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beesspacedotorg · 4 months

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Handle With Care

Summary: You've had a truly awful day, luckily, your adoring boyfriend Minho is there to make it better. 2.5k words

Warnings: there's sex, but honestly it feels like someone accidentally got porn in my fluff so do with that what you will. reader is as gender neutral as physically possible. reader is also lowkey a crybaby, sorry but actually I'm not

Notes: Hello adoring public. It turns out, I can write fanfiction, and with the encouragement of Juno and Ems, I can also post it! There is a cat in this, she was inspired by a cat my family used to have and a cat my family currently has. They're both calico which I think explains everything you need to know about them.

There’s a lot you can say about the day you had today, and most of them start with sh- and end in -itty. You’re thinking on this as you dive head first onto the rough material of your couch, great for sitting, bad for face planting. You hear a scratching by your head and absentmindedly bat your cat away from the arm of the couch, mumbling something about how she has a perfectly good cat tree two feet away before resuming your completely justified sulking.

“Oh, hello. I didn’t hear you come home. How was your day?” There’s a voice above you and you can picture him in your mind's eye, leaning against the back of the couch as he stares at your limp form, probably eyeing the shoes you didn’t take off by the door. You mumble something half hearted in response and he huffs before the sound of walking hits your ears and all the breath leaves your body at once. He’s sitting on you. This motherfucker is sitting on you.

“Get off, Minho” You had to tilt your head to the side, it’s hard enough to breathe through couch fabric as is, much less when there’s a full grown man sitting on your back.

“You should answer people when they try to talk to you, jagiya.”

“You shouldn’t sit on people while they’re laying down, yeobo.” Your voice is a lot more acidic than his was and a twinge of guilt settles on you before it dissipates as he shifts and manages to place more weight on your back.

“Hmm. I guess we’re both doing things that we shouldn’t then. How tragic.” His voice is deadpan, and you still can’t see him from where your head is turned- your view is limited to the back of the couch and his arm in your periphery- but you can feel the dead stare he’s aiming at your skull. There’s a silence for a few moments while you engage in a war of attrition, neither of you willing to give up just yet, but it’s getting genuinely hard to breathe and your back is starting to hurt.

“It sucked, please get off.” He does, patting your back consolingly.

“See? Was that so hard?” He guides your head to his lap as you both sit back down, petting over your hair like he would his cats. “Tell me, what’s got my baby in such a tizzy?”

You grumble at him, rolling over to shove your face into his stomach, tired and petulant. He sighs softly, but keeps patting your head, so you know he’s mostly just doing it for show.

“That kind of day, hmm, jagi?” And you nod again. Honestly, it wasn’t much different from a normal day, it’s just that the right things managed to go very wrong and subsequently ruined your day in a way that has pressure forming behind your eyes and your voice cracking stupidly every time you try to talk.

You both sit for a while before he puts something on the TV and gently shoves your head off his lap.

“Hey-”

“Do you want the dinner I worked so hard on to go cold?” He has his hands on his hips in front of you and you laugh slightly at how funny he looks. He rolls his eyes and goes, coming back with two bowls of something before he forcefully sits you up and shoves it in your hands.

“Eat.”

“Yes, chef.”

The food is delicious, it always is when Minho cooks it, he’s got a talent for it you’ve never really seen firsthand, and you consider yourself truly blessed to be able to eat it as often as he’s able to make it for you. Still, gratefulness and taste aside, your day was shitty enough that every mouthful tastes like ash and turns to rot in your stomach, leaving you with an unsettling queasiness that shouldn’t ever be attributed to your boyfriend’s cooking. You’re shoving the contents around with a spoon before he huffs- a real one this time- and takes the bowl from you, setting it on the coffee table next to his own before he mutes the TV.

“Okay. Quite clearly something is wrong. What can I do to help you?” You think he knows, but you like that he asks anyway. Minho always asks, always lets you talk and sort out whatever’s going on before he tries to help. Even if your answer is a simple shake of the head, a simple, I don’t feel like it, become a mind reader, he always asks before he helps. Sometimes you wonder how he always knows what you need, others you just decide to not look a gift horse in the mouth.

You huff and your lip wobbles pathetically and he coos, slightly condescending.

“Crying already? I haven’t even done anything.” He’s teasing, but his hands are gentle as he pulls you into his lap, his hands are gentle as they find their way under your shirt, his mouth is gentle as it kisses down the side of your face to your neck.

“‘M sorry,” you’re not the biggest fan of crying, neither is he, but for different reasons. He’s not someone who’s brought to tears easily, you are, but there’s an inherent shame in it, you think. Something so embarrassing about getting worked up enough to start crying like a baby, and so as much and as often as you feel like crying, you don’t. This he also knows, because he knows everything.

“Aish, why are you sorry for? I didn’t tell you to apologize, did I?” He taps your cheek lightly, causing you to look up at him, he plants a kiss on your nose, then your mouth.

“Sweet thing, don’t worry about anything except for what I tell you to, okay?” And you nod and he smiles.

You’re not much for talking in times like these, everything is so sensitive and soft and talking feels like a cheese grater on this cloudlike moment so you don’t and he knows, so he doesn’t chide you for it. Usually, he would. He’d crack a hand down on your ass or grab a fistful of your hair and tell you that he asked you a question so he expects an answer, but that’s not what you need right now, so he doesn’t. He just kisses your jaw again before he puts both of his warm hands under your shirt and lets his fingers poke at your chest.

He always says his hands are small, but really, you wouldn’t be able to tell, not with the way he cups your chest in his hand and lets his thumb brush over your nipple, gentle and reverent. It’s not much, not as much as he usually gives you, but it’s enough to have your mouth dropping open with a gasp and your back arching into his hand, it’s enough to have him giggling softly at your reaction.

“Sensitive today?” He’s teasing again, as soft as he is right now, he’s still Minho, he still likes to poke fun. You huff, biting at his shoulder softly in retaliation and he lets you, pinching your nipple just this side of too much in retribution before one of his hands wanders down to your ass, groping and squishing the flesh. Your breath stutters in your chest as he pushes your hips forward onto his, friction sending sparks up your spine.

“Min-” You’re desperate and he hasn’t even done anything yet, not really. A few stray touches and you already feel yourself shattering to pieces in his grasp, you’re not afraid though, and not quite ashamed. He’ll take care of you, he always does.

He does it again, guides your hips forward until you’ve gotten the hint to keep going by yourself and you’re struck with the urge to kiss him, so you do, removing your head from the home it’s made on his shoulder and making a go at his mouth. It’s messy, your coordination shot already, and you almost smash your forehead into his nose before he catches your head with a laugh.

“Easy there. Bloody noses aren’t exactly sexy.” You disagree, he could make anything sexy, but you don’t have time to voice that thought as he pushes his mouth onto yours and lovingly shoves his tongue down your throat. The kiss is messy, they always are. However gentle he is, he can never seem to stop himself from kissing you until your face is covered in drool and spit, and if it were anyone else, you’d be mildly repulsed, but you like the way he looks at your mouth after it’s over, so you let it slide.

You pull away, chest burning and heaving and look at him before you still, eyes drawn to something by his head.

“Baby? What’s wrong?” You don’t answer, gaze still drawn away from him.

“There’s a little white girl staring at me.” He turns his head to the side and laughs as he comes face to face with your cat, her green eyes boring into him. He scratches her head affectionately and lets her headbutt him before your center of gravity is shifting drastically and you’re clinging onto him for dear life.

The bedroom door shuts before you’re very aware of it and suddenly there’s a mattress under your back and a Minho over your front and his hands are up your shirt again, this time shoving it off of you until your chest is bare. You shiver slightly from the cold and then there’s a blanket being shoved around your shoulders and you smile up at him. He knows you so well, he loves you so much and your eyes are welling with tears.

“Aigoo, my little crybaby. It’s just a blanket,” there’s a kiss on each of your cheek bones, “silly thing. Save your tears for when my cock is in you, hmm?” Your breath stutters again and your hands are tugging at his shirt until he takes it off, he laughs again when your hands immediately find his chest.

“I’m glad someone appreciates my hard work.”

“They’re nice boobs.” The sentence catches him off guard, makes him laugh hard enough that he loses his balance a little and his weight settles onto you more. It’s comforting, like a weighted blanket that can talk and walk and kiss you silly.

Then, his hands are under your bottoms, tugging them off your legs and you’re suddenly wearing nothing and he’s still in his pants, which you find disgustingly unfair. You reach down and tug on the hem off his sweats, pouting and huffing until he gets the message and tugs those off too.

“You just want to get me naked,” he starts. “I can’t believe you just want me for my body.” You nod cheekily in response and he smacks your shoulder.

“Yah! See if I’m ever nice to you again!” But he’s kissing your neck again as his hands guide your legs to cross over his hips before he’s touching you in a way that steals the breath from your lungs and makes your head tip back into the pillows.

“There we go. So pretty when you’re like this, hmm? So soft and sweet for me.” His fingers are in you now, pressing insistently against that spot that makes white splash in your vision and reflexively forces your legs shut. He grunts slightly as your thighs squeeze around his hips, pressure just this side of uncomfortable. He doesn’t say anything though, just keeps his pace steady inside you until you’re almost tipping over and he stops. You look at him with something akin to betrayal, fresh tears springing to your eyes, but before you can open your mouth to complain he’s sliding home and you don’t have enough air to say anything anyway.

He catches it though, rolls his eyes as he sees the way your attitude was about to flare up.

“What did I tell you earlier, jagiya? Don’t worry about anything unless I tell you to worry about it. I always take care of you, don’t I?” He does, he’s good to you like that. He sounds slightly out of breath already, unusual for him, but you don’t mind because it feels like you’re seconds away from God’s doorstep yourself.

His pace is slow and deep, bass knock steady even as you squirm under him. If this were a normal situation, he’d stop, hands gripping your hips unforgivingly until you stayed still, but this isn’t a normal situation so he lets you wiggle, only huffing in mild irritation before he leans down to kiss you again.

“You’re gonna knock us off the damn bed, baby.” But he doesn’t make any move to stop you, and you feel too good to really process his words anyway. You love him, you really do, and you’re struck with the overwhelming urge to tell him, to let him know, to make him know. You grip his shoulders tightly, nails digging in until he hisses and levels you with a glare, one that instantly softens when he meets your eyes.

“I love you,” it comes out of you as a sob, like it was wrenched from your vocal chords before you gave yourself permission to think it. “I love you so much.” You’re rambling now, repeating those three words over and over and Minho coos, hips faltering just slightly. He always goes weak when you tell him you love him, and you keep it in your back pocket like a weapon for the times that you’re in trouble.

“I love you, too, jagiya. ‘S that why you’re crying? Hmm? Love me so much it’s gotta spill out from your pretty eyes?” You nod in response, breath hitching from the pleasure and the tears and his hand drifts from its place on your hip to touch you again and you’re spilling liquid heat before you can really register what’s happening. You feel him inside you, too, insides suddenly molten warm but you’re floating too high for it to feel like it’s happening to you, like you’ve been temporarily ejected from your body.

When your soul settles back into your bones, Minho is laying next to you, staring at you with his wide eyes, you look over at him and smile.

“Is boba really worth it?” He looks confused at your question before you poke him on the eyelid and he laughs.

“Feel better?” You consider for a moment. Your teeth don’t feel like they’re too big for their sockets and your bones no longer feel itchy. You’re hungry, but mostly, your mind is quiet. There’s no overwhelming pressure behind your eyes and when you talk your voice cracks from sleep instead of from the force of choking back tears.

“Much. I’m hungry, though.” You give your best impression of puppy eyes at him and watch as his eyes roll to the back of his skull. You’ve been told that your pleading face looks mildly perturbing, but Minho always says you remind him of Soonie when you do it. It makes you feel slightly bad for Soonie, soon the cat isn’t going to be able to get anything off of Minho because you’ll have rendered him immune.

He comes back with your reheated bowl in one hand and your cat in the other.

“She screamed at me until I picked her up. Stood on my feet and hollered.” He winces slightly. “I should’ve put on boxers because she almost mistook my dick for a toy.”

#bee blurbs #ft.lino #lee know smut #lee know x reader #lee know x you #skz smut #skz x reader #skz x you #lee minho x reader #the last time i wrote fanfiction and posted it it was very mid langst so lets hope this is better #this is saved in my google docs as “Sorry to God and also Myself” btw

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kitswag · 3 months

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A little art about a headcanon of mine for Dragon and Sabo, and a little fanfic about it under the cut

"Dragon-san," a familiar voice, Sabo's voice came knocking from the door of the cluttered office. Dragon perked up, putting down the pen he's writing with- just a follow up rough plan for the revolutionary's next strike.

The door was opened and there was Sabo with a bleeding arm. Instinctively, Dragon reached for the cabinet on his desk, pulling it open to grab for a roll of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic.

Sabo sat in front of Dragon, reaching out his roughed-up arm, his face not showing a trace of pain. (Dragon always knew the surges beneath his mask anyways.)

Dragon sighed as he saw the gnarly wound on Sabo's arm. The boy had a knack on being risky, sometimes even too keen on self sacrifice. Even though being a revolutionary always costed a price, Dragon couldn't help but worry about Sabo's knacks.

"I got a little reckless with my plans, " Sabo offered a little charming smile to Dragon (cut out the reprimands just this time?)

"I always told you to be careful. You're too good to lose, " Dragon said (again, Sabo?).

Sabo offered another cheeky smile, "Next time," he said, as if Dragon never feared for his name written on the list of fallen revolutionaries in a mission report.

When Sabo first arrived in Baltigo, still wrapped with bandages all over, not even able to move his wounded limbs freely, he would only turn to Dragon to replace his bandages, any nurses who tried to replace it would only make him flinch violently.

Dragon tapped a cotton smeared with antiseptic liquid on his arm, following it up with the roll of bandages. Soon, after falling into the familiar act of wrapping Sabo's wounds, Dragon couldn't resist the nostalgia that went flying right to his head.

But of course, they understood (despite being concerned) , that Sabo was a child, a child that had no one familiar except for Dragon in an unfamiliar, new building far far away from his home island.

When his burns healed, and when he finally got to trust the nurses, it still became a habit. He would knock on Dragon's door or tug at his coat, show his wounds, and Dragon would pull out his cabinet and fish out a bottle of antiseptic liquid and some bandages. And there it was, a repeating pattern of tapping a cotton smeared with the antiseptic against Sabo's wounds and wrapping it up with soft bandages.

Dragon always thought of it as a comforting habit.

It was not rare that he would receive reports about his fallen men, people that had died for his own cause. And being here, bandaging Sabo, feeling the warmth of his skin, reminded Dragon that his Chief of Staff, his son, was still here, still alive. Still able to go knock on Dragon's office and offer a smile and a wound.

Sabo's small hiss of pain suddenly brought Dragon abruptly out of his daze. He softened his pace and grip, finishing wrapping Sabo's arm with tying the end, cutting the excess bandage with a small pair of scissors.

"Thank you, Dragon-san, " Sabo smiled, softly.

Dragon couldn't resist reaching his hand out and ruffling Sabo's hair, "Be careful next time," he warned.

Sabo's smile turned into a grin, "This time is just a slip up. "

Dragon couldn't help but smile back. Thin, but soft with fondness for his son sitting in front of him. He pulled his hand out of Sabo's locks of blonde and hope that tomorrow, his name wouldn't be written on the list of the fallen.

#phew that's a good writing warm up #a sweet headcanon i had #anyways dragon is sabo's father figure and i refuse to believe otherwise #btw fun fact when i wrote this my body was screaming at me DRINK WATER!!! 👉💧💧❗❗but i was so engrossed in writing this #that i actively ignored myself tying to keep myself alive #revolutionary sabo #one piece #one piece fanart #one piece art #one piece fanfiction #sabo headcanons #one piece headcanons #monkey d dragon #revolutionary dragon #op fanfic

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yuriinadress · 1 year

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Bernard Dowd and Tim's 7 Evil Exes but they're not anyone Tim's actually dated (because lbr, anyone's who's dated Tim would not go through the trouble of fighting his boyfriend for him)

INSTEAD it's Bernard and Tim's 7 POTENTIAL Evil Exes: people that had a crush on Tim but either never got the chance to tell him and/or Tim was too oblivious to realize

Potential candidates include:

Danny Temple

Lonnie Machin

Greta Hayes

Sebastian Ives

Conner Kent

Buzz

Norris

Karl Ranck

Miguel Barragan (Bunker) (I think he had a small crush on Tim? I can't remember, it's been a while since I've read n52)

Cullen Row

That one guy that dragged Tim out clubbing in France (I don't know his name but I know he exists)

Literally any boy that Tim went to school with apparently (guy was a dude magnet jfc)

This all mostly inspired by many of @aliteralchicken 's posts about Tim's many MANY suitors

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melverie · 6 months

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Okay, but you guys do realize that the reason Mephisto behaves the way he does is because he has been raised with the intent of only being beneficial to the future demon king and nothing else, right?

(Buckle up because this is going to be a loooonnngggg post)

Mephisto comes from a family that has been serving the royal family for ages. He mentions multiple times that his family has always acted as their knights, their advisors and their protectors to them, and it won't be any different with him. It shouldn't be any different with him. Being beneficial to Diavolo has literally been decided to be the very meaning of his life even before he was born. He's been forced into the role and he's following it to a T because he's never known anything else, and because he can't afford to lose that. Without it, what else is left of him? What worth does he hold other than being essentially a tool for Diavolo?

And then the brothers fall and suddenly his position is at risk. Lucifer and Diavolo have already gotten along fairly well back when Lucifer was still an angel. Both Diavolo and Lucifer (as well as several others) mention that they go way back in their Nightbringer homescreen dialogues, and we see them having mutual respect by the end of the 'The Glory Days' Devilgram in the original game. Mephisto and Diavolo meanwhile might be childhood friends, but here's the thing

Diavolo wants a friend. A real friend. Someone that genuinely appreciates him for who he is as a person instead of focusing on his status as the future demon king. And that's something Lucifer can give him. They often hang out for the sake of it (apparently even eating dinner at Ristorante Six together regularly), they regularly engage in lighthearted banter, and Lucifer isn't afraid to give Diavolo his honest opinion

But that's not really the case with Mephisto...? He was never meant to be on equal footing with Diavolo; Diavolo even calls him "mini-Barbatos" at one point. He is literally still calling him 'Lord Diavolo' all the time, requests to speak his honest opinion first and waits for Diavolo to allow him to do so before actually giving it. That's why Mephisto keeps pushing down his own feelings and keeps showering Diavolo in praise any opportunity he gets while he adjusts every aspect of life to be beneficial to Diavolo in a way. Sure, he might be popular, but as long as Diavolo doesn't want him to get married he doesn't even waste a thought about relationships. He might have no real interest in journalism, but of course he'll take over RAD's Newspaper Club. After all, Diavolo asked him to! He's part of the House of Lords because as the future king's right-hand man that just makes sense. He was always just meant to be a tool for the crown prince to use, so he doesn't know how to treat Diavolo as anything but. He was literally groomed to be dispensable, so he's obviously going to act like it

And that's also where Mephisto's dislike for Lucifer stems from—he can only watch as Lucifer slowly grows closer and closer to Diavolo, and threatens to take the role that was always made up to be his. And so Mephisto keeps challenging Lucifer over and over again, trying to sabotage their friendship any way he can in hopes of winning back his position as the crown prince's right-hand man

That obviously doesn't make the way he treats Lucifer (and the rest of the brothers!) right. Lucifer isn't responsible for any of this, and blaming him for it is misguided. But it still doesn't change the fact that Mephisto has the right to be hurt at the situation at hand. His entire purpose of existence is just being ripped away from him right before his eyes and all he can do is watch. That must hurt. Especially when your entire familiy's purpose has been to serve the royal family, and you are the first one to lose that

Also, I feel like something else we need to talk about is how his fight only ever really seems to be with the brothers, especially Lucifer? Again, part of the reason is the entire Diavolo situation, sure, but I feel like it also has to do with the situation in the Devildom at large? I already vaguely talked about this in a different context a few months back, but ever since the brothers have been cast out of the Celestial Realm and arrived in the Devildom, the entire situation has just been super unstable. We as a player have a unique perspective on the events because we only have a limited outsider view to on the actual politics going on the the Devildom, while also being aware how things will play out in the future. We know that ultimately letting the brothers stay is the right choice, but that's not the way a regular denizen who has to live through all this sees it. I mean, just the way Mephisto describes the brothers really puts things into perspective:

The entire realm is super destabilized, they just semi-lost their current king, and there have been multiple very real threats of war—first when the Devildom took the brothers in in the first place, then when "Raphael" showed up and told the brothers to return, and Lucifer rightfully points out to (a comatose) MC that they are bound to go to war should the Celestial Realm ever find out that Diavolo turned Lilith into a human. There's just a lot of tension in the air, and the brothers—extremly powerful as both angels and demons—seem to be at the root of most of it in one way or another. From a the House of Lords' perspective, it makes sense to want the brothers gone, same goes for a denizens perspective. And while it is a delicate situation all around that can't just be blamed on the brothers, it makes sense for Mephisto to also see them at the center of it all. Again, that doesn't make the brothers' treatment right, but it's at least understandable given the circumstances

On a side note, when discussing his beliefs, I think it's also important to remember that he to this day is incredibly sheltered. He just accepts all this as normal because to him it is normal, but as we've seen in lesson 31 hard mode Thirteen was so shocked by his views that she immediately decided to drop everything and play therapist for him (absolute Queen for not just blaming it on him btw 💖). I know this was just a throw-away line, but this paired with him basically excisting to serve Diavolo already says so much about his character:

And with everyone else he seems to be generally pleasent? I mean, he says he doesn't want anything to do with angels or humans, and yet he risks getting injured in order to save Luke from falling. Yet he actively seeks out MC to solve one of the 666 Mysteries of RAD together with them, and saves them from tumbling on the floor because "anyone else would have done the same" (they wouldn't have. The season 1 brothers would have laughed straight in MC's face). He literally complained to Thirteen about how he was just about to go home and how he doesn't have time for her, yet diligently carries all her things for her as rain is pouring down on him. His actions always end up betraying his words

Also he has a massive sweet tooth which alings perfectly with one of the headcanons I had for months and is RAD's local horse girl so we stan! <3

-> more character & relationship analyses -> masterlist

#i'm in desperate need of several character analyses for the entire cast and if i can't find any i'll write them myself #anyway if you stumble across any character analyses could you tag me? thank you <3 #him saying he has no interest in persuing journalism is from the 'lead on mephisto!' devilgram btw #which i don't have so i unfortunately couldn't share a screenshot of it #anyway THE PROMISED MEPHISTO POST #I'M FINALLY SCREAMING ABOUT HIM WUUUUHHH #post is looonnnngg so i decided to add some screenshots to make it look less like a pure wall of text #which is also why it ended up taking longer than promised to post it i'm sorry^^;#i actually wrote a lot more but i had to cut a lot of things because it just didn't flow well #NEXT UP: another solomon mega post #obey me #obey me swd #obey me nightbringer #obey me mephistopheles #obey me analysis #obey me character analysis #;mel's analyses

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ghosthoodie · 11 months

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pride icon!!!!! i’m bi, myself, so i gotta be a lil self indulgent (:

#my art #sicily(3)#captain 3 #im proud of dis btw….. you should look at it :D #i almost wrote bi myself LOL which well yeah….. i am :’) but dats ok #splatoon #splatoon oc #digital art #artists on tumblr #agent 3

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miusato · 27 days

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Yeah but can you imagine being one of the crowd witnessing this fall?? It must've been so awkward lol

#like for me personally yes yes good for them but also I feel like I am intruding ajshsksoal #oh yeah btw remember the HS au that i drew and also wrote a hc about?? yeahhhh i think i am kinda hooked on that rn lol #so much for me telling myself i should draw more akihamu hsksjskskal #also like hwkdjwkqkq should i do more of this? yes or yes?#anyway im going to sleep now my notifs is messed up and i know i missed out a lot so im going to check that next afternoon hhh #persona 3 #persona 3 portable #persona 3 reload #persona 3 femc #kotone shiomi #minako arisato #shinjiro aragaki #shinjiham #foolmoon #asukart #sketch #00s highschool au

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rambheem-is-real · 2 months

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Cross My Heart Pt 1

pairing: kid varadha x kid deva

Summary:

Deva barely makes it a few feet out of the arena before he collapses from the pain. His family and Varadha have things to say when he wakes up.

breaking news: in a *shocking* twist of events, touching a live wire can in fact fuck you up

Deva walks out of the arena, feeling like his nerves are vibrating inside of him. He can taste thick, coppery blood through his teeth, there’s a ringing in his ears, and there’s a searing pain across his shoulders that he knows means there’ll probably be a scar later. He can barely see five feet in front of him, his vision is so blurry.

But he can’t show weakness now, not after everything he’s done.

He’s gotten Varadha his mukku pogu back, had won it for his prince. That bastard had dared to lay a hand on him, to take what rightfully belonged to Varadha, but with what he’s done today Deva knows Rudra won’t go after Varadha for a while.

However, that depends on Deva staying strong now. He’s in no position to fight, he’s aware that he probably fucked something up internally, but he had tried to project enough confidence and anger into his warning to Rudra that he hopes the act was convincing enough.

Keep going, he wills himself, begging the adrenaline coursing through him to not abandon him right now.

Deva can see Varadha’s proud smile out of the corner of his eye, the bounce in his step that was missing this morning when he sought Deva out, nose bare. He can’t let Varadha know how badly it hurts, knows his friend will blame himself for it when it wasn’t his fault at all.

They make it past the gates of the arena, thankfully not followed by Rudra or his lackeys. Varadha beams at Deva, and opens his mouth, probably to say something adorable as usual, when Deva feels the last of the hormones leave him. Varadha’s joyful face morphs quickly into horror as Deva lurches forward, catching Deva in his arms. He cries out as Varadha grabs at his sensitive shoulders, and feels Varadha tense at the sound.

Fuck, Deva thinks. His plan of not letting Varadha know was a bust. The world fades to black along with Varadha’s panicked cries of Deva’s name. Sorry raa, Deva thinks before he finally blacks out from the pain.

Deva wakes up feeling like he got hit by a bus, with a headache the size of Mars, but at least that infernal ringing noise is gone. His vision is still blurry, but not as bad as it was the last time he was awake. It’s enough to make out the figure of his father sitting on a chair beside the bed Deva’s laying on, looking worried somewhere above Deva’s head. There are voices from that direction, and Deva focuses to hear his mother and.. Varadha? arguing with another man.

“What do you mean you can’t fix him?” Amma demands.

The man, probably a doctor, sounds nervous in the face of Amma’s anger as he tries to placate her. “I’m sorry, but the shock he went through will have long term consequences. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“You’re the doctor though, isn’t it your job to fix people?” Varadha asks, and with a pang of guilt, Deva notes that his voice is rough, like he’s been crying for a long time.

Deva tries to sit up, but realizes his muscles feel so heavy he doesn’t have the strength to move anything other than his head, and maybe if he tries hard, his hands. He tries to call Varadha’s name, but his throat closes up and he can only manage a truly pathetic cough. At the sound, everyone immediately crowds around him.

“Deva, how are you feeling now?” Amma asks, clutching his face, and he can see tears in her eyes.

“I’m okay, Amma,” Deva says, trying his best to project strength, and can see everyone visibly take a breath of relief.

The doctor examines Deva briefly. “I’ll let you all talk to the patient first,” he says, gathering up the medical supplies haphazardly placed on the table next to Deva’s bed. “I’ll be back to do more tests soon.”

As soon as the doctor leaves, Varadha throws himself on top of Deva, sobbing. Deva tries to comfort his friend, but he can barely lift his arm high enough to simply place his hand on top of Varadha’s soft curls. He looks up at his parents, trying to see what he should do, how he should comfort Varadha, but is met with two stony faces. Deva winces.

Amma immediately starts yelling. “What were you thinking? Are you crazy?”

Dhaara joins in, voice thick with worry. “Touching a live wire like that!”

“The next time you pull something like this I’ll kick you out!”

“Varadha told us what happened-”

“Then you’ll know, once you feel what I felt when-”

“-could’ve died, you’re lucky the current wasn’t high enough to kill-”

The voices start overlapping as Deva’s headache worsens, and he shuts his eyes against the sensory overload. He also doesn’t really know what to say that will get him out of this, so he stays quiet.

They pause for a few seconds, realizing Deva’s not listening.

“Deva,” Dhaara starts gently. “The doctor says you’re going to have complications for the rest of your life.”

Deva opens his eyes. “Like what?” Not like he really cares, but might as well know.

His parents look at each other, then back at him, like they’re unsure of how he’ll take the news.

“The doctor said you’ll have a lifetime of unpredictable muscle tremors and temporary paralysis. And that’s the bare minimum. You’ll still have to be tested for the next few weeks to make sure you don’t develop cataracts in your eyes, and see how badly the feathering marks across your shoulders scar.” Dhaara says, looking more and more devastated by the time he gets to the end. “You’ll also have to be monitored for any neurological damage.”

“Ok,” is all Deva replies.

His silence seems to enrage Amma even more. “Do you even care? Who’ll take care of you when you’re old and paralyzed? Who’s going to marry you with those scars on your back?”

Dhaara winces. “Ammadi, why are you bothered about all that? He’s barely ten.”

“I’m his mother, of course I’ll bother about it! It’ll be me tending to him decades later if his condition worsens!”

“Of course I’ll be there too, he’s our son, we’ll both take care of him-”

“That’s not the point-”

Deva tunes them out once again, realizing that he’s regained enough strength in his fingers that he’s able to stroke through Varadha’s hair. I’d love to braid the hair if it gets longer, Deva thinks absently. He only knows the traditional Shouryanga ones, but he resolves to find out if there are any special Mannarsi braids.

Dhaara is the first to quiet down, and gently mentions to Amma that they should calm down since Deva is still hurt.

Amma sniffles. “Ah, like he has that consideration for his poor parents. He doesn’t care if we live or die.” The tone makes Deva feel awful even though he knows she’s exaggerating. He refuses to feel regret, though. No matter how upset it makes his mother feel. He won’t ever regret defending Varadha, not even if he loses his life in the process.

Dhaara sends one last worried look towards his son before he leads Amma out of the room to let Deva rest.

By this time, Varadha’s sobs have quieted, and he turns his face to look up at Deva. His eyeliner is completely smudged, falling in black streams down his face, his cheeks are red and blotchy, and there’s snot in his nose from crying so hard. Deva thinks he’s still the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“Arey Vara,” he starts.

Varadha sits up and quickly punches him in the chest again, making Deva recoil.

“Ow, what the hell?”

Deva regrets every single time he’s teased Varadha for not being aggressive enough towards anyone he’s angry at as Varadha tears into him.

“You absolute fucking buffoon! Look at the state of you, yedava [idiot]! What the hell were you even thinking?”

“Not you too,” Deva groans.

“I thought you were fine!” Varadha cries. “You got up fine, you threatened Rudra and you were fine, you walked out fine, I thought you were FINE! And then you collapse in my arms, what the hell was I supposed to think?”

“Sorry raa.”

“No, that’s not enough! I had to carry you all the way back to your house, asshole! I thought you were about to die in my arms!” He’s close to tears again. “All for what, a fucking nose ring? Let him have it, I would rather have you, alive and well rather than a stupid nose ring!”

Deva stubbornly looks through the window next to him. He’s fine apologizing for worrying Varadha, but if Varadha thinks he’ll get an apology for getting his nose ring back, he might as well give up now. Varadha’s too nice for his family, he needs someone like Deva who’s willing to get fucked up to make sure Varadha gets the respect he deserves. He may not see it that way, but that’s just Khansaar for the both of them. Only the strong survive in this place.

“What, are you gonna give me the silent treatment too?”

Deva avoids Varadha’s glare. He’s pretty much paralyzed right now, it’s not like he can do anything else. He can keep playing this game.

Finally, Varadha gives in, and softens his voice. “Fine. Please raa, just promise me.” He lifts his hand up, and Deva looks over. “Promise me you’ll never do anything as reckless as this again for me.” Deva hates how desperate he sounds. He so wants to promise Varadha anything he wants, anything he asks for, never wants Varadha to cry again in this life if Deva can help it, but he can’t promise this.

Varadha seems to notice his hesitation. “Ok. Don’t promise. Just.. just say you’ll try your best. At least give me that.”

Deva sighs. It’s the best he’ll get. He tries to lift his arm up to put his hand in Varadha’s awaiting hand, but it takes him a few seconds to get there. He pretends not to notice the way Varadha’s face falls as he sees how badly Deva’s hand is shaking.

“Fine. I’ll try my best to not be reckless again.”

Varadha frowns. “Try to keep your word Deva, please. Don’t make me go through this again.” His voice drops into a whisper, and another tear slowly makes its way down Varadha’s face. “I thought I lost you.”

Deva doesn’t know how to respond to Varadha being this honest with him, this vulnerable. He’s never been good with comforting words, so he attempts to shrug and tell a joke to cheer Varadha up, but fights back a groan at the searing pain in his shoulders as he attempts to lift them. Varadha’s eyes track the movement and the subsequent twitch of pain, and Deva internally winces at the resurgence of guilt he can see in them.

“Varadha… Rey. It wasn’t your fault. It was fully my decision to challenge the pailwan.”

Varadha visibly debates responding to that, but seems to realize Deva’s just as stubborn as him, and gives up. “Whatever.” He fidgets for a few seconds, then comes to a decision. He looks Deva in the eyes. “I’ll always be there for you, raa. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that,” Deva says, confused.

Varadha shakes his head. “No, I mean, what your mom was saying earlier… she’s wrong. If this does fuck you up in the future, when you’re older, I’ll be there to take care of you. No matter what I’m doing, no matter where you are, I’ll find you, and I’ll be there for you.” There’s determination in his eyes, and Deva knows he meant what he said, every bit of it.

Deva gives him a small smile, floored by the depth of affection Varadha has for him.

Varadha frowns at his reaction. “Unbelievable. You actually thought I’d let you do something like this and then not take care of you afterwards. Yedava.” He settles back onto Deva’s chest. “You won’t get rid of me that easily, don’t worry.” Varadha moves so his ear is directly over Deva’s heart. Deva feels a warmth slowly expand inside him as he realizes Varadha’s trying to comfort himself by listening to Deva’s heartbeat.

“Does it hurt a lot?” Varadha asks softly, tracing the feathering marks on the back of Deva’s arm.

“Not at all,” Deva says, and Varadha scoffs, but is it even a lie? He gets to feel his Varadha’s cheek pressed into his chest, gets to hear him all but explicitly say that Deva is someone he genuinely loves and cares for. What more could he want?

They sit in silence like that for a while, enjoying each other’s company.

Before he slips back into unconsciousness, Deva can hear footsteps coming back into the room, then stopping abruptly. He knows Varadha is asleep by now, can feel the even pattern of his breaths, and he himself probably looks asleep as well. There’s silence, then a hushed “Dhaara, what are we going to do about this?”

Deva fights to stay awake, wants to hear the response to that, but is rapidly losing the battle.

The last thing he hears is an amused, “I suppose we’ll have to start being nicer to Raja Mannar, if he’s going to be part of our family in a few years.”

#salaar #salaar fic #varadeva #i needed some deva whump so i wrote it myself #this shit is factual btw i did actual research for this #made myself very sad in the process #honestly this could be very much canon compliant deva's hands tend to shake a lot when he's angry #jail scene i'm thinking of you #also the mood swings

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joeytime · 3 months

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Maxiel Hogwarts Au...

If you asked Max what he thought of Hogwarts, he would likely make a joke about pigs and insult their quidditch teams.

He isn't sure it's smart to do that now, in the middle of the Hogwarts' grand hall, completely surrounded by Hogwarts' students and staff. He isn't sure he could escape even if he had his broom.

"Wow, you really hate Hogwarts." The dreaded hat says atop his hair.

Shut up! Max thinks furiously at it. Get out of my head!

Everyone stares intensely at Max, not daring to breathe while the fate of the member of the national quidditch team is being decided. Even the teachers are at the edge of their seats, other than Dumbledore, he seems to know where Max will inevitably end up.

"Little quidditch champion. Everyone is expecting" The hat says, as if it's life of forever moving from head to head to call one of four words is somehow a greater destiny than Max's.

It's not. Max knows he will go on to succeed in life, and win as many quidditch championships as he wants and then retire on an island in The Maldives with a butt load of cash while the hat is left in a dusty room, waiting for it's yearly use. Max wants to reach to rip it up but it would not be wise to do so in front of Dumbledore himself. His hands stay in his lap, frown etched on his face.

"Impatient. Immature." Max's fingers twitch slightly. There is only so much backtalk one can take from a hat.

"Violent and uncaring, wherever will I put you?" Max doesn't agree with that description, he cares plenty, about winning that is.

"Foolish. Foolish boy." It doesn't hurt, Max has heard those words plenty of times.

Max sulks.

It's a beat of silence before the suspense reaches its climax. "Hufflepuff! " The hat hollers, not bothering to consult Max on it's decision. Which is very rude and impolite.

The entire room erupts into chaos, screams of "What! " and "No way! No way!" echo throughout the hall.

Max can't help but agree, he thought he might end up in Gryffindor or Slytherin, maybe Ravenclaw if he was super unlucky. But Hufflepuff? His father was going to disown him. The media are going to have a field day. Well they were going to already, regardless of which house Max was put in.

Dumbledore moves to pull the hat off of Max, the treacherous thing whispers one last time: "Things will make sense in time. Be patient. Do not mope."

Max doesn't mope. Verstappens can't mope, so he doesn't.

Dumbledore gently guides a slightly speechless Max to the Hufflepuff table, pushing him into the seat before winking and walking off.

Max wants to burn down this school.

Cheers erupt from the Hufflepuff table, hands coming to pat him on the back and fawn over him.

The other tables seem miserable at the prospect of losing out on a quidditch champion.

"Oh my god! Hi! Hi! Oh my god! It's you!" A boy excitedly chatters to his left, other students crowd around him and Max suddenly finds that he can't breathe. It's like he's small again, after being knocked off his broom by an overly excited big kid. He had fallen to the ground, too exhausted and overwhelmed to get back up.

His father had been mad, really mad. He hadn't slept well again after that.

"Guys! Guys! He doesn't look so good. " Whoever that is, is definitely right, Max can hardly breathe, he tries to use the breathing technique his father taught him after his first match, control his breathing. It doesn't work, it only causes the panic and urgency in his veins to surge. It did work, it's purpose was to put him on guard, not calm down.

He curls into himself, hands around his ears to protect from the deafening sound of crowds cheering. His bubble of personal space is of course pried and poked at. Fans never had any self awareness when it came to these matters and his father never did have sympathy for personal space.

Hands are pried away from him, he can hear outraged screeching at the action. His own quidditch team's screams when he was 6 years old and pulled away to join the older kids. They thought it wasn't fair that a small boy climbed the ranks faster than they did.

"Hey! Hey! Everyone back up right now!" The entire opposing team bombarding him in an attempt to stop him. The referee's reprimand that fell on deaf ears.

The people at his sides are replaced and gentle hands hold him back up, out of the ball he curled himself into.

Max doesn't dare look up, too afraid at the thought of seeing his father's judgemental look.

"Hey, are you okay? " Max turns his head, soft, gentle, warm eyes, concerned. Jos was never concerned, he was the uncaring one! Not Max!

"I'm fine. " A repeated response, practiced again and again every time he came home to his mother.

The teen with the soft eyes gestures for another boy to sit on Max's other side. The boy opposite Max looks on in concern.

"Hello. I'm Daniel Riccardo, I'm a prefect of Hufflepuff, it's nice to meet you." The gentle boy says, eyes still filled with concern.

"Max Verstappen. " Max manages to choke out.

"The boy on your left is Yuki Tsunoda and that's Lando Norris." Daniel gestures to the boy sitting opposite Max, who waves shyly.

The ruckus Max's sorting caused calms down and everyone settles down to listen to Dumbledore's welcome back speech which luckily does not mention Max.

Max feels strange between Riccardo and Tsunoda, like dread wrapped in false cotton. Norris also peers at him from time to time, creep.

They're sent back to their dorms. Max tells Riccardo that he can get there on his own but the older boy frowns and insists that he takes Max. Max thinks his father would be disappointed at his complacency but he doesn't have the strength to fight it.

Riccardo leads him to the kitchen, Max wants to snap some insult about him being a goody two shoes and how this is none of his business. He holds his tongue.

Riccardo gestures to a specific barrel, looking more worn out than the ones around it. He taps a certain beat, perhaps it's a secret code. That's childish, Max decides, they are not children playing in a fort.

The barrel swings open.

Max grimaces at the small tunnel.

"Here, you try tapping it." Riccardo puts Max's hand to the barrel.

Max repeats the rhythm perfectly. Memory exercises were part of his training.

Once Riccardo is satisfied, he points at the tunnel, almost as if he wants Max to crawl through it.

Max scrunches his nose, seriously? The older boy points more urgently and Max relents, shoving himself through the tunnel.

Well, not shoving, he's not really big, a fact his father loathed, putting him on diets with large sums of proteins and even attempting to use transfiguration spells before it was put to a stop by his mother.

Max wished his mother had not stopped his father. Maybe he would have an excuse not to join this god forsaken house.

It's an agonizing 5 second crawl before he pops out the other end right in front of Lando Norris, the boy before.

Daniel appears behind him, putting a hand on Max's shoulder.

"So Max, this is the Hufflepuff house. You know Yuki and Lando. That's Oscar, Nico and Valtteri." Riccardo urges the boys to come forward.

"It's Verstappen. " Max declares, Riccardo quirks an eyebrow and the rest of the boys look equally confused.

"Hi! I'm Lando! I'm like a huge fan, do you mind signing this for me? " The boy's yellow robes are somehow orange.

Max's PR training kicks in and he smiles one of those sickly sweet smiles that his father loves to wipe off his face before ordering him to smile again. His posture straightens and he reaches a hand around the younger boy's shoulders, patting him on his back once, twice. Just like he rehearsed.

"Sure! " His tone is so obviously a faux sweet as he reaches to retrieve the black marker from his back pocket. The boy has stars in his eyes and Max feels guilty, he always does. He's a fraud.

He signs the hat from his national team, the one he left behind.

He wishes he didn't.

"Hey, are you okay Max? " Riccardo asks, looking weird again.

"I'm doing great, how are you? " His PR trainer said asking back these questions were endearing, cute. Max's father had mocked him for that act, his trainer had been fired after that.

"How about I bring you to your room? Would you like that?" Riccardo asks, Max smiles again, nodding.

"Sure." Norris waves enthusiastically as Riccardo leads him out of the common room and into his private room.

"Are you alright? Max?"

"Call me Verstappen."

"Verstappen. Are you alright?"

"You can go, Riccardo. "

"... Call if you need anything."

When the prefect leaves, Max wants nothing but to burst into tears. He flops onto the bed.

The next day he drags himself out of bed. Even if classes don't start till 9 and the sun hasn't risen yet.

Jos expected him to continue his strict training regime. He was almost tempted to skip it and lie to his father but he thought he better not after his humiliating sorting from yesterday.

Now, alone, Max can see the Hufflepuff room properly. It's... It's all gentle lighting, none of the bright fluorescent lights his room had. The chairs looked comfy and the many plants lazing around the common room tempts him to join them.

Perhaps that would be a better fate, turning into a plant to live the rest of his life in the common room. His hand lingers on his wand, mind on a spell his professor taught him when he was just 9. He didn't.

When he had crawled out of the Hufflepuff room, fully dressed, broom in hand, the sun was just peaking from the horizon.

The halls are empty, some portraits mutter as he walks by. His father's portraits never moved, other than those instructed to. For example, a painter that never stopped moving his brush or a surfer never to take a break from the sea.

Making his way to the Hogwarts field, he stretched, slow and patient. His bones crack from the exhausting day he had before.

The field is decent sized, not as big as the one he played in during national championships, bigger than the one his father made him run laps around till he fainted.

He glides through the air easily, flying comes easily to him. If he were to be given his own time and freedom he thinks he would likely still be a top player in the school leagues.

It's better that he was hurled up though. Better to have reached the top by sheer force of his father's training.

He thinks about his national team, he's a reserve, too young to play officially but the team has him in some practices and he attends smaller competitions for them. Max suspects it's more about having a claim on Max when he comes of age.

He's 15, he still has 3 years to choose which team he wants to go to. By then, he will make his own choice. He will not do whatever pleases his father anymore.

The golden snitch twinkles near the end of the field. Max pretends not to see it.

It is fun, sometimes, tricking the golden snitch, allowing it a false sense of security. Like a tiger cub playing with a cricket.

His father would get mad at him if he did it for too long, he was upset his son couldn't catch it at once. Which Max could, he just didn't see the fun of it.

The fluttering golden ball is in his hands before it can even think of escaping.

Max briefly wonders if the snitch can possibly think, he lets it flutter away, repeating his game once again.

In the golden light of the sun and shaded path of the clouds, the wind whizzes past his ears, he falls into the familiar rhythm of flying, sometimes he makes his own obstacle courses, weaving through imaginary hoops.

By the time the sun reveals itself fully to watch Max fly, he realizes that a crowd has gathered around under him, star-struck Hogwarts students watching, mouths open and everything.

He flushes slightly, he may have had many adoring fans due to his membership in the national team and young age but come on! These were his peers.

Max lowers down, checking his watch to see that it is indeed 8.30am and he has to run if he wants to get to class not drenched in sweat.

He waves slightly to the crowd, zipping to the house dorm even though he's probably breaking several school rules.

He knocks the tune and enters quickly, still high from the adrenaline of flying.

He climbs out of the tunnel only to come face to face with Daniel Riccardo, his face stern and stony.

"Verstappen! You can't just sneak out like that!" Daniel's expression softens when he sees Max.

Max knows he feels pity even if Riccardo knows nothing about his life.

"I of course did not sneak out, I left my room and went to the field." Max doesn't think early hour training counts as sneaking out, going to parties in the dead of the night is sneaking out.

"Max, we were worried. I went into your room and you weren't there. Thought you'd been kidnapped by the other houses to play quidditch for them or something... "

Max considers this briefly, Riccardo knocking on his door gleefully, freezing when he doesn't get an answer. Did his blood pressure spike? Did he throw Max's door open in desperation only to find the room empty?

Max grimaces.

"I went to go training... Sorry..." Max stands awkwardly, hands by his side like a child being punished by a parent.

Riccardo sighs. Max wants to cry.

"Please forgive me, I'm of course sorry, I will do anything!" Max cringes inside, begging with someone other than his father is a foreign concept.

Riccardo has a cheeky smile on his face, Max is almost scared.

"I'll forgive you... Only if you call me Daniel!"

Max groans inwardly, well he's also partly relieved but Daniel doesn't need to know that.

"What will it be Max? Will you call me the d word? Or will you suffer in my never ending spite! "Daniel's grin grows.

" Fine. "

" Fine, who? "

"Fine. Daniel."

Max flushes, weird.

Daniel looks elated.

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xariarte · 23 days

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@maxipowell gifted me this today...so now you all get to see it too 😈

#during the cursed research days there were so many clips #so i wrote a list of enemies to keep track and...#it just kept growing and growing 😭😭#btw ben stiller isn't really an enemy #he tweeted his displeasure at brooks hacking brunson and i thought it would be SO iconic to have him on the list #anyway maxipowell ily for this!!! this was way too iconic to keep to myself haha 💖💖💖#dbrooks #submission

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shitouttabuck · 9 months

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i like the summer rain (i like the sounds you make)

buck/eddie | 2.7k | rated t

Death comes for Eddie in the form of a small fluffy bunny. Several small fluffy bunnies, actually.

He’s not being hyperbolic, okay? This is how he goes. Hen and Chim can take their Drama Queen Diaz eye rolls and shove it. He’s having a perfectly reasonable reaction to the sight before him. And if the classic bright white light everyone talks about is more accurately a kind of warm glow dotted with sparkles and floating cartoon hearts in his current experience? Well, that’s between him and his God.

or, it’s truly tragic that eddie diaz isn’t kissing buck buckley, especially when everything he does makes him so damn kissable

read on ao3

#hello i wrote this while on legal drugs at my doctors office this afternoon #it is dumb as hell but i enjoyed myself greatly #will i regret posting it when i wake up tomorrow? most definitely #modern medicine is a miracle btw my strung out ass just sat in that chair for two hours giggling and tippytapping away in my notes app #911 fic #buddie fic #911 #buddie #evan buckley #eddie diaz #nina writes

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thsc-confessions · 7 months

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"this fandom is what got me into reading fanfics" submitted by @cyancatart

#SORRY I DISAPPEARED AGAIN I GOT RLLY SICK😭😭#but I'm BACK #again #I wrote that fic in the back on a whim I was just making things up as I go IDEK IF THE SUBMITTER LIKES STICKVIN PLEASEE #this isn't me making fun of fandic writers btw I'm one myself RHEAJSEHJ #FANFIC* NOT FANDIC #I just didn't know what picture to use so I decided to be silly #mod dave #thsc #thsc confession #thsc confessions #@/cyancatart #not gonna tag stickvin

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scleracentipede · 10 months

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drawing part of a scene in @stryshttu ‘s fic ‘Pretty Scary’

I love their writing y’all should check out her stuff if you haven’t !

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wizardofgoodfortune · 5 months

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Gonna go ahead and ask you #58 on your Spotify wrapped while I'm thinking about it

#58 on my top songs is mirrorball by taylor swift! this is definitely one of my fav songs from her, if not The Favorite; a vivid music video plays out in my head every time i listen to it. here's my favorite part from it, which can definitely lend itself to particular dreamling scenarios... like 1989.

And they called off the circus, burned the disco down When they sent home the horses and the rodeo clowns I'm still on that tightrope I'm still trying everything to get you laughing at me I'm still a believer but I don't know why I've never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try I'm still on that trapeze I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me

---

When his stranger didn't show up in 1989, Hob spent the whole day waiting for him. The whole night, too. He heard the last call but stayed long after, until the bartender—Ian was his name, Hob learned at one point—had to kick him out so they could lock up. To Ian's credit, he did it with his most apologetic face.

"Sorry, Hob," Ian said as he locked up the front door of the tavern. "Feel free to come back 'round tomorrow. Promise the place'll still be here by then."

Hob, who was hovering listlessly beside him, gave him a smile. "You'll regret you said that."

Ian laughed. "I'll never regret having more regulars. God knows we need it."

Hob frowned. Right. He nearly forgot about that.

"Need a lift?" Ian offered, fishing out a different set of keys from inside his pockets. "You've drunk quite a lot."

"I'm fine, I just need to—" Hob took a deep breath, "—I need to walk it off."

Ian narrowed his eyes. "Sure? I better not read about you in the papers tomorrow."

Hob snorted. "Trust me, you won't."

With that, Hob stood in front of the tavern and watched Ian drive off, until the old man rounded a corner and disappeared.

Now that he was alone, Hob slumped down on the damp ground and leaned against the front door. They've probably replaced this door more times than he could count, along with the rest of the tavern. Century after century, Hob saw less and less of what used to be here 600 years ago: the chairs, the tables, the mugs, the godawful drinks. The closest thing to permanence this tavern had was its name, and, up until tonight, his stranger. And soon, it wouldn't even have itself.

Hob reached into his coat pocket and took out his lighter and a carton of cigarettes. As he watched London's everchanging skyline glitter above the Thames, he lit a cigarette, the orange of it glowing in the dark. He sat there, waiting, waiting, waiting. He was good at that, at waiting. All you had to have for waiting was time, and Hob had it in abundance. So he waited until the sun rose, until the streets came alive with cars and people, until Ian came back to open up.

"Oi, what happened to walking it off?!" Ian exclaimed, standing over Hob, shielding him from the noon sun. "Bloody hell. C'mon now. Up you go."

Hob let himself be corralled into the tavern's small office and be sat at the small couch that was probably meant for interviews and terminations. He drank the water and aspirin placed in front of him, and he wore the spare shirt lent to him, but he left Ian's questions unanswered.

"Y'know," Hob started as soon as Ian came back in from the bar, "I reckon I could do a good job running a tavern."

"You should be asleep," Ian said accusatorily.

Maybe he should've been. But instead, Hob was sitting upright, wide awake. "I've been in countless taverns, just like this," he continued, "and I reckon I could make a great one. It would be so great that people from all over the world would come to eat and drink there, and say, 'Hey look, it's Hob's tavern, the greatest one around!' And d'you know what the best part about it would be?"

Ian sighed and leaned on his desk. "What?"

"It would be so great that they'd never close it down. They wouldn't be able to. Everyone would rally around it, even the council. And it'd be there for, for centuries. No, millennia. No, forever."

Ian shook his head, smiling. "A beautiful dream."

"A dream?" Hob scrunched his eyebrows. "You don't believe me?"

"Hob, this tavern has been here for centuries. That's a pretty good run, I'd say. Before that, it might've been something else, like a house, or a barn, or something. And before that, it was probably an empty plot of land, or maybe it was full of trees. Maybe bloody dinosaurs lived and died here. Or maybe it was underwater, I dunno. But I'm getting away from the point," Ian said, scratching his scraggly beard. "The point is: things change. That's life."

Suddenly, Hob was reminded of that night a hundred years ago, how his stranger detested the implication that he changed, that he grew to be lonely, lonely enough to seek out companionship. Hob's companionship. Obviously he detested the implication enough to not show up yesterday. But maybe, just maybe, his stranger will show up again today or the next day, just to prove a point, just to say he didn't need him to be his friend, and to say goodbye for the last time. Surely his stranger's not cruel enough to not show up at all, right?

"I, I know, but I can't let this place change, at least not yet," Hob said. His desperation must've plain on his face from the way Ian smiled sadly at him.

"And why's that?"

"My friend and I," Hob paused, thinking about what to say, "this place is important to us."

"You can always find another place."

"He won't," Hob said, voice breaking, "he won't be able to find me."

"How sure are you that he won't?"

Hob put his head into his hands. "I'm sure."

"You don't have his number?"

Hob shook his head.

Ian sighed. "Well, like I said last night, you'll need a lot of money to—"

"I have the money," Hob blurted out.

"What's that?"

"I," Hob repeated, raising his head in realization, "I have the money."

Ian only looked at him.

"I can, I can keep this place alive until he comes back."

Ian regarded him wordlessly for a few more seconds, then said, "I appreciate the thought, I do, but I reckon you can just establish a new one and it'll be less expensive. You can always, I dunno, put up some signs. 'This way to the new tavern' or something. Then when your friend comes around, they'll just read your sign and go to the new tavern."

Hob stared at Ian, mouth hanging open. Then he laughed, feeling a sleep-deprived lightness in his chest. He stood up and held Ian by his shoulders, still smiling. "Ian, you're a genius."

Ian chuckled heartily. "I try."

"And you're a hired genius."

"Pardon?"

"I'll need a bartender for the new tavern," Hob said, grinning.

Ian scoffed in disbelief, but he was smiling. "And what'll you name it?"

Hob thought for a second, then settled on: "The New Tavern."

Ian chortled. "You need sleep. Dearly."

---

send me a number and i'll write something based on the corresponding song in my spotify wrapped!

#dreamling #*#*my fic #warning i did not proofread this so uh... sorry in advance. i just realized it's 3:46 am and i probs need to go sleep #btw the bartender doesn't actually have a name so i used his actor's name LMFAOOO #thank you for sending in a number even before i reblogged the post TJ!!!#AND for finding the post in the first place!!! i hope this is a good enough offering in return for the beautiful folktale you wrote #EVERYONE GO TO TJ'S BLOG AND FIND THAT FOLKTALE IT'S A WORK OF ART!!!!#this could be more but i reminded myself that i'm doing this For Fun (tm) and not for it to be structurally good #because that can get real stressful real quick...#(pointedly looking away from my sad dads au which is 60k words and counting...)

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