraphale nods again.

For a while, they sit, passing the bottle back and forth. Aziraphale jumps when Crowley suddenly slams it to the floor, the sound ringing in the quiet room. His body curls in as he raises a hand to cover his eyes. His shoulders shudder, breath shaking and wet.

Aziraphale sits, and waits.

Eventually, Crowley wipes his eyes and settles back against the wall, sniffing harshly in the quiet room. Aziraphale hands him the bottle again, and he takes a few swigs.

He doesn’t know if he’s overstepping, but what’s there to overstep in a war, so he tugs Crowley up by his sleeve and leads him over to the bed. Crowley sinks onto it, a little line wrinkling between his eyebrows as he closes his eyes.

Aziraphale watches him for a moment, the way his hand clenches and unclenches on his stomach, and then leans over to press his lips against the demon’s forehead.

Good sleep. Good dreams, he thinks, and by the time he pulls away, Crowley is already asleep. He turns and gathers the nearest chair, bringing it over to sit by the bedside. He can’t protect them all, but at least he can do this.

2. kiss on the hand

It’s 1612 and they’re getting swept away in the swell of people leaving the theater after the latest performance of Much Ado. It’s without thinking, really, that Aziraphale grabs onto Crowley’s hand to make sure they don’t get separated in the crowd. If he was a more honest person, he would admit that he’s had too much to drink and is a little off his guard, and if he was an even more honest person, he would admit that he’s been thinking about holding Crowley’s hand quite a lot, actually, and this seemed the perfect excuse.

But he’s not, so he doesn’t.

The crowd pushes and sways and jeers and hollers, all thoroughly taken with the comedic adventures of Benedick and the fair Beatrice. A lady too well dressed for this theater pushes past them, on the arm of an equally well-dressed man as she coos, “Well, it was obvious they were in love,” and Aziraphale blushes without knowing why.

“Fancy a drink?” Crowley asks him, shooting it over his shoulder as he finally manages to extract them both from the crowd.

“Oh, I’ve had one too many already, I’m afraid.”

Crowley looks away as he nods, as if to hide his expression. Aziraphale soon realizes he’s looking for something, twisting his head up and down the street. Their hands, he also realizes, remain clasped. He’s not sure what to do about that. He hopes his palm isn’t sweating, he feels awfully warm.

Crowley’s other hand rises and his fingers curl, and it’s probably a testament to his drink-addled head how long it takes Aziraphale to realize he’s waving to the coach that pulls to a stop in front of them. The coach driver peers down at them, and Crowley’s palm against his own burns.

“Ride for my friend,” Crowley says, fumbling in his pocket with his free hand. “Extra coin if you go easy on the turns.”

Money changes hands, and Aziraphale’s fingers come up to tug on his collar. The horse isn’t looking at them too, is it? No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be silly. It’s just a horse. If anything, it’s concerned about the snake by its hind leg. Its hoof lifts and taps a few times.

“He doesn’t bite,” Aziraphale whispers, tongue thick and fuzzy, and both Crowley and the coachman shoot him a look.

“Where ‘ya headed?” the coachman asks.

“Um.” He blinks a few times.

“Towards Leaden,” Crowley supplies, and the man nods and flicks on the reins. The door is opened, and Aziraphale stares dumbly inside.

“Well,” Crowley says, not looking at him. “Probably be around and about in a few years or so. Depends on what plays are on.”

He nods, still not entering the coach. “Well. Then I shall hope the bard’s next won’t be a sad one.”

Crowley smirks, just a little, and Aziraphale doesn’t know if it’s awkward at this point that they’re still holding hands. One of them should pull away first, but he thinks the process should have started a while ago.

“Right,” Crowley says, and clears his throat. Quick as a strike, he pulls Aziraphale’s hand up to his mouth and places a kiss against his knuckles.

By the time Aziraphale can blink, he’s lost to the crowd.

He stands and stares for a while, until the coachman grumbles about his dinner waiting at home and how it’ll have gone cold by now, and Aziraphale gathers his wits (what precious little he has remaining) and pulls himself into the coach. The ride home is bumpy, and the coachman most certainly doesn’t take it easy on the turns, but Aziraphale isn’t paying attention, anyway. The skin of his knuckles is tingling too much for that.

3. kiss on the cheek

It’s 1965 and if Aziraphale has to sit through another Beatles song he’s going to riot. He’s not sure where he’d be rioting, exactly. Not his shop, he’d hate to mess it up. The street? Seems plebian. Where do people go to riot these days? He hasn’t the foggiest. All he knows is that if another youth comes into his shop in a Beatles tee looking for records he’s going to turn into a kettle and scream.

He’s at the piano lounge sipping on a glass of Sherry that he may have aged himself. The pianist is particularly good today—he should know, he got her this job. It had only taken one particularly good recommendation to get her off the street and into a well-paying job. He hadn’t been assigned that one. He just liked her.

A man slips into the seat next to him at the bar, but he doesn’t pay much mind. He’s lost in the gentle swell of the piano and the taste of the alcohol on his tongue.

The man shifts, waving down the bartender. “May I buy you a drink?”

Aziraphale blinks. It takes him a moment to realize what’s been asked and who is asking it.

He smiles at Crowley with the corner of his mouth, not turning to look. “I already have one, thanks.”

Crowley nods, and the bartender pours him a bourbon, though he hadn’t said anything.

They sit in silence for a moment, sipping. It’s been a while since they’ve seen each other, though maybe not as long as it could have been.

After a while, Crowley holds out his hand. “Anthony,” he says, waiting on a shake, and, oh, that’s what they’re doing tonight.

Aziraphale sighs something fond into his glass. He sets it down and meets Crowley’s hand. “Mr. Fell.”

“Mr. Fell,” he repeats, nodding. “It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

Their hands drop. Crowley turns away and smiles. “Know anything fun to do around here, Mr. Fell?”

Aziraphale chuckles as picks up his glass. “Oh, you’re asking the wrong person.”

“Am I?”

“This is what I do for fun,” he responds.

“Drink by yourself?”

“Listen to music,” he shoots back. His head tilts. “And drink by myself.”

“Well,” Crowley says, laying hard on the ‘e’, “if it’s music you’re into, you ever listen to rock n’ roll? It’s all the rage, I hear.”

“Don’t even start with me,” he gripes, eyeing Crowley’s smirk. “If you even breathe of The Beatles, I shall have to find another seat. I’m serious.”

Crowley’s lips squirm as he tries to fight away a grin. “Just piano, then.”

“Not just. Violin is nice. I love a good trumpet.”

“I bet you do.”

They look at each other for a long moment, and Aziraphale turns away to smile into his glass.

“Well,” Crowley says again, quieter, “if you like music, you must like dancing.”

“I don’t dance.”

“I’ve heard from reliable sources that you do.”

Aziraphale hums, and the sound reverberates in his cup. “I don’t dance …”

“With me?”

“Here,” he finishes.

Crowley’s drink clunks onto the bar. “Then let me tempt you.”

“You are one for that, aren’t you?”

“With the right audience.”

Crowley holds out his hand, for taking this time, and not just a shake. The Sherry swirls in Aziraphale’s glass as he considers. Crowley’s fingers waggle.

“If you make a fool of me …”

“No one will remember, anyway,” Crowley assures him, and this is the first time that Aziraphale feels he’s talking to him, Aziraphale, as Crowley, and not as Anthony to Mr. Fell.

“Very well,” he says, and sets down his glass.

Crowley pulls him to the open floor, surrounded by a dim, orange light and white-clothed tables. Kim the pianist tips her head at him as they pass, and he gives her a smile. There’s no one else dancing, but no one seems to be paying them any attention. It’s just the two of them and the little specks of dust that swirl in eddies around their heads.

His hand goes to Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley’s goes to his waist. The others are clasped together, held out to their side. They start to turn and twist, slow and languid, and it’s not dancing, not really. It’s the gentle sway of two people who can’t stand to be too far apart and don’t know how to say it.

“This is nice,” Aziraphale says eventually, sometime after Crowley’s hand has been replaced with a whole arm around his middle, and their chests are pressed together, and Aziraphale’s thumb has taken to tracing patterns on the side of Crowley’s neck. It’s not often they do this—the contact. It’s hard to justify when it could spell disaster for either of them. The wrong pair of eyes, the wrong ear, and that’s it, it would all be over. It’s easier to pretend they’re somebody else, two people for whom things are not so terribly complicated.

“It’s always nice to meet a fellow lover of the arts,” Crowley says, as if to remind him.

Aziraphale tries to smile, and he’s sure it doesn’t work, because suddenly a wave of sadness has crashed into his chest. “Quite.”

Crowley sees it on his face, because his lips pull down, and his arm gets a little stiffer as they sway. The song ends not long after, and another one fails to start. It’s the end of Kim’s shift. They’ll be closing up soon.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, throat bobbing. They stop, caught in each other’s arms. “I think I should be going soon.”

Crowley nods, and Aziraphale is glad he can’t see the disappointment behind the glasses. Aziraphale’s arms start to slip away.

“Perhaps we’ll see each other again sometime,” Crowley says, and before Aziraphale can say anything back, he leans forward to press his lips to Aziraphale’s cheek. The kiss lingers, warm and wanting, and Aziraphale’s eyes are closed by the time he pulls away. They don’t open as the warm body pulls back from his, and the sound of his shoes lead to the ring of the door.

He takes a breath and lets it out slow. His eyes don’t open until the hand falls on his elbow. It’s only Kim, the little figure of her at his side.

“He was cute,” she says, head tilting. “Did you get his number?”

He swallows, and his eyes linger on the door for a long while. “I think he’ll find me.”

4. kiss on the stomach

It’s 2019 and the world didn’t end, and his lips are hot on Crowley’s neck, and Crowley is taking quick little breaths beneath him, his fingers digging into Aziraphale’s shoulder blades. He wants to say careful dear, careful, because if Crowley keeps pressing like that, clawing and grasping, Aziraphale won’t be able to keep his wings in. Not that he has to. Not here, tucked safely away in bed, here, with Crowley, where they should’ve been all along. He doesn’t say that, though. His mouth is busy traveling downwards, down to the dip between his neck and his shoulder, down to nip at his collarbone. Crowley gasps and sighs, one of his hands finding Aziraphale’s hair.

I’m sorry I took so long, Aziraphale wants to say, and doesn’t. I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I was scared. I’m sorry I didn’t let us have this, what we could have had for so long. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

He wants to be here, he wants to be present, but the feelings are building in his chest, a six-thousand-year ache of shame and guilt and worry. He wants to spread his wings out, just so there’s more of him, more surface to spread the feeling around. He closes his eyes and kisses down Crowley’s chest, nails scratching at the demon’s ribs. Crowley tugs, and his eyes open. He stops.

Crowley, once he notices, stills below him. His yellow eyes find Aziraphale’s face, and he stiffens.

“What’s this?” Aziraphale asks, moving his hand to trail along it. His touch is gentle, and Crowley’s skin jumps in a shiver.

Crowley swallows. “It’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing, Aziraphale wants to say. It’s a scar. A burn mark, in the shape of a feather. That’s not nothing. His thumb licks the edge of it. Crowley shivers again.

“Is this from …” Aziraphale doesn’t know why he’s on the edge of tears. It’s just that this is something they don’t talk about. Crowley will joke sometimes, sure, or make comments. But they don’t talk about it. Aziraphale always knew that was off-limits.

Crowley’s hand finds his, and he tries to steer him away, but Aziraphale holds fast. He may be the Southern pansy, but he’s strong, in more ways than one. If he doesn’t want to be moved, he won’t be moved, and Crowley knows that.

He’s also weak, and that’s okay too.

He blinks his eyes shut, and the few little tears that escape fall on Crowley’s stomach. Crowley’s fingers come up to brush the wetness off his cheeks, muttering a little, “Don’t. Please don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sorry, I—”

He buries his face in Crowley’s stomach, his eyebrows furrowing and face pinching as he tries not to cry. It’s a losing battle, because he is, and he isn’t sure he can stop it. It’s just that everything is building up, all six-thousand years of it, the pining and the want and the longing, and the anguish that came along with it. It’s all come to the forefront, right here, right now, and then there’s this. The fall. It’s a little too much.

“I’ve—” Crowley clears his throat. “I’ve tried to magic it away, but … Yeah.”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, two, then three. His thumbs rub little circles on Crowley’s sides. Crowley twitches as Aziraphale shudders out a breath. Forehead rests against ribs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, gathering himself. He isn’t sure if he’s apologizing for the tears or the scar itself. He pulls back, gazing at it again. It’s long, stretching from just under his ribs to the line of his waist, a perfectly etched silhouette.

“Can …” Aziraphale cuts himself off. He doesn’t even know what he was going to ask. He swallows, blinking a few times, and then leans down. His lips against the scar burn.

Crowley inhales, loud and sharp, and Aziraphale doesn’t pull his lips away. They’re tingling and itching, hot and cold at the same time, but he’s strong, and he holds steady.

Crowley’s hand curls against his neck, and finally, finally, he pulls away. On the edge of a barb, half on the scar and half not, lies the mark of the kiss. It’s fresh and red but growing dimmer already. Slowly, it fades until it’s only a shadow. But it’s there. And there it’ll stay.

5. kiss on the thigh

It’s 2031 and they haven’t left the hospital for three days. It’s been a long time since Crowley was in a hospital, since he was in one for a birth, and though the circumstances are much different, he’s nervous. He’s been pacing up and down the room for the last hour, three cups of coffee gone just today, snapping at every nurse who happens to come their way.

“Labor doesn’t last this long!” he snaps, and the nurse gives him a sheepish expression. “Can’t you- I don’t know- give her something? Is she in pain? Has she slept?”

“I don’t—” The nurse swallows. “-have any more information at this—”

“Then what good are you?” Crowley hisses, and continues to pace.

Aziraphale yawns as he watches him. He’s gotten quite used to sleep, in the years after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, and sitting in this chair for the last three days, under the fluorescent lights and beep of distant machines, hasn’t done wonders for his brain. He’s foggy and tired, and, he’ll admit, a little cranky. Well. Maybe more than a little. He and Anathema have already gotten into a screaming match, were kicked out by the nurses, and had a tearful make-up in the parking lot. She’s currently asleep against his shoulder, so he knows all is forgiven.

“Crowley,” he grumbles, cheek propped on his fist. “If you keep pacing like that I’m going to make you wait in the car. You’re making me dizzy.”

Crowley stops, and Aziraphale is sure a little steam actually comes out his ears.

“Sorry, your highness,” Crowley gripes, hands waving. “I’ll just plunk down into a chair and not move for the next three days, how’s that? I’ll just sit there and stew until me and the whole building catch on fire, would that be better for you?”

“Anathema,” Aziraphale mumbles, his tired eyes falling shut. He knows she’s awake by how she stirs at her name. “Crowley is being mean to me.”

She hums, and Aziraphale cracks open an eye. She stars patting around for her pocket with hers still closed. The fabric of her skirt gives way to her, and the knife is out and open before either of them can blink. “Crowley,” she says, waving the knife in a sleepy motion, “if you’re mean, I’ll …” The knife drops a bit. “Mmmph.”

Aziraphale pats her arm. “Very intimidating, thank you, dear.”

She nods, yawning as she slips the knife away. “I’m gonna find food, I think.”

“Get me something sweet.”

She nods again, back cracking as she stands. She shoves half-heartedly at Crowley as she passes him, and he spreads his arms and scoffs.

“I want a coffee,” he calls after her.

“No,” she shoots back, and then is through the door.

Crowley grumbles, slouching over towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale pats his leg, and Crowley flops to the floor and rests his head on Aziraphale’s knee.

“Tired,” Crowley mumbles.

“Me too.”

“I want her to be okay.”

“Me too.”

“The baby, too.”

Aziraphale sighs, stroking Crowley’s hair. He’s growing it out again, but after three days here it just looks disheveled and messy. “I know, dear.”

Crowley turns to bury his face against Aziraphale’s leg, groaning. “Can’t you … do something?” he asks, voice muffled against Aziraphale’s skin. Aziraphale usually isn’t one for shorts, but it’s the middle of summer, and they’ve been hitting records for the past week. Plus, Crowley finally convinced him to get a new wardrobe.

Aziraphale swallows, twisting Crowley’s red locks between his fingers. “It’s been a long time,” he admits. “I don’t want to mess anything up. And with the baby’s parentage …”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, tired. “Yeah.”

They sit for a while, Aziraphale running his fingers through Crowley’s hair, growing sleepier by the second. He’s almost out when the door opens, both of them turning to look. They’re expecting Anathema. It’s not. Aziraphale’s heart clenches.

Adam looks exhausted. There are bags under his eyes, a shadow of a beard on his face, and his hair is as messy as Crowley’s. But he’s smiling. Praise where praise is due, he’s smiling.

“They’re both okay,” he says, and he looks like he might cry. “They’re fine, they’re healthy, everything’s fine.”

“No hooves?” Aziraphale says, because he lost his filter about two days into this stay.

Adam laughs. “Ten perfect little toes.”

“We’ll be right in,” Crowley says, and he sounds choked. Adam nods and exits through the door.

Crowley sighs, long and slow, and reaches up to his eyes for a moment. Now that the worry is gone, Aziraphale feels it was the only thing keeping them awake.

“Come on, angel,” Crowley mumbles. “Let’s meet the newest little antichrist.”

“Don’t even joke,” Aziraphale laughs, and his eyes are closed. “Maybe just a quick lie-down first.”

“Mm. Mm-mm, come on.” Crowley groans as he stands. “Where are your shoes?”

Aziraphale hums, his head growing heavier. “Don’t know.”

He can hear Crowley shuffling around the room, checking under chairs and tables. He finds them and gives a little “ah”, and crosses back.

Aziraphale feels the tap on his foot.

“Lift,” Crowley says, and so he does.

Crowley tugs the laces tight, but not too tight, and ties them off in a neat little bow. He continues with the other foot, but doesn’t stand when he’s finished. Aziraphale peeks open an eye.

Crowley is kneeling in front of him, staring up with a look of sleepy adoration. “Sorry I snapped,” he says.

“S’okay.” Aziraphale’s eyes blink slow. “Sorry Anathema pulled a knife on you.”

Crowley chuckles. “It happens.” His hand rises to fall on Aziraphale’s knee, thumb rubbing slow. “Love you,” he mumbles, and Aziraphale’s chest warms.

“You too,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley smiles and leans forward, pushing a kiss against the nearest available spot. The skin by Aziraphale’s knee, just below the line of his shorts. His skin tingles.

“Ready to meet our god-grandchild?” Crowley asks when he pulls back.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Crowley takes his hand, and together they stand. “It’s okay to be nervous,” he says, and Aziraphale laughs.

“I’m not worried about me.”

And together, they cross through the door.

+1. kiss on the lips

It’s 2117, and tomorrow they’re replacing the benches in St. James Park. Admittedly, the wood is getting old, and the bench is getting weak, and it’s quite faded. Still, Aziraphale will miss it. They’ve been sitting on this bench for a long time, and it’s put him in a rather contemplative mood.

“Do you ever think,” Aziraphale starts, “about getting old?”

Crowley turns to look at him, his braided hair shifting on his shoulder. Aziraphale likes that he can see his eyes, now. He stopped wearing the glasses a while ago. With all the new body modifications going around, most people don’t question it. “Just in general, you mean?”

Aziraphale sighs, looking back out at the pond. The ducks flutter and quack, and it’s a comfort. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed after all this time, they still love to come and watch the ducks.

“I mean us.”

Crowley hums, and his thumb strokes over Aziraphale’s knuckles. He turns to look as well. “Yes. Sometimes.”

“Do you ever wish we could? Grow old, I mean.”

Crowley takes a contemplative sigh, adjusting his slouch. “I mean, we could change these forms, if we wanted to. Nothing much would change, but we could.”

Aziraphale squeezes his hand and pulls them to rest on his lap. “I’ve gotten quite used to looking like this,” he says. “But, I don’t know. A change might be nice.”

Crowley turns and smiles at him, and he leans forward. Aziraphale meets him halfway. Their lips meet in the slowest and softest kiss. They’re not in a hurry, they haven’t been for a long time, and it’s enough just to feel each other’s heat and breath and presence. They let the kiss linger, and the change is slow. Slow and fast all at once. Aziraphale’s hair starts to thin, mostly at the front, and his cheeks sag a bit, and there are deep laugh-lines on the corners of his mouth. He can feel the change in Crowley, too, can feel the magical energy against his mouth and in the connected palms of their hands. He breathes in the scent of him, smiles against his mouth, and pulls back. He pushes another kiss against his lips for good measure, short and quick, just because he wants to.

There are new lines around Crowley’s eyes, now. His nose is less sharp. His hair is streaking grey, starting at his temples and twisting down into his braid. His hand comes up to cover Aziraphale’s, and both of them are veined and wrinkled.

“Is this what you wanted?” Crowley asks.

Aziraphale blinks back tears. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, it is.”

They sit on their bench and watch the ducks. To an outsider, they look like an old couple, quiet and content. They wouldn’t see quite how old, all the years they have between them, more years shared than the world has existed. But that’s okay. They wouldn’t see quite how content, either, not from the outside. But they are. It took six-thousand years, a lot of strife, a lot of fights, an almost-apocalypse, but they are. They’re together, and that’s how it’ll stay, and that’s more than enough in the end.

#aziraphale #crowley #good omens #ineffable husbands #FELLAS ARE YOU EVER JUST GAY?#five times theyre gay plus one time theyre more gay #you want angst? i'll give you angst. you want fluff? have some fluff #I OFFER THIS TO YOU #please send me prompts #luv u #THANK YOU CALLI AND CHARLY FOR GIVING ME THE IDEA FOR THIS AND HELPING ME CHOOSE KISSES #reblogging with the ao3 in a hot sec

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feistypaants-archived · 4 years

Text

Between The Pipes [Chapter 27]

Rating: M Words: 2025 Pairing: Kristanna Summary: When a new owner takes over the Arendelle Ice Breakers, Kristoff isn’t sure about his future with the team. That is, until a PR nightmare throws the newest member of the media team, who also just so happens to be the daughter of the new owner, right into his arms. Kristoff and Anna can’t even stand the interviews they have to do together… how on earth are they going to fix this mess? Hockey!AU.

[Chapter Index]

Where To Read: [AO3]

Notes: morning after :’)

Enjoy!

Kristoff woke with an unfamiliar but not unwelcome weight on his chest. Taking one deep breath in before opening his eyes, he flexed his half asleep arm and turned to face the still soundly sleeping redhead beside him. Her little snores were fucking adorable and Kristoff felt his heart soften under her palm as he focused on the feel of her breath warming his throat. “Anna,” he whispered, pressing his nose against her forehead. A little louder, “hey, Anna.”

She let out one loud snort and a snuffle before nuzzling deeper against his skin. He couldn’t help the breath of laughter that passed his lips. “Baby,” he tried, the word still foreign in his mouth, stroking his free hand down her cheek. “Wake up.”

“Mmmno,” she hummed, her arm wrapping around his neck as her ankle hooked around his calf. “Comfy.”

His thumb kept moving against her skin, stroking over the mess of freckles he had grown to be so fond of. He wouldn’t move if he didn’t have to… but it was kind of bordering on urgent. “I have to pee.”

Anna let out an annoyed groan before she let go of him, scooting just a little away as she tugged blankets tighter around her shoulders. “Come back soon,” she slurred, already drifting back off. He lifted his hand up to her skin, fingers brushing lightly against her as he pushed her messy fringe away from her eyes. A small smile tugged at her lips, and Kristoff found himself unable to look away.

She was beautiful, laying there so peacefully as her little snores started up again. Kristoff was realizing that he had never quite seen her this relaxed. There was something about it - about how sure she seemed that he would be cuddling up beside her again in no time - that made his heart soar.

He didn’t know what was holding him back.

He loved her, he knew he wanted to be with her, and he knew she felt the same. She understood his fears and baggage and accepted him anyway, and was willing to wait for him to deal with it. Every moment with her felt like a step in the right direction, and every part of him longed for her when she wasn’t around. He didn’t even like going on away games anymore, because video chat wasn’t enough.

So what was holding him back?

Cupping her jaw, he ran a tentative thumb over her bottom lip. She breathed a heavy sigh through her nose and he couldn’t help but smile.

He supposed if you believed something for so long, it took more effort to change it in the end. He wasn’t magically going to get over these hangups and be ready just like that, but Anna was worth the work. Anna was worth all the time and effort and mental challenges he would face to get to a point where he was ready.

And maybe she’d even be willing to help him along the way.

Where she could.

Pressing chapped lips to her forehead, Kristoff moved to get up. He jostled the bed as he practically fell out of it, wishing there was slightly more grace in his bones - but it didn’t seem to wake her in the slightest as she pulled a pillow down to her chest to get back to something she deemed comfortable. He didn’t bother putting on any clothes as he made his way to her small bathroom.

He did his business, splashed his face with some water, and stroked wet hands through his still stiff hair, grimacing as it practically crackled under his touch. He needed a shower, bad. He knew where she kept her towels, knew she had not-so-secretly gone out and bought some of his preferred products, and knew she wouldn’t mind it in the slightest… So Kristoff flicked on the hot water, stepped into her small square of a standing shower, and washed away the remainder of the evening.

Judging by the levels of light in the apartment, it was barely 7.

Kristoff supposed he could go back to bed - they had been up awfully late...

Or he could whip something together by the time she woke up.

—

Anna was cold when she woke up. She was cold, and she was alone.

Her hand stretched out in front of her to see if there was any remaining warmth where Kristoff had been sleeping, hoping that he had just gotten up a little bit earlier. It would be okay if he had just gotten up.

But there wasn’t.

Swallowing hard, Anna curled her fingers into the fabric of the pillow. Had he really left? She vaguely remembered him getting up some hours earlier, but she had assumed he would still be tired and come back to bed. Had he seen it as an opportunity to leave? Had he taken one look at her - all knotted hair and smeared makeup and probably some drool crusted on her chin - and decided that it was too much?

Had it been too good to be true?

She sat up just enough to notice his wallet and keys were gone from the nightstand, and his clothes were no longer scattered around the room, and she felt her heart clench under her ribs. There was no trace of him left.

Oh.

Anna had thought - hoped - that their short conversation the night before was a step in the right direction. She had thought it meant he was going to stick around for a while. She thought he meant that he wanted her, that she was going to be his choice when he was ready, thought that the promise of my place next time meant that he was going to start letting go of old baggage… But clearly it had just been the soft encouragement of liquor loosening his lips.

This wasn’t the first time she had been wrong.

It just never hurt quite this much before.

She was just about to settle in for a day of not leaving the bed and moping when a loud crash from somewhere else in the apartment startled her. “Ah, fuck --” It was louder than a whisper, but clearly hushed as if not to wake her.

Her whole body tensed as she clambered out of the sheets, grabbing at her small shorts and large tee that she kept thrown over the back of a chair, and padded as quietly as she could out of the bedroom. It was probably just Elsa… or…

Peeking her head around the corner, Anna felt her pulse quicken.

Kristoff was standing in the middle of the kitchenette, shirtless and cursing as grease popped up from the stove, his suit pants slung low on his hips without the belt secured, and he looked freshly showered and downright glowy as the warm morning sun filtered in through the small window over the sink. Anna swallowed around the lump in her throat.

He was still here.

Barely controlling herself as she moved across the cool wood floor, Anna did her best not to leap on him as she threw her arms around his neck and buried her nose into his shoulder. He jumped just slightly, clearly not noticing her before she collided with him, and let out a short laugh as she tightened her grip.

“Good morning,” he grinned, his voice just a little raspy from disuse and the strain of the night before. “You -- Oh, okay--”

Anna had practically started climbing up him, her legs wrapping around his waist as he lowered one hand to support her bottom. He turned her away from the stove, doing his best to protect her from the splashing bacon while also not letting it burn. “Anna, this --”

“You’re here,” she mumbled against his skin, pressing her mouth and nose into the crook of his neck. The relief she felt coursing through her was almost unbearable.

“What?” Kristoff pulled his head back just enough to look at her. “Of course I am…” His grip tightened on her, and she squeezed his hips with her thighs. “Did you think I left?”

Frowning and pressing her nose back up against his neck, Anna didn’t answer right away. She had, and now she felt ridiculous about it. “Well… all your stuff was gone.”

“Baby,” he laughed and reached back to the pan to flip the now crisping bacon. “I went to the store.” His mouth lowered to rest beside her ear, and his voice dropped to an almost whisper. “How do you live like this? All your fridge had in it was a carton of expired milk and half a jar of pickles.”

Her mood immediately lifted, his teasing brightening everything about the day. “Excuse me,” she snorted, leaning back and straightening her back. She quirked one eyebrow as she stared down at him, practically turning her nose up. “There is a pizza in the freezer.”

He laughed, a full belly laugh, his cheeks stretching with the width of this smile, and Anna was enamoured with him all over again. She had to kiss him. Had to. Her hands rose to his jaw, and she planted a chaste, wide grinned kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Kristoff’s laugh cut off, but he continued to look at her with adoration in his eyes and a softer smile playing at his lips. She continued stroking her thumbs over his cheeks as he swallowed, flushed pink, and then turned his attention back to the stove.

“Shit…”

Smile dropping, she looked down at the pan of burnt meat and laughed. Bacon did burn awful quick if you failed to give it your full attention. “That’s okay.” Her fingers found their way to the hair at the bottom of his skull again and scratched gently at his scalp, her cheeks flushing when a soft moan left his throat at the contact. “I like my bacon extra crispy anyway.”

“Sure, sure, sure,” he chuckled, bouncing her higher on his hips before taking the hot pan off of the stove. “I’m positive you’re not just saying that.” He reached up to flick off the gas range, slid a spatula under the extra crispy bacon and dropped it down onto a waiting paper towel.

Anna couldn’t help her own giggle from bubbling up behind her lips. “I promise!” And then she lowered his head to kiss him again, both of their toothy grins prohibiting the kisses from being anything but innocent. “I love burnt bacon.”

“Well,” he sighed, his newly freed other hand pressing firmly against her mid-back as he savored her small, peppering kisses. “I’ll burn your bacon every morning, if you’d like.”

“Ooh,” she hummed against him, as if seriously contemplating it. “Tempting.”

Kristoff’s tongue teased her lips then, breakfast quickly forgotten as a heat rose between the two of them. Unspoken promises of many future mornings whispered in the back of her mind, pressing her desire to the forefront as his hands roamed over her body, mapping every inch of her.

She wanted so much, but groaned at the feeling of hairspray still stiff in her hair, makeup still caked on her face, and sweat dried slightly sticky against her skin. She needed to be clean before anything else could happen.

“Ah,” she sighed, pushing regrettably away from him. “It’s my turn to shower.” Anna almost laughed at the clear frustration in his eyes as she wiggled out of his grasp. “Are you willing to burn some eggs for me, too?”

Watching with delight as his tongue pressed against one cheek then ran across his bottom teeth under his lips - a sign she had learned meant he was wound up and annoyed that he had to tamp it down - Anna touched her feet back down to the cool floor.

“... Maybe pancakes?”

“Am I your personal chef now?” His teasing irritation made her smile.

With a laugh and a quick hop up to place one more soft kiss against his cheek, Anna grinned. She practically sang “only on the weekends, I suppose,” before skipping off to the bathroom and shutting the door quickly behind her, cutting off any protests he may have had.

#btpfic #feistypantswrites

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yehet-me-up · 3 years

Note

*busts through the door like I'm the Kool-Aid man* BONJOUR FUCKERS I'M BACK!!! It is I, the Theatrical Gay Anon™! I hope you're ready to endure my endless babbling for a bit cuz I've got lots to say holy shit. Consider this part 1 of like, 1000 cuz I think Tumblr got rid of the submissions feature. I apologize in advance for the spam hehe.

Okay, with that out of the way. Ms. Yehet-Me-Up, may I call you Sarah? Sarah, what the fuck!? I can't even rn. I I give you a simple suggestion, no expectations behind it. I say "Hey, don't you think it'd be cool if Zitao was in the Exodus Mall universe?" to which you said "Yeah, that'd be neat, I might do that. Perhaps make him work at an Irish pub or something" and then I flip out with gratitude and excitement thinking you're gonna do like, a DRABBLE. 500 words at MOST -Theatrical Gay Anon

Imagine my SHOCK, my STUPEFACTION, upon realizing that you wrote OVER TEN THOUSAND WORDS about Huang Zitao aka the wind beneath my wings, the rain to my drought, the corny joke to my Junmyeon. And not only that! But you did this A MONTH AGO. I could've been reading this for so long and I had no idea! How foolish am I? I can't believe you wrote all of this based off of a silly little suggestion I made. I feel like bowing over how not worthy I am Wayne's World style -Theatrical Gay Anon

NOW IN REGARDS TO THE CONTENT OF THIS MASTERPIECE OH MY GOD WHERE DO I EVEN BEGIN!? I am floored by your preeminence. First things first, the title? Perfect. Full disclosure, I suck at titles. I've been writing for over a decade now and I'm still shit with titles. It's so hard to come up with just a few words to encapsulate everything you wrote but you do it SO WELL. The moodboard? Amazing. I've always loved that picture of Zitao and it fits so well with the pub setting -Theatrical Gay Anon

I'm afraid you've written "Fractions of Tomorrow" so well that I don't see there being a need for anyone to write anything else...ever. Stories? CANCELED. Poetry? CANCELED. Biographies? CANCELED. It's all over folks. Sarah has written The Best Thing Ever. We've peaked as a society. After I finish writing these asks I'm gonna become a hermit in the woods and make friends with all of the woodland creatures that inhabit it. -Theatrical Gay Anon

But seriously though, I love absolutely everything about this story. As a Zitao fan, I'm used to getting breadcrumbs. Not a lot of ppl write fics about him. I can count on one hand how many long fics of his you can find on Tumblr. But THIS?? This was no breadcrumb, this was a whole fucking bakery. And it all appeals to me so much oh my god? The sappiness of it all, the flowery prose, the rebellious rejection of cynicism, it's all so beautiful I want to marry it. -Theatrical Gay Anon

If I discussed all of the sentences in this fic that made me giggle with joy and kick my feet around I'd be here all day so keep in mind this is just a FRACTION of the ones I loved but I couldn't go without mentioning at least some of them so here we go. "It’s not his first time here, but it’s his first time paying attention" SHUT UP this line is go good it's so simple yet so nuanced I adore it. Seriously, why hasn't anyone hired you to write a screenplay? -Theatrical Gay Anon

"He wonders if you ironed the collar of your shirt to be that precise or if you simply move through the world without acquiring any wrinkles" God, this line is so CUTE it's DISGUSTING he's fond of the reader's un-wrinkled clothes that's such a specific thing to like and is totally the type of thing I've done with the ppl I've crushed on throughout my life. -Theatrical Gay Anon

"‘Zitao,’ he says finally. ‘Cute.’ You say" this is such a little thing but I love that you included his full name in this. I love his full name so much it sounds really pretty. Whenever I hear him refer to himself as "Huang Zitao" in interviews my heart soars. Hearing him speak Mandarin in general is a delight as well. It's an audibly gorgeous language and any racist who says otherwise can EAT MY ENTIRE ASS -Theatrical Gay Anon

"For someone who’s been in love for as long as you can remember she fights awfully hard against Baekhyun’s romantic nature" DEAR GOD I LOVE THESE TWO! I love these movie loving lovesick fools. I love that everyone in the world knows they love each other except them. I love seeing bits and pieces of their story throughout this written universe. I can't wait to see it all come together in Baekhyun's Exodus Mall fic. It's gonna be GLORIOUS -Theatrical Gay Anon

Also! I know you enjoyed my song recs that I thought fit perfectly with All Our Broken Places so here are some for when the Baek x Hitchcock fic drops. I know it's not done yet but I just *know* what it's gonna be like I can feel it in my bones. "Sidekick" by Walk the Moon and "Tongue Tied" by Grouplove. As for Fractions of Tomorrow I knew right away what songs I'd pick. "Dreams" by The Cranberries, "Jumpstarted" by Jukebox the Ghost and "Don't Stop Believing" by Journey -Theatrical Gay Anon

Gosh, this fic filled me with so much energy and joy I feel like a toddler on caffeine. But I really should sleep now though. It's gotten so late that I can see the sunrise peaking up sdksdksl. I'll see ya soon! I will be spamming you with more compliments about this fic once I wake up though! - Theatrical Gay Anon

Hi! I'm back. Okay, now where was I? Oh yeah, I was talking about some of my favorite lines from the story. "‘Hey man, how’s it going?’ Baekhyun reaches out and does a complex handshake with the man before you. ‘Oh, you know. Just working at the salt mines,’ Tao says with a laugh." I LOVE that you made Baek the one Zitao was close with. I miss the beef brothers so much. I'll never forgive SM for what they did to OT12. They were all such good friends 😔 -Theatrical Gay Anon

"‘I’m not sure.’ For a flash Tao’s eyes linger on you once more. ‘I think it would depend on the person.’ And then the bastard goes and winks at you." GOD, HE WOULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THIS! HE'S SUCH A SHAMELESS FLIRT I HATE HIM *narrator voice* This was of course a huge a lie, he in fact loved Zitao immensely -Theatrical Gay Anon

"‘Sweetheart, I’m everyone’s type.’" You've captured Zitao's unlimited confidence so well and that makes me really happy. It's one of my favorite things about him. The man truly loves himself and I think that's awesome -Theatrical Gay Anon

"Tao looks at you through his lashes, bending close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips when he speaks. ‘Words are just the appetizer, darling. I prefer to have an entire feast.’ 'Any other questions or can I grab your orders?’" ASDKDSDSL SO YOU'RE JUST GONNA SAY THAT PANTY DROPPER LINE AND GO BACK TO BUSINESS AS USUAL ZITAO???? HUH??? IS THAT WHAT WE'RE GONNA DO??? -Theatrical Gay Anon

"‘Oh, nothing.’ He looks like the cat that caught the canary. ‘I just love being right.’" Something I love about EXO fic writers (myself included lol) is that despite all of the different ways they'll write the other members, there is one member who is always written the same and that's Baekhyun. He will always be written as a cheeky little shit cuz he *is* a cheeky little shit. That's just who he is. Messing with ppl is a favorite past time of his. -Theatrical Gay Anon

"'So, love, huh? There’s not some girlfriend or boyfriend of yours waiting for you at home?’" Thank you for not being heteronormative with the "are you dating someone?" convo. I know it might not seem like much but I really appreciate it. -Theatrical Gay Anon

"The beginning of love is always a lightning bolt. If that’s all it ever is you never have to deal with being knocked on your ass by the resulting thunderstorm" OOF, this one got me. So very true. The beginning of love is so scary! -Theatrical Gay Anon

"I could argue that anarchy still is love. Love of your beliefs and love of a person or a place or a thing so much that you’re willing to fight for it" OKAY BUT PASSIONATE LEATHER JACKET WEARING ANARCHIST ZITAO IN A ROCK BAND IS SUCH AN ATTRACTIVE CONCEPT!!! There's nothing sexier than a bad boi that will hate capitalism with you! He'd probably be the one to give ppl rides to protests and stuff I LOVE IT -Theatrical Gay Anon

"If we say love is a feeling, who’s to say that we aren’t in love? If we decide it’s an action then which one is it? A kiss or a commitment or - maybe it’s nothing more complicated than putting words to the way I feel when you look at me?" Listen I don't mean to be dramatic or anything (wait, who am I kidding? I'm literally the Theatrical Gay Anon being dramatic is like my Thing) but if a guy ever said that to me my trans boi pussy would be open for business IMMEDIATELY

Alright, so, uh Final Thoughts. This may be my new favorite work of yours, and no it's not just cuz it's got my ultimate bias in it lmao. This year has been so shitty and it's made my depression + anxiety reach the highest possible levels but reading this, this love story filled with hope and certainty despite not knowing what the future will hold for them, made this year seem easier to cope with. Thank you so much for making this, it means the world to me. -Theatrical Gay Anon

ALRIGHT, LAST ASK AND THEN I'LL SHUT UP I PROMISE but I personally headcanon that Double Shot + Zitao stayed together till the very end. They didn't get married cuz they hate formalities but they got matching tattoos and even when they're old and grey you can still them clear as day on their wrists. When they're asked how they met no one believes their answer lol. And when Double Shot died of old age before Zitao he would sing her favorite song by her grave every Saturday -Theatrical Gay Anon

OKAY SO I know I said I was done and I know I've already sent in like, 30 bajillion asks but I'm curious does Yifan or Luhan also work at the Irish pub?? Or do they work somewhere else in the mall? Inquiring minds want to know -Theatrical Gay Anon

When I tell you this made my entire month (when you sent it weeks ago, I’ve been hanging onto these because they seriously bring me SO much joy holy crap) I am not remotely kidding j;oaisjdflkasdjfa

I am absolutely going to put on these song recs while I work on the next chapter!

a;osdfjlaksdfjasl the fact that you stayed up late to read this warms my heart so much. It reminds me of all the times I stayed up til the ass crack of dawn reading fanfics because I simply could NOT stop reading, so the fact that you enjoyed this like that makes me helllllaaaa emo 🥰

I just??? 2020 was indeed such a long year and affected my energy and creativity and honestly don’t really remember writing this hahaha. I kind of go into a fugue state with these longer fics and they just EMERGE. So to see you reflecting back some of what I wrote allows me to enjoy the process so much more. Makes writing and tumblr fun and I seriously wish everyone writing and creating could have someone as passionate and thoughtful and hilarious as you hyping them up 🌟 it honestly feels like a GIFT and I will absolutely keep writing this series and hoping to be worthy of it 😘

We will definitely get to see more of these two in the finale fic! I got into EXO after Tao, Yifan, and Luhan left so I’m not quite as familar with their personalities, but I could definitely see Yifan working at the US Bank haha. Business suit by day and partying/flirting by night. As for Luhan I feel like he’d work somewhere like the bookstore or the music store?? somewhere quieter and more contemplative.

Thank you again for sending this and for being you <3 I hope 2021 is a wonderful year for you and that you know how AMAZING you are 💖💖💖💖💖

#asks #theatrical gay anon

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innaminitus · 5 years

Text

Phantom

Pairing: Loki x reader

Request: Loki phantom of the opera au but instead of music it’s magic (from @phluffyphantom)

Warnings: language, murder

Word count: 2307

A/N: 1/3 of my halloween requests. turns out i might only do 2, it all depends on how much time i’ll have, sorry, loves

“You really need to mean it. To become somebody else, to become them. Not only their appearance, love. Their whole self.” The voice of your teacher sounded as if hidden somewhere deep inside of you, as if it came from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Their dreams, thoughts, character, aches of the heart. Only then you will be able to truly transform.”

When he said it, it always sounded so easy, like spreading butter on a warm loaf of bread. It was never as easy as it sounded, though. Magic was a hard thing to practice and even though you were considered as rather talented witch, you still had major difficulties with high arts, such as shapeshifting.

“I’m trying, it’s just not working.”

“You don’t mean it, love.”

You closed your eyes shut for better focus. You tried to change your hand to look like a paw, but all you managed to achieve was a bunch of hairs sticking out of your skin.

Your teacher was not exactly a… normal teacher. You were ready to call him a phantom, but he didn’t quite feel like an astral being. He felt real, touchable, even though you never actually saw him. You felt his presence in your guts.

For a while you thought you were going mad. You were, after all an orphan with odd abilities, sent to a school for “special children” somewhere deep in the English forests. Madness wouldn’t necessarily be an odd outcome of your life.

When you started to show more powers than your classmates, you were afraid, scared to the bone of the things you could do, of the things you felt and didn’t control. It was then when you first heard his voice. Calm, soothing, like ice on a burn, his deep tones filled you whole, explaining it all. He never left you since. Always waiting patiently until you ask for help, always greeting you with silky voice that made you tremble.

You didn’t know it was possible to love a voice. To wait for each word like for a prize.

The hand started to itch and a warm laugh spilled through your blood.

“Excellent.”

You opened your eyes to see the hand transformed into a foxy paw. Smile bloomed on your face as you moved it, your fingers warm as if you were wearing a glove.

Sudden knocking on the door made you jump and drop the illusion.

“Yes?” You quickly stood up and looked at the clock on your wall. It was long past midnight, no one should be wandering through corridors at that hour.

Your door shyly unlocked and a chestnut mane of one of your classmates peaked through.

“Can I come in?” He asked, checking the corridor when you nodded and quickly sliding into your room.

His name was Andrew and he was one of the cocky boys at the school. You weren’t exactly fond of him and his friends, but curiosity forced you to let him in. Curiosity that could easily kill you someday.

To your surprise, he just stood in the middle of the room, his sight wandering from your closet to your messy desk, stacked with books and drawings.

“Can I do something for you?” You raised your brow as he kept staring at the bookshelf.

He nodded slowly, his eyes finally locking on you.

“You are… Quite good with magic, right?” He put his hands in his pockets and balanced on his heels. “And I’m having problems with the thing we’re doing right now in class. Was wondering if you could maybe help me out.”

That was unusual. Not only because of the ungodly hour, but also because you clearly saw him a few hours earlier do the task in class perfectly.

“That’s… Not true.” You tilted your head, staring at him.

He laughed nervously and nodded.

“You’re right. I just needed an excuse to see you.”

That was even more unusual. You weren’t the popular girl, the one that the boys would want to see after class. You were quite the opposite, not like him. He was handsome and liked, by both students and teachers.

“I– I don’t understand.”

He took two steps, enough to shorten the distance between you in your cramped room. He was standing close enough for you to feel his cologne and to count freckles on his nose.

“Isn’t it obvious?” And the reflections from the candle light in his eyes. “I like you.”

His lashes covered two small flames in his eyes when he closed his eyes.

Twenty-two. You counted twenty-two freckles when his plump lips touched yours.

You didn’t close your eyes, frozen with shock.

A boy.

Was kissing you.

Why?

You didn’t bother asking. You closed your eyes and parted your lips, letting his tongue touch yours, forgetting that you definitely shouldn’t be kissing him.

He slowly moved away and you heard someone’s laugh outside your door.

“Told ya she would do it! And you didn’t believe me!” Andrew laughed along with the rest of his friends who undoubtedly were waiting outside your room until now. You blushed awfully, a sting of shame piercing through your guts. Of course. “She only acts so innocent, she’s a slut like them all.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, your eyes started to water despite your desperate attempts to force them not to flow.

You felt powerless when they laughed at you, laughed at tears staining your cheeks, at the red cheeks and clenched fists. Dying suddenly didn’t feel like a bad idea.

The laugh nearest you stopped, replaced by gagging. You shot your head up to find Andrew’s face in unhealthy, purple colour, his hands up on his throat, forcing the veins to show up on his neck. Your heart started to race. He was choking himself.

His friends watched in horror when he fell on the floor, none of them dared to cross the doorstep. Andrew was fighting with his own hands for another minute before he stopped moving at all. His purple face with red eyes was turned to you.

“She killed him.” You heard. “She fucking killed him!”

With parted lips you watched them run away. They were surely going to call a teacher, and what would happen if they found a dead body in your room?

“Love,” the soothing voice sounded in your head “the mirror.” You turned around. Tears were blurring your vision but what you saw must’ve been real. The surface of the tall mirror was eddying around a gloved hand sticking out of it. “Hurry, love.”

You didn’t think. You knew you shouldn’t do this, that your disappearance would prove you guilty, but this could be the only chance of actually meeting the voice you cherished so dearly. Meet him, see him, touch him.

You wrapped your fingers around the hand and let it pull you through the mirror. It felt cold and silky when the surface touched your bare feet and face, kissing you with sharp lips. You felt as if the air was forcefully pulled out of your lungs, but it only lasted for seconds, leaving you heavy breathing on your knees, coughing on the stone pavement.

“Are you alright?”

The voice.

You weren’t sure you were ready to face him. What if he was so different from what you imagined?

You tried to get your thoughts together, but they seemed to disappear through your ears and gasps you still made, leaving you senseless, to the point where you didn’t know who you were anymore. All that mattered was that you could see him, and yet were too afraid to look.

Gloved hand gently touched your chin, forcing you to look up. Your eyes met leather boots, slim legs, expensive suit and, finally, his face.

And it was more than your silly mind could imagine.

He was all sorts a god.

His soft black curls lay on his shoulders, surrounding his pale face, sharp jawline, delicate smile.

You didn’t know if a man could be considered beautiful, but he definitely was.

His other hand took yours and he helped you stand up.

“I don’t believe we’ve ever actually met,” he said, his voice sounding even more addicting when you could see the lips that formed the words. “Nor if I ever introduced myself.” You shook your head, your throat was too clenched to let you make a sound. You only now realized that you didn’t know his name. “That’s what I thought. I am Loki. Of Asgard. It’s pleasure to meet you.” He bowed his head.

You noticed he was still holding your hand.

“I’m Y/N.” You murmured, watching his smile widen.

“I know.” He winked.

Your cheeks burned with red. Of course he knew, you said your name to him when you first heard him.

Once you could breathe and speak normally, you looked around. You were in some sorts of underground, filled with candles and quite windy. The pavement you were on was narrow, only enough to fit you both, the rest of the underground was filled with water. You noticed a boat, filled with candles as well, waiting patiently behind Loki.

“I– Andrew is dead,” you only managed to say when your throat was clenched again at the thought of a corpse laying in your room and the guilt that was more than surely weighing on you.

“I know that.” He stepped closer, caressing your cheek with his hand. “Just as he should be.” He was even closer now, nearing his lips to your ear. “No one disrespects my love.”

You shivered at his words. His love. You were his now. And you would be lying if you said you didn’t like the sound of that. The thought of that. Even if the thought of him murdering Andrew for you was frightening. You knew no harm would come to you as long as you were with Loki. And, dear God, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

His lips were still close to your face, and he took a deep breath before slowly moving away. He walked to the boat, your hand still in his and guided you to get in before he followed you. The moment his feet touched the wooden surface, the boat moved, pushed by magic.

“Where is Asgard?” You dared to ask, watching him as he lazily waved his hand to move the boat.

A shadow of a smile run through his face.

“In space.”

“That’s not very precise.”

His laugh echoed through walls.

“Asgard is in space, because it’s a planet.”

“You’re from another planet?”

He nodded.

You weren’t exactly surprised. There was something odd about him, as if he wasn’t entirely human, as if he was something… more. The way he talked about magic, how much he knew about it was also intriguing.

The longer you were sailing, the more candles you observed. You must’ve been getting closer to your destination.

A big gate appeared in front of you, opened with a single wave of Loki’s hand, letting you see what was behind it. You sailed into what looked like an enormous cave, filled with candles and antique furniture. He could live like a king if he only left this place.

“Why do you live here?” You asked foolishly, cursing yourself for not biting your tongue when you should.

“I think I… got used to it. I like being alone.” He moored and got out first, then gave you a hand. “Besides, it turned out I’ve grown quite fond of a certain young woman living near.” He smirked at you, making you blush again.

He kept saying such things, making you blush and feel hotness spreading all over your body. He was far from what you thought of him, he was much better. Handsome, skilful, independent. As if he put a spell on you to see him this way. You fell in love with his voice so easily, how long would it take before you fell in love with him entirely?

You took the hand he offered and he pulled you out of the boat a little too rapidly, causing you to trip.

“Forgive me…” He murmured, helping you stand straight. You didn’t notice how close you were at first, so when you looked up, you found yourself barely inches away from his face and his delicate smile. You wondered if you could kiss him. What would it be like? Just when you decided to check, he turned form you and tugged your hand to make you follow him. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Do what?” You turned your gaze away and looked at everything but him.

“Kiss me.” Smile in his voice was almost touchable.

“I wasn’t going to do that,” you murmured, locking your eyes on flickering candles, lighting the room with delicate rays. “But just out of curiosity… Why?”

He laughed softly and turned to you suddenly, making you trip again. His nose was almost touching yours.

“I might not be able to hold on if I’d feel your lips on mine,” he whispered in a husky voice, and the blood rushed to your cheeks again.

For a second or two you forgot how to breathe.

“I’m willing to take the risk.” You weren’t sure that you actually said it out loud, these words tasted foreign on your tongue.

He smirked, his finger was tangled in your hair.

“You really are fearless, love.”

He pulled your hair, forcing you to press your lips onto his. It was unexpected, it was rapid, but you sunk into that kiss the moment you touched him, let yourself forget the whole world existed, because none of it mattered. Not when he was there, when his scent surrounded you and his tongue parted your lips.

That was probably the most magical thing he’s ever shown you.

___

tag lists:

💞: @taylorswiftloverforever13 @fuckythebuckybarnes @kaylig02 @daddyloki @it-jinxed-us @themusingsofmany @randomlea @annakohanasworld @theunofficialduke @prismroot-starlight0 @deathofmissjackson @tricksterwinchester @villanellevi @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @forgoshsake-watchyourlanguage @grace-barnes-13

❤️ - @lucantis @percyjackson886 @marsbars101 @callmequentin @ladybugsfanfics @blowmybackoutbuckybarnes @inlovewithmrstark @mercadez119 @moodymcu @chokemerobert @dungeonmistress95 @whiskeywinter89 @slytherin-girl-99

💚 - @lucantis @amiablestyles @maybell88 @selemeworld @starofthedawn @imjustaworldoffandom @lovesickforvillans @iamverity @midnight-queen-1 @adefectivedetective @peachlobotomy666 @artanopolis @cherrygeek86 @fan-girly-girl @mercadez119 @myownviperroom @40sstuckys @thatweirdwalangpake @sociallyawkwardbeanwhowrites @thathedonistgirl @herfantasyworid @obtain-this-grain @slytherin-girl-99 @fuglypickles

#loki x reader #loki x you #loki x y/n #loki imagine #loki fluff #loki angst #loki #avengers imagine #marvel imagine #avengers #marvel #phantom of the opera

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angelily95 · 4 years

Text

Can We Run Until We Die?

Bang Yongguk x Reader

Mafia!au, romance

Short drabbles inspired by Bang Yongguk's Hot & Cold.

I don’t know the truth

I don’t know how long I’ll go

It’s a question of how much I feel about you

Give me more give me everything

From head to toe

Can we run until we die

Living as a single woman was not easy, not when you were you. Not when you were acquainted with him. Not after you brought home an injured man who you found unconscious on the dark alley near your house and had taken care of him until he recovered.

You had let him live under your roof while he recovered from the stabbing wound on his stomach that he refused to go to the hospital to get it treated.

He was lucky you were a nurse so you had access to necessary medicine and equipment to treat the wound. His name was Bang Yongguk. A stranger you had never seen before. A man of not many words who had piercing cold eyes and mysterious identity as he only let you know his name.

However, being together with him for almost two months made you grow feelings for him despite not knowing much about him. His personality was intriguing, to you.

He welcomed your advances, the way he lifted his eyebrow to tease you whenever he caught you staring was a green light from him. He would smirk when your cheeks flushed red when your back accidentally brushed against his chest in the small kitchen of your studio apartment.

He wouldn't move away until he whispered things that made your body shudder. He was a natural flirt with masculine facial features and a deep husky voice that got you weak on the knees especially when he whispered playful things to your ears, when his lips barely graced your earlobe.

Whenever he stood behind you to see what you were doing and you turned around to see his face, he would tempt you to a kiss by licking the corner of his lips while gazing at yours with heavy eyes. You weren't sure if he liked your back but at least the attraction between the both of you were mutual.

Although he was driving you crazy by treating you nice one day, and cold on another day, you kept falling deeper for him despite knowing he was counting days to leave, to go back to his world where you didn't exist.

One day, you were driving back to your place after grocery shopping with him when an unfamiliar car tailed yours. That was the day you discovered another side of Yongguk. He could be nice or cold, or he could be crazy. Mad crazy when he wordlessly took out a gun you didn't know he had to shoot the driver. The bullet missed so he ordered you to drive away from the area of your house, to speed on the pedal. You had never been that scared in your life when your car almost crashed but Yongguk was quick to take over the wheel.

Once the car was out of the radar, Yongguk checked into a hotel room with you for a shelter. You still remembered you fell to the floor with a pathetic sob because you were scared for your life, you didn't know what you had gotten yourself into. Yongguk picked you up from the floor without any explanation and checked your body to make sure there were no injuries.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the need to feel protected by his strong arms. You buried your face on the crook of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating mixture of his sweat and cologne. With adrenaline still pumping in the both of your systems, you later feel him pulling the shoulder of you blouse down slowly to expose your smooth skin there.

You let him peppered your shoulder and collar bone with kisses and attention before everything escalated quickly and you were on your back letting him make love to you like the world was ending. Like it was the last time to feel you close and to remember every inch and every curve of your being with the tip of his fingers. His half lidded eyes stared straight into yours, confessing the words his lips couldn't say because his lips were busy sucking the life out your mouth as if you were his oxygen. As if he needed you to stay alive.

And you were right. The next morning, you woke up to a letter telling you to not go home and stay at your friend's house. He also thanked you for helping him. That's all.

He came into your life without a reason and left without telling you anything. He disappeared like a thin air.

After he left, you couldn't go back to your normal life. Every time you tried to go home, there would be suspicious cars in the neighbourhood which made you move out to a new place that was closer to your workplace. You lived in fear not knowing what would happen to you, you could get killed the next day for no reasons.

You wouldn't let that happen, not when you have someone precious growing in your womb. You realized you overestimated yourself when you were pulled into a van in the parking lot of your apartment. You could tell it was not going to end well. Whoever Yongguk was, he was going to make you pay for whatever he had done to these people. Rather than be mad that he got you into all this mess, you hated him more for putting your baby in danger.

You couldn't tell how much time had passed but it felt incredibly long especially because you couldn't see anything with the black cloth covering your eyes. Your ears were on alert but the guys were awfully quiet. When you felt the van finally stopped, you heard the door was opened loudly like it couldn't wait and light greeted your eyes when the blindfold was taken off. Your lips parted in shock when you realized the one who pushed open the door and pulled the blindfold away from your face was Yongguk.

Tears welled up in your eyes because he looked like he had been living well. His previous curly long hair was trimmed short and you could see his lovely eyes and all his moles that you were fond of clearly. A shiver ran down your spine when he called out your name with his deep voice as if he was on the verge of crying out of longing.

You could hear the pounding of your own heart when he caressed your face, trailing down to your neck, your chest and stopped at the swell of your stomach. He looked at your stomach in disbelief, a drop of tear left the corner of his right eye.

"Am I going to be a father?" He looked up to your face with a mixture of amusement, love and fear written all over his face.

You bit your trembling lower lip and nodded your head and cried without making a sound. Carefully, he carried your body in bridal style into the house, heading straight to a bedroom. He placed you on the bed, near the edge. He kneeled down and placed his hands on your knees, looking up at your crying face with a soft smile.

"I am sorry for leaving. I had to do it. I didn't tell you anything because it was better for you to not know anything. It was for your own safety." He kissed your knuckles before taking your hands to rest on your protruding stomach. He rested his cheek on your stomach, smiling to himself. "We'll raise this precious little thing together. I had never promised you anything but this time, I promise you. I swore on my life, since my life belongs to you. You are the reason I am still alive and breathing, literally."

But there was something you needed to know. You had to finally ask him. "Who are you? What are you, Bang Yongguk?"

He raised to his feet with a smirk before sensually pushing you to lay your back on the bed. He crawled up on you, hands pinning yours above your head as he leaned his face down to meet yours. His breath was warm on your face, sweet mix of mint and cigarette.

"From now on, I am your guardian. I will protect you and our child from any harms. I am your lover, I would treasure your heart and your body you would beg me to stop. I am going to be your husband and bind myself to you for the rest of my life. And most importantly, I am yours. That's all that matters." He claimed your lips for the first time after a while, possessively and obsessively. Showing you what he really felt about you and reassured you that you were safe in his arms regardless of who he was.

You silently agreed for the ride and surrendered your life to his possession when you kissed him back with equal, desperate need.

#bang yongguk #bap #yongguk drabbles #yongguk oneshot #yongguk scenarios #bap yongguk #yongguk

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rohad93 · 4 years

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Authority Online: Ch 5

Sunday morning Celeste got up and dressed as usual, but there was a certain nervous excitement that permeated everything she did.

She and Jaune had agreed to meet at ‘The Daily Grind. The cafe just next door to the bakery, though Jaune didn’t know that.

It would give her some familiar turf, and she knew the majority of the staff, on the off chance that she needed help extracting herself from the situation.

They weren’t meeting till ten and it was only nine-thirty but she still found herself already sitting inside the cafe, sipping nervously on a mug of black tea. For a Sunday morning, there were a number of people in the cafe this morning, having coffee and chatting. The quiet den of people helped put her somewhat at ease.

She’d decided that jeans and a pale blue blouse, that she didn’t get to wear near often enough, would be alright. She scuffed her flats across the floor. She just couldn’t help all the twitchy nervous energy. She absent-mindedly curled a lock of silvery hair around her fingers. This wasn’t even a date per se... they were just... meeting for coffee.

Did Jaune think it was a date?

Bloody hell, at this point she wasn’t even sure what this was. She was in that weird limbo where she was fond of someone but didn’t know them well enough yet to say if she really liked them or not. They had talked quite a bit over the last week but it wasn’t the same as meeting.

Wasn’t that why people went on dates though?

While she was mulling this over she didn’t notice or even look up when the bell over the front door jingled.

A few minutes later she felt a presence nearby followed by a soft clearing of a throat.

“Celestine?”

She jumped, turning to look up at the blonde now standing a few feet away with a mug in one hand.

She really was quite tall.

“Can I sit?” she asked after a second and Celeste felt a flash of embarrassment shoot through her.

“Ah, I’m sorry, of course, please.” She gestured to the empty seat.

She took a brief moment to really look at her companion as she situated herself in the chair across from her

Her profile had certainly been accurate. She was tall and lean, the angularness of her features was not contained to just her face, but the rest of her as well was squared with an almost sharpness to it. Short, bright blonde hair, that Celeste couldn’t quite tell if it were real or dye was combed neatly into a smooth wave atop her head and she had sharp amber-colored eyes.

She was wearing black slacks with a white button-down tucked into them, the top two buttons left undone, revealing pronounced collar bones and the sleeves rolled just above her elbows.

“I feel a little underdressed,” she admitted with a nervous smile as Jaune took a sip out of her cup.

Those amber eyes widened and she spluttered a little on the hot coffee.

“Please, don’t. This is about as casual as I ever get any more,” she admitted, running a hand through her hair.

Her companion seemed just as nervous as she felt and it dulled some of her own nerves.

“Semi-formal is your casual?” she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice and was delighted at the hint of pink that seemed to crawl across Jaune’s cheeks.

”I think it would be more accurate to call it business-casual…,” she mumbled, embarrassedly, glancing off to the side.

Celeste couldn’t help but laugh, causing those eyes to slide back to her.

“I knew ‘Carrick’ was Irish, but I didn’t expect the accent,” she stated, leaning back and crossing one long leg over the other before taking a long drink of her coffee.

“Ah, It was much thicker when I was younger. When we first moved here my sister and I were often teased for it.”

“People are like that.” Jaune hummed, the tone was sympathetic. “It’s lovely.”

It was Celeste’s turn to feel the heat creeping up her neck at the compliment.

“Thank you…” She took a sip of her tea, if for no reason then to give herself a moment while she collected herself. “I almost expected you to have a french accent.”

Jaune barked a laugh at that. It was rough and sharp, but the sound seemed perfectly in place coming from the blonde, and Celeste couldn’t help but smile.

“Ah, yes, no,” she snorted. “My family’s ancestry is French, but that was generations ago. Which is fine, I prefer my words to have a normal amount of vowels.” she smiled behind her cup when the baker laughed.

Celeste was so caught up in her companion that she didn’t notice the family of three walking past the cafe outside.

“How much pancake mix do you think we’ll need?” Greg looked at his wife, their son on his shoulders as they locked the bakery’s front door behind them.

“I think one bag should be enough for the three of us,” she hummed as they walked past the cafe. She glanced into the shop but did a double-take and stopped. “ What’s Celeste…” she started but quickly changed gears. “Who is that?”

Greg leaned around his wife to look into the windows of the cafe. Sure enough, his sister-in-law was sitting at a table in the back, a mug in hand and smiling brightly at a tall blonde woman sitting across from her. It only took a second for him to realize it must be the woman she’d met on the dating site.

The one she didn’t want her sister to know about.

Rose started toward the cafe’s door and Greg jerked.

“Rose, wait!” He grabbed her hand before she could go inside.

“What, what’s wrong, I just want to... pop in real quick…," she mumbled trying for the door again.

“No” Greg gently pulled her away. “She’s…,” he started and had to think fast as his wife leveled a look at him that clearly said she could see her sister in the cafe with a woman and she was going to investigate it if he didn't come up with a damn good answer. “That’s… her lawyer!” he finally said.

“Her lawyer?” Rose repeated, eyes wide.

“Yeeees,” he drawled, stalling while he thought, Steven tugging at his hair was not helping. “She told me the other day she was meeting with a lawyer, for some, you know, legal stuff for the bakery. We shouldn’t bother her when she’s doing business stuff,” he reasoned.

Rose hummed, looking through the glass. The other woman was certainly dressed like a lawyer. Much too formal for a date in a coffee shop.

“You’re right. She can tell me about it later,” she agreed as they moved past the shop. Greg let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as he followed behind Rose to the market.

The two were still sitting inside nearly forty minutes later when the three walked back by and showed no signs of moving. Greg hoped that was a good sign.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Surely she can’t be all that bad?” Celeste laughed at the look on Jaune’s face after one of the many stories she had about her mother doing something terribly embarrassing when she was a child.

“Yes, she can.” Jaune insisted gruffly. “The problem is she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it,” she grumbled.

“She certainly sounds… like a character,” she finally settled on, resting a chin in her palm, smiling when Jaune chuckled.

“Straight out of Shakespeare,” she agreed.

“My sister may be just as dramatic, though, in a different way.” Celeste glanced in the direction of the bakery, where the rest of her family was.

“I’m sorry,” Jaune said, the tone was serious but the twitch in her lips indicated otherwise.

“Can I get you another cup of tea, Celeste?” A waiter paused at their table.

“Ah, no, thank you, Tom.” She smiled at the boy.

He turned and indicated to Jaune’s cup questioningly. She held up a hand.

“No, thank you.” He nodded and left. “You seem to be quite well known here.” she turned back to Celeste, who gave a little shrug.

“My bakery is… nearby,” she hedged. Jaune nodded.

“I’m not that familiar with this part of town, so I’ve never had the pleasure, though, to be honest, I’m not much of a sweets person. My mother didn’t allow that kind of stuff when I was a kid, so I never really developed a taste for it.”

“Perhaps you've just never had anything good."

"Perhaps not," she admitted.

"Would you like to?" she asked, cocking her head.

"Huh?"

Celeste smiled. The confused face the lawyer was making made her grin.

"Would you like to try something good?" she asked again.

"Something of yours?" she clarified.

"Yes, something of mine." Celeste couldn't keep the laughter out of her voice at having caught her companion off-guard.

It was becoming clear to her that those lovely blue eyes had a way of throwing her off-kilter, but Jaune was nothing if not adaptable, part of the trade.

"You seem awfully confident in that assertion." Her smirk widened into a grin when Celeste sat up straighter, obviously not going to take the teasing comment sitting down.

"I am”

“Lead the way” She held out a hand as they stood from the table. She threw some money down on the table and followed Celeste to the door.

“How far is it?” she asked as they stepped outside into the warm sunlight.

“Oh, not far,” Celeste mumbled, pulling her keys out of her pocket and walking the ten feet to her own front door.

“Obviously not…” Jaune drawled, cocking a brow as she stopped and began opening the door. “When you said nearby, I didn’t realize that meant next door.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t next door, though.” she quipped, stepping into the shop with Jaune at her heels. The jingling bells heralding their arrival to the dark and quiet shop.

“Fair enough…” she said, looking around the shop. It was clean and had a nice, homey feel to it. The white linoleum floor and stainless steel display cases shined with the light bouncing in through the front windows. The walls were painted a pale blue and held framed photographs or pastries and flowers.

“It’s very nice.” she turned back to Celeste, who had been watching her look around from the corner of her eye,

“Thank you. You’re not allergic to anything are you?”

“Not unless you put bees in your baked goods,” she said with a grin that was mirrored back.

“Wait right here.” Celeste held up a finger before disappearing into the back, leaving her standing in the middle of the shop.

They had a few things made up, but she knew exactly what she wanted the blonde to try. She stepped into the walk-in, missing the sound of little feet in the stairwell and padding out of the kitchen.

Jaune was still admiring the shop when movement out of the corner eye made her turn, but instead of Celeste, a small, dark, curly-haired boy of about six was starring at her with wide eyes from behind the display case, a piece of paper clutched in one tiny fist.

“Um, hello?”

“Hi, I’m Steven.” He moved closer and smiled at her but his face morphed into awe as he came to stand at her feet. “You’re tall…,” he said, looking up at her.

“So I’ve been told… Where did you come from?” She looked around.

More importantly, did Celeste have a son? Surely she would have mentioned it already if she did.

“Upstairs” He pointed up.

Before Jaune could say anything Celeste came out of the back and immediately saw the boy.

“Steven! What are you doing down here?” She quickly walked up to them.

“Hi, Aunt Celeste!” He smiled brightly and wrapped his arms around her legs. Jaune let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “I heard the bells,” he explained. “ I wanted to show you my drawing.” He held up the piece of paper for her and she smiled, looking at the crayon drawing of a large pink… lion maybe?

“That’s very nice, love, but why don’t you go back upstairs before your mother comes looking for you, I’ll come by later and you can show me, alright?” She smiled at him.

He nodded and turned back to Jaune and waved.

“Bye” with that he trotted away into the back.

“I’m sorry about that…” Celeste started.

“No need to be sorry.” She shook her hand. “Your sister’s son?”

“Yes, Steven. He’s a sweetie. Speaking of… here.” She held out a small maybe one inch square on a piece of parchment paper. It was a golden-brown color with chocolate drizzled over the top.

“This is a butterscotch bite,” she explained as Jaune reached up to take the treat. Their fingers brushed and both had to suppress a sudden tingle.

Jaune popped the treat into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

Celeste watched her face and couldn’t help but smile brightly as the blonde’s eyes widened and her eyebrows shot into her hairline.

“You have every right to be confident. That’s… really good.” Jaune finally said after she’d swallowed.

“Thank you.”

Before she could say anything else a loud chiming filled the air, startling them both.

Jaune dug her phone out of her pocket and hit a button, a severe frown marring her face.

“My apologies, I didn’t realize what time it was, I have some work I need to finish before tomorrow.”

“Ah, of course, I’ll walk you out.” Celeste followed behind her. “It was very nice to finally meet you,” she said as they stepped outside the shop into the warm sun.

“The pleasure was entirely mine.” Jaune smiled and Celeste felt her stomach roll. “Celestine…” She started and automatically Celeste cut her off.

“Celeste,” she corrected. “Only my parent’s ever called me Celestine,” she chuckled and the corners of Jaune’s mouth twitched upward at the sound.

“Celeste…” she corrected and tried not to shift around too much. “Would... you like to have dinner with me next weekend?” she asked after a second but it felt much longer to them both.

“I’d love too,” she answered quickly and immediately felt an embarrassed heat rise up her neck at the eagerness but if Jaune noticed she made no indication.

They exchanged numbers and then the lawyer was gone, walking down the street.

Celeste closed and locked the door behind her and for the life of her couldn’t wipe the smile off her face as she made her way upstairs, feeling absolutely giddy.

Maybe whatever today had been was up in the air but there was little doubt in her mind that Saturday night, she had a date.

With a witty and attractive blonde at that.

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't notice the open door of her sister’s apartment.

"Celeste!"

The baker jerked to stop in front of the open door where her sister appeared.

"How was your meeting with the lawyer?" she asked and Celeste froze.

"You knew about that?"

Suddenly Greg was standing in the doorway behind her sister making a slashing motion at his neck.

"Greg told me this morning when we were passing by the cafe, we saw you with your lawyer, having coffee. What did you need to see a lawyer about?"

"Ah, yes… I have been thinking about… maybe expanding the business and I just thought I might consult a lawyer about it first, nothing concrete yet." she managed to make up a story out of thin air.

"Oh, I didn't know you were thinking about expanding the bakery." Rose crossed her arms and leaned against the door jam.

"As I said, nothing's been decided yet. Right now I do have to go upstairs and finish a few things though." she excused herself and Rose nodded just as Steven called out from another room.

"I better go see what all that's about." She rolled her eyes with a smile and hurried away. Greg stepped out into the hall.

"We saw you this morning having coffee with your… friend and she wanted to go in, I guess I just remembered that you said she was a lawyer so I said you were having coffee with a lawyer for business reasons," he explained quietly with a grimace.

She reached out and laid a hand on his arm.

"It's perfectly fine, Greg. Thank you."

"So…. How'd it go?"

Celeste smiled and Greg grinned

"That well, huh?" he chuckled and Celeste nodded.

"We're having dinner next Saturday," she admitted and he only smiled wider. "But I really do have some things I need to go finish before the day is over. Thank you again, Greg."

"Don't mention it,” he called watching his sister-in-law hurry up to the third floor and he wondered if she realized just how wide she was smiling at that moment.

If Rose saw that face there was no way she’d believe whatever story they made up for her.

~ ~ ~

Despite the work she very much needed to do, Jaune sat in her car for the better part of fifteen minutes just trying to come to grips with her morning.

Celestine Carrick was just as lovely as her photos would have one believe, but they belied the charming and vivacious woman she was and Jaune had not been prepared. Not for that soft lilting accent nor those piercing blue eyes. She was beautiful and Jaune felt like a hot mess from the first moment she’d laughed till she’d left.

She’d somehow managed to pull herself together long enough to ask her on an actual date, and she’d said yes.

Taking a deep breath, she started her car. It was going to be a long week leading up to Saturday. She still needed to decide exactly where she was going to take Celeste.

She also needed to come up with something to say to her mother, who had wanted to drag her to the opera with her on Saturday.

A later problem.

She flexed her fingers against the leather of the steering wheel and ran her tongue over her teeth.

She could still taste chocolate and butterscotch.

Despite a life relatively free of sweets, she found herself already craving more.

#bellow diamond #yellow diamond #blue diamond #white diamond #pink diamond #steven universe #greg universe #AU #fic #Authority Online

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paladin-lynx · 4 years

Note

“why are we whispering?” with like,, anyone from the arcana if you play it but if you don’t, with anyone from be more chill!!

I actually just recently started playing “The Arcana” but haven’t gotten very far, so I don’t think I can write anything about it just yet. Maybe soon! So for now, I’ll go with “Be More Chill” and a pairing that I’ve been meaning to write about for a while!

Send me a character/ship/fandom and a prompt and I’ll write something!

Fandom: Be More Chill (musical)

Ships: The SQUIP x Jeremy Heere (Technical Difficulties/Squipemy/Squeremy/JereSquip)

Setting: Post-musical AU where the SQUIP somehow returned as a human and was redeemed/rehabilitated by Jeremy (with the help of the rest of the squad), and lives with him having had nowhere else to go. He looks pretty similar to how he looked in Jeremy’s head, and physically he looks to be around college age.

It had already been a good few months since the SQUIPcident, as it had been deemed, and even if things were weird, they were going relatively well. Jeremy would never forget how initially terrified he’d been when suddenly a familiar Keanu Reeves-esque looking individual had shown up at his front door. Even if he’d looked worse for wear and rather pathetic, the voices in Jeremy’s head had been screaming, “it’s the SQUIP, he’s going to hurt you, he’s going to ruin your life again, you can’t trust him, get away—” and he’d slammed the door in his face.

But of course, upon hearing the tentative knocking and quiet voice – still with that almost ridiculous-sounding surfer lilt – asking him to please listen, empathetic Jeremiah Heere couldn’t help but open the door again and give it another try. He supposed it had made sense that his SQUIP had picked up traits from him, given that they’d shared a brain for a time, but it was still strange to see what it looked like when he fell into a panic attack.

From there, everything had changed. Jeremy had taken it upon himself to teach his former SQUIP – who they defaulted to just called ‘Squip’ – how to be a proper human being. It was strange, in a way, because here was someone who used to be a machine that knew the ins and outs of social interaction, that could read every single vital of its host and deduce when something specific was needed, and yet he tended to forget to do basic human things. Jeremy would constantly have to remind him to eat, chastise him for staying up too late, tell him that some of his behaviors weren’t exactly acceptable. It was almost like their roles had been reversed. Squip was embarrassed about it but chalked it up to still being used to being a supercomputer, who didn’t have to do all of the things that it kept tabs on for its user.

If there was anything that Squip was the worst at doing, it was sleeping. Of course, Jeremy knew that there was a reason behind it other than just forgetting to, because as a stupid squishy human, it was difficult to go too long without it. Jeremy heard Squip’s screams in the middle of the night, even if Squip liked to act like he silenced himself before anyone noticed, and Jeremy was familiar enough with nightmares to know that they could scare you away from wanting to sleep even if you were tired to the bone. But the result was that Squip tended to sleep in the middle of the day, which wouldn’t be a huge deal if there weren’t times he’d just straight-up passed out over things he was doing. He’d almost hurt himself on multiple occasions because of it, but he seemed to be getting better at reading the signs and getting himself somewhere comfortable before promptly zonking out. He seemed to sleep better during the day, and Jeremy wasn’t sure if that was because he felt safer with the buzz of activity in the Heere household around him, or if his mind was just too exhausted to come up with a nightmare.

Jeremy and Squip had sat and talked about their trauma together quite frequently. It was actually pretty easy to discuss it with one another because they understood it best out of everyone. Jeremy knew now that Squip had human feelings and an actual conscience that he felt awfully guilty for everything and was hoping that becoming human was his second chance to be a good influence on Jeremy. Jeremy always tried to tell him that he shouldn’t feel too bad about the past because he’d been forced to follow his code and there was even a chance he had been defective – and Jeremy also pointed out that some of the pain others had felt had been his own fault, without Squip’s help – but Squip still refused to accept that. He was determined to spend the rest of his life making up for his actions. He’d even said he didn’t want to give himself a ‘real name’ until he felt he’d earned it, despite the fact that they both knew he couldn’t go out into the real world calling himself ‘Squip’.

And as time went on, Jeremy and Squip got ever closer. It was easier for Jeremy to forgive him than he had initially thought it would be, because this version of Squip was so different. It was obvious now that he was free from the shackles of his programming, he was an entirely new being. He could still act a bit stuck-up and like a know-it-all, because he still had a lot of knowledge stuffed into his now-human brain, but he was also funny, clever, and never missed an opportunity to help someone. Even the rest of Jeremy’s new squad – even Michael – had slowly come to accept him. But even if Squip had become part of the group, he was closest to Jeremy and, honestly, Jeremy was becoming incredibly fond of him. It was a bit difficult for him not to, really.

Of course, Squip still tended to stay in Jeremy’s house for the most part. He sometimes wandered out on the town while Jeremy was at school and Mr. Heere was at work, but without identification and much money, there was only so much he could do on his own. Jeremy knew that he liked to frequent the park because now that he could actually feel things, he had become a bit obsessed with nature, which was kind of funny considering how technologically-inclined he was.

Today was a day like any other. Because it was Friday afternoon, Michael was coming over after school so that they could spend stay up stupidly late playing video games and gorging themselves with junk food and soda – nothing with Mountain Dew, though. Jeremy was religiously staying away from the brand from now on, to be safe, even though Squip was very obviously out of his head.

“I am not going to see the Sonic the Hedgehog movie with you,” Jeremy said as they walked up the steps to his house, fishing his key out of his pants pocket.

Michael pouted at him. “Why not? It’ll be great! You can’t go to that movie by yourself! Do you know how embarrassing that’ll be?”

“Not nearly as embarrassing as you constantly making comments about how I’ll wanna get it on with Sonic.”

Michael snickered, nudging Jeremy with his shoulder as they stopped in front of the door. “I’ve gotta be supportive of my furry best friend, don’t I? Maybe Tails’ll be in it, too! You know all the jokes online about his second tail being a b—”

“Mell,” Jeremy hissed, his cheeks burning as he fumbled to get the key in the lock, muttering under his breath, even slipping into Japanese for a moment without really realizing. As he finally shoved the key into the slot, he collected himself. “Honestly, with all the freaking ridiculous research you do, I’d say you’re the furry. And, for the record, I do not wanna do anything with Sonic. Or Tails. Or any of them!”

Michael laughed again, more heartily this time, as he followed Jeremy through the now open door. “I’m doin’ all the work because you’re too ashamed to. I, of course, have absolutely no shame. So I’m helping ya out. You’re welcome, by the way. But I do know you prefer your catgirls. I guess they gotta look somewhat human for you to—”

“Michael.”

“Look, I know as well as you do that your dad isn’t home right now, so I will keep talking about this. I mean, you remember Krystal from Star Fox? Of course you do. They knew exactly what they were doing when they designed her. Although I guess you also really liked Scar and Kovu, so maybe they don’t—”

“Michael.”

“Come on, Jere, I—”

“Michael!” Jeremy finally turned to his friend and waved one hand in a ‘keep it down’ gesture as he quietly closed the door.

Michael blinked, clamping his mouth shut in surprise. He waited a moment before he spoke again, much more softly: “Why are we whispering?”

Jeremy pointed to the living room, where the TV was playing a re-run of Rick and Morty. And there, sprawled on the couch fast asleep, one arm hanging off the edge, was Squip.

“Oh,” Michael murmured, once again trailing behind Jeremy as they went into the living room, slipping off their shoes and backpacks along the way.

Jeremy shed his coat and tossed it onto one of the armchairs before padding over to the couch, his expression softening as he gazed down at his housemate. There had only been a handful of times he’d seen his SQUIP look peaceful, and they were so few and far between that he wasn’t even sure he could remember the exact contexts. But seeing him now – mouth slightly open, black hair splayed on one of the small couch pillows with that one silly white streak falling somewhat into his face, brow not creased in concentration like it always used to be – warmed Jeremy’s heart in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Squip had said at one point that Jeremy should want him dead after what he did, to which Jeremy had said that he couldn’t wish something like that even on his worst enemy, let alone someone on the path to redemption.

Jeremy grabbed the blanket draped over the back of the couch and gently lay it over Squip, tugging it into place so he was properly covered. When Squip mumbled something and shifted slightly, Jeremy feared he’d woken him up, but Squip simply grabbed the blanket and pulled it up, nuzzling into it and humming contently, still very much asleep.

Jeremy couldn’t help breaking into a smile and reaching down to gently brush that white streak off of Squip’s forehead, letting his hand linger for a moment and just watching the former supercomputer.

“You’re so whipped for him, dude.”

Michael’s words snapped Jeremy out of his reverie and he pulled his hand back as if he’d been burned, his cheeks going up in flames. He looked up at Michael with wide eyes. “What?” he whisper-yelled, and he swore his voice went up at least ten octaves. “I am not!”

Michael just quirked an eyebrow in his trademarked ‘you know I’m right’ way. “You so are, Jere. I’ve seen the way you look at him when we’re all hanging out together, and just now. You used to look at Christine that way.”

Jeremy’s face was still dark red, almost putting Michael’s prized hoodie to shame, and he peeked down at Squip again. Squip had always been attractive, even when he had just been a projection of Jeremy’s mind. Jeremy had a feeling that was intentional, because he would be more willing to listen to and follow the orders of someone he was interested in. Of course, Jeremy had been struggling with his bisexuality then, so he wouldn’t have ever accepted the fact that he was maybe attracted to someone who presented male. But perhaps, like Rich, being freed from the commanding voice in his head had made him come to a few realizations.

And now, the new human Squip was ever the charmer, using little pet names constantly, always knowing what to say in that smooth-as-honey voice of his, cracking a smirk that could make anyone’s knees weak and okay, maybe could make a few people question their sexuality. He’d come back from his excursions plenty of times with little slips of paper in his pocket with various phone numbers, and maybe it made Jeremy a little envious that Squip had only been around like this for a handful of months and could get more people to ask him out merely by existing than Jeremy could by using every trick in the figurative book of romance. Not even Christine had stuck around, after everything they’d gone through, although they were still very close as friends.

But that didn’t mean Jeremy was into Squip.

…Right?

Jeremy huffed, stepping away from the couch and snatching up his coat, grabbing Michael’s abandoned one along the way so he could stomp over to the closet and hang them up. “You’re high.”

“Nope. I am one-hundred percent sober, Jere-bear. You like him. Like like him.”

Jeremy was too flustered to make fun of Michael for using the elementary school phrase and instead just glared at his friend as he came back over to join him in the living room. “I do not,” he repeated.

Michael smiled, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

Michael had known Jeremy for over twelve years, and even if he sometimes didn’t understand what Jeremy was going through, he knew all of Jeremy’s tendencies and mannerisms down to a T. It was part of why Michael had been so worried when Jeremy had started changing after getting his SQUIP. So of course, if anyone was going to know that Jeremy was going through a romantic crisis, it was Michael.

Jeremy let out a slow breath, trying to rub the heat out of his cheeks, as if that would work. The more Michael commented on his apparent predicament, the less and less inclined Jeremy was to disagree. He peeked down at Squip’s sleeping form once more, just in time to see him murmur something in Japanese that Jeremy sort of understood as “very comfy” and turn over to face the other way, and Jeremy’s heart stuttered.

“…So what if I do?” he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pants pockets.

Michael shrugged, flashing him another little grin. “You do you, my man. I mean, it’s a little weird because he used to be a pill in your head and tried to take over the world with you as his sleeper agent. But I guess it’s not that much weirder than you being into animal people.”

“You are the absolute worst,” Jeremy groaned, lolling his head back in exasperation for a moment before sighing. “It’s not like he would wanna date me anyway. He has so many admirers. He could have literally anyone he wants.”

“You know I’ve never actually called any of those numbers I’ve received.”

Jeremy and Michael both froze at the voice, and Jeremy’s gaze snapped down to the couch again. There was Squip, eyes open and watching him curiously, a tiny, sleepy smile on his lips.

“Y-you’re…awake?” Jeremy squeaked, his blush returning full-force. “I, uh, you…H-how much did you hear…?”

“Just enough.” Squip chuckled and sat up, still holding the blanket to his chest in a way that Jeremy decided he should not find as cute as it was. “I know you were trying to be quiet, but I wasn’t in that deep of a sleep to begin with. But I felt rude interrupting.”

“You were eavesdropping. That’s worse,” Jeremy argued, and Michael laughed, excusing himself to go raid the kitchen. Jeremy silently cursed him for leaving him alone with his maybe kind of crush that he’d just realized he maybe had.

Squip only smiled again, letting the blanket drop into his lap and picking up the remote to turn off the TV. He set it down again and beckoned Jeremy to sit with him. After a moment of hesitation, the boy did so and Squip turned to face him, tilting his head like he always did when he was thinking.

They sat there in silence for what to Jeremy felt like an eternity – but was probably no more than ten seconds – and he fidgeted in his spot, finally piping up. “So…”

“…I may not have been human for long,” Squip began, “and I may still be figuring some things out, but I do know that I feel strongly for you. Up until recently, I had thought that it was perhaps just residual attachment from when I was your SQUIP, and the persisting need to look after you and care for your well-being, but I’m beginning to think that it may be something…more than that. And I wouldn’t be averse to seeing what developments come out of it.”

Jeremy just blinked dumbly at him. “…In English, please?”

Squip just laughed warmly, slipping a hand into Jeremy’s hair and pulling him forward to plant a soft kiss to his forehead. “I like like you, too, sweetheart.”

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