#time to post art! instead of staring at it saying I’ll improve it later!

[voidyellsforblockbois]

Late to the party as always but how do we feel about red life Grian huh?

#time to post art! instead of staring at it saying I’ll improve it later! #i haven’t watched mumbo jumbo before but today’s last life episode #goddamn #and of course red life grian was so intimidating #he forced me to draw this why is he so dramatic #we can still be friends - this man #:( #side note all my colors washed out when i exported this in salty #artists who know how to art pls #i am but a poor fanartist trying to figure this out :c #last life spoilers #grian #southlands #my art #3rd life #3ls2 #uhh is that how to tag? #good enough #also ignoring how much he looks like death note twink boy :/ #last life smp

[robin-josephette-biden]

A Statement Through Horror: BDG and YouTube

In his video announcing his departure from Polygon Bryan David Gilbert [BDG] stated, “I want to make things that one day people will make a show like unraveled about.” [Paraphrasing here]. Since that announcement he has made some of the most interesting and engaging comedy videos on the platform. On Bryan’s channel, there is a section called “bdg’s scaries” that contains three videos. The first how to make jorts was released April 27, 2019 and will not be part of this analysis, as we are focused on the other two videos. These two videos are Earn $20K EVERY MONTH by being your own boss which was released on October 25, 2020 (two months before his final Unraveled video and departure from Polygon) and Teaching Jake about the Camcorder, Jan '97 which was posted March 3, 2021. If you have not seen these videos yet you should stop reading immediately and go watch them both (honestly everything on his channel is amazing, especially the surprisingly compelling and personal Dances Moving! series) before continuing to read this as I will be spoiling both of them. The position of YouTube celebrity has been the source of a good bit of commentary as short form online media has become more and more central in our culture. Bryan has created two videos that I feel do an excellent job of exploring the relationship between youtuber and audience. I should also point out that this is merely my interpretation of these videos and is in no way BDG’s intended message. I’ll start by going over the first video. Earn $20K EVERY MONTH by being your own boss opens with BDG outside an apartment building, standing in front of a black car. BDG points up at one of the windows and says, “Three years ago I was living in that apartment right there. Third floor, leaky windows, cockroaches, the worst.” I do not know if the real life BDG actually lived in that building, but the 3 years timeframe does line up neatly with his beginning to work at Polygon. BDG continues to bad mouth his old apartment and mentions how he has turned it all around stating, “But just last week I paid off my very first Subaru Impreza. And I own my own house in Nebraska.” This radical change in life-style he credits to, “. . . [working] from home, [making] my own hours, and [being] my own boss. And you can do it too.” I think that it is interesting that BDG’s career up to that point mirrors that of his character, going from newly graduated content creator making small videos in his apartment to one of the most popular creators on Polygon. And all that being accomplished through work that many (rightly or wrongly) would not see as fitting into the mold of the traditional 9 to 5. The idea of making millions working from home, at your own pace, and with no boss is intrinsically tied to the mystique of the YouTube celebrity. Moving into BDG’s office he explains that he makes $20k a month working on spreadsheets. A massive spreadsheet appears behind him that is dated, 01.12.88 (nothing of note happened on January 12, 1988 and the only thing that happened on December 1, 1988 is a large cyclone that struck Bangladesh, January 12, 1888 is the day of the Schoolhouse Blizzard which struck the midwestern US and killed 235 people (remember this for later)) and is filled, seemingly randomly, with garbled nonsense symbols. Many of the cells are the same as other cells and there are empty cells scattered haphazardly throughout the spreadsheet. BDG explains that he got this strategy from Dorian Smiles. In exchange for working on these spreadsheets BDG receives $10k - $20k a month (an amount that lines up pretty damn well with the amount he should be getting through his Patreon page currently, I don’t know if this was true when the video was made though) from Dorian. Wanting to know where the money is coming from BDG asks his bank and they explain that he is wiring the money to himself from another account he has. He grows confused as to the nature of this work and the disproportionately large amount of money it brings in, explicitly mentioning his confusion as to how the money is coming from someone with, “. . . my name and my voice.” and sets about to find and confront Dorian Smiles. BDG sets off for Center Nebraska, which is close to where Dorian lives (a small town in the northeast corner of Nebraska). He states that Dorian’s address hasn’t existed since 1888 (that’s a familiar year isn’t it?) when it was supposedly condemned during an enormous blizzard and is, “. . . just woods now.” The video then transitions to BDG walking through dark woods while his narration talking up the Dorian Smiles program continues becoming increasingly broken. He comes across a figure sitting in the woods that is convulsing strangely, when he calls out to it the figure turns and is him (heretofore named Dorian). Dorian slowly puts his hands over his nose and mouth while staring at BDG at which point the narration cuts out. BDG copies Dorian and when Dorian removes his hands in a flourish, BDG does the same to reveal that he no longer has a mouth. The video quickly cuts back to BDG in his office talking about the program, he asks the viewer, “Why don’t you join me?” and then sits back and smiles while that line repeats without him moving his mouth. The most pressing mystery is who Dorian Smiles is. I think the most likely answer (and one I know I am not the progenitor of) is that Dorian is a reference to The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde, the story of a young man that has a portrait that ages and takes on the ravages of the debauched life its subject lives while Dorian himself does not. BDG would therefore be the unwitting recipient of that blessing, reaping massive rewards while his double, Dorian, lives in poverty and solitude. I like this explanation for Dorian, but I find it to be far more mechanical than thematic. On a metatextual level you could read that Dorian represents the character of BDG. The person that is in all of BDG’s videos, and the one with whom so much of the audience forms a parasocial relationship. In this lens the parallels with BDG’s own life make more sense. By this point in BDG’s career it is not difficult to imagine him feeling stifled creatively at work (I feel comfortable saying this given how soon after this video came out that he departed Polygon). His character had grown too large, potentially becoming alien to him, no longer reflecting the art he wanted to make and so he made a video about a distorted version of himself stealing his voice. In this way the video becomes a statement on his artistic integrity and his desire to test new boundaries and go in different directions. In hindsight, with the knowledge of his departure and then success after leaving Polygon, the video becomes almost heartwarming (if it weren’t terrifying) in the same way that a before and after picture of someone improving themselves can be. We will return to the Dorian Smiles system, but now we must move to the second video, Teaching Jake about the Camcorder, Jan '97. I’ll save you the blow by blow breakdown and aim for a quick summary instead. This video is a simple stationary shot of an old CRT tv. A VHS tape is inserted and a video of a man teaching his, evidently young, son how to use a camcorder plays. It is relatively wholesome and corny in that way that all home movies are and when it ends the tape rewinds and the segment plays again, this time with a few deviations. Over replays the father becomes aware of what is happening and begins trying to reason with Jake through the camcorder begging him to stop watching the tape and move on. The father is menaced by a large shadowy figure that does not speak or move when confronted. Eventually the father resorts to simply taking the camera and recording his own screams of pain. On the final rewind the father simply says, “Attaboy.” before calmly walking out the room and into the dark hallway, a doorway opens at the other end, filled with orange light, and the father walks through and down stairs. The final shot of the video is of the television, showing the hallway, as orange light begins to flicker in the background of the left side of the TV. The sound of the father descending the stairs transitions from the TV to diegetic and a shadow appears briefly in the light. On one level the video is clearly a statement about loss and about trauma. Jake is losing himself by watching these videos on repeat, trying in vain to relive a happier time. In that desperate desire to regain what was lost he is distorting it, making it into something it isn’t, hurting it. At the beginning the father says, “Never ever press the rewind button, otherwise you might record over a precious memory. We always keep the recording going forward . . .“ I think there is an additional, and more personal for BDG, reading however. The father is the modern character of BDG, and we, the audience, are Jake. He is pleading with us to leave the past behind and move on. This was only his 3rd video that he posted after leaving Polygon. It is a plea from him to leave the old character behind and stop trying to make one into the other. To stop obsessively comparing the new videos to the old. To let the future be the future and let the past be the past. He is telling us that his new work will not be like the old, that he has progressed past that and that now his viewers need to as well. The detachment and confusion of Earn $20K EVERY MONTH by being your own boss has transformed into a desire to move forward. But he needed to ensure that his audience was ready to come with him, and so he made a video about loss and the dangers of sinking too far into it. I know that there are some of you that feel I am reading too much of what I assume to be BDG’s thoughts and emotions into these interpretations, and I am the first to admit that I might be. In no way am I trying to say these are the only interpretations of these videos or even that they are correct. I think there is so much more of an artist that they put into their work than they realise. I do not know the mind of BDG, only he does, but these videos made me feel that I had a glimpse into the feelings of a man whose work I admire. These videos are either longer or a drastically different tone to the material he has put on his own channel and as such they stood out to me. They felt different, and they seemed to ask for a different level of scrutiny. On some level maybe BDGs videos can not be divorced from the story of BDG as a content creator, the same as any modern internet semi-celebrity, or indeed any artist. I guess there was also a part of me that wanted to answer the call to action I heard when BDG left Polygon, to unravel his work. I hope in some small way I’ve been able to do that.

#bdg #brian david gilbert #analysis #youtube #scary #When the dad screams towards the end of Teaching Jake I felt that in my soul.

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: would you be so kind Ship: obikin Second: Ten years ago, Obi-Wan Kenobi met Anakin Skywalker, a charming young mage from Naboo, but as fate willed, they could not be together. A decade and thousands dead later, Alderaan’s High Court Sorcerer meets a Forger and his excited apprentice. AN: I forgot to post this on tumblr apparently, but here’s the first chapter of my second long WIP I am working on!

Then

The ship was crammed, filled to the brim with people clinging to one another, staring either at the home they’d lost or the home they hoped to be sailing to. Hundreds of ships had left Dromund Kaas already, carrying refugees across the ocean to safer harbors. The tension was high and sharp enough to cut as they sailed away from the doomed country and only relaxed when the pressure of the country’s shields finally left their shoulders.

“An awful sight, isn’t it?”

Anakin startled, instinctually pulled his coat around himself. Were he in a better shape, he would have lashed out immediately, winds, bindings, blood—

But the power flowing through his veins was too constricted, caged like a wild beast. Instead, Anakin just turned to look at the person who’d addressed him. An old woman with snow-white markings and long lekku stared at the dying country just as he had moments before, grief and resignation painting a sorrowful picture. “I never thought I’d leave this place. Did you?”

Wordlessly, Anakin shook his head. No, he certainly hadn’t thought he’d ever leave this place again. He’d been ready to be buried under the ashes of marble altars, not see this new dawn.

“I was born here, married too. All my children were born within the boundaries of this country and perhaps that is the reason they all left,” the woman continued. “I am glad that they weren’t here. If I think about what could have happened to them were they anywhere near the capital… I apologize; I hope you don’t mind my rambling. You looked like you needed company. Are you traveling to Naboo?”

He opened his mouth to reply, to give an affirmation, but stopped. He hadn’t quite thought where he’d go, except as far away from this place as he could. Naboo was certainly an option; Padmé would be glad to see him, he was sure. She’d take him in without asking a single question and defend him against the storms that were sure to come.

But Padmé was his friend and Anakin couldn’t allow her to shoulder his burden.

“No,” Anakin heard himself saying. “I’m not traveling to Naboo.”

“They are quite defenseless right now, yes, you are right. The fact that it’s the first stop of this ship is tempting enough for most to disregard what troubles might find them there.” The woman nodded in understanding. “I’ll be going to Alderaan myself. My eldest lives there, and in a country as strong as that, a tragedy like this can’t strike.”

She turned to look at the remains of Dromund Kaas again. The coastline used to be covered by beautiful large trees; his Master used to tell him how vital they were for its defense.

Now there was nothing but ash and darkness. Even here on the outskirts, where it had taken the longest for the remains of the catastrophe to reach, nobody was safe from it. Dromund Kaas had been in a pitiful state after the last war, which had made it an easy place to hideaway in. Alderaan might be stronger, the blooming center of magical education, but Anakin doubted they’d be able to defend against an attack like this. Nothing could save them from an attack such as this.

But Alderaan’s distance to this cesspit of disease was enough to provide a different kind of security.

Thousands of refugees would search for safety there, and Queen Breha was as cunning as she was kind. No one would be turned away and Anakin could slip in just right with them.

“I’m going to Alderaan as well,” Anakin replied.

The woman looked him over, then she beamed as if she were a young child and not already among the older members of her species.

Her smile was the first Anakin had seen in weeks. “Looks like we’ll be traveling companions then! You must tell me your name, young friend. I’m Raya Tano.”

She held out her hand and Anakin awkwardly shook it with his own left.

“My name is—”

Now

“Anakin Skywalker! Your automaton is ruining my kitchen!”

Sighing, Anakin let the spell sink back into the metal and settle into it. So much for working on his commissions today. A quick glance around the workshop told him that it was not one of his automatons running wild. Artoo was currently charging up and Threepio was keeping himself busy cleaning up. All the other small automatons Anakin crafted when he was bored were either asleep and charging or hurrying around the workshop, washing up the floors and putting away the tools Anakin had been using.

Anakin tugged off his gloves and threw them to a tiny and eager little automaton before picking up his softer everyday gloves. The leather was still quite resistant and had more runes stitched into it than most people dared to weave into one cloth, but they were nowhere near as excellently crafted as his work gloves. The dragonhide gloves were worth a fortune and so they never left his workshop unless Anakin had to. Anakin watched the little automaton put the gloves in their usual compartment until he could hear the click reassuring that the lock was in place. At first, that had only been a measure against thieves as he hadn’t had much to his name, but by now, it was a habit.

And it discouraged Ahsoka from stealing them for her own projects.

Anakin walked out of his workshop and crossed the courtyard to the small cottage he called his home, finding a kitchen in disarray, Raya standing on a chair with a small red automaton attempting to clean the floors.

“Look what a mess it’s making!” Raya said accusingly. “Instead of polishing my floors, it’s dirtying them!”

“I can see that,” Anakin hummed. He waited until the small automaton had reached his feet, then he bent down and pressed his hand flat on its small back, stopping it. Ahsoka’s handiwork was getting better; this little guy had kept moving for a while despite her absence. Anakin had no idea what the formal apprenticeship for forgers entailed, when they ought to hit what milestone, but he was willing to bet that Ahsoka was years ahead of her peers. Her spells were strong, her rune work fantastic, and very few actual weaknesses were left to explore in her automatons.

But Anakin was still a Master and Ahsoka only an Apprentice. Her work was not yet good enough to keep out foreign interference. Without much thought, he deactivated the automaton completely.

“This was your granddaughter’s handiwork,” Anakin commented. “She’s improving in leaps and bounds.”

Raya huffed and stepped from her chair. “I’m glad to hear that, but weren’t you meant to teach her control?”

“I am,” Anakin said, the argument an old and fond one. They returned to it frequently, mostly to annoy the young Apprentice. “And were she still as much of a mess as three years ago, she hardly would be able to craft such a fine automaton. Can’t do anything about her manners.”

Especially since she’d become a teenager. Anakin didn’t remember being as much of a pain as Ahsoka could be.

“And here I was thinking Masters were supposed to teach their Apprentices a medium of decorum.”

Anakin snorted. “Yeah, well, that’s what she has you for, doesn’t she?”

Raya’s expression softened. “That she does.”

Anakin sometimes wondered how Raya managed to stay so kind and calm when the world had taken so much from her. Her husband, country, her children— and yet she still stood straight, caring for the fellow traveler she’d never allowed to leave and the granddaughter that had been dumped on her with just a warning for Ahsoka’s generally explosive tendencies.

“Where is Ahsoka anyway?” Anakin asked, looking around the kitchen as if she would jump out in the open any moment. “I sent her on an errand earlier this morning, but she hasn’t returned yet.”

Unfortunately, Raya couldn’t tell him either. “I have no idea where that girl is running around—”

“Anakin!”

Speak of the dark and it shall appear. The door was thrown open and Ahsoka rushed inside, tracking even more dirt all over the floor, causing Raya to throw up her arms in defeat in a way Anakin knew meant Ahsoka would be left with all her favorite chores for the next week.

“Welcome back, Ahsoka,” Anakin said. “You’re late.”

“Yes, yes,” Ahsoka replied and rolled her eyes, obviously disinterested in what he had to say. “I got all you asked for and ordered the new metals, but look at this!”

Ahsoka raised her hand, revealing a ripped-off poster. It was tasteful in design, fine cursive writing on light blues, gold ornaments in the corners and, of course, the royal crest right in the middle of it.

Her Majesty the Queen of the Kingdom of Alderaan, Breha Organa, invites all Alderaani Practitioners of the Mythic Arts to attend the festivities in the capital of Aldera—

“Absolutely not,” Anakin said before he could even read the rest of the text. “We’re not going to Aldera to some festival.”

“Why not?” Ahsoka shot back. “It’s no summit, but it would at least be something.”

Her bitterness did not go unnoticed. Ahsoka had begged for months to attend this year’s summit. Every five, all magic practitioners gathered on Tython to exchange notes on their craft and pretend they were not also discussing the politics of their respective countries, forging alliances and the like. Anakin hadn’t been to the last summit, it having been just after Dromund Kaas, and the one before were tainted by the memories that followed, no matter how sweet the time had been. Ahsoka, of course, had begged to attend this year’s one, but it would only be foolish and reckless. He couldn’t just walk into the biggest gathering of mages in the whole continent and expect to get out of it without anyone realizing who he was, asking questions, concluding what he’d done.

Anakin had too much to hide, too much to lose, and he wasn’t going to risk his little Apprentice for it.

Not that Ahsoka knew any of that and wasn’t in the least satisfied with Anakin’s reply and immediately made her displeasure known.

“What would you even want to see there?” Anakin asked, trying to downplay how entertaining such an event was. “It’ll just be all the posh court sorcerers showing off with their fancy focusing crystals. It’s utterly boring and uncreative.”

“Like you wouldn’t use a focusing crystal if you had one,” Ahsoka muttered, arms crossed. “It’s just— there’s nobody else around here who can do magic. And all you ever do is work on machines.”

“Which requires a lot of concentration as it’s not just the manipulation of one aspect, but—”

“—but many, yes, yes, I know the speech,” Ahsoka said and dutifully listed all elements that went into their craft. There was a reason why not many forgers existed. Most mages lacked the talent, patience, and education to learn this craft, or were just plain afraid that they’d permanently damage their ability to use magic at all.

And with the speed technology was evolving and magic weaponized to terrifying new heights, not too many people still had use for forgers. Where two-hundred-years ago, you wouldn’t have gone out to hunt a dragon with a simple sword, but only with one crafted by a Master forger, nowadays you didn’t necessarily need one. Battle magic was on the rise again, especially with more and more countries growing uneasy, peace treaties falling apart. Combined with the threats from the northern continents, it was no wonder people cared less and less about expensive forgers when they could mass-produce and enchant simpler items.

“I just hoped you’d allow at least this,” Ahsoka finished. Her shoulders dropped. “Should have known better. I’ll go finish my readings.”

Ahsoka turned around, her shoulders still hanging, her head low.

Damn it.

Anakin knew that she was doing it on purpose. His Apprentice was cunning and had learned how to play into his every weakness. Slowly she marched into the direction of the door, dragging her feet behind her for effect and dramatics.

Raya raised a brow at him. She usually stayed out of Ahsoka’s tutelage, knowing next to nothing about magic herself, but even with his past being little more than a mystery to her, she could read him better than anyone else.

“Urgh, fine,” Anakin heard himself say. “Fine, we can go to the festival.”

Ahsoka turned around quicker than light and jumped up. “Yes!”

“But that means you’re not going to bring up the summit again!”

“Yes! Of course!” A moment later, Anakin had an armful of an apprentice. “Thank you so much, Master, you’re the best!”

Once she let go of him, she went to hug Raya and hug even her dirty automaton to her chest, still radiating happiness. “I need to go pack my bags immediately!”

“The festival is not for another week—”

Ahsoka obviously didn’t care. So caught up in her joy, she rushed upstairs, heading to her room to start packing. It shouldn’t surprise Anakin that she was so motivated. Ahsoka was a person who thrived on interaction, being surrounded by other people. While the people of their village were friendly, none of them were mages or even just sensitive to magic. It was one of the reasons Anakin had decided to stay without too much fight. But growing up so far removed from other mages had made Ahsoka twice as curious to meet others.

The thought made his stomach churn. He’d have to give Ahsoka formal lessons about their trade now, just if somebody asked questions that were too pointed. She’d also need a bit of the know-how on how you usually interacted with other mages and which pretentious bastards to call sorcerers before they threw a hissy fit. All these capital folks were much too sensitive about terminology after all. Anakin had never bothered to tell her the differences before, but Ahsoka would kill him if she accidentally embarrassed herself because he hadn’t seen it fit to instruct her properly. Forget teaching Ahsoka how to improve her automaton, the next week would be full of etiquette lessons. Skies, there’d be people trying to steal their spellwork too. Had he even mentioned that kind of theft before? Anakin honestly couldn’t recall.

“Already regretting it?” Raya asked, her voice just a touch amused.

“Just a bit,” Anakin replied.

“It’ll be good for her,” Raya said, convinced and confident enough for the both of them. “And good for you as well. I’ve known you for years now and you’ve never even brought a friend over. I’m not going to be young forever, you know. I do expect to be introduced to your future spouse at some point.”

“And this is my cue to go packing as well,” Anakin announced and followed Ahsoka up the stairs with Raya’s laughter following him.

He had no intention of being with anyone, ever, unless he could find glamours that held up even when majorly distracted. On his way up the stairs, Anakin caught a look of himself in the window, saw black vines curling around his neck, inviting someone to take a closer look.

It was better this way.

#obikin #star wars #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #ahsoka tano #fanfic

[expectingtofly]

Sign Here

AU-Modern Setting, Meet-Cute, Dean is a UPS Driver, Cas and Dean are idiots, Gabe is trying to help

4k (oops this fic got long)

also posted on ao3

written for Day 2 of @starrynightdeancas 2k Followers Celebration <3 <3

Castiel knelt on the grass to pull up some stubborn weeds in the garden lining the front of his newly-bought house. The previous inhabitants had left behind a tangled mess of rose bushes and weeds, and after a week of unpacking boxes, he was happy to finally have time to spend outside. One of the perks of moving from an apartment to a small bungalow—finally space for a garden. Although, he was sure the inside of his house would soon become just as packed with plants as his apartment had been.

Engrossed as he was in weeding and planning what flowers he would plant to expand the garden, he didn’t hear someone approach until a shadow fell over the dirt. 

Startling, he looked up to see a man standing on the walkway next to him. “What—oh.” By the man’s clothes—brown collared shirt and shorts—and the package he was holding, Castiel realized he was a UPS delivery driver. “Hello.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” the driver said, fighting back a smile.

Castiel stood, brushing dirt off his hands. “It’s alright.” 

The man held out a package. “I was gonna deliver this to your front door, unless you want to take it now.”

“Yes, thank you.” Taking it, Castiel looked down at the label, trying to remember what he had ordered. Something for his kitchen, probably.

“Did you just move in?” the UPS driver asked. His eyes were very green, a spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. Freckles everywhere, Castiel realized, seeing the way they lightly spotted his bare arms. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

Realizing he was staring, Castiel reddened, glanced down at the package in his hands. “Uh, yes, I did. Last week.”

“Welcome to Bloomfield, then.” He nodded at the rose bushes. “Nice garden you got here.”

“You don’t have to lie, it’s a mess.” The driver laughed and Castiel smiled a little. “It’s not much now. Hopefully I’ll be able to fix it up soon.”

“I’ll keep an eye out, see how things develop.” The man took a step back and gestured to the UPS truck on the street. “I’ve got other packages to deliver. Nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Castiel said, watching him leave. Kneeling down to continue yanking out the prickly weeds, he smiled. It was nice to meet someone friendly; he hadn’t gotten to meet many people yet with the chaos of moving in. Of course, he thought, glancing back at the UPS truck as it rumbled down the street, it didn’t hurt that the driver was extremely attractive as well. 

***

The next week, Castiel was hanging up art prints in his living room when he heard the doorbell ring. Assuming it was for a package he’d ordered, he took his time getting to the door, straightening the print on the wall before weaving through the cardboard boxes he still hadn’t unpacked. 

When he opened the front door, however, he was surprised to see the green-eyed UPS driver standing on his porch holding the package.

The man’s face brightened. “Hi. Got a delivery for you.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, opening the door wider. “I didn’t realize you were waiting. I thought you delivery drivers just dropped off the package and disappeared.”

The UPS driver laughed. Such a nice laugh, Castiel thought. “Right, yeah, that’s what we normally do. But, uh, we have a new policy. Have to get a signature for packages.” He handed over a clipboard and pen, pointing to the line at the bottom of the page. "Just sign here."

“Oh. Alright.” Castiel took the clipboard and signed his name. When he handed it back, he saw the man glance at the signature. “Castiel,” he supplied.

“Cool name. I’m Dean.” 

“Nice to meet you, Dean.” Having been occupied all week with moving in and subsequently starved for conversation, he added, “You’re one of the first people I’ve met so far. The other being a cashier at that grocery store down the street.”

“Still getting settled in?”

“Yes. It’s taking much longer than I anticipated. I hate unpacking. It never seems to end.”

“Yeah, moving’s a bitch. You liking the place so far, though?”

Castiel nodded. “I do. Much improved from the apartment where I was living before.”

“God, I bet. I share an apartment with my brother—don’t get me wrong, I like living with him, but our landlord’s an asshole.” He gestured to the right. “Garden’s looking great.”

“Thank you. I just bought petunias, but I haven’t had a chance to plant them.” He pointed at the small brown box Dean was still holding. “That should be new gardening gloves in there.”

“Oh, right, your package.” Dean’s face looked a little red as he handed the box over. “Um, well, I should be on my way. See ya.” He stepped off the porch with a wave and Castiel waved back before going inside. 

As he unpacked his belongings, he realized filling a house was harder than he’d thought. There were so many household items he was missing. Perhaps a trip to the store would be faster, but ordering online was easier—or so he told himself as he opened his laptop.  

I’m only trying to save myself time, he reasoned, though inwardly he might have been hoping Dean would deliver the package. 

Though he wouldn’t admit it to himself, he found himself growing more impatient over the next few days. Then, one afternoon as he organized his silverware drawer, he heard the doorbell ring. He practically ran to the front door, then paused and steadied himself before opening it, waiting a few seconds so it wouldn’t seem like he’d rushed over.  

It might not even be Dean, he chastised himself as he unlocked the door. 

Dean smiled at him when he swung the door wide.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel said, trying to sound casual and hide his smile.

“Hi.” He looked to be about Castiel’s age. What were the chances that someone this attractive was single? “Got another package. A heavy one this time.” 

Pushing away those thoughts, Castiel took it from him and placed it inside on the floor. “Thank you. Don’t I have to sign something?”

“Uh, shit, yeah.” Dean handed over the clipboard and pen, and as Castiel signed, he nodded at the package. “Something else for the garden?”

Castiel shook his head, handing back the clipboard. “A mixer. I thought maybe I could try my hand at baking. My mom sent me a few of her recipes.”

Dean’s eyes brightened. “You ever want inspiration, there’s a diner, other side of town, a few blocks from where I live, that makes the best pie. Makes them fresh every morning.”

“I’ll have to go sometime.” He stopped short of saying that maybe he’d see Dean there, not wanting to sound too excited at the prospect.

Maybe I should order more things for the kitchen, he thought, shutting the door after saying goodbye to Dean. Or a new bath mat, and curtains, maybe. The boxes he had yet to unpack scolded him by their presence, but he ignored them. If receiving new items meant talking to a friendly face, who could blame him? 

***

“You sure get a lot of packages,” Dean remarked the next week when Castiel opened the door. 

Castiel reddened. “Turns out it’s hard to fill a whole house.” 

“I’m not complaining, you’re the one giving me a job to do.” Dean handed over the package. “What’s it this week?”

“A watering can.”

“You really like to garden, don’t you?” Dean gestured to the flowers and plants lining the front of the house. “I mean, you’ve added a lot since moving in.”

“Yes, well, I find it’s a wonderful way to wind down after work.”

Dean nodded. “I get that. Any spare time I have, I work on my car.”

Castiel glanced at the UPS truck, because he hadn’t really considered Dean driving anything else. His heart beat a little faster at the thought of running into Dean somewhere else, at the diner, at the grocery store. He wondered how Dean dressed when he wasn’t in his uniform, what else he did in his free time.

Dean followed his gaze to the street and gestured to the UPS truck. “This thing, it’s crap. No AC, no radio. What do you drive?” He glanced at Castiel’s driveway. “That a Lincoln Continental? 78? 77?”

Castiel caught the derisive tone in his voice. “78. And I like it,” he added defensively.

Dean smiled, raising his hands. “Eye of the beholder, I guess. You ever need work done on it, let me know, I can help.” His eyes widened a little at his own words. “I mean, you don’t need to, I just meant, if you want. I’m good at that stuff.”

“Thank you, Dean. I appreciate the offer.” Inwardly, he cursed his car for being so reliable. Maybe the engine light would turn on and he could take him up on his offer. Or maybe Dean was only being friendly and didn’t really mean it. 

When Dean headed back to his truck and Castiel shut the door, he realized Dean hadn’t asked him to sign anything. Maybe he’d only forgotten. 

***

“Gotten acquainted with the locals?” Gabriel asked a few nights later when he called to see how Castiel was settling in.

“I talked with one of my neighbors yesterday. Arla. She’s eighty-two and owns three cats.” Leaning against the kitchen counter, Castiel glanced at the mixer. “And, uh, I did meet someone else. Someone my age, not a neighbor. Dean.”

“Met someone? Like went on a date with—”

“No, he works for the UPS, he’s been delivering my packages.” He was interrupted by Gabriel laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“So instead of going out and meeting real people, you’re making friends with the delivery guy.”

“Dean is real,” Castiel protested. “He’s very kind and friendly. And helpful. He’s told me about places to check out in town and complimented my garden—”

“Damn, Cas, sounds like you really like this guy.”

“No, he’s just a nice person,” Castiel insisted. By Gabriel’s laughter, he knew he wasn’t being believable. “Alright, fine. I enjoy talking to him.” He wasn’t going to tell Gabriel that seeing Dean was becoming his favorite part of the week.

“He single?”

“Um. Yes.” He may or may not have asked Arla if she knew Dean, and may or may not have learned that she couldn’t believe “a charming young man like him is still single.” Oh, and that if she were a younger woman, she would be ordering packages left and right to flirt with him when he delivered. Castiel did not appreciate that last part, even if Arla had no idea how close to the truth she’d struck. I’m not flirting, he argued inwardly.

“Well, are you going to make a move or not?” When Castiel didn’t respond right away, Gabriel added, “Right, I forgot who I’m talking to.”

“I might,” Castiel protested. “But we only just met. And I don’t even know if he likes me. He’s only doing his job.”

“May as well ask him out, see what he says.” 

Castiel sighed. “I don’t want to rush into anything. I only just moved here.”

“Well, you snooze, you lose, Cas. Don’t miss out on something just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared!”

I’m not scared, he repeated to himself when he said goodbye and hung up the phone. He was being reasonable. But maybe Gabriel was right. Dean had to be somewhat interested—delivery guys didn’t just stick around to talk after delivering a package. Maybe he’d test the waters, try to see if Dean was truly interested or just being friendly.

***

A few days later, he was watering his petunias when Dean got out of his truck with another package.

“Hey, Cas!” he called. 

“Hello, Dean.” Setting down his water can, he wiped his hands on his jeans. “Thank you,” he said, taking the narrow box from Dean. Before he lost his courage, he spoke up, “I, um, made a pie this morning.” Whether he’d made it specifically to offer to Dean was something he’d never admit to anyone, much less himself. “I was wondering if you wanted a slice? You can tell me if it’s good or not.”

Dean broke into a grin. “Shit, Cas, really? Yeah, thanks.”

“Wait here, I’ll grab it.”

When he returned to the doorway with a paper plate covered in foil, he caught Dean looking inside his house. 

“It’s still a mess in here,” Castiel said, handing the plate over. “I’ve been kinda busy with work.”

“No, yeah, totally, no judgement.” He peeled back the foil and inhaled. “Fuck, I’m starving. This looks amazing.” Picking up the slice, he took a bite. “Mmm,” he said, rolling his eyes back. 

“Good?” Castiel asked, amused. 

“So good,” Dean said, his voice muffled. He swallowed. “You’re a natural.” 

“Thank you. I have more, if you’d like it.”

“Don’t tempt me. Yes.” 

Grinning, Castiel went back inside and packaged up two more slices, brought them to Dean.

“You’re an angel,” Dean said. “Seriously.” He juggled the plates in his hands. “So, where do you work?”

Castiel leaned on the doorway. “I work here. I’m an editor. I do freelance work.”

“Dude, that’s cool. Nice that you get to work from home.” Looking down at his watch, he swore quietly. “Sorry, I need to keep moving. I’ve got a lot of deliveries today.” 

“Oh,” Castiel said, disappointed, straightening. “Alright. Sorry for keeping you so long.”

“No problem, this was a nice break.” He stepped off the walkway. “Thanks for the pie.”

“You’re welcome.” Ask him for his number. Ask him if he would like to go out. But he kept quiet and watched Dean cross the yard back to his truck. 

***

That night, Castiel ordered a set of bookends shaped like trees. He checked his email the next few days, tracking the package. On the day it was to be delivered, he had to run errands and got stuck in traffic. When he pulled into his driveway, he saw a package sitting on the front porch. Shit. He’d missed Dean. 

Grabbing his bag of groceries, he walked over and picked up the package with his free hand. Then he noticed a note taped to the top. 

Sorry I missed you, it read. The pie was incredible.

Castiel smiled. 

***

Sunlight streamed through his living room windows as Castiel organized his books on his bookshelves. He was just pushing his new bookends into place when the doorbell rang. Frowning, he went to the front door and looked out through the window. Dean?

“Hello, Dean,” he said, opening the door. “I wasn’t expecting a package today.” 

“Oh, really?” Dean looked like he was fighting back a smile as he turned around the cardboard box in his hands. Bold black letters were written across the front: SAY HI TO DEAN FOR ME.

Castiel’s eyes widened and he snatched the box out of Dean’s hands. “What? I don’t know how—” He scanned the box for the label. Gabriel, he realized. “It’s my brother,” he explained. “I was telling him about you, he must’ve sent me this to embarrass me, I’m so sorry.”

Dean’s smile won out. “No, it’s fine, that’s kinda hilarious.” He shifted his stance, the wooden porch boards creaking. “You, uh, you told him about me?”

Castiel’s head snapped up from glaring at Gabe’s name on the return label. “Um, yes,” he faltered. “Well, I was just telling him that I met someone, and it’s been nice to, uh, uh, have a friend.” 

Friend? He hardly knew Dean, for fuck’s sake. For all he knew, he was just a random person Dean spoke to occasionally on his route, no more important than Arla or any of the other people he delivered to.

But Dean smiled. “Yeah, uh, me too. I mean, I like meeting people on my route, just makes the day a lot better when I get to stop and talk.” He reddened a little and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down at his boots.

“I hope I don’t keep you from your other deliveries,” Castiel said.

Dean waved his hand. “Nah, it’s fine. I get the other ones done fast so I can spend more time here.” He cut himself off and reddened even further, as if realizing what he was admitting. 

So, Dean was deliberately trying to see him, talk to him. Castiel felt his face heat up as well. “I’m sure delivering packages all day can be very boring,” he offered. 

Dean nodded quickly. “Yeah, ya know, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Besides, I’m just trying to make sure this neighborhood’s newest resident is doing okay.” He grinned. “Think of me as the welcome committee.”

“Well, I appreciate it. Really.”

Dean nodded again, and they stood there awkwardly for a few long moments. Castiel glanced back down at the box, Gabe’s words ringing in his head. Ask him out, see what he says.

“I’ll get on my way,” Dean said, stepping back. He smiled a little. “Tell your brother I said hi.”

“I will.” Maybe he should just blurt it out. Dean had said he enjoyed stopping by here. But maybe he only meant that in a friendly way. Castiel had called him a friend, after all. He chickened out. “Have a good rest of your day.”

“You too.” Dean walked away and Castiel glared down at the box. 

“Not helpful,” he told it.

***

“Gabe, I hate you.”

“What? I was just trying to spark conversation between you two—”

“I hate you. I can hold a conversation well enough myself, thank you very much. You only made things awkward.” He paused before adding, “Dean says hi, by the way.”

Gabriel cheered and Castiel pulled his phone away from his ear. “So it worked? You asked him out?”

“Um...” Castiel pulled at a rip on his gardening jeans. “No.”

“Cassie!” Gabriel whined. “I did all that work for nothing? What’s the holdup? Ask him out.”

Castiel groaned. “I will. Eventually. But, I mean, can he even say yes? He’s on the job—”

“Cas, he’s already taking time out of his workday to talk to you. Pretty sure he’ll say yes, even if he’s working. Stop making excuses.”

“Fine. I’ll ask him.” He only said it to get Gabriel off his back, but his palms grew sweaty even thinking about it. 

“You better. Keep me updated.”

“Only if you never pull a prank like that again.”

“I can’t promise anything.” 

***

Seated at his desk, Castiel frowned at an awkwardly worded sentence that refused to form itself into any coherency. Was the past tense of lie lay or laid? Why couldn’t he ever remember? 

The doorbell ringing drew his attention and, grateful for the break, he saved the document he was editing and got up. Going to the front door, he wondered if he had any left-over pie to give Dean and drag out their time together in the doorway.

Opening the door, he began to say hello, then paused. A UPS delivery man was walking away to his truck, a package at Castiel’s feet on his front porch. 

“Wait!” Castiel called, stepping outside. The man turned—not Dean. Someone he’d never seen before. “Who the hell are you?”

The man looked startled. “I, uh, I’m a delivery—”

“No, sorry.” Castiel flushed. “Where’s Dean?”

“Dean?” The man frowned. “I don’t know who that is. We all got new routes a few days ago. He must be on another route now.”

Castiel’s heart sank. “Oh.” Another route? He looked down at the package. “Don’t I have to sign something?”

“No, you’re all good. We don’t require signatures.” The man continued to his truck and Castiel picked up the package. A lattice pastry roller to make more intricate pie crusts. He’d thought Dean might appreciate the effort.

Shutting the door, he stood in the foyer for a moment. So, Dean was gone. Why hadn’t he ever asked for Dean’s number? He’d had plenty of opportunities.

It’s a small town, he reasoned. I’ll see him again, I have to. He knew Dean lived on the other side of town, maybe if he drove around there, kept an eye out—

Alright, stop, he told himself. He was starting to sound crazy. He dropped the package off on the kitchen table. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

***

The next day, Castiel was seated at his desk, sending an email to a client, when the doorbell rang. 

His pulse sped up, and instinctively he rose from his chair. Then he remembered that Dean didn’t deliver to his house anymore. Sighing, he sat back down. 

He’d been trying not to think of it, but every other item in his house—the mixer, the bookends, the pastry roller—only reminded him of Dean and brought down his mood. 

Why didn’t I take Gabe’s advice? he bemoaned inwardly. That was a thought he never thought he’d have, but it looked like Gabe had been right. He’d lost his chance.  

Staring at his computer screen, he tried to focus on his work, but the distraction had ruined his focus. At least I’ll save money, he reasoned ruefully, now that he had no excuse for making random purchases. 

The doorbell rang again and he lifted his head, frowning. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember ordering anything. Maybe it was Arla, coming over to say hello.  

Rising, he went to the front door and tried to remember the name of that diner Dean had told him about. Maybe he’d stake out there on a weekend, see if Dean showed up. Or was that creepy?

Definitely creepy, he decided with a sigh, opening the door. Then he froze.

“Dean?”

Standing on his front porch—this time in jeans and a black t-shirt, holding a potted fern—was Dean. He smiled hesitantly, almost nervously. “Hi, Cas.” 

“What are you doing here?” Castiel looked at the street, but of course the familiar UPS truck wasn’t there. In its place was a sleek, black car. 

“My route changed and I, uh, never got to say bye. So I thought I’d just come over. Sorry if that’s weird—”

“No, I’m happy to see you. Just surprised. I thought I’d never…”

Dean grinned. “Scared you’d lost me forever?”

Castiel smiled. “Yeah, a bit,” he admitted. 

“I, um, I brought you this.” He held out the plant, laughed nervously. “I felt weird coming over without anything to deliver.”

“Thank you. It’s lovely.” Taking the plant, he stroked the leaves. “I know exactly where to put it.” His heart pounded as he realized now was his chance. He had to take it.

He started to ask for Dean’s number, but Dean started talking too, and they both stopped, laughing. “You first,” Castiel said. 

“Um, well.” Dean shoved his hands into his pockets. “I was thinking, would you maybe want to hang out somewhere other than your doorway? I can show you around town.” He gestured to his car. “Take you for a spin in Baby.”

Castiel couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face. “I would love that.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’ve been… I’ve been meaning to ask you out, or ask for your number. I just never worked up the courage.”

Dean grinned. “Am I really that intimidating?”

Castiel laughed. “No. Not at all. You’re quite the opposite.” He gestured inside. “Would you, uh, would you like to come inside?”

“Yeah, totally.” 

Castiel started to open the door wider, then paused. “I have a question. You never did need my signature, did you? For the packages?”

Dean frowned, then realization seemed to hit him and his face reddened. “Yeah, uh. No. But I figured it was a surefire way to get your name and talk to you.”

“Is that a trick you use often?”

“Nope, you were the first.” He grinned, eyes suddenly teasing. "Did you really need everything you were ordering, or were all the packages just an excuse to see me?"

Now was Castiel's time to blush. "I did need what I ordered!" he protested. "Well, some things. But mainly... I just wanted to talk to you."

“Well, it worked.”

“Yes.” He stepped back for Dean to come inside his home and smiled at him. “And I’m very glad it did."

Tag List:

@becky-srs​​ @xojo​ @marvelnaturalock​ @aelysianmuse​ @prayedtoyou​ @letsjustdieeveryone​ @good-things-do-happen-dean​ @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover​ @theninthdutchessofhell​ @madronasky​ @famouspsychicpizzabandit​ @multifandomdisorder​ @arcticfox007​ @celestialcastiel​ @improvedpeanut​ @castiel-is-a-cat​ @harmonyhelms​ @thetrueliesofafangirl @dean-you-assbutt-cas-loves-you​ @theangelwiththewormstache​ @confusedisaster​ @welcome-to-crowleys-hellhole​​ @darksongfire​​ @lykanyouko​​​

Let me know (message, ask, comment) if you’d like to be tagged in my destiel fics or removed from the list :)

#dailydestieldelights #congrats sophie on 2k! #thanks for organizing this lil challenge #ive had this wip for ages now #and im happy i finally got the push to finish it #AU #cas and dean need to use their words #meet cute #fluff #cas likes to garden #gabe is an annoying brother #expectingtofly writes

[princesslocket]

🥣 Made With Love 🥣

Hi hi! Before we get to the fanfic, I'd just like to say a big thank you to @ina11writingexchange for hosting this awesome writers exchange! I'm so glad to have been able to participate for this round as well as being given the opportunity to gift @hachuna yet another gift this year!

With that being said, I hope you enjoy this Hachuna! It was a lot of fun to write ((Btw this fic is also cross-posted on AO3 if anyone is interested in reading it there too! The link is in the title))

If anyone were to ask Endou Natsumi what her favorite pass time activity was, she’d automatically answer with “cooking!” and then excitedly list off all the dishes she had made within the past week. It always amazed her friends just how passionate she was about preparing food in the kitchen.

However, she hadn’t always been a fan of cooking.

Natsumi’s love for cooking had originated during her time spent managing the Raimon soccer team in her middle school years. In the beginning she had been quiet hesitant to even try making a rice ball but after she mastered the art of the rice ball, her love for cooking sparked almost instantaneously. It only took preparing a couple more meals before Natsumi was fully onboard with the idea of preparing food in general. It filled her with a sense of pride whenever she was able to witness the team enjoying the meals she, Haruna, and Aki made for them. The compliments they dished out were a great source of ego boosting as well, but she always made it point to stay humble. And even after the team graduated, leaving her with no one else to cook for, Natsumi continued to search up new recipes to try making for herself in the comfort of her own home.

Over the years her cooking had improved, albeit not as significantly as everyone had hoped for, but just enough to where she no longer mixed up the salt and sugars when she tried baking the occasional birthday cake. It was a subtle yet profound type of improvement that left Endou that much more hopeful for their future meals seeing as he had married her not too long after her cooking had started to improve.

One thing that really helped Natsumi improve in her cooking was through the aid of an old looking cook book she just so happened to borrow from Endou! She’d seen the book several times laying in various places throughout their house but had never bothered to look through it until one day when her curiosity got the better of her and she found herself rejoicing at all the cool looking recipes inside. Oh the joy she felt while flipping through the pages was almost too good. How had she not opened the book sooner?

Following the days upon opening the cook book, Natsumi happily followed the messily written instructions provided by the cook book to prepare dishes that she could only assume had been passed down from Endou’s family. She would later find out from Endou himself that the cook book she had been using was actually Endou Daisuke’s hissatsu manual. The discovery came as quiet a shook to Natsumi seeing as she had been following the instructions of the book for several weeks, even going as far to serving a boy named Matsukaze Tenma some of said dishes as well. But all Endou could do was laugh at the situation they found themselves in.

“You mean to tell me that this really isn’t the kanji for egg?”

“I’m positive, Natsumi. These are the instructions for God Hand- Wait a second! How were even able to mistake this for a cook book? I thought you knew what Daisuke’s hissatsu manual looked like?”

“It’s been a while since I last saw it okay!”

Even after the discovery of the ‘cook book’s’ true nature was revealed Natsumi continued to use it. Admittedly, the food Natsumi made following the hissatsu manual never inherently tasted terribly bad. So what harm was there in letting her continue to use it? As long as Endou was there to assist her with some of the misinterpreted kanji of the book, everything was fine.

Unfortunately, not all good things lasted forever. On one particular day an unforeseen disaster appeared out of nowhere…

Natsumi had been preparing dinner in the kitchen when it happened. She hadn’t thought anything of it at first. Ever since Endou took over as Raimon’s coach, he would occasionally return home late, so why would this time be any different? As the minutes ticked by Natsumi continued to prepare dinner. While she maneuvered around the kitchen she kept herself entertained with the quiet sound of the T.V. playing in the background.

Although she usually paid no mind to what the news anchors were saying, something about that night in particular urged her to listen carefully. She had been cutting away at a bundle of carrots when a certain news report caught her attention. Although they weren’t showing video footage of the incident taking place, the news anchors reported a massive car crash near Raimon.

Upon hearing the name of the school, Natsumi put all food to the side and quickly ran to her phone, dialing up Endou to ask if he was still at the school. Knowing her husband, he would most likely be assisting whoever had been unfortunate enough to get hurt outside of their old school. But when he didn’t answer her first, second, or third call, Natsumi began to worry. The news anchors wouldn’t disclose the names of the people involved in the accident, nor would they show the faces of anyone other than the reporter on duty. They did, however, announce the arrival of special dispatched services on the scene as well as the name of the hospital the heavily injured were being taken to.

After a while Natsumi’s phone began to ring, which she immediately answered. Letting out a sigh of relief, Natsumi pressed the phone to her ear, ready to hear Endou’s cheerful voice. With everything appearing to be taken care of on screen, Endou was surely going to fill her in on everything that had happed. It was a good thing she had prepared so much food for the night!

“Natsumi, it’s Kidou, we don’t have much time- It’s Endou… He got into a car crash and- You need to hurry. An ambulance is already taking him to the hospital but… I’ll fill you in on everything once you get here-“

“I’m on the way.”

Within seconds Natsumi was already racing out of the house, dinner abandoned in the kitchen and T.V still playing quietly in the background. She did everything in her power to get to the hospital as fast as she could but it was too late. By the time she came rushing in through the hospital doors, Endou had been pronounced dead.

Time flashed by in a blur following Endou’s death. His funeral came and went, the days following blended together a little too seamlessly and Natsumi’s love for cooking diminished along with her once cheery life. Without Endou around, she no longer held the motivation to prepare any kind of meal in or out of the kitchen. Even when Haruna, Aki, and Fuyuka tried to rekindle their little cooking arties, Natsumi couldn’t bring herself to make anything. Everything she had ever made was out of her love for Endou.

As time went by, Natsumi slowly began to store her cooking utensils away. If she wasn’t going to be cooking anymore, than why bother keep them out in the open to collect dust?

She was in the middle of labeling a soon to be packed away box of kitchen ladles one day when the sound of knocking stopped her. Setting her marker to the side, Natsumi walked to the front door. Her knees nearly buckled when she gazed out the peep hole to see who was outside.

Standing just outside the door was Endou… But it couldn’t be him, right? He had passed away months ago. She had gone to his funeral and everything! There was no way her could possibly be standing outside. As she was thinking these thoughts an almost indescribable feeling washed over her. Suddenly she couldn’t remember attending a funeral nor could she remember why she had started packing away all her cooking supplies. It was as if she was just now waking up from some type of horrible nightmare, a nightmare had clouded over her real life for the past several months.

Whatever nightmare she been under was finally over. Any trace of sadness and despair melted away the longer she stared at Endou. Instead, the feelings were replaced with joy and relief. Although the sudden change in feelings were a little unexpected, they weren’t unwelcomed. In fact she was all the happier to embrace them!

Not wanting to keep Endou waiting any longer, Natsumi decidedly threw the door open, startling Endou as it swung to the side, and proceeded to jumping into the arms of the man in front of her.

“Mamoru!” Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she pressed herself as tightly as she could to her husband. “I can’t explain it but it feels like I haven’t seen you in forever! Where have you been all day?”

“Woah! I missed you too! Oh man, Natsumi, you wouldn’t believe all the crazy things that happened to me ‘today.’ I’ve got so much to tell you but, uh, I think it’d be best if we went inside first.” Contradictory to his own words, Endou hugged Natsumi even closer to himself, thus rendering any attempt to head into the house useless.

For several long minutes the two stood outside their house, hugging each other, and exchanging a few words before wither one of them made any real attempts to pull away. But when they did, it was Natsumi who moved away. She waisted no time in dragging Endou inside and towards their dining room table, pulling out a chair for him to sit in and then rushing off towards their refrigerator in search of something for them to eat.

Strangely enough, the refrigerator was once again filled with an abundance of food Natsumi had almost no recollection of buying. She glanced a look to Endou, who at first made no comment, but as soon as she turned her back had heard the faintest of words from him.

“I guess time really did reset itself.”

From that day on life returned to normal, or as normal as it could be with Natsumi knowing her ‘nightmare’ had in fact been real but was now a part of a separate timeline of sorts. But seeing as their current timeline was restored, Natsumi decidedly let her supposed bad months drift away.

She started cooking again, only this time she followed tutorials online through YouTube and an odd app called TikTok. When Endou asked why she was following so many different cooking videos, Natsumi would claim that “the hissatsu manual could only offer so much.”

Despite her best efforts her cooking still left much to be desired from. But Endou never truly cared about the overall outcome of the food he’d be offered.

“It’s the thought counts.” He’d tell himself whenever a dish was placed in front of him. “If it’s for Natsumi, I’d gladly eat a thousand more meals of her cooking- I’d do anything to make her happy.”

#inazuma eleven #ennatsu #ina11writingexchange #endou mamoru #natsumi raimon #endou natsumi #angst #implied/referenced character death #But no one really dies #trust me #cooking

[softlighter]

Blake feels haggard, and world-weary, but a passing painter asks her to pose for her a few times and the resulting painting is a masterpiece. Blake doesn't understand how Yang sees her as anything but weather-beaten, while Yang doesn't understand Blake's inability to see her own beauty or self-worth.

I hope you know how much I adored this prompt, nonny friend!  I hope it was worth the wait.  Also posted as “sketch of hope” on Ao3!

~~~

Blake takes a drink of her tea.  It’s over-seeped and bitter, something no amount of milk or honey will fix, but it’s tea, and it’s warm going down.  Still, she squeezes more honey into the chipped ceramic mug and stirs it in.  Her eyes feel heavy, but she flips open her book once more and begins reading where she left off.  It’s something she’s read before but it’s as worn and familiar as her sweater; just what she needs right now.

Another sip of tea, her nose crinkling as she’s hit with the sour and sweet syrupy taste, but she still downs half the cup.  She would normally go to her favorite cafe, a ten minute’s walk away from her apartment, but it’s too much effort to exert right now.  Everything is too much effort right now, hell, she’s just happy she managed to leave the apartment today.   It’s something, it’s an improvement, even if this tea is awful and she wants to crawl back to her bed.

She puts her book down and sighs, rubbing her forehead.  It’s a beautiful day.  The sky is a crisp blue with fluffy clouds like cotton candy, and the spring wind is sweet with florals.  Blake is at an outdoor cafe, and it’s a beautiful day.  It’s a beautiful day, and she should be grateful.  

But she’s not, and she’s tired.  

Blake leans back in her chair, picking apart her croissant with her fingers and popping a bite in her mouth.  At least their croissants are decent.  She takes another bite, directly from the pastry this time, and casually brushes the crumbs off her sweater.  Blake scans her surroundings and the few other occupied tables at the cafe.  It’s still relatively cold, and not many are apparently wanting to brave the sharp nip of the rickety metal table and chairs.

But there’s a couple speaking in hushed tones and giggling every few minutes, even if their noses and cheeks are pink.  There’s a group of boys across the patio playing some kind of game with dice and they shout loudly every once in a while, even with the couple sending them dirty looks.  There’s another woman across from her, also sitting alone, but she is scribbling in a notebook.  

She drifts back to her tea and croissant, but the back of her neck prickles, and her ears instinctively stiffen.  Blake looks up once more, and she meets eyes of bright lilac.  Her cheeks feel hot, but she doesn’t look away, despite herself.  The other woman is blushing too, though, and she smiles sheepishly at Blake.  “Guess I should’ve known better,” the woman says.

Blake’s brow furrows.  “Pardon?” she says, more on instinct than anything else.  

The woman’s face turns a deeper red, and she gestures toward her notebook.  “I know I should’ve asked permission, but-”

“Were you drawing me?”  

The woman nods sheepishly.  “Sorry.  It’s a bad habit.  One of my old art teachers always encouraged it, said we got more natural looking sketches that way, but people don’t exactly like it.  But, well, I couldn’t help myself.  Hard habit to break, and you’re a perfect study.”

“I am?”  Blake snorts.  “Hardly.”

The woman frowns, her pink mouth curling downward.  “Well, I say you are.”  The woman hesitates before scooting closer to Blake’s chair.  “You’re not upset?”

Blake shrugs.  She doesn’t feel much beyond the heat in her cheeks and curling in her stomach, doesn’t feel much at all these days.  Her eyes drop down to the notebook before looking back up at the woman.  “I feel like there’s a compliment in there.  Somewhere.”

The woman smiles, and she looks over her shoulder before getting up and taking the seat across from Blake at her table.  Blake raises her brows, but she says nothing as the woman slides  her notebook to her.  “What do you think?” she asks.

Blake studies the dark lines, the way they curve and dance across the page in sketches and hatches.  It’s obviously just a sketch, but the word just demeans the art before her, ignores the simplistic beauty of something in progres.  The woman is talented, obviously so, but Blake still frowns.  “That’s not what I look like,” she says finally, even though it, obviously, her.  

“Maybe it’s not how you see you, but it’s how I see you,” the woman says.

Blake scoffs, but her eyes linger over the page before she forces herself to slide the notebook back.  “You don’t know me.”

“I’m a good sense of character.”  The woman closes the notebook and smiles at her, tucking a long blonde strand of her back behind her ear and underneath a purple hat the same color as her eyes, but even the electric lilac of the wool dulls in comparison to her eyes.  “Can I ask a favor?”

“You can ask whatever you want, doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

“Would you consider posing for me?”

Blake blinks.  “What?”

The woman nods brightly.  “Come to my studio, with proper lighting and stuff like that.”

“Again, what?”  Her brows knit together, and she’s not sure if she’s amused or concerned.  “I don’t know you.”  And you’re not going to want to know me.

The woman shrugs.  “Are you a serial killer?”

“No, but-”

“We can stay here if you’re more comfortable with that,” the woman presses.  “You’re just- well, you’re exactly who I’ve been looking for.”  Blake’s stomach turns, but the woman quickly adds, “I mean, just, wow, that sounds so creepy, but seriously.  You’re a delight to draw.”  The woman laughs.  “That’s not much better, is it?”

Despite herself, she smiles.  “No,” she agrees.  “It’s not.”  She considers and tilts her head, her fingers tapping against the cool metal of the table.  “If you want to, I’ll be here for a bit longer.  So do whatever you like.”

The woman’s face breaks out into a bright grin.  “Thanks!”  She laughs, scratching the back of her neck.  “I’m Yang, by the way.”  

“Blake.”  Yang extends her hand, and Blake nearly gasps when she sees Yang’s arm.  Yang’s smile fades.  Blake stumbles for her words, her tongue feeling thick and clumsy.  “That’s beautiful,” Blake says finally, taking her hand in her own.  The metal is cold in her hands, but smooth.  “I take it you designed it?”  

That warm smile returns.  “Yeah, I did,” Yang admits, and she rolls her sleeve up to her elbow.  The prosthetic is sleek, but there’s a thousand images all painted onto the metal.  Sunflowers, roses, and lilacs all creep up and over her fingers to her palms, bright and abundant, before the blooms swirl into gleaming golden scales and, finally, crackling flames.  She’s never seen anything like it, and she can’t help but stare.  “Painting with my left hand is hell, though.”

“Well, you did an amazing job,” Blake says, forcing herself to wrench her eyes away from the breathing art to meet Yang’s eyes.

“I mean, if I’m gonna be wearing it all the time, it better be, you know?”  Yang shrugs, but she opens the notebook once more.  Her pencil appears from nowhere, and Yang starts sketching, her eyes on the page.  She looks up at Blake and smiles.  “You can keep reading, if you’d like.”

And she would’ve, but instead she says, “I thought you wanted me to pose for you.”  Yang’s jaw slackens, and Blake smiles to herself.  “Tell me what to do, artiste.”  

Yang laughs.  “Pick something comfortable for you,” Yang says.  “This can be my proper warm up.”  

Blake straightens her shoulders and leans her elbow onto the table before resting her chin on her hand.  She’s staring at Yang in this position, she realizes, but Yang just smiles again and resumes sketching.  Her pencil flies across the paper, sure and steady but light, and Yang looks up at her, but it’s different.  Her eyes are appraising now, still warm, but studying her.  Studying her like she’s a piece of art, like she’s something beautiful.

“I thought you said this was your warm up,” Blake says a few minutes later.  “This looks pretty intense to me.”

Yang shrugs, still looking down at her paper.  “You speak to me,” Yang says simply.  Blake’s stomach clenches.  “Maybe I’ve found my muse in you.”

“I’ve never believed in muses.”

The corner of Yang’s lip quirks up.  She’s so quick to smile.  “Well, I do,” Yang says.  Yang checks her watch, frowns, and looks up at her, and her eyes are soft.  “I gotta go, but if you’re ever around Sixth Street, I work on thirty-eighth.  You’ll know it when you see it.  Feel free to drop by to see the finished product.”

“Alright.”  She doesn’t address the offer, just lets it sit between them as Yang packs up.  “Have a nice day, Yang.”

But Yang rips out the first drawing and hands it to her with that bright smile.  “Just so you remember how I see you, Blake.”  Yang winks, and then she’s gone.  Blake swallows hard, her eyes unexpectedly hot, and she stares at the sketch.

When she gets home, she tapes it to the wall next to her bed before burrowing back under the covers and letting oblivion take her.

~~~

Blake tells herself that the bakery on Sixth is why she’s there, that she’s had a craving for their challah bread and the bakery’s bread closer to her apartment isn’t what she’s craving.  She tells herself that, but she still takes the long way to Sixth and walks around so she’s on the higher end of stress addresses.  The apartments here are nice and made of bricks, colorful and inviting.  Perfect for Yang.

But thirty-eight takes the cake.  There’s a mural on the bricks, and it’s a collision of paint and color and wonder.  Even in the overcast day, Blake’s eyes can’t get enough of it.  She instinctively knows Yang did it, and a smile tugs at her lips before she can stop it.  

She bites her lip, but she can’t stop herself from walking up the stairs to the door.  Blake knocks, and she hears a voice within call, “One sec!”  Her heart skips a beat, and her hands bunch into fists.  This was a bad idea.  This was a very, very bad idea.

But the door opens, and Yang is there.  She’s in a tank top and paint-speckled jeans and her long blonde hair is tied up in a ponytail.  Blake weakly waves, and Yang just grins at her.  “I’m happy you’re here,” Yang says, holding the door open.  “Wanna come in?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” she says, trailing off, but she still steps through the door.  “Should I take my shoes off?”

“Whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

Blake looks down to Yang’s bare feet and slips out of her shoes, all too aware of her pastel lemon-patterned socks.  But Yang doesn’t even give her or her feet a second glance before ducking deeper into the apartment, and Blake’s stomach clenches.  

This is a bad idea.  This is a very, very bad idea.

But she follows Yang deeper into the house, and with every step she has to stop and stare.  Art is everywhere, but she can tell it’s not just Yang’s.  There’s monochrome paintings and stunning glossy photographs and sketches done in smeared charcoal over every square inch, and Blake wonders what it must be like in Yang’s mind, what it’s like to see beauty everywhere she looks.  

Yang leads her through a small kitchenette and into the real show.  There’s canvases everywhere, leaning against the walls and blank and ready to be painted, in all sizes.  The easel is already set up with wet paint.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Blake says, biting her lip.

Yang waves her off and tosses her a bottle of water, which Blake manages to catch somehow.  “You’re not, trust me,” Yang says.  “This can wait.”  Yang takes the canvas off the easel and smiles at her.  “So, you here to pose or to see what I did with the sketches?”

“Both, I guess.”

Yang laughs and grabs a smaller canvas, carefully handing it over to her.  “Take a look.”

It’s of Blake’s hands, the paint thick and chunky but somehow creates an incredibly smooth picture despite the obvious physical texture.  Her hands seem delicate but sturdy, like Yang had snapped a photo of her in movement, acting with purpose and surety and certainty.  Her hands have been painted with light haloing around them, a soft buttery gold that warms the icy blue background.  Like she’s a saint.  Like she’s capable of being a blessing, of blessing someone.  Like she’s good.  

Her fingers hover over the smooth whirls of paint that seem to arch off the canvas and beg her to touch them, to feel what she imagines is silky soft.  But she pulls her hand back, even if she doesn’t dare wrench her gaze away.  “Beautiful,” she whispers, her throat thick.  Yang even noticed the small scar on her right ring finger from a papercut that somehow left a pale scar and the freckle on the inside of her left index finger.  

“Thank you,” Yang says, and when Blake looks up, Yang is smiling.  “But this is just the start.”  Yang takes the painting from her hands and sets it back down before gesturing Blake over to a chair by the window.  “Here, just sit down here and look up or down, your choice!”  

Blake gives her a quizzical look, but she still sits down.  Yang’s hands hover around her but don’t ever touch her, something she appreciates.  The stool isn’t the most comfortable, but she quickly settles in a position.  “Is this what you’re looking for?” she asks as Yang settles behind her canvas.  She’s looking at the feet of the easel, but when she raises her eyes she can make eye contact with Yang.  

“You’re perfect.”  

~~~

Blake comes back the next day.  And the next day.  And the next day, and the next day, until she’s been by Yang’s every day for two weeks.

“You know, I need to pay you,” Yang says suddenly one afternoon.

“What?  Why?”

“I mean, you’re spending hours sitting in the same position.  You’re providing a service, the least I can do is pay you for it.”  

Blake shakes her head, her mouth dry.  “No,” she says.  “Please, don’t.”

“Are you sure?” Yang asks, her brow furrowing.  “I mean, like, I’m pretty sure it’s unethical to not compensate you for doing this.”

Blake doesn’t say that she doesn’t have anything else to do, doesn’t say that she enjoys Yang’s quiet and loud company, doesn’t say that this is better than laying in bed and gives her a reason to shower.  Instead, she says, “I don’t need the money.”  It’s true, she doesn’t.  When she sold the publishing house, she knew she would never have to work again, but, until a few months ago, she had still worked as an editor.  Coco sometimes still texted her asking if she wanted to read manuscripts, but Blake usually gave her a noncommittal response.  “And you buy me lunch, so call it even.”

Yang snorts.  “Lunch is the least I can do,” she says, but she’s picked up her paintbrush once more and resumed.  “Let me make you dinner one night.”  Blake opens her mouth to respond, but Yang keeps going before she can.  “I make a mean lasagna, and I always make too much, so you’d be doing me the favor.”

“Are you sure?” Blake asks.  She’s barely eaten anything besides pastries and readied meals for months, and the sound of a home-cooked meal makes her stomach rumble.  

“Yeah,” Yang says.  “Least I can do.”

“It’s really not,” Blake says.  Yang raises a brow, but she keeps painting, so Blake continues.  “You’re just nice, Yang.  Not everyone is as nice as you.”

“Well, I just want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated.”  Yang shrugs.  “And maybe a little better than that if I can, but seriously, Blake.  I don’t know who you hang out with, but you deserve nice things, and, dare I say, good things?”  Yang winks at her.  “You’re my muse.  I think I’m allowed to give you as much as you give me.”

“I just sit here,” Blake says, but Yang is already shaking her head.

“No, Blake.  You do so much more than that.”

~~~

Yang doesn’t show her any of the finished paintings after she sees the hands, but Blake knows she’s made several.  She doesn’t mind not knowing, even if it makes her stomach twist.  She wants to know what Yang sees, even if she doesn’t understand her perspective.  How Yang can see her as anything good.

“So, uh, I have to tell you something,” Yang says one night after dinner, scratching the back of her neck.

Blake freezes up, but she nods.  “Shoot.”  She’s sick of you, she doesn’t want you, she’s done with you.

“Well, um, tomorrow is my mom’s birthday, and I won’t be around until after lunch.”

“Yeah, of course,” Blake says, her shoulders sagging.  She’s washing the dishes, which Yang always protests her doing, but she still manages to get in there before Yang can.  It’s the least she can do.  “Is your family doing anything?”

“Not really.  My, well, my mom died a couple years ago.”  Blake stills, but Yang keeps talking.  “And my sister is with my dad, but I got class in the morning, and I didn’t want to cancel.”

Blake pauses, setting the dish down on the drying rack.  “Do you want to do something?” she asks.  “Something for her?”

“Well, I usually get dinner at her old favorite restaurant here with my family or some friends, but I was thinking we can meet here and-”

“You should do that.  Go out to dinner, I mean.  Don’t- don’t feel obligated to hang out with me.”

“Obligated?” Yang repeats.  “Blake, I do this because I want to.  I want to be around you.”  Yang’s voice wavers.  “Do you not want to be around me?”

“No, I do, I just-”  Blake sighs, rubbing her forehead.  “I don’t want to be a burden for you on a day like that.  And you should see your friends.”

Yang is quiet for a moment.  “Well, maybe I am,” she says carefully.

Blake turns around.  “We’re friends?” she asks.

“Well, yeah.”  Yang shrugs.  “Unless you don’t wanna be friends, I mean.”

“No, I do!  I really do, Yang.”  She clears her throat and averts her gaze.  “How about we go out to dinner?  Celebrate her life and her wonderful daughter.”

Yang laughs, but the sound cracks briefly.  “I’d like that.”

“Then tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”

~~~

“No painting today?” Blake asks, slipping off her shoes as she enters Yang’s.  Yang is wearing a jumpsuit the same color as her eyes, and there’s golden earrings cascading down onto her shoulders.  She looks fancy.  She looks good, and Blake can’t take her eyes off of her.

“Nope,” Yang says, smiling.  “I wanna show you something.”

“Alright?”

Yang leads her to the upstairs with the actual kitchen and living room, spaces she’s practically lived in for the past few months.  There’s a laptop open, which Yang silently slides to her.  Blake raises her brows, but she reads the article title, and her heart stops.

“It’s not published yet,” Yang says, the words distant.  “I wanted to surprise you but show you first.”

XIAO LONG’S ANGEL the title reads, and Blake silently scrolls through the unpublished article.  There’s pictures of paintings, and she instantly knows they’re the paintings Yang did of her.  

There’s none of her face.  Nothing that could identify her.  But there’s more of her hands, reaching and praying and receiving.  There’s her silhouette in golden light, and she seems to be breathing and moving.  There’s her bare shoulders and back, and there’s sharp golden shards of wings growing from her body.  There’s her mouth curled in a smile and soft and shining, pink and rosy.  There’s her dark hair cascading down her back as she reaches for something out of frame.

Pieces of her, and not.  This isn’t her.  She’s too broken to be this beautiful.

“Blake?” Yang asks, and that bright smile fades.  

Blake wrenches her gaze from the laptop and stares down at her hands, her eyes hot.  She’s not that, she can never be that.  “That’s not me,” she says hoarsely, her voice shaking.  “That’s not me, Yang.”

“It’s how I see you,” Yang says, her words a burning balm.  “It’s you, Blake.”

Her throat closes up.  “I’m not-”

“You are beautiful,” Yang says firmly.  “You are beautiful and kind and amazing.  And this is how I see you.”  Yang hesitates, but she hands Blake a wrapped box.  Her stomach turns, but she can’t stop herself from opening it with shaking hands.

A broken sob leaves her mouth.  It’s her eyes.  

Blake sets the canvas on the counter and closes her eyes, trying to breathe.  “You don’t know me,” she says, and her voice cracks.  “I’m not this person you see.”

Yang cups her face and leans down to look her in the eyes.  “You are,” she says.  “You are.”  Her eyes dart to her lips, and Blake’s face flushes.  “You are beautiful, and kind, and amazing,” Yang repeats.  Her mouth parts.  “And you are worthy, Blake.”  Yang thumbs away a tear on her face and smiles sadly.  “I just want you to see yourself the way I see you.”

“Yang-”  She cuts herself off with a shaky breath.  Instead of speaking, she leans into Yang’s touch.  Her hands are soft but calloused with her work, but, most importantly, they’re Yang’s hands.  “I don’t deserve you,” she whispers, but she still reaches back for Yang.

Yang smiles, and there’s tears in her lilac eyes too.  “Yes, you do.”

She isn’t sure which one of them leans forward, if one or both of them do, but Yang’s mouth is on hers, and she can’t think.  She doesn’t want to think beyond Yang.  So Blake keeps her eyes closed and kisses her back, her hands grabbing onto Yang and not letting go.

Blake doesn’t deserve Yang.  But Yang thinks she does, and maybe that can be enough.  Maybe that will be enough, and Blake can love her.  She doesn’t know, and there’s no way to know.  But for the first time in months, in almost a year, she feels hope being sketched into her chest.  

#rwby #bumbleby #my writing #answered prompt

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Reoccurring Nightmare- Prompt Fill

cw for exhaustion, anxiety, crying

Send me more prompts!  (Bingo by @celosiaa​) The ones with stars are the ones I already have prompts for, the crossed out ones are the ones I have posted! Send me a character, a prompt, and tell me if you want an art or a fic!!!!!! I am captaincravatthecapricious on tumblr!

There is a knocking in his ears.  At his door.  On his person.  On the inside of his skull.  The knocking in his chest.  His heart trying to get out of him.  Anxiety?  Mirroring the knocking on his door for two weeks.  Knocking that should have been Tim or Sasha or Jon.  

Every night the same.  Every night on a passible cot.  In this cramped little room.  Variations on the same theme.  The knocking in his head… in his memory shaking him for the same dream.  Leaving him bleary and only the slightest bit alive during the day.  Turning the past… month?  Into nothing but a sleep deprived blur.  Days having no meaning when nights don’t bring rest.  When there is no daylight, and few meals.  He isn’t hungry because all he can think about is that damp, decaying smell.  Of earth and compost and rot.  Gone past the restless hunger of exhaustion, and straight into the churning nausea of trying to stay conscious.  

His handwriting is worse than it ever has been.  Nodding off at his desk.  The notes he is taking turning into cryptic squiggles as the words blur before his eyes.  

He’s been trying to listen to Jon tell him something for the past 15 minutes, but he has no idea what.  His eyes keep sliding shut and his neck is getting sore from jerking as he tries not to fall asleep.  

“Martin?”  That would be Jon, right?  Yes.  Jon is right in front of him.  It would make sense if it were Jon.  Right?  Right?  Right?  Is he even at his desk?  Is he still backed against the wall at, in his flat?  Spare cloth shoved under every crack?  Duct tape and packing tape and linens and clothes?  Keeping them out?  But the knocking continuing?  Or is that his heartbeat?  

Jon is getting a little alarmed by Martin.  Martin had looked… rough when he burst into his office, weeks ago now.  But he isn’t looking better.  Jon watches Martin repeatedly fall asleep as Jon tries to express his growing… concern about Martin’s current state.  

Jon wrings his hands nervously for a few seconds before stopping himself.  He clenches his hands into fists by his sides to stop his fidgeting.  “Martin…. Are… are you all right?”  Stupid.  Stupid.  Stupid.  Of course he isn’t.  The man is falling asleep at his desk.  He isn’t alright.  

This jerks Martin awake again.  

“Fine  I’m fine!”  Martin’s voice has jumped an octave and breaks halfway through.  

Jon clears his throat.  He really hasn’t planned out what to do next.  What did he even think he could accomplish here?  He could get Martin to the cot, but as far as Jon knows, Martin has spent a lot of time there.  Jon has been keeping later and later hours since Martin got back, and has tried to keep an eye on Martin.  

He needs to do something.  

How did he not get suspicious?  

He should have checked in on Martin.  14 nights.  14 nights he spent sleeping or... trying to sleep... or to be fair about 10 nights sleeping, and 4 nights failing to and working instead... in any case he wasn't there!  He has to do something this time.  He failed last time.  He should have been a better boss.  He should have been less of a right ass.  

"Martin, I have to request that we continue this conversation once you have gotten some rest.  Please."

Well that probably wasn't helpful.  Especially because Martin looks slightly panicked now.  

"It's fine, Jon really.  I'm fine.  I'll just... I'll just get back to this..."  Martin glances down as if checking what he is actually supposed to be working on.  "Followup.  I'll have it for you in an hour, yeah?  I'll bring you tea?"  

Jon pulls a face.  This is not what he was getting at.  "Martin I want you to get some rest so you don't collapse, you can worry about that later so I don't have to redo everything because you aren't awake enough to do it properly."  Well... he got a sentence out, but it wasn't as... kind as he had hoped it would come out.  

Martin's face falls.  "right ...yeah.  Sorry."  Martin makes no move to get up.  

Jon is half afraid that he will just give up and sleep at his desk, which Jon can reliably report is not good for the spine.  And Jon does not have the means to lift Martin, nor does he want to break the touch barrier.  He doesn't know Martin well enough for that.  It had taken him months to get there with Tim.  Maybe Tim could carry Martin... but that is all the farther he get with that thought before Martin bursts into tears.  Which Jon honestly finds even more alarming.  

Jon prefers to do his crying far far away from prying eyes.  The idea of being comforted sounds both very nice and very uncomfortable and if anyone were to catch him crying at work, he would very much prefer they simply pretended nothing was going on. 

Right.  Martin.  

Jon nudges Martin's box of tissues a little closer and just... stands there, staring off just above Martin's head.  What else is he supposed to do?  He could bring him water, but that acknowledges that Martin is crying, which Martin might not appreciate?  Then again, Jon doesn't know what Martin likes.  Would it betray his trust to go and fetch Tim?  Or Sasha?  Or hell even Rosie would be better equipped to handle this.  Jon doesn't know shit about comforting people.  He is half convinced that that is part of the reason Georgie broke up with him.  

He turns on his heal and retrieves water and some biscuits for Martin.  It isn't tea, but Jon has no clue how Martin takes his tea and doesn't want to leave for too long.  Maybe he can shield Martin from the others if they actually come back from lunch on time.  Which ....Jon doubts.  

Martin is doing his best to dry his eyes with minimal success, when Jon returns.  Jon sets the water in front of him and nudges the biscuits in line with the water.  

Jon clears his throat.  "Would you like to be left alone or would you... like a hug?'  

Martin snorts at the clear awkwardness laced in the word "hug."  It's a damp sound.  "Not if you say it like that, Jon.  I'm fine.  I'll just... wash my face and get back to work."

"Martin, please I... you need to rest.  Not just for your work, that was supposed to be a... Martin I am actually worried about you.  Please go and get some rest."

Martin whines slightly and then flushes at the idea that he made such an embarrassing sound.  At least, Jon presumes that is why he flushes.  

He is clearly embarrassed enough to give it up and go to the cot because Martin gets up and heads in that direction.  Muttering a teary, "fine," as he leaves.  

Jon is jolted out of his work by screaming.  He follows it towards Martin's room, heart hammering loud enough to make him dizzy.  "Martin!"  He bursts in without knocking.  And Martin is...

curled up on the cot... looking even more tired and embarrassed.  

"Sorry," he mumbles, having come awake with his own scream, Jon presumes.  Or perhaps when Jon entered. "Nightmares.  I'm fine.  Go back to work.  Or better yet You take a nap."  

The last part was in a sharper tone then Jon is used to from Martin.  

"I'm fine," Jon echos.  Defensive.  He is.  Mostly.  True he's been pulling some ridiculous hours, but that is for Martin.  He needs to help.  He needs to try to understand what is happening.  "Martin, is there anything I can do?"

"No.  Jon.  It's fine.  Go back to work.  I'll have a lie down and then I'll get back to work."

"Would... would company help?  I... I could take a lie down on the floor?  And then you... wouldn't be alone?"

Silence falls heavily.  Jon is worried he has overstepped.  Wouldn't that be just like him?  Make Martin feel worse.  Just like he always does.  

Adrenaline from earlier getting recycled into guilt.  His hands are prickling with anxiety.  He tries to shake them out subtly.  

Martin is staring at Jon's feet.  Or rather at the floor next to them, and has gone a bit red.  

"Look, Jon, I don't want you to sleep on the floor."

"It's fine.  Better than my desk.  It will likely be the best sleep I've gotten in a while.  Think of it as a benefit to me.  ...I... I understand not sleeping well."  Jon also stares at the floor.  He distantly wonders if they are staring at the same spot.  An indirect staring contest.  Indirect like everything Jon does.  Everything just to the left of what he means.  He scuffs his foot on the floor.  

Martin scoots until he is pressed to the wall, and pointedly doesn't look at Jon as he pats the cot next to him.  

Holding himself stiffly, Jon toes off his shoes and folds his jacket, and stretch himself next to Martin on the too-narrow cot.  

Hardly five minutes later, they are both are in an uneasy sleep.  But it is an improvement.  

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #nightmares #exhaustion #crying #pre jonmartin #tma #fic #words #my words #art #my art #prompt fill #anon

[psycho-slytherin]

Strangers ch. 44

You begin moving on, but Yoongi is stuck.

Pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Actress!Reader

Word count: 1.6k

Genre: fluff, angst, idk

Warnings: Strong language, I think that’s it?

|mlist|

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“Idiot. What were you thinking?”

“Oh, come on. Look, it all worked out, right?”

“This wasn’t part of the plan! Now everyone knows who you are!”

“They were gonna find out anyways. I just used it to my advantage.”

“Don’t you realize how careful we have to be?”

“You. I’m safe.”

“Have you forgotten our goal? We need to destroy her.”

“Yeah, but that was so he’d be safe. Haven’t we already won?”

“Not yet. But we will.”

~~~

“C’mon, D. I know you’ve got something for me.”

“Look, man-” D huffs in frustration. “I’m sorry, but ain’t the girl you’re trying to track down dead? It’s been a good month.”

“She’s alive.” Unless the photo is old, or doctored.

“Her phone hasn’t been on in any sorta way since the day she texted your girl. I’m tryin’ to locate her but I’m hitting a lotta dead ends.”

Yoongi bites his lip anxiously. Lisa is the only hold Seoyeon has over him– and the only proof he has that she’s a criminal. If he can find Lisa, Seoyeon won’t have any more leverage and Yoongi will be able to turn her over to the police. He’ll explain everything to Y/n, and finally be set free.

But he can’t do any of that until he has Lisa. 

“Yo, Gloss, hit me with that image description again?” D says over the phone. Yoongi can hear a mouse click several times as he closes his eyes, focusing on the photo in his memory. If only Seoyeon had sent it to him instead of just showing him, it might be easier.

“The walls were white. She was barefoot– her hair was short. Her hands and feet were tied.”

“What sort of knot?”

Yoongi clicks his tongue, thinking hard. “I- I can’t remember. It looked tight, the rope was pressing into her wrists.”

“That’s an oof. Did she look skinny, like she hadn’t been eating?”

“I don’t know, I can’t compare. I never met her in person, I only saw Y/n’s pictures of her.” Yoongi clenches his fist, frustrated that he’s so useless.

“Hey, hey, chill, man. We’ll find her. Now, what color were her hands?”

“Her hands? Uh… skin-colored?”

“Huh.” D pauses– Yoongi’s barely used to hearing his friend not talk.

“What?”

“I mean, you said the knots were tight. You’d think it would cut off her circulation.”

“Fuck, dude, I don’t know. Maybe I wasn’t looking. How is this going to help us find her?”

“I mean, I can already tell you that she’s probably not at Seoyeon’s place. There’s no way this chick can keep Lisa at her house without her family finding out, that shit’s just one story.”

“You’re kidding, she lives with her family?”

“Bruh. If she was stalking you enough to get away with what she’s done, do you really think she’d be able to keep a good enough job to afford that place? Nah, man, she lives with her folks and a sister.”

“We don’t know that she was stalking me.” 

“How else did she find Y/n outside of the hospital, then? You tell me.” 

Yoongi falls silent. He doesn’t want to dwell on the possibility that he so directly put Y/n into danger– it’s too destructive a thought. “Whatever. D, I really need you on this. The authorities have been useless.”

D sniggers. “Ain’t that the truth. Look, I’ve got an alert on her number and socials. If she so much as turns her phone on, or tries posting from another device, I’ll know.”

“Thanks, you’re the best.”

“Yeah, whatever, you owe me a collab.”

Yoongi grins. “Deal.” After hanging up, he sighs, leaning back in his chair. He’s been spending as much time as he can this week in his studio. Even the other members and their antics can’t lift his spirits, not when he has to answer Seoyeon’s constant summons for yet another photo op. And while he’s got her hanging onto his arm, Yoongi can think of nothing other than Y/n. 

He remembers how angry he was when he found out that you’d been an ARMY all along. It seems like ages ago, and yet the sense of betrayal is fresh in his mind. He can only imagine how you’re feeling now… 

~~~

“Miss L/n?”

You stand, taking the well-dressed man’s offered hand. “That’s me, hi.”

“Nice to meet you, you can call me Mr. Park. So, Avery Lee messaged me saying you’re looking to join our agency?”

You nod, fidgeting with the sleeve of your heavy coat. “Yes, until recently– well, I guess you could say I had a freelance manager. I can’t work with her anymore, and Avery said I should sign with an agency.”

“She’s right. Rising stars like you need guidance. So,” Mr. Park says, settling back into his plush leather chair and staring at you from across his desk. “Tell me about yourself. What makes you valuable to FYP Entertainment?”

You swallow. “I’m a third-year acting major at Seoul Arts University. I’ve been an active member of the theatre club and improv club, and competed in Central Seoul’s Improv Showdown twice. I was a featured extra in BTS’s Possible music video. I’ve modeled in Premier Bride Korea and for Beauty of the Seoul’s lipstick line. I recently appeared in a cologne commercial for Fierce, and I was an extra in Medicine of the Heart, a medical drama. Most notably, I play Kim Ji-Woo, a recurring character, alongside BTS’s Suga in Moon Over the Sea.”

Mr. Park rubs his chin. “That’s a long list for a pretty actress who’s never belonged to an agency. And I see an overlap– how familiar are you with Bangtan’s members?”

You fight the urge to laugh; has he not seen the tabloids? “Quite- quite familiar. We’re friends.”

“Just friends?” Mr. Park leans back. “I’ll be honest, Miss L/n, right now the only reason anyone knows your name is as Suga’s ex-girlfriend. Taking you on would be a gamble, and one I’m not sure would pay off for us. I need to know that you’re more than just a scandal– that you’ve got real talent.”

You inhale sharply, but instead of the overwhelming nervousness you were expecting, you feel only determination. They can’t hurt you anymore. “I’m talented. I’m experienced. And I’ll put in the work, sir– I always do. My relationship with Yoongi had no influence over either of my related jobs; I was scouted for the Possible video at a cafe, and Kim Seokjin was the original casting choice for Moon Over the Sea. I can’t deny that knowing Yoongi has helped my popularity, but I got my work, all of it, on my own. Sir.”

Mr. Park stares at you for a long while. “How are your grades?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“You said you’re a student. How have you been doing in classes? I mean, all this work must keep you from school.”

“Fine,” you say hurriedly. “I, uh, haven’t let it interfere with my degree. I’m very efficient at multitasking.” A little white lie can’t hurt. You’re leaving to film in two days, you’ll check in with your professors tomorrow to make sure you’re good to go.

“That’s very admirable,” Mr. Park says. “And reassuring to hear. We like knowing our clients have the qualifications to continue in the workforce after retiring from entertainment.”

You nod, suddenly shivering at a chill you know isn’t real. 

“Well, I’ve received a glowing recommendation from Avery Lee, who’s worked with us for years. You certainly have more experience than many of our new stars. And a connection, even one like yours, with a group as big as BTS could help you go far. If you, as you said, ‘put in the work’,” Mr. Park smiles briefly. “Then I’d be willing to make this particular gamble, Miss L/n. Will you sign with FYP Entertainment?”

“I-” Yes! “I’d have to look at the contract first, Mr. Park. I’m sure we can negotiate a good outcome, and I’m very optimistic about my future with this agency.”

Mr. Park chuckles. “I see you know how to play the game. Your email is on the form you gave to my assistant– I’ll have her send you the contract today. And, Y/n?”

“Yes?”

“I’d stay in touch with those boys– maybe not Yoongi, if your relationship ended badly, but… They have more power than any of us know. If you really want to get big, stick with BTS.”

You furrow your brow. Now that you think about it, it’s been a minute since your last dinner together– after all, you were meant to see them on the night you found out about Lisa’s disappearance. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

When you leave the office, you pull out your phone and call Hoseok.

“Yyyyyyellow?”

“Hobi, it’s me.”

“Y/n?” Hoseok’s voice changes. “Uh, what can I do for you?”

“Listen, I was wondering if you wanted to have a Bangtan plus-one dinner again? It’s been a while.” 

“Yeah, um… What about Yoongi hyung?”

You feel a vague burning inside your chest. “He’s invited too, if he’s not busy with his new girlfriend. Our relationship was fake, remember?”

“Ah, yeah, right. How about tonight, then? Come over, Seokjin hyung’s making a souffle for dessert. We can hit a few clubs later? There’s some that are VIP enough that we can be safe.”

You laugh; Hoseok is so good at making you feel relaxed. Still, you don’t know if you’re hoping Yoongi does or doesn’t show. Either way– “That sounds excellent. See you tonight!”

~~~

"What do you want?” Yoongi growls into his phone.

“Don’t sound so grumpy, sweetheart.” Seoyeon’s voice in his ear is like poison. “I just wanted to let you know we’re going out tonight.”

“I have plans.”

Seoyeon giggles, far too happily for such a sadist. “Oh, but Suga-bear, you don’t have a choice! Let’s meet at Club Xyon at ten, okay?”

“I hate you.”

“You’re so silly! See you then. Oh,” Seoyeon’s voice turns dark. “And don’t forget what happens if you don’t show.”

A/N tysm for reading!!! <3

#bts #bts au #bangtan #suga #yoongi #min yoongi #bts suga #bts yoongi #fluff #bts fluff #bts angst #bts drabble #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #yoongi drabble #yoongi au #idol!au #actress!au #yoongi x reader #idol!yoongi x reader #bts fanfiction #yoongi fanfiction #bts fic #yoongi fic #suga fic #angst #suga au #stl #ftl

[shmisolo]

For Anyone Looking for Not-Super-Angsty-Stuff

I’m compiling mine (or at least the less-angsty stuff) into one list for ya.  

Seen ✔️✔️ 

His lock screen has three texts from Rey on it:

Rey Wife: Babe I know you’re probably busy right now, but you sent that pic to the wrong chat. Rey Wife: Bennnnnnn Rey Wife: Call me when you’re done processing your trauma.

And then about ninety chats from the Skywalker Ranch WhatsApp thread.

--

In which Ben sends a picture to the wrong chat.

The Sweater Curse

She’s never made a sweater before, but she saw the pattern on Ravelry and who cares if she’s only made (lumpy) hats before—she has to try it.  She has to make it. She has to make it for Ben.

“You realize that Hannukah isn’t an important holiday, right?” Ben asks as she makes eye contact with him.  His eyes are big and brown and—at this moment—mildly annoyed.

“Really?  Is it a giant conspiracy theory?  Part of the war on Christmas?”

“More than you realize,” Ben says and for the life of her she can’t tell if he’s joking.  He does this thing sometimes that’s confusing—where he’ll say something that sounds mopey but is actually snarky and it disarms her every damn time.  “In any event, ugly Hanukkah sweaters definitely aren’t a thing the way ugly Christmas sweaters are.”

“Well, they are now,” Rey says firmly.  “I’m making you an ugly Hanukkah sweater.  Deal with it. And stop moving.”

it's you and me (i know it's our destiny) 

It’s just a kid’s game, he thinks when jealousy pangs in his heart. But it’s more than just a kid’s game.

It’s Pokémon.

It’s the only good thing in his life.

Shalom Rav!

In which Rey comes to terms realizing that she is attracted to the rabbi.

Apples and Honey

When Ben catches wind that his mother is planning to foist a potential girlfriend on him when he comes home for Rosh Hashanah, he takes matters into his own hands: specifically, he runs to Rey and asks her to pretend to be his girlfriend.

atlanta > all atlanta > community > missed connections

In which Rey meets a cosplayer at DragonCon. 

Two to Tango

Rey: I need to ask you something awkward. Ben: What’s up? Rey: Can I give you a blowjob? Please?

Bang for your Buck

“We ready?” he asks her, sounding huffy.

“Nice to meet you Ben, I’m just familiarizing myself with your training,” she replies.

“Ok, well I don’t have all day.”

“No, you have,” she checks her watch, “another hour.” Because of course he’d booked an extra long session. Bless that sweet, sweet overtime pay.

“And you’re sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks her and she glances up at him, sure that her eyes are flashing because that’s fucking rude. She’s a professional. Amilyn wouldn’t have hired her if she didn’t know what she’s doing, and just because he apparently thinks he’s the center of the universe doesn’t change that fact.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your bang for your buck,” she tells him icily.

A Picture's Worth

reyjay: hiya your art is amazing

reyjay: it’s a big ask but could you draw me for my art final tomorrow? i’m shit at drawing people and i can’t fail this. can you help?

He stares.

And stares.

And stares.

kyloren: is this some kind of a joke?

reyjay: no?? why??

kyloren: you’re asking me to help you cheat your exam, but you’re not even offering me money?

Forged

There are several reasons that Ben would never have dreamed he’d ever receive this text. The first is that he’d be invited to a Halloween party. The second is that he’d never in his life expected to be in a serious relationship, much less the sort of serious relationship where his partner would suggest matching Halloween costumes. And the last is that he is dating someone who’s show only and they’ve only almost murdered one another twice. Because he’s an A Song of Ice and Fire fan. He hates Game of Thrones.

(Not) Interested

We're bringing Speed Dating back to Space Battles Bonanza! Register online for one of our special Bonanza sessions of 15 three-minute dates so you’ll no longer have to look for love in a galaxy far far away. Choose from one of seven speed dating sessions, two of which are queer focused. If the Insurgents can blow up the Doom Moon in 11 minutes, let’s see if you can make a love connection in only three.

There’s a history of successful Speed Dating at Space Battles Bonanzas, with long-term couples, engagements and marriages now among the alumni.

--

In which Rey & Kylo meet at their fancon's speed dating.

do or do not (do the do)

In which Ben, in an effort to improve his stamina (look he's making progress, ok?) after reading some articles that he'll never be able to unread, receives some coaching (that he very much did not ask for).

(Very much did not ask for.)

A for... 

Rey’s seeing double by the time there’s food on her plate. Oh. There’s food on her plate. That’s good. That’s unexpected at this point. “Eat,” Ben tells her.

So she does. It tastes good. Very good. She likes this food a lot.

“I’ll make sure she knows,” Ben says.

Oh she’s at that point of drunk where she’s just saying things out loud instead of keeping them in her internal monologue.

“You are,” Ben says, looking very amused.

She hopes she doesn’t say anything embarrassing.

“I promise, you haven’t yet, but oh boy, I’m looking forward to this.”

She shoves food into her mouth to keep herself from thinking out loud about his dick in her ass at his mother’s Passover seder.

The Love Committee 

In which Rey, tired of her bad luck with dating apps and failed relationships, enlists her friends' help in determining who she should date next.

They take it a little too seriously.

💦💦💦💦 

In which Ben accidentally implies that he gets his cardio from having sex on national television.

You, Me, and He

When they say that Kylo's brain is in his groin, they're not far from the truth.

Alternatively,

In which Kylo Ren is his own penis.

and beyond 

“Please?”

For a moment, he thinks it will be like the first time, him begging, her crying and saying no and him not knowing how to protect his crushed heart.

But she doesn’t cry, she doesn’t say, “Please don’t go this way,” she doesn’t look horrified or disgusted. She just grabs him by the front of his shirt and tugs his lips down to hers before reaching down to cup his cock.

we decided not to kill the wolves (we wanted to be wolves)

A pack of wolves lives in the woods to the north of Raddus and as winter looms, they have their eyes set on Leia Organa’s stronghold. Rey may be new to Raddus, but she’s not about to do nothing while it may be in danger. And besides, Poe must be exaggerating about wolves the size of bears. She’s not afraid of monsters.

myosotis 

Ben picked the flowers for their wedding.

The Kitchen

Rey and Ben, hunting for their first house.

Investiture 

In which Ben goes to daven for his father’s yahrtzeit and manages to prove to himself once again that he is both a terrible person and a terrible Jew.

Oh and he sort of falls in love.

The Sweetest Thing 

A post-coital trip to Waffle House.

with you i shall play

And when it's dry and ready, then Ben's dick Rey shall play.

Everything to Prove

“The show,” he says. “It’s probably best if they don’t—if we don’t—”

And Rey follows his line of thought at once. For all the program is one that doesn’t seem melodramatic—the height of drama in previous seasons came from someone’s cake falling over and that was about it—she does not doubt that the producers and cameramen would leap at the opportunity to make there be something out of nothing in their relationship—especially if there was something out of something.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Yeah, probably. We can pick baking stations that are…” but she doesn’t want to complete the thought. She likes baking next to Ben.

“Or we can just be careful?” he suggests, sounding quite as pained by the prospect as Rey feels.

“Yeah, careful. I can do careful,” Rey says at once and her lips are on his again and he’s laughing now, and she’s laughing, and she didn’t think laughter would be part of all this. She didn’t think it could be. But here she is, laughing and kissing and holding a man who, at some point, she’s going to want to beat.

She does her best not to think of that now.

It’s a friendly competition, after all.

It’s not life and death.

It’s baking.

Brightblades 

In which Rey learns about a startling kink of her new boyfriend, and in which, much later, they roleplay it.

The Knotting Shop 

Ben realizes upon entering the shop that he had gotten the complete wrong impression from the name of it.

What the fuck sort of shop calls itself The Knotting Shop if it’s not about, well, knotting?

The answer, apparently, is a knitter with a sense of humor. An Omega, by the scent that seems to have landed in every colorful ball of yarn in the shop and which hits him right in the groin.

Let Go (Never Let Me Go) 

In which Rey swipes right on Ben, 35. Probably too much of an asshole for you, but my therapist is trying to convince me that assholes deserve love too, so here’s me on Tinder, and it does not proceed as she expects.

crossfade (cursed and blessed)

The Talmud states that on Purim one is to drink to the point of not knowing the difference between “cursed is Haman” and “blessed is Mordechai.” In other words, you’re supposed to get so blitzed you can’t tell your friends from your enemies. Rey and Ben might be taking this a little too literally at Leia’s annual Purim Party.

Kind Stranger

Ben stares at the text for a minute before opening up his computer and typing “+7793 area code” into his web search. Jakku. Of course he wouldn’t have recognized it. He confessed himself surprised to know that Jakku even had an area code. Did people still live in Jakku?

#kylothekiller 

It’s not the first time that Rey has seen Kylo pop up in her Fido stream, but it is the first time she’s clicked on him fast enough to be scheduled for a meet and greet with dog and owner on Saturday.

All Bets Are Off 

“Fake girlfriend. What does that even mean?” Ben asks her.

Rey rests a hand on his arm, feeling the muscles underneath his sleeve. “Babe,” she says, leaning close to him. “It means we pretend we’re madly in love. Think you can pull that off for your office pool?” Ben’s eyes flicker softly between each of hers and he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

#reylo #reylo fanfic #reylo fic

[yoon-kooks]

Witch Hazel- Pt.5

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: FanficWriter!Jungkook, Idol!Reader, College!AU, Angst, Fluff

Summary: There are two students in your art class with a secret: you and the quiet Jeon Jungkook. You’re a problematic idol singer, infamous for your ice cold reputation and perpetual resting bitch face; he’s the artist and author behind the viral comic series based on a certain ice queen idol. After a blowup of destructive rumors, lost motivation and inevitable solitude, you stumble upon Jungkook’s comic and find a new and unexpected light.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: none

Parts: 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // ?

-

“So are you in, Jimin?”

“I’m in,” he chuckles at your little proposal. His laugh retains its charm, even through the phone. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little jealous of that charming quality of his. “But can I ask you something, Snow?”

“Go for it.”

“Why me?”

“To prove a point,” you say. “You also have something to prove, right? Otherwise you wouldn’t have shown up at my concert that night despite being well aware of how the public and media would react.”

“Right… Sorry about that, by the way.” You hear the sorrow still beating him up in his lowered voice. It makes sense that he feels the need to blame himself for all the backlash you received, but he shouldn’t have to feel guilty when all he wanted was a little freedom as a normal human being and not as the perfect idol the world makes him out to be.

“It’s fine, Jimin. We may be glorified idols at the top of the industry, but there are a lot of things we have no control over.”

“True… Sometimes it seems like the only way to escape the judgment of the public eye is to hide behind a mask, huh.” Jimin sighs. “But we can’t always live like that either.”

“Exactly.”

After hanging up, you toss your phone aside and pick up your guitar.

-

On your way to class, you’ve made a habit of checking jk.seagull’s blog for any updates on Witch Hazel, and you’re delighted when you find this new text post:

“it’s not done yet, but I’m planning on posting a new chapter this afternoon after class!”

To celebrate the occasion, you stop by your local coffee shop to pick up a special mocha with extra whipped cream. You’re already late for class after failing to hear your five alarms this morning anyway. And besides, maybe you deserve a little pick-me-up after all the writing you’d done the night before. For once, you feel pretty good about the direction you’re headed in.

Not even a scolding by your professor could ruin your mood.

“Oh, Y/N. How nice of you to join us,” your professor motions for you to take your seat as soon as you step foot into the art room. “I was just talking about how certain students have not been taking this class seriously as of late.”

She glances directly at you, along with your tablemates, Taehyung and Jungkook. “Sorry,” you mouth with a lack of sincerity, before taking a long sip of your mocha.

“And because of that,” the professor continues, “I’ve decided to move up the due date of our portrait project to tomorrow.”

A collective groan fills the room from the entire class, with the exception of those few lucky bastards who’ve already completed their project early. Once the class is dismissed, the scramble to actually get shit done begins. Even Taehyung opts to stick around as opposed to his usual obligations, and that speaks volumes.

As soon as your team relocates to one of the empty art studios nearby, however, it’s apparent that no one is really vibing with this project.

“So… what’s the assignment again?” Taehyung scratches his head. As much as you’d love to scold the boy for his lack of awareness of anything happening in art class, you haven’t been in the proper mindset to give the project any thought either.

“Something about drawing ourselves based on how others perceive us?” Jungkook yawns. “Or was it drawing each other’s portrait?”

“The first one, I think,” you say. “It doesn’t really make a difference when Jungkook’s gonna end up drawing Taehyung’s portion anyway.”

“True,” the boys say together. If there’s one thing you’ve learned from your art class shenanigans, it’s that the more you get to know someone, the easier it is to understand them and their actions—even if they’re completely different from you like Taehyung.

“If that’s the case, let’s hurry up and let each other know how we perceive one another. I have a doubleheader later on that I’d really hate to miss,” Taehyung nods in satisfaction at his clever wording for what you presume to be back-to-back one night stands. “I’ll start: Y/N, there’s not much I know about you besides the fact that you’re unfriendly, but I think that’s intentional. Like you’re hiding a dark secret or something. Jungkook, if you weren’t so shy, I’m sure you’d get laid more often.”

“Let’s not sugarcoat anything,” you roll your eyes. “I would say you, Taehyung, abuse your charm to get what you want. You use sleeping around as an excuse to avoid responsibility. And you embrace it because you fear that that’s the only thing people will ever acknowledge you for.”

“I’m not usually a masochist, but I kind of like it when you roast me like that, Y/N,” Taehyung shrugs it off, though you know you’ve hit the mark. Everyone has a poker face, and Kim Taehyung is no exception. To take the attention off of himself, he throws an arm around his favorite art buddy. “Roast this guy next.”

You glance over at Jungkook who’s in the midst of adding to your roast on Taehyung. It’s interesting to see how differently he acts with Taehyung, with you, and with everyone else. The more he knows someone, the less he withholds. If he knew you more, you wonder what he’d tell you. “I agree that if Jungkook weren’t so shy, there’d be more potential for a lot of things, but-”

Buzz! Taehyung looks down at his phone. “Well, that’s my cue. Jungkook, Y/N, you know what to do~”

“Have fun at your doubleheader,” you wave off your incompetent teammate until he’s out of sight. “Should we be enabling him like this?”

“Probably not. But even I can’t say no to that charm of his.” Jungkook sighs as he pulls out a blank sheet of bristol paper. In what feels like an instant, several dots and lines transform into a general outline of Taehyung’s face. “I’m surprised you haven’t fallen for his charm yet… unless…?”

“Look, I get the appeal of a smoothtalker who walks with confidence, but Taehyung really isn’t my type,” you laugh.

“Still, I’m a little envious of him.” Jungkook draws Taehyung a nice and natural wink. “Because he isn’t afraid to chase after what he wants.”

You want to tell the boy that he should chase after whatever it is he wants, but you know that’s easier said than done. After all, you know exactly how it feels to take that leap of faith, only to fall short before reaching the dream you so desired. So all you can do is nod and start working on your own portrait.

For about five whole minutes, you try to sketch out a decent upside-down egg shape for your head, but it always comes out a little lopsided or rough around the edges. Once you’ve got a little mountain of eraser shaving piling up, you decide it’s time to sneak a peek at Jungkook’s sketch to get an idea of how a well-seasoned artist draws a proper face.

What you see instead, however, is the boy staring back at your mountain of eraser shavings. You swear you hear a little pft come out of his mouth. The nerve.

“Hold your pencil like this,” he says, holding his own pencil with his pinky sticking out.

You replicate his grip, wiggling the pinky. “Is this some sort of weird pinky promise that artists do?”

Before Jungkook can even respond, your pinky is already linked to his. Funny how his finger curled around yours as if it were the most normal thing to do, but his burning cheeks say otherwise. You might’ve jumped the gun on this one.

After blinking at the empty pinky promise for a good three seconds, the boy finally lets go. “Use that pinky to steady your hand as you sketch.”

“Oh… right…” You feel a wildfire spreading across your own cheeks. Your dumbass somehow misinterpreted a drawing technique for something as childish as a pinky promise! Whether it’s because you’re flustered or just shitty at art, you fumble around to get your pencil on the paper. “…How do I do it again?”

Rather than trying to explain or demonstrate it to you, Jungkook motions for you to come closer. So you do. He takes your hand and individually sets each finger onto your pencil like a guitar teacher helping their student find the right chord position.

You’re pleasantly surprised by how gentle his touch is. Rather than forcing your fingers to conform to the conventional ways of an artist, he gives them the little push they need to find their own place along the length of the pencil—wherever is most comfortable for you.

Once you’ve got a good grip, Jungkook guides your pencil back to the canvas with your pinky just barely touching the drawing surface. “Now try drawing the outline of your face again.”

You do as you’re told and see immediate results. Although it’s not a perfect egg, your lines are noticeably smoother as if your skin had just been cleared. Jungkook gives you and your improved egg a thumbs-up, which you return with a thumbs-up of your own.

As you both resume your portraits, you can’t help but wonder if it was the tiny adjustment of how you held your pencil that made the difference. Or if it was Jeon Jungkook himself. You suppose only time will tell.

Several hours later, Jungkook has finished Taehyung’s portrait, you still need to color yours in, and an announcement goes off through the intercom.

“Due to the art auction charity event tonight, this building will be closing in ten minutes. Thank you.”

You groan. This is the worst case scenario for your damn group project. Because if you’re kicked out of the studio, you won’t have access to all of the necessary art supplies.

Unless…?

You exchange glances with the most devoted artist you know.

-

Jungkook’s apartment is not exactly how you imagined a weeby Snow stan’s habitat to look. There’s not a trace of Snow, nor is there a hint of magic anime girls floating around. But the one thing you did correctly predict is the amount of art scattered across the boy’s room.

Everywhere you look, you’re blown away by something different from the last. A painted city landscape detailed enough to be mistaken for an actual photo, a busy abstract pattern that makes the little wheels in your head spin, the familiar animation booklet of the flower in the snow, and an interesting little doodle that doesn't seem to scream “college art project”.

You try to make sense of what appears to be the chaos that ensues when the worlds of mathematics and music collide. Half of the basic times tables chart is replaced with values represented by music notes. The math nerd in you laughs when you see that a sixteenth note is correctly placed where two quarter notes align. Similarly, the music sheet on the other side of the doodle has a time signature of “75%” aka ¾ time aka the rhythm of a waltz.

“How old were you when you drew this one?” You point to the artwork titled Math Musician written in tiny font at the bottom corner next to the boy’s initials.

Jungkook chuckles, probably out of embarrassment. “I think I was ten.”

“Imagine being a talented artist at age ten. Can’t relate,” you clown yourself as you pull out your unfinished portrait from your art bag. In addition to looking “unfriendly”, your drawn face is rather lifeless and more so demonic for some reason. Hopefully some color will bring more dimension and life back into your flesh.

Just then, you realize you’ve made a fatal mistake.

“Umm, Jungkook?” you continue to stare down at your mistake. “I forgot to factor in your opinion of me into my portrait and now I just look unfriendly like Taehyung said.”

Jungkook tilts his head to get a better look at your monstrosity. His reaction could go one of three ways: he could laugh and give you a hard time about it, he could help you find a solution, or he could do both.

“You definitely nailed the ‘unfriendly’ part,” he snickers. “The RBF is strong with this one.”

“So you agree that I’m unfriendly?” On one hand, that would be good because you won’t have to revise your portrait if Jungkook shares the same opinion as Taehyung. On the other hand, you don’t want Jungkook to have that opinion of you.

“Not necessarily,” he says. “I think if people looked beyond your unfriendly demeanor, they’d find someone very different.”

Before you can ask the boy to elaborate, he has already left and come back with the solution to your problem: fancy coloring markers.

“Since you already drew your appearance based on Taehyung’s opinion, you can color it in based on my opinion, if that makes it easier.” Jungkook hands you an assortment of markers, though a large portion of them are just different shades of one color in particular. Yellow.

Yellow was the last color you were expecting. You expected cooler and darker tones like blues or greys to match your ice queen personality. But yellow? Yellow, to you, has always meant bright and happy.

“Yellow is a happy color, isn’t it?” You start swatching each shade of yellow to see how they translate onto a white canvas. Your favorite shade out of the bunch is the soft pale one called Banana Milk, but that still doesn’t mean it suits you. To prove your point, you hold up your unfriendly demon portrait to your actual face and pout. “Do either of these faces look happy to you, Jungkook?”

“No, but they do look silly.” The boy cracks a smile at your humor. “In a good way.” The way he smiles so brightly plants a dangerous little seed in your head. Maybe the yellow is meant to represent not how he perceives your feelings, but rather, how he perceives his own feelings for you.

-

By the time evening comes, you’ve shaded in every inch of your canvas, completing your portion of the portrait project. You were right—the bright colors really did help bring life back into your face, and there’s less of a demonic aura about it now.

It also looks like one big contradiction: an unfriendly-looking face with a cheerful brightness around it. But that’s probably what Jungkook was referring to when he said you were very different beneath your unfriendly mask.

As you stretch out your arms and yawn, you peek over at the boy’s progress with his portrait. He stares down at his markers scattered across the floor, pushing his long locks out of his eyes, in search of his next color. From the small portion that he has colored so far, you notice a big difference between his portrait and yours. While your color scheme is bright and flashy like a star, Jungkook’s is soft and subtle to mimic his shy and lowkey personality.

“Use this,” you toss him the Banana Milk marker and pull a scrunchie off your wrist, “and this too.”

Jungkook places the pale yellow marker down right on the area he’ll color next. He doesn’t, however, know what to do with the foreign hair accessory in his palm. He just blinks at it.

With a dramatic sigh, you join the boy on the floor and take back the scrunchie. Like a puppy with long bangs poking its eyes, he lets you comb your fingers through his hair before tying a tiny sprout on top of his head.

“So this is what the world looks like,” he nods, as if his long hair had greatly hindered his view of the world in front of him. At the same time, he spots the finished product of your portrait. “Your self-portrait is a lot different from how I would draw you.”

“I would’ve appreciated a compliment for my hard work, but go ahead and insult me, Jeon.” You square up.

“Oh sorry. You did a phenomenal job, Y/N.” He doesn’t even try to put effort into masking his sarcasm as pity praise. But that’s expected in how he hasn’t missed a single opportunity to tease you and your shitty art. “It’s just interesting how differently others interpret us from how we interpret ourselves.”

Now you’re curious. “How would you draw me then?”

“You want to see?” Jungkook pushes his own portrait aside and starts digging around for a sketchbook with a blank page to spare. What possesses him to prioritize a drawing of you before his own portrait that’s due in less than 24 hours? You won’t allow that.

“I want to see it after our project is finished, please,” you pull his unfinished portrait back in front of him before making yourself comfy on the boy’s bed. “In the meantime, I’ll be reading you-know-what.”

“Smut?” The boy has a dirty mind, it seems.

“Unless Witch Hazel plans on getting a little smutty, no, I will not be reading smut.” With a hmph, you scroll through jk.seagull’s blog. “I wonder if the new chapter is posted yet.”

Jungkook, too, picks up his phone with wide eyes when he hears you say “new chapter”. Your hype and excitement around the fanfic must be rubbing off on him.

But unfortunately for you, there is no new post since the one you saw before class. You make a sad booboo face, but it isn’t the end of the world either. You’ll just have to reread the series from the beginning as you wait for either Witch Hazel to be updated or Jungkook to finish the project. Whichever happens first.

“Wait, I think the seagull guy just posted something.”

You’ve never jumped onto your phone so quick when Jungkook mentions the seagull guy. It isn’t a new chapter of Witch Hazel, but instead another small text post.

“sorry for not updating witch hazel today like i said i would!! i was bombarded with an unexpected art assignment;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;”

Your sad booboo face disappears. It seems you’re not the only one struggling to find balance between the arts and the need to satisfy others. “Isn’t it funny that he’s an art student too?”

“Haha, yeah…” Jungkook’s voice fades as he returns to his portrait.

“Maybe that’s why I like his work so much,” you say, clicking back to the very first chapter of Witch Hazel where Snow is helping out those who she had unintentionally scared away with her witchcraft. “He just gets it.”

“He gets what?”

With the biggest yawn, you shrug because you don’t really know how to put it into words. It just feels as though you and him think alike. And the thought of that is comforting enough to put you to rest until Jungkook finishes up the project.

“Y/N.” You hear things shuffling around in your half-asleep state. When you rise from mysterious pile of blankets on top of you, you see Jungkook putting his art supplies away and clearing space on the floor for him to camp out since you’ve apparently claimed his bed.

“Did you finish?” You check the time in the dimly lit room, and you’re shocked to see it’s past midnight.

“Yeah.” He pulls your scrunchie out of his hair and drops it into your palm. “Thank you for your service.”

“Keep it.” You slide the hair tie onto the boy’s wrist when you notice he looks a little different somehow. The hoodie he was wearing earlier is replaced with a plain white tee, and his torn jeans have become grey sweatpants. The unspoken reality of you stay over at the boy’s apartment is slowly becoming realized. “In exchange, I’d like to see how you’d draw me.”

“Already done,” he says, jogging to his desk and back to you with a page from his sketchbook in hand. “I drew you as a superhero.”

“What kind of superhero?” You kick the blankets off of you and reach for the drawing, but of fucking course, Jungkook pulls it back real quick just when you were about to snatch it. “Let me see!”

He keeps it hidden behind his back for a while until he gets a little too cocky and dangles it above where you’re sitting on the bed. It would be too predictable for you to reach for the hand with drawing in it, so you decide to aim for the other arm to trap him in.

But rather than latching onto his arm, you catch only a piece of the scrunchie around his wrist, causing you both to lose balance. Your back hits the soft bedding as you stare up into the eyes of the boy who just so happened to land on top of you. Aha, you finally figure out why he looked a little different after you woke up. No glasses, just his handsome brown eyes.

You’d give yourself a pat on the back for figuring that out if you weren’t distracted by the drawing of you as a “superhero”. You were expecting something tough like the Avengers or Sailor Moon or even Izuku Midoriya. But instead you see someone who looks very much like yourself with a guitar and yellow flower crown.

“That’s not a superhero,” you say quietly.

“There are people who would feel otherwise.” Jungkook plops down next to you on his stomach.

“Like who?”

“Like people you share your music with.”

You bite your lip before rolling off the bed to run and get something. When you hop back onto the bed, you drop a pencil into Jungkook’s hand make him hold it with his pinky out like he had shown you earlier. You do the same with another pencil and link your pinky to his once more.

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

#bts scenarios #bts fanfic #bts imagines #jungkook x reader #btsboulangerie #jungkook fanfic #bts angst #bts fluff #jungkook #bts #bangtan #witch hazel

[ancientwastedlores]

The Support System (Ch:2)

SUMMARY: The Avengers have managed to collect all the infinity stones across the universe, and are currently keeping them in far corners of the world, only for research and to see if they can improve the planet and its people. Reader is a researcher with Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, as well as a field agent. Loki is currently serving time for his actions in New York City in 2012.

A/N: Thank you for the love on the first chapter! You can find the same on AO3, if you prefer that. Let me know if you like this and I’ll keep posting more :) Also, should I start a tag list for this? I’m still navigating this platform, and I see many fic writers having a tag list for their fics. Anyway, enjoy! 

Chapter: 2/?

Warnings: N/A

Audience: general.

_______________________________________________________________________

Tony likes to hand out the agendas of the day to the Avengers personally. He jogs around the tower with a stack of papers, wearing his tracksuit and headphones, a habit Pepper encouraged, since he never actually leaves his lab to do anything physical.

He gently opens the door and places the sheet on a table placed right next to the door. That table is specifically for the agendas. You once threw your keys on it and Tony passive aggressively made a point of picking up your keys and placing them on the floor to place his sheet.

You’re still in bed with Loki, who is facing away from you and snoring lightly. Tony opens the door to place the sheet and notices two heads instead of one in your bed. He moves closer to see Loki, widens his eyes, and promptly runs out.

‘What?’ Nat asks, running past Tony, then stopping. ‘Loki!’ ‘In her room!?’ ‘Yes!’ ‘I…’ Nat is trying to peer in through the crack Tony left open. ‘Are you sure!?’ ‘Do YOU want to look?’ ‘No!’ Nat nearly shouts.

Tony shuts the door. ‘I’ll talk to her about it later’.

‘Good, I’m not going to’ Nat says, then places her headphones back and continues running.

xx

Around 8 AM, after Loki has left your room, you change into your field uniform and walk to the kitchen. The rest of the Avengers, including Loki, are in there, and the cook is making bacon and eggs.

‘Hi Samantha’ you greet the cook. She smiles back at you. You pour yourself a cup of coffee and Tony grabs your arm, making you nearly spill the coffee.

‘Hey man!’ you yell. ‘Please tell me you aren’t sleeping with Loki’ Tony hisses. ‘What… no! I’m not, let go of my arm!’ Tony lets go. ‘I saw him in your bed’. ‘Yeah, we just had a heart to heart about our past and fell asleep, it’s no big deal’. He narrows his eyes at you. ‘You confided in Loki about your past?’ ‘Well, him more than me’. ‘Uhuh’.

You raise an eyebrow at Tony. ‘It’s fine’ you assure him. He doesn’t believe you, which is clear in his face, but walks back to the dining table.

You grab a plate for yourself and get some fruit, eggs and bread. You take your seat at the table and join in on the conversation everyone’s having.

xx

‘Right’ you announce, walking into the lab with Bruce and Tony. ‘TODAY is the day we speak to Harry’. ‘Harry?’ Tony asks. ‘Yeah. The Reality Gem’. ‘You named the Reality Gem “Harry”?’ Bruce asks. ‘Yes. You know, the redheaded prince of England. And the Reality gem is Red’ you grin, proud of your name. They roll their eyes but laugh, and go to their respective workstations.

Doctor Strange had found a way to speak to the Time Stone, and provided everything he could for you to be able to do the same with the Reality stone. He had done everything save for actually coming down the lab, which he couldn’t because he had to be at the Sanctum Sanctorum. But you had gone through every single paper he sent, every theory you talked over, and every idea you shared. After a while, it was clear that the code to cracking all the stones wasn’t the same, and so you’d have to start from scratch for every stone.

Frustrating as it was, you did love a challenge.

‘Maybe we should just build a body around it like we did for Vision and let it literally speak to us’ you say, frustrated, a few hours later. 

‘We did consider that. We even have the technology for it, but we can’t have six people walking around with stones in their heads’ Tony says.

‘Oh, is THAT the problem?’ you chuckle. ‘Not the insane amount of power and resources it would take, not to mention how the costs outweigh the benefits’.

‘She’s right, it took Thor to open the cradle last time’. Bruce says. ‘And if we give the stones a body, it could do anything’.

‘At least the stones restrict movement’ you say.

‘I don’t think the lack of a body would stop the stones’ Tony says. ‘Besides. Strange got his to talk while it still sits in that necklace, so I’m sure we can work it out. Did you read through the papers he sent?’

‘I did’ you say. ‘Twice over, made some notes if you’d like to see’ you project the contents of your laptop onto a hologram before Tony. ‘We’ve tried it the few ways Strange suggested, but what he actually did is very particular to the Time Stone’.

‘Series of time loops and manipulations in the mirror dimension’ Tony reads. ‘We can’t do that, of course, we don’t even know how to use it’.

‘Can’t we take the reality stone into the mirror dimension?’ Bruce asks.

‘What then?’ you ask. ‘It was purely an accident that Stephen even managed to speak to the stone. He managed to reverse and study his actions somehow to write a paper’.

‘So we’re stuck in the lab, then’ Tony sighs, and turns to walk to his table.

‘Unless you just want to take it to the mirror dimension and just mess around with it’ you say, half-joking.

Tony stops in his tracks. He promptly turns back to face you. You see the look on his face and push the hologram aside. ‘Tony, you know I love a mystery, but I wouldn’t advice getting stuck in the mirror dimension with an Infinity Stone unless you REALLY know what you’re doing’.

‘Strange did it’ he scoffs. ‘Strange knows what he’s doing’ you say. ‘Are you saying Strange is smarter than I am!?’ Tony demands.

Oh dear.

‘I’m saying he knows more about this’ you walk back to your computer and pull up another paper he sent you and project it to a hologram. ‘Read that’ you highlight a line using your fingers. ‘The mirror dimension is linked to the dark dimension, playing around with an Infinity Stone without understanding how to use it could not only trap you in the mirror dimension, it could draw you into the dark dimension’ you swipe the hologram away. ‘And I hate to bring this up, but after New York, this should be the last thing you throw yourself into’.

Tony sighs. ‘You’re right, kid’.

You close the holograms and walk back to your desk. Tony’s still standing in the same spot though. You sit down and pull yourself close to the desk.

‘You’re smart’ Tony declares.

You smile at him.

‘So I can’t understand why the hell you’d spend the night with Loki’. ‘You did what?’ Bruce shouted. You glare at Tony. ‘THANKS’. ‘YOU SLEPT WITH LOKI!?’ Bruce’s voice is unnaturally high pitched. ‘I did no such thing, we were talking and fell asleep!’ you defend yourself. ‘Can we get back to the stones’. ‘Just…’ Tony leans over your table. ‘Promise me you won’t let this be a thing, he’s dangerous’. ‘Hey, I can take care of myself. And he’s more like you than you think’. ‘I take offense to that’ Tony says, without actually sounding or looking offended. ‘You don’t like being compared to a God?’ you ask teasingly.

Tony smirks. ‘You got me. I’m going back to work’ he finally turns away to sit at his desk. The three of you continue working.

xx

At last. The training room. You walk into the roomy glass cage that has an arsenal of knives, swords, spears, guns, and other alien weaponry lining the wall. You feel at home.

‘What we feeling like today?’ Natasha’s voice comes up behind you. ‘I’m feeling the katanas’ you say, your hands running over the colourful handles of the katanas.

Nat takes a pair for herself, and you take yours. ‘Hand to hand first’ Nat says. As is usual. You place the katanas in the harness strapped to your back and take your fighting stance.

Nat goes to punch you and you block it. Her other hand comes to chop at your neck, which you also manage to block by holding her wrist, then flipping her over so she lands on her back.

‘At least give me a challenge’ you tease. ‘Just getting your ego up so I can bring it crashing down’ she smiles, as she gets up. You know she’s not lying. ‘You’re terribly mean’ you say. You take your fighting stance once again.

Two hours later, after your session with Natasha ends, you place the Katanas back on the wall. ‘Can I take these on the extraction mission?’

‘You can take anything you want. Just don’t take too much, we don’t want to be weighed down’. ‘Right’ you look at the katanas. They really are gorgeous. ‘Where did we get these?’ ‘They used to be Lady Sif’s. She left them with S. H. I. E. L. D, and S. H. I. E. L. D gave it to Tony’.

You touch the handles again, which has some Norse story etched on it in gold and red tones. ‘They’re beautiful’.

‘They are’ Natasha agrees, unhooking her harness and placing it on the wall as well. ‘Do you know the story?’

You nod. You’ve grown up reading stories of Greek and Norse myths. ‘This scene is Odin stealing poetry from the Giants and flying back to Asgard with it’ you point at something in the handle. ‘That’s earth. As Odin was flying over Earth, some of the poetry spilled here, which is how we have the art form’.

You stare at the handle a while longer.

‘Do you have a thing going on with Loki?’ Natasha asks. ‘What! No! How many people has Tony told?’ ‘Just me. I happened to pass by when he left your agenda’. ‘Bruce knows too’. ‘Bruce!? Why?’ ‘Cuz Tony can’t shut up’ you say. ‘Does it bother you?’ ‘Him not shutting up or people knowing about it?’ ‘The second one’. ‘I don’t really care’ you shrug, knowing that it was inevitable, ‘But I know how silly rumours can affect people, so I wish people would stop spinning it like that for Loki’s sake’. ‘Right’ she nods, understanding. ‘I’ll make sure no one else knows’. ‘Thanks Nat’ you smile at her. ‘I have to shower and go back to the lab. Bye!’

‘Bye!’

xx

‘We’ve made progress!’ Tony yells at you as you walk back in.

‘That’s excellent!’ you know Tony is absolutely dying to tell you what he uncovered, but you aren’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling you immediately for outing your little sleepover to Bruce. ‘But you should eat first’.

‘Yeah yeah, listen to this, so Bruce said…’ ‘No, I literally meant eat first, talk later’.

Tony looks like you’ve just slapped him. ‘It’ll take a second’.

‘I won’t hear it until you’ve had something to eat’ you unwrap the falafels and shawarmas you got from the food truck downstairs.

He glares at you, grabs a falafel, takes the smallest bite and sets it back down again. ‘Now…’

‘Actually, I could eat too’ Bruce walks over to grab himself a shawarma, and proceeds to open the wrapper very, very slowly.

You grin at Tony. Understanding that there really is no way you will listen, he sits down to eat a proper meal.

After throwing away the wrappers, he comes and sits down next to you. ‘Bruce said it would be so funny if we got Vision to talk to it like it’s his cousin, and I got an idea’.

‘Okay?’ ‘They’re family!’ ‘Ohana’ you say, still chewing and looking at him with dead seriousness.

Tony glares at you again, the occasional eating noises from Bruce making you internally lose it.

‘As I was saying, we don’t have to use the same Time Stone method, but we don’t have to completely abandon it either’. ‘But they do vastly different things from each other, we even tried all the…’ ‘Yes, but you haven’t tried combinations’ he runs to your laptop. ‘I was going through your notes; look at what you’ve written here’.

You read it: "So basically it’s like those old rotary phones. Strange ran the dial to 6, then 4, then 9, then 1, until it dialled a number and made a call."

 ‘I was really sleepy when I wrote that’ you say. ‘We can’t crack the stone, we have to learn to first use it, then connect with it’. ‘We’ve been over this, Tony, none of us know how…’ ‘No, I won’t do it’.

You were fully ready to shoot Tony down, but damn, he decides to be reasonable!?

‘I was thinking we can just put Vision in the mirror dimension and ask him to use it in a combination of ways. See what clicks. I mean if anyone would know, it would be Vision, right? Maybe if there’s a way to speak to him while he is IN the mirror dimension, we can remotely control it’  

‘I’ll have to ask Strange first’. ‘DO THAT’ Tony screams and Bruce jumps. ‘LET ME EAT MAN!’ he yells back.

You chuckle. ‘So… I'll email Strange then, shall I?’ ‘Yes. And kid?’

You roll your eyes but smile at the endearment. ‘Yes?’

‘You did good. I couldn’t have done it without you’.

You take the laptop from Tony’s hands and sit down to write the email to Strange.

_______________________________________________________________________

#loki #loki x reader #loki x you #marvel fan fiction #avengers fandom #loki fanfic #loki fandom #tom hiddleston #marvel avengers #loki fluff

[artemisfit]

my reasons to lose weight

One thing i did when I decided to start losing weight was to write down one reason to lose for every pound of my goal weight. I want to be 137 lbs? I wrote 137 reasons to lose the weight to get there.

I want to preface this by saying that these reasons are just my personal reasons for wanting to lose weight, and they have no bearing on and hold no judgement  for anyone else who might read the list. I do not judge anyone for where they are at in their life physically. We are all on our own path. That may sound really patronizing and flighty but it’s true. That being said, for those who suffer with negative body image, some of these reasons might be triggering for that, so please read on with that in mind. 

I don’t even know why I’m posting all of these in a place where other people can see them rather than just keeping them to myself, but I know that the actual process of writing a reason for every pound of my goal weight is something that I found greatly encouraging, so maybe it’ll help someone else?

So without further ado, my reasons to lose weight will be beneath the cut, just because to have them just typed out would make this a very long post. 

To stop hating how I look

To be able to look at my reflection in a full-length mirror without launching into a depressive episode

To be able to look at my own image during a video call without wanting to turn off my camera and hide

To be able to wear the clothes I want and look and feel good in them

To feel attractive and confident

To own my body instead of allowing my body to own me

To be able to enjoy food without being a victim of my appetite

To finally feel beautiful for once in my life

To have clear skin and a clean body

To be able to go up stairs or escalators without running out of breath

To get rid of the stretch marks on my skin

To potentially lessen my anxiety and depression

To be able to wake up at 5 in the morning and feel refreshed

To be the type of person who runs when stressed, not the type to eat her feelings

To never have to wear shapewear ever again

To know the strength that my body is capable of

To look like my own personal motivational photo

To not hate being in front of a camera because I know I’ll look fat in a photo

To treat my body with the respect it deserves

To hear the comments and compliments from friends/family/acquaintances 

To be able to walk around a room in underwear or a dressing gown and feel sexy or at least not self conscious

To see the lower number on the scale at the doctor’s office and not feel like I’m being judged by the nurse

To look good in athletic tights

To be able to stop comparing myself to every girl that passes by (or worse, to my friends)

To be light enough for friends to pick me up

To get to a point where being “what I eat” doesn’t feel like an insult

To be able to wear form fitting clothes without bumps or rolls

To get rid of the bump at the top of my spine and improve my posture

To be able to go swimming without wanting to put a t-shirt on over my swimsuit

To potentially get over my fear and hatred of going shopping in person

To stop constantly thinking people are talking about me and how fat I am

To have more energy

To be more flexible

To not lose my breath after even minimal exertion

To be able to wear a dress without my thighs chafing so bad I get a rash

To get rid of my double chin and perhaps the size/jutting of my actual chin

To have a thinner face over all in addition to a thinner body

To know what having abs feels like

To be able to wear high waisted jeans that zip all the way up and don’t have that pulled gap by the button

To be able to wear “one size fits all” clothing

To be able to playfully sit in a friend’s lap without feeling like I’m going to crush their legs

To improve the strength of my heart

To be confident enough to do karaoke

To be confident enough to wear shorts and sundresses in summer

To be able to do yoga and pilates

To get back into karate or some other type of martial arts

To be able to go to the gym and not feel like everyone’s staring and judging me

To be more active like I was when I was a kid

To be able to run a 5k

To be able to delete the “weight loss” and “motivation” boards on my Pinterest because I don’t need them anymore

To never see a scale number above 150 again

To be able to wear single digit clothing sizes

To maybe see if losing weight helps me wear heels without as much pain

To get rid of the roll-over on my stomach

To have more confidence when it comes to any kind of romance

 To never have to write down “lose weight” as a new years resolution ever again

To be able to fully close my coats and zip up my leather jackets

To have the only muffin top in my life be on actual muffins

To have longer, healthier hair, skin, and nails because my body is clean and healthy and can promote those things more easily

To not feel lethargic and lazy and like a slob all the time

To cry because I lost weight not cry because I gained it

To have my watches and bracelets fit perfectly without leaving marks – same for my rings

To confirm that I do actually have a smaller waist than it currently looks like I do

To lower my risk for health problems later in life

To get rid of the bulk on my thighs – I’ll never have a thigh gap but I can at least not have actual turkey legs

To be able to walk or run 4 miles every morning and not feel like I’m going to die

To stop being so utterly and constantly self-conscious and full of hatred about my own body

To not worry that the guy delivering my takeaway is judging me when I open the door

To look like someone who matches that “London life aesthetic”

To not fear stepping on the scale

To never hear my dad telling me I’ve gained weight again

To be able to encourage my mom in her own weight loss journey

To have thinner, more graceful fingers

To not be the fat friend

To be able to wear sexy, lacy lingerie and feel good in it and not have to buy it in a bigger size and then still be too self-conscious to wear it

To be able to be impressed by my own before and after pics

To not be afraid to see my own naked body when I get out of the shower

To be able to say that I did this, that I achieved my goal and changed my own life

To look good in baggy clothes, not like I’m trying to hide behind them

To enjoy exercise and feel the endorphins it produces

To be confident enough to go for nights out in London and have fun

To be able to buy a whole new wardrobe without feeling like I can’t buy certain things because there’s no way that they would look good on me

To have a higher percentage of muscle than fat

To feel like in at least one area I’m in control of my life and not letting it control me

To sleep better and wake up feeling rested

To hear the comments from my dad’s family in Egypt

To be able to dance around my apartment and not be worried that I left the blinds up

To feel more comfortable in various social situations

To not think that a guy who may or may not be looking at me from across the room is thinking negative things about my looks or my weight

To be able to fit into my fame & partners dress should I ever have an occasion to wear it

To stop feeling so desperate to find new, fad, or quick diets that probably wouldn’t work anyways

To be able to wear clothes like Julia from the magicians

To not feel like no matter what my makeup looks like I’m still ugly

To see the final goal weight number on the scale

To feel like I am worth the work and the effort and maybe even actually believe it

To be able to wear crop tops should I want to

To look good in any youtube videos I decide to make

To be able to make a youtube video or a series of videos at some point about how I lost weight and kept it off

To be able to tuck shirts in to my jeans or skirts and not immediately untuck it because I hate how it looks

To never have to spend hours looking up “weight loss” anywhere on the internet ever again

To feel my clothes get more and more loose

To know what it feels like to have a flat stomach

To not feel like I’m faking whenever I wear something stylish or remotely form-fitting

To be “that hot new phd student”

To have the possibility of a stranger telling me I’m pretty like they do my friends when we’re out (this one is quite selfish but I acknowledge that it’s still a reason)

To get to the point where eating healthy and drinking a gallon of water a day isn’t something I have to remind myself to do, it’s just second nature

To get to a point where I love myself, my whole self, rather than just hating the body I feel like I’m stuck in.

To get to the point where i love exercise and look forward to doing it multiple times a week

To eat intuitively and for enjoyment instead of eating recklessly and unhealthily

To know that I am what i have worked hard to become

To not feel so terrified about changing clothes when others are around

To have slimmer, toned legs

To have a good, shapely bum

To have my hair be my biggest concern when getting ready in the morning instead of “what clothes can I wear to hide my body today?”

To be able to take pictures of my body that will help inspire me and may in turn inspire others should I share them

To see the looks on my friends’ and family’s faces when I get back after being away for a while

To hear the comments from my friends and classmates

To stop hiding behind the camera all the time and be happy to stand in front of it

To stop the thighs of my jeans from wearing out so quickly

To be able to actually live in my body rather than just have it be the thing that takes my head from room to room

To stop feeling envious over the bodies of my friends (I know this is a toxic thing to do/think/live with and I want to get ride of this urge)

To not turn out like a lot of my family

To look more like the girl I used to be when I was a kid and to do her right/do her proud

To see more of the actual shape of my face (do I have good cheekbones? do I have a jawline that could cut a man?)

To be confident enough to go and do my running outside rather than feeling too awkward like people are going to stare and then just using a treadmill.

To get to the point where I know enough about nutrition and my body to be able to listen to it and give it what it needs, not just what I think I want

To get rid of some of the emotional and mental blocks that my physicality has built up for me which prevent me from doing the things I want to do and being the person that I want to be

To have a healthy relationship with food, with exercise, with myself, and with my mental image of myself.

To change the way I think about and talk about myself, to be less self deprecating and more proud

To be able to look at my own body and pictures of myself and find myself sexy and attractive

To be able to buy clothes in stores and not worry that they won’t fit when I get home and try them on

To get rid of the back rolls and actually see some definition in my shoulder blades

To see the look on old friends’ faces (and maybe even more so on those who weren’t friends) when they see how much I’ve changed

To prove people wrong

To prove myself wrong

To be the me that I pretend to be in my fantasies and daydreams

To be more myself, fully and completely, uninhibited and unrestrained

#weight loss #weight loss reasons #reasons for weight loss #fitness journey #weight loss journey #negative body image tw #body image tw #negative body image cw #body image cw

[lord-explosion-baku]

Dabi x reader (soulmate au)

Warnings: ANGST, swearing, blood

A/n: OH MY GOD @razzella as soon as I put your ask on here I realized that you requested a hero!reader and now I didn’t mean to combine these requests because I didn’t make the reader a hero in this one, I just did a damn good goof is all. I’ll be sure to make it up to you but ima still post your request on here because of the angst. Huzzah! ALSO if Dabi isn’t Endeavor’s son then I’m going to quit writing. That is all.

The first time you saw through your soulmates eyes, you didn’t know what was going on. You were on the sidewalk, on your way to grade school and suddenly you weren’t seeing through your eyes but through someone else’s??

They were kicking a ball around with two other kids, a boy and a girl, that had white hair. They looked like they were having a lot of fun. The vision literally knocked you off your feet and when you got your own vision back, you had scrapes on your arms and legs. You raced to school, ready to tell someone about what you thought might’ve been your new quirk!

Your teacher lectured you about being late but you didn’t listen, instead babbled all about everything that had happened to you.

Your teacher pulled you aside and explained to you what really happened. You had a soulmate? And you could see through their eyes? Awesome!

You learned that your vision would be shared with your soulmate if you willed it to happen, if you were extremely stressed out, or if you felt jubilantly happy. All day long you tried to figure out you could show your soulmate to say your first ‘hello!’

You decided to try and draw the girl you had seen from his eyes. White hair and glasses? It wasn’t too good but you drew yellow flowers around her and the ball on the ground. Okay, here we go! You tried as hard as you could to stare at your drawing and send it to your soulmate. How were you supposed to know if it worked?

Minutes passed and suddenly your vision was swarmed away and replaced with theirs. You saw the white haired girl again, this time you saw that there were flecks of red in her hair. She was mouthing something to you, er, them. A hand stretched out and put a yellow flower in her hair. They took a couple steps back and framed their vision with their fingers like a filmmaker would and picked up the same ball from earlier and chucked it at her. The vision ended with the girl running at them.

Wow. You swiftly got back to your drawing, putting red flecks in the girl’s hair, and drew a big and black frown over her mouth along with angry eyebrows. You drew a red tic-tac-toe mark on her forehead to annunciate her agitation and you sent the vision their way.

The next vision you got from them, was seen from the ground, you could tell they were laughing from their shaky vision, their hands clapped together a few times and it was over.

From then on, the two of you sent visions back and forth for years. The two of you helped each other on tests, rather, he would seldomly use you to cheat when it came to a tough problem. That’s how you found out his name was Touya, it was written on his papers. He was big on showing you stray cats he would see on the street and you would show him your progression on artwork.

The first time you saw his face, would be the last.

You were at home, doodling nothing of importance and you got a vision from him. He was at some sort of concert, bobbing his head, throwing his fists in the air. The band members looked super crust punk, patches on their jeans and vests with funky bright hair and they acted just as crazy as the crowd. You wished you could hear what was playing and you wondered what it would be like if you could go to one of the shows he frequently visited. You hoped you would be cool enough for him but you figured, you guys were soulmates. Whatever you were, you would be perfect for him.

About an hour later you got another vision from him. It was blurry, he wasn’t seeing right. He gripped onto a bathroom sink and spat blood into it. He was at home. He looked up into the mirror and you saw and furious and… upset red haired boy with piercings staring back at you. He yelled something but you couldn’t make out the words. Then, he punched the mirror, distorting the image of him. Turquoise eyes blinked, once, twice and then the vision was over.

You ran out of the house as fast as you could, insure of what to do. You looked up at the stars and tried sending them to him, you saw the neighbors cat grooming himself, you saw a cherry blossom tree. You waited for him to respond something, anything to you, but it never came.

From then on, there was nearly nothing. Other than when he woke up to a shaded room when his guard was down, always midday, he never sent another vision to you. At least you knew Touya was alive.

There wasn’t much help on the internet on ‘How To Find Your Soulmate Who Doesn’t Want To Be Found,’ but you didn’t give up. Not really. When you saw something beautiful like a hummingbird or a sunset you would send it his way. No response. It wasn’t like linking your vision to his took out any of your energy so you didn’t stop.

You got a job in an arts and crafts store where you could get discounts on art supplies. You worked in the framing department but on your breaks you sat outside and drew or painted. On one particular day, you were emotional, so you began painting the only thing you could think of, him.

Much like that old vision, the painting was distorted. You painted his pale skin a shade of blue and accentuated the red of his hair and the blood on his lips. The mirror was cracked around his face much like ice. You chose to paint his eyes the color of your own, to make a statement that nobody, other than yourself, would quite understand.

You picked up your work. It was… really good and you hated it. You hated him. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes. You understood that everyone had bad things happen in their lives but the fact the just cut you off completely hurt so bad. No explanation! Not anything! You wanted to set the painting on fire, you were so angry. Instead you tossed it on to the blacktop you were sitting in. Let the sun damage it.

Minutes passed. Your lunch break was surely over. You didn’t bother with your food. You didn’t bother going back.

The sound of footsteps started you but you didn’t bother looking up at you was approaching. Probably your boss looking for you. You were ready to feign an illness and go home. Patchy hands grabbed your painting. That got your attention.

You tried to look at who was standing in front of you but he was silhouetted by the sun. He put the piece between up in front of his face so you couldn’t see him. You could tell by his sneakers and jeans that he was around your age. Definitely not your boss.

“This is… very nicely done. Incredible work,” said the man in a low voice.

“If you want it, you can take it.”

The man chuckled. “I said it was incredible. Not that I liked it.”

You stood up. “Okay, asshole, there’s no need to be rude about it,” you grabbed the painting from his hands and suddenly your vision swirled and you were looking at yourself, puffy eyed and agitated. Your eyes were glossed over by the vision. “Wait-“ you blindly moved your hand over to where he was staring at you but he took a step back.

“You’ve really improved since that first picture you sent me.”

You saw your own eyes widen at the realization. “Touya?”

“No,” he said. “It’s not Touya anymore.”

You took a step forward waving your hands around trying to grab on to him. “Please, let me see you.”

“You don’t want to see me, I promise. I just… wanted to tell you that you were doing a good job. I wanted to know if you were okay.”

“Are you kidding me? Fuck you, Touya, it has been years and you haven’t reached out to me! I think I- stop walking away!”

You willed your vision to go to him and he froze then, just as blind as you were.

“That was clever of you,” he said trying his best to walk in a straight away from you.

You closed your eyes and ran for him, relying on his vision and him not be able to see through yours. “More clever than you think!” You wrapped your arms around him, halting him from going anywhere.

He chuckled, “you got me.” He put his hands behind his head. “Now what? You gonna force me to be your boyfriend or something?”

“You wanted to know if I was okay? Well then, let me tell you. I’m not. There hasn’t been a day pass by where I hadn’t had that image of you punching that mirror in my head!”

He sighed. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Well I did!” You cried, putting your head to his chest. “I felt like I lost you that day. You never showed me anything! I lost a… a…”

“A soulmate?” He scoffed.

“I lost a friend! And what, now you come here just tell me you don’t like my painting and then go on your merry way and never speak to me again?! That’s not how this works! If you come into my life you stay in my life or you resist the temptation and never come at all!”

In your vision you saw your head and a patchy hand come down on it, stroking it. He had… staples connecting a second skin of some sort to his arm and hands. “I did,” he said.

“Did what?”

“Resist the temptation of coming into your life. For a long time now. I don’t think you realize how much you send me. I’ve… watched you for awhile. You have a good life. I know that if I was a part of it I’d be this rotten thing bringing you down. So I resisted that temptation. But then I saw that.” He looked at the painting that was dropped to the floor. “And I knew where you were and now I’m,” he exhaled. “Now I’m here.”

“Let me see you,” You said into his chest.

He closed his eyes. “Please,” You said.

He was silent for a moment, stroking your head. You could feel his heartbeat pickup through his chest. This was really hard for him. “Okay,” he finally said. “How about on the count of three we both let each other see again.” You nodded. “Alright one…” you wiped your eyes, “two…” he didn’t think you were that dumb did he? “Three…”

Your vision blurred and suddenly you could see. You looked into those turquoise eyes that you longed to see for so long now. They were hazed over. You didn’t relinquish your vision from him. The same type of patches he had on his hand were on his face, under his eyes, on his chin, covering his ears, poked in by some sort of staple. His red hair was now a jet black, spiked up. He was still handsome though.

“So you didn’t get over your punk phase, I see.”

He cleared his throat. “I’d really rather not be looking at myself right now.

“Sorry,” You said blinking, allowing him to see for himself again. “I thought you were going to try and trick me.”

“So you tricked me instead? Mischievous.” Your hand reached up to touch his face and he frowned. “Pretty gross, right?”

You shook your head. “You’re definitely not a Touya but I like it. I think you’re…”

“Save it,” he rolled his eyes.

“Save what? I don’t need your permission to think my soulmate is handsome!”

He laughed then, a genuine one. “As long as I don’t need your permission to think that my soulmate is perfect. Even when she has been crying.”

You looked down, ashamed that he saw you crying. Not for a bad reason though. You were still incredibly upset with him. “I meant what I said, … you.” You didn’t know what to call him. “You can’t enter my life one day and be gone the next.”

“I guess I can’t now, knowing that you have trickery up those sleeves of yours.” He pulled you into an embrace. “I can’t say that I’m upset with it, though.”

He held you tightly. It was so nice to finally have him. To know him. To see him and to feel him. The two of you stayed like for for minutes.

Finally the two of you sat in the shade next to your work. He asked you about your painting, what kind a paints you preferred to use, what inspired you, besides him of course, and you talked and talked. You didn’t asked him what happened that day or what he has been up to. You figured he would tell you when he felt it necessary. You did, however, ask for his name.

“You can call me Dabi.”

~

Tags for EVERYTHING (closed): @yandere-inamorata @miitaart @dessiedawnwritesfanfiction @wickedlewicked @chickennuggetsarequestionable @nevermorelanore @kpanime @ayeputita @captain-sin-allmight-queen @diisasterbii @iceformer @meganofmars @colagirl5 @colorbookshd @grimmjadeskye @sm0kingcrack @sarcastictextstuck @zellllyyyy @psionicsnow @mynahx3 @andie-in-tumblland @iamthe-leaf @midnightfeline666 @bungou-stray-alies-tales-of-aly @rubyred-28 @kattariapenn @heypartypeps @quirktaker @thecryingsombra @smbody-stole-mycar-radio @ghost-of-todoroki @geektastic84 @personoffangirlingandtears @glixeo @mekakushi-dan-01-kido

#bnha x reader #bnha imagine #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha reader insert #reader insert #mha #my hero academia #touya todoroki x reader #todororoki touya x reader #dabi x reader #todoroki dabi #dabi #tw angst #tw blood

[waypathfinder]

Crimson Lane - Chapter 16 - Chapter 16 - Towards the Dawn (Part 2)

Moodboard by @ashtyntaytertot 

Beta’d by @kathknight and @ashtyntaytertot

Links

Tumblr Master Post

Archive of our Own (from the start)

Archive of our Own (chapter)

Fanfiction.net

Chapter Text 

Ben’s hand hovered above the handle, hesitating. There were muffled voices behind the door; his mother, father, Luke... They were all in there together; talking about him.

He’d done this years ago, just an eight-year-old boy, curiously listening at the door. That night he’d heard words that had changed everything: “troubled”, “therapy”, “medication”. The sound of his mother weeping, his father’s pacing. It still haunted him, even now. That night he’d cried beneath the duvet; praying and promising to change. 

He should never have listened that night.

And now, just sixteen-years-old, he still hadn’t learnt the lesson.

“You’ll be so proud of him, Leia.”

That was Luke, his voice, gentle, and strangely emotional.

Ben pushed his ear against the door, straining to hear.

“I mean it. He’s amazing, Leia. The boy has a gift. He’s an example to the class.”

Ben’s heart clenched at the words, surely they weren’t about him.

“This last year, he’s studied hard every day and commits to his martial arts: Karate, kickboxing, Kung fu , Ninjutsu, he’s taking them in his stride.”

There was an audible sigh of relief and then, “So, the meditation is helping?”

That was his father, Han. He could recognise his voice by that familiar tinge of scepticism. “Hokey religions and ancient weapons,” he used to scoff at their training, much to Luke’s ire.

“And how is he at managing his emotions?” his mother asked.

There was silence for a beat, and then the sound of a chair scraping on the tiles.

“It will take many years for him to be in control. It’s difficult for him, Leia. The boy is so raw. So overwhelmed with his emotions that he struggles to process them. He needs time and peace.”

The room fell quiet again, a heavy silence.

“It’s not a bad thing. Yes, he has a great capacity for anger, but also an equally strong measure to love and protect. He just needs help. Like we all do at times.”

Luke cleared his throat. “Now Ben, if you’re done listening at the door, will you come in please?”

Ben jumped. The door he had been leaning against opened inward, throwing him off balance.

“I was just—” he started mumbling some pathetic excuse, but Luke spoke over him.

“I was telling your parents how hard you’ve been working with me this year.”

Ben nodded, too embarrassed to look anyone in the eye, and made a beeline to the fridge. He wasn’t hungry, but he had to do something. He could feel them all watching him. Ben opened the fridge door, drunk from a bottle of orange juice, ending with a loud sigh.

“Oh, Ben!” his mother scolded. “Use a glass.”

“You haven’t been able to improve his manners then?” Han asked with a wry smile.

“I’m not a miracle worker.” Luke came towards him. “I was just telling your parents how hard you’ve been working, and that I—” he paused, exchanging glances with the others. “  We  think you’re ready to go in the Kyokushin karate tournament this year.”

Ben choked, eyes stinging as he banged firmly on his chest.

“What?! Are you sure?”

Luke clutched a hand on Ben’s shoulder, studying him as if he were looking at something beyond the surface. “You’re ready, kid.”

Ben’s mouth dropped open, still holding onto the orange juice, not even sure what to do with it now. His father nodded and winked at him, a subtle measure of appreciation and praise that was so hard won. And then Leia rushed at him, throwing her arms around him.

“Mum!” Ben cried out, wriggling out of her hold. He was sixteen now, after all, not four.

“Oh, I know you don’t like it, but just let me have this one.”

Ben gave her a half-smile and returned the hug.

Everything was shifting. He had focus, he had hope, and most of all, he had a chance to prove that could do this.

Kylo chuckled bitterly, elbow resting on his knee and the light of the fire flickering across his face: heat and light, dark and shadow. Rey had sat quietly, hanging off his every word.

And then she beamed at him like she’d just connected crucial pieces of a puzzle.

“You trained with Luke Skywalker?!”

Shit.

He swallowed and nodded. He’d forgotten not to mention that—

“I did too!”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

Kylo turned away from her, grazing his teeth along his lip.  Too close.

“Come on, tell me how you know?” she asked again, but while her face was playful, there was something in her voice that faltered.

Doubt.

Kylo stared at her, for far too long. He could tell her now, have it all out in the open. Maybe, if he explained things from his point of view, she may even understand.

Maybe.

Probably not.

“That day you attacked me in the alley, behind the restaurant...”

“The day I  defended myself, you mean?” she said.

“It’s all a matter of perspective.  Anyway, that move you pulled was classic Skywalker. I’d know it anywhere.”

“You should have told me!”

“But we were having such a nice conversation,” Ben said, almost relentingly.

Rey laughed and her eyes crinkled into half moons, as those two irresistible dimples appeared, the way they always did when she found something funny.

“Oh, God. Yes! I’d almost forgotten. You were a right bastard!”

“And you were—” He looked her over and rested his eyes on the fire in her hazel eyes glowing dimly, as she awaited his answer. “ Adorable.”

“I was not!” she snorted.

“No,” Kylo pulled her into his chest, hugging her. “You were sexy  and adorable, just like you are now.”

He kissed her again and she wriggled beneath him as though she were trying to put up a fight, but couldn’t quite make up her mind to do it. Instead, her lips parted, lithely slipping her tongue between his lips.

Like someone had just lit a fire in his core, Kylo felt the blood rush between his legs and the feeling of pleasure mixed with a sense of fullness. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her hard against him. The feeling of her breasts pressed against his chest and her legs wrapped around his waist, the warm heat of her sex so tantalisingly close to his own, was driving him crazy.

He pressed his erection into her, groaning as he kissed every inch of skin he could find. How easily she reduced him to this, like he could barely think of anything else apart from having her right there, on the floor if need be.

“We can talk about it later,” he murmured into her ear, grinding against her.  

“Don’t change the subject!” she panted, gasping for breath between their kisses.

“But I like this subject,” he breathed.

She moaned into his hair, encouraging him to continue.

“I want to make love to you,” he whispered.

“Okay,” she sighed.

“Properly this time.”

His fingers searched between her legs, and felt a swell of pride at the warmth and wetness he found there.

He slipped a finger inside her, and then another, growing harder at the feel of her body tightening around him, at the same time his thumb began to stroke her clit.

With ragged breaths and wild moans, she nipped at his ear. “What are you doing to me?”

He smiled devilishly. He would make it up to her now, searching out the places that made her writhe with pleasure, dancing across them gently as she swayed against him, eyes closed and breathing heavy.

“Let me take you to bed,” he groaned in her ear. “I’ll give you everything you want.”

“I—” her words fell away, replaced with a muffled cry as he continued his attention to her.

He loved this. Loved the way her body was like fluid around him, moulding against his own.

Maybe the past didn’t matter. Maybe he could just hide it all away and start something new, with her. After all, she’d been so entwined in his life already.

She cried out again, louder this time as she yanked his hand away. “Too much. I’m coming undone here.”

“That’s the idea,” he went back to kissing her, roving his hands beneath her sweater.

“I know what you’re doing.” She returned his kisses, with just as much ferocity.

“Driving you wild?”

“Avoiding. No more,” she said between each brush of his lips. “Not until you’ve finished telling me the whole thing.”

“You’re so close though, let me take you to the end,” he whispered, fingers travelling back down to her pants once more. “Don’t worry sweetheart. I’ll do you one better when we finish too.”

“Stop tempting me!” Her voice was hoarse, almost fading away as he had lifted her top and started pressing kisses against her breast. She jumped back, moving as far away from him as she could, pressing the back of her hand to her cheek like it was on fire.

Kylo grimaced. “Fine, but it doesn’t get any better from here. Are you sure you want to know?”

“You know my history. I want to understand yours.”

Kylo felt his face scrunch up, the way he did as a child when he could sense he was about to lose a game.

“Last chance, I could have you on the bed with my head between your legs right now. If I recall, you quite enjoyed that last time.”

Rey’s lips flickered with a smile, but she reigned it in, the same way she tried to look confident now, despite the fact she was practically blushing from head to toe.

“You can still do that  after  you’ve finished the story  .”

Kylo frowned, doubting they’d be doing anything once they’d finished.

“It won’t change anything, Ben.”

“You say that now...”

“And I’ll say it then, I promise.” She crawled forward, just enough to place her hand in his. “So, you went to the tournament?”  

Kylo sighed. “I went to the tournament, but It didn’t work out.”

“You didn’t win?” she asked, sound so delicately naive that he could have bottled her voice and kept it with him on his march to hell.

“No, I didn’t win.”

* * *

The change rooms reeked of gym socks, piss and disinfectant. Bright lights burned overhead as Ben put on his karate uniform, clear and freshly pressed. His mother must have sprayed it with starch as the material scratched against his skin. Of all the days she would do his laundry, it had to be this one.

He had waited until everyone else had left, not wanting the pressure of getting changed among his competitors and peers.

He had no idea why Luke had allowed him to enter a Kyokushin tournament, it was full-contact, the fights were furious and fast, but perhaps that was the intent.

Kyokushin karate placed a huge emphasis on control and discipline. Luke was challenging him, and so far he’d exceeded his own expectations. Meticulous and controlled, he’d worked through the rounds, gaining wins each time.

Those fleeting two to three-minute fights left him out of breath and red-faced. And he loved it.

There was a burst of sound as a group of people entered the change room. Ben stiffened, even though he couldn’t see them, it still made him feel wary.

At last, he tied his belt, black as the night. It was his most treasured achievement. He’d risen the ranks fast to earn it within two years. He thought back to the way Uncle Luke had tied it, so reverently that first time. It was near midnight on a Thursday, they had trained all day and into the night, after a particularly challenging week. They were alone in the dojo, beyond the arched windows, framed a clear sky of blazing stars, thousands of ancient guardians witnessing the ceremony.

“The tree has reached maturity and has overcome the darkness,” Luke told him reverently.

The darkness , Ben pressed his lips together at the thought. It never really left him. Not really. He was an imposter here, in this hall, with this belt. No one, not even Luke, knew how close he was to losing control at any second.

He had held back in every fight, but the struggle had been real. Anyone of those boys could have walked away from the mat with a broken arm or dislocated shoulder, or worse….

“If it isn’t the freakazoid,” a vapid voice echoed from around the room.

Ben froze, fingers clutching into his palms, counting his breaths.

Ten-nine-eight—

“Overcome the darkness,” he reminded himself, as he looked around the room for the source.

Seven-six-five—

“Did you see his tiny wiener?!”

A boy laughed, followed by another, and another.

Great, a group of losers.

Four-three-two—  

“Do you think he knows how to use it?”

One—

“Maybe, he probably practises on his mother!” There was a cackle of laughter and Ben raced through the corridors to find them.

“Nah, he’s too fucking dumb to pull his zipper down before he cums his pants .”

Ben rounded the corner to see three students huddled together, cramped over and hugging their waists in stitches. He lunged at them, immediately recognising that dick, he’d smashed his head through the glass at school only two years ago. Micah, or Mikah, whatever his stupid name was.

Names were irrelevant, they only sought to humanise people.

“Long time no see.”

“Micah,” he said stiffly, looking through him, rather than at him.

“ Ben,” Micah purred, making sure he had the attention of his proud posse. “Looks like it is down to you and me in the final.”

“The expression of aggression is an expression of weakness  .”  Luke’s words, repeating in his mind, as though he were whispering them in his ear.

Walk away. Don’t engage.

Ben bowed, feeling the heat burning in his cheeks, making his ears appear fiery and red. In one instant he was that boy in high school again.

The victim.

Weak.

Ben tried to walk past, but with each step, one of Micah’s friends stepped in his way.

“We’re about to start,” Ben muttered.

He could do this. He wouldn’t rise to the bait. He just had to get out of this room.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Micah followed closely behind him and then added in a whisper, “Prepare to have your arse handed to you, Solo.”

Micah marched past, waving to his family and friends like he was a celebrity. There was a loud cheer and the screech of girls voices scraped at Ben’s eardrums. His pulse pounded, and his heart felt like it kept stopping and starting again at twice the speed. It made him feel sick.

He followed Micah out into the arena and heard his dad give him an indistinct shout of encouragement. Ben squinted at the bright overhead lights bearing down on him. Inside, his blood was boiling, a furious, torrent of rage and emotion working through his him as he eyed up Micah.

“You alright, Ben?” Luke asked, his gravelly voice barely audible above everything else.

Ben nodded, focussing solely on Micah’s smiling face.

“Stay focussed, Ben.” Luke’s voice moved around untethered and distant.

Micah bowed at him with a wink.

Ben bowed also, with barely a nod of his head.

The referee took a step back and they began.

The fight was messy and bloody, too sloppy and fast; fueled with antagonised testosterone. Ben channelled everything he’d learnt from Luke over the years, but instead of trusting his skills, he focussed on strength, putting too much weight behind his attack moves. It was making him weary.  

Micah danced around him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His first move was to rush in with a forearm strike, smashing the outside bone of Ben’s arm. Ben retaliated and tried to backfist him, but as if pre-empting his attack, Micah got him on the spin with a foot sweep.

Ben stumbled back.

“Stop trying to hit him hard, you need to outsmart him. Use your reach,” Luke’s voice came from behind him.

They sparred again, both of them throwing and blocking punches until Ben’s vision went black, and a smashing crack broke against his forehead. His eyes grew warm and blurred with blood.

The whistle blew. And Ben scoffed, edging away from the fight. That little shit had gotten him with an illegal punch to the face. Puffed and bloody, and blind with rage, Ben noticed the way the sound drowned away, the flutter of warning before the wave would come and take him.

Micah’s lips moved, smiling, laughing, telling his friends it was “too easy”.

In a heartbeat, Ben yanked Micah by the back of the neck and threw him on the ground, pinning him down with his body as he slammed the base of his hand into his nose, breaking it. He didn’t wait before aiming another punch to Micah’s eye socket, aiming to fracture it, just like he had done to Ben only minutes before.

There was screaming all around him, on the edge of his existence, falling in and out. His name, shouted in panicked frenzied tones, and then the shrill screech of the whistle. A pair of strong arms pulled him off Micah and instinctively Ben shoved his elbow back, connecting with something.

There was an audible gasp, and then a cry.

He couldn’t stop. Not now that the fury was boiling in his blood, all he could feel was heat and hatred at the white hair, blue eyes, flushed cheeks and broad smile, laughing at him. He would smash that smile off Micah’s face and he wouldn’t let anyone stop him.

And no one was.

...

He glanced back. Luke, his mother, father, gone.

No, not gone.

...

He followed the eyes of the crowd, to a small group of people standing by his father. Blood streamed from Han’s face, dazed and near unconscious on the floor, Luke and Leia bent down over him, speaking urgently and holding up fingers to count.

“Dad…” Ben stepped towards him, panicked. No one paid attention to him, not even Micah, who had crawled away on the floor. Men and women in yellow vests crowded around his father, and he watched in horror as they took him away.

“Dad!” he cried out again, unable to see anything of his father now, except for his loose hand dangling beside the stretcher. His mum and Luke, scurrying along beside him.

Fuck , his eyes pricked with tears. This had been a disaster.

He stumbled back, the loudspeaker echoed into the stadium, a mixed droll of male voices.

What the hell had he done?

He fell back, stumbling to the floor, unable to control the tears as he gasped for air, spluttering blood and saliva.

Someone handed him a drink bottle, and beside him appeared a pair of shiny, black business shoes, pressed trousers.

That was odd.

He looked up to see a slim man towering over him with a crooked smile and balding head.

“Who are you?” Ben snapped.

“Straight to the point,” the old man replied. “I like that.”

“Yeah, well. If you’ll excuse me, I need to find my father.”

Ben went to bypass the intruder, but the man squatted down and placed a firm grip on his shoulder. The same way Luke had done so many times, but these fingers were long and slender, like clamped bones; cold and surprisingly firm, like they would never let go.

“Your parents want you to finish the fight. They sent me to check on you.”

Ben paused, studying the man again. From here he could see the way his head was covered in sunspots and crusty skin cancers. Something deep inside Ben’s gut warned him against this man.

Dangerous , the thought whispered at him.

“The fight’s over,” Ben said. “Thanks anyway, though.”

He went to move away once more, but the hand clamped tighter and the smile got broader.

“We both know that little dick had it coming to him,” the man hissed, and while Ben was surprised at this little outburst, he agreed with the sentiment.

“I’ve been watching him. He thinks you’re a simpleton. You’re not wrong to want to beat him. Guys like that need to be beaten. You should never let a bully win, son.”

Son . He didn’t like the sound of that word, the way it slipped so comfortably from the man’s thin lips. But the rest of it, he could get behind that.

“He’s too fast,” Ben said, his heart still racing and for some reason, the thought of going in to fight again was making him breathless with anxiety. “I need to breathe, I can’t calm—”

“Forget that!” the man snapped. “I’ve worked with hundreds of professional fighters, and I can tell you now, Skywalker knows nothing about your true strength. In fact, he’s scared of it!”

Ben paused, checking to see no one else was listening. He’d thought the same thing many times: day after day of frustration, wanting to release his strength and power when all his uncle wanted was to hold him back.

“I can see it.” The man leant in close to whisper. “That raw power inside you, screaming to get out. Let me help you. I can make you reach your true potential. But first—” The man nodded his head to Micah. “You need to get that fucking runt out of the game.”

Micah was staring now. No, not staring as much as gleaming at him. He’d already cleaned the blood off his face, the fleshy pink grazes and tender yellow spots the only sign that he had taken a beating.

“Isn’t it enough to win?” Ben asked, already feeling the fury building in his heart once more.

“Winning will not earn this boy’s respect. You need to command it. Force it from him.”

Ben’s instincts were raising, like fur on the back of a dog about to fight, urging him that this was a very bad idea. But what did instincts understand about respect and the chance to put an end to his taunting, once and for all?

“What you’re suggesting sounds illegal,” Ben said at last.

The man shrugged. “It depends how you do it. There are legal kicks that can be devastating enough when you time it right.”

Ben’s gaze shifted around the room.  Where the hell was Luke?  Then again—he took another long look, searching the throngs of people coming in and out of the exits. What Luke didn’t know…

“You know I’m right.” The man released his grip with a friendly smile, only now had Ben realised how much his vice hold had hurt him.

“Who are you?” Ben asked, surprised he’d let the conversation go without demanding this information.

A bony hand reached out to meet his own. “Alastair Snoke.”

Ben started.

Alastair Snoke! Holy shit, everyone knew the name, if not the face.

Multi-millionaire and CEO of the First Order. It was rumoured he often hand-picked the best fighters and sponsored their training with very generous pay packets. Perhaps this was what he was doing now?

The break was finishing, and there was the hurried mutter of competitors and instructors exchanging final words before their matches.

Ben straightened a little, finally ready to listen even though his head was pounding and he was still bleeding. “What do you propose?”

“Have you ever done a meia lua de compasso?” Snoke asked.

“The capoeira move? Surely that’s not legal in a tournament.”

“It’s merely a reverse roundhouse kick with a bit of embellishment. Your enemy won’t expect it and the centripetal force makes it extremely powerful.  If  he comes back from it, follow the move with a swift axe kick.”

Ben had practised the move a couple of times, once with Luke when he’d almost taken his Uncle’s head off. Luke had since banned him from using it ever again, after thoroughly berating him for being “showy”.

He could pull it off, potentially. And Snoke was right, it would never be expected.

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t give in to your weakness. Look!” Snoke tapped at his knuckles, bruised and bloody. “Your skin is your armour, your bones are hard as stone. A kick like that will finish this. Fast as you can. Hard as you can. Mercy is for the weak. Are you weak Ben Solo?”

“No, sir,” Ben stumbled over his words, looking away awkwardly.

“I said are you weak!?”

“No!” He shouted.

“Then go and take this little shit out of the game.”

The whistle blew, and Ben was on his feet again, bouncing quickly, darting around the mat, the crowd cheered, or jeered, he wasn’t sure which one. His head pounded and his insides were awash with worry for his father and all the time he felt the piercing fire of Snoke’s eyes, latching onto him possessively.

“Do it!” Snoke raised his voice above the crowd. “Be a man!”

Micah bowed low, as did Ben.

And then Micah winked at him, as he mouthed the word “psycho.” Kudos to him, he’d managed to do it without anyone else noticing.

Ben looked back at Snoke, at his wraithlike body and eyes dark and hungry. He gave him a nod and the smallest smile.

Micah came at him with full force and speed. Ben spun around, his hands slamming to the mat, as his legs swung out in a reverse roundhouse kick. He would always remember the feel of Micah’s face beneath the sole of his foot, followed by the pounding thump of the boy’s body hitting the ground. By the time Ben repositioned himself, Micah was dazedly trying to clamber to his feet.

“Finish it!” Snoke shouted from the side.

Micah coughed and blood spluttered onto the mat.

He was the weak one. Not Ben.

He had almost gotten to a stand when Ben stepped forward, shooting his right leg up in an axe kick, then brought his heel down fast on the back of Micah’s neck.

Micah smashed to the floor and the auditorium went silent, watching wordlessly as the boy lay still on the mat. There was no whistle this time, or crowds pulling him away. Just the hum of the lights and the slow melodic clapping of one person. Ben looked up to see it was Snoke, and then, to the exits where Luke was standing now by the door, his face white, like he was looking at a monster.

  Kylo paused, pinching at the unformed tears.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d stared into the fire, lost in the way the glowing embers floated and popped. The firewood was black and broken now, moulding into ash and stone. How easy it was for life to be destroyed? The pull of a trigger, a kick of the leg, blood, no blood, fast, slow.

There was a gentle pressure on his hand, and he was almost surprised to see Rey was still reaching out of him, her fingers moulded with his.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Kylo pulled himself out of his thoughts, they were dark and magnetic, drawing him in. But Rey was like the sun, the moment he looked upon her, the darkness subsided.

She dipped her head, smiling at him, waiting.

“This part is…” His hand clamped around her own, a lifeline to hope. “You won’t want to stay.”

“Hey.” She placed her hand along the line of his jaw, bringing him to face her. “I’m not going anywhere... ”

  His mother was crying, dabbing each tear away with her handkerchief. His father was yelling, at no one in particular, Luke maybe, Ben probably, but it seemed to vary. Han’s right eye was no longer swollen from Ben’s hit at the tournament, but the shadow of it was still there, a gothic rainbow of black, brown and mustard green.

And then there was Luke, leaning against the door frame of the dining room, trying to look calm, but Ben could see the way his fingers squeezed white pressure points into his forearms, the worry lines cut above his brows. He was scared shitless. They all were.

Ben sat at the dining table, arms folded, head down. He tried to look penitent, that was what they wanted him to be, but in reality, he was still angry at Micah, at Luke, at all of them for believing him to be someone other than he was. Ben glowered at the family photos on the buffet, picture perfect studio shots, with a smiling boy and his doting parents, each of them placing a hand on his shoulder.

Luke wrung his hands as if giving life to the expression to wash one’s hands of the situation.

“There is no question about it, Leia. They will use all of this evidence against him at court. The tournament footage shows every move was intentional.”

“Of course it was intentional! We were in a tournament for God’s sake,” Ben snapped, still not brazen enough to raise his voice.

Han pressed his palms on the edge of the table, leaning close to Ben. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? A boy is dead because of you!”

“If you think I fucking care about that loser you’re deluded.”

“Oh my God,” Leia slumped further into her chair, delicate fingers twisting her empty sherry glass, eyes flicking to the bottle next to it wantingly.

“He was a dick!” Okay, he was yelling now. What was the point in holding back? “One less dick in the world. Is that really a bad thing?”

Leia stared at Luke mutely. But his uncle merely shook his head, as if they were speaking on some other plane.

“Yes!” Her hands were in the hair now, voice trembling. “Yes! It is a bad thing. I can’t believe—I don’t—” She looked to Han, seeking solidarity, but he was staring at the floor. She continued, voice breaking now, “Do you have no remorse? You have taken someone’s life!”

“Why should I?” Ben snapped, burning fury in his gaze at every single one of them. “I didn’t think it would have killed him..”

Han scoffed, arms folded and face red. “You didn’t think, no son, you sure as hell didn’t think!”

“What are our options?” Leia asked, looking to Luke for answers.

Luke exhaled, crossing his arms and stood a little straighter as he spoke. The “do not mess with me” expression, Ben knew so well from training.

At last, he said, “Ben needs to take responsibility for his actions.”

“But surely…” Leia began.

“You can’t keep bailing him out, Leia. Not on something like this. You shouldn’t. And they won’t let you anyway.”

Every word coming out of Luke was making him furious. “So, what are you saying? I’m going to jail?”

“If that’s what the court decides.”

“We have lawyers, I’m sure we could…”

“No!” This time it was Han speaking. “Luke’s right. It’s time Ben understood there are consequences to his actions.”

“Consequences?” Ben roared as he lurched out of his seat, ignoring the way it crashed on the floor behind him.

“We took a punt on you Ben, a big one,” Luke said solemnly, having enough gall to look like there were tears in his eyes.

“This is horse shit!” Ben shouted.

“Get out! The voice was quiet and stern. Enough to pull him back from the physical rage, but not the one thundering in his heart.

“Don’t tell me to get the fuck out of my own house,” he screamed at Luke.

“He didn’t say it. I did!” Leia’s voice was clearer now.

Ben looked wildly around seeking someone to help him out of his rage, to anchor him in the sea of fury that was threatening to drown him.

“I want you out of this house right now—”

“I can’t fucking believe this!”

“Now! You can come back when you’re ready to face the consequences of your actions.”

Kylo’s heart was racing, he’d never told the story to anyone before, but even now, every word he spoke made the pain feel just as fresh as all those years ago.

As if he had been holding his breath, Kylo released a grunt, the telltale threat he would cry if he didn’t take back control. Gnashing his teeth, and straightening his spine, he tried to breathe through his nose. But still, his eyes pooled at the corners.

Weak.

He tried not to look at Rey, but in his wild attempt to look anywhere else, he was automatically always drawn back to her. She was breathing hard, cheeks wet with the tidy streaks of dried tears.

“Don’t cry,” Ben tried to say it softly.

She shook her head. “I’m not.”

A single drop ambled down her cheeks, and she blinked it away.

“Did you go looking for Snoke then?”

“I didn’t need to. He came after me. As I was roaming aimlessly around the street, he called me up. Told me he’d heard how everything had gone down and that he had an offer to make everything go away.”

“I bet he did.” Rey sat back, cross-legged. He started wondering if telling her all of this was a mistake. How much could she take, before she decided he was just too fucked up?

“I was terrified, Rey. I know there’s no excuse for it. For any of it. But in the end, I was just a messed up 16-year-old kid.”

Rey nodded. A small smile fettered on her lips. Unreadable.

“Keep going.”

Ben waited by the front door of number 12 Crimson Lane, trying not to look at the glaringly obvious red light blazing above him, or the way it bathed his face and hands in a violent red glow. It was after midnight, he’d been walking all evening, and his heels were covered in broken blisters. He just wanted to stop.

Pushing the door open, he saw a striking giant of a woman with white-blond hair and a condescending expression.

“Well, look at what the cat dragged in.”

Ben squared his shoulders. “I want to see Snoke.”

Phasma laughed, the sound was low and bitter. “No one sees Snoke.”

“I do.” He only stayed long enough for her to roll her eyes, and by the time she was finished, he had forced his way into the office.

Inside the room, Alastair Snoke sat like a king on his throne, with a mustard gold robe and amused expression.

Ben was taken aback suddenly, he was expecting something different, more professional perhaps. But this was far from professional.

“Who the hell are you?” A red-haired man marched up to him as though he was personally assaulted by his presence.

“Come, come, Armitage,” Snoke said with a wave of his hand. “This is the one I was telling you about.” He gestured for Ben to come closer and continued talking to the man named Armitage. “So, did they borrow the money?”

“The whole hundred grand.”

Snoke clapped his hands together, saliva bubbling at the corners of his mouth. “Excellent!”

“You’re not going to get it back.”

“After all these years, you still don’t understand how this works, do you?”

Armitage’s lips tightened in a pressed line, but he said nothing.

“What’s more valuable, Kylo Ren?”

Ben furrowed his brow, taken aback by the wrong name. “Are you talking to me?” he stammered over the words. “My name is Ben.”

“It was Ben. I have a new name for you now. So, let me ask you,  Kylo,  what’s more valuable, a hundred thousand grand or a life debt?”

“The life debt,” Kylo replied.

“There!” Snoke nodded, narrowing his eyes at Armitage, as though to press the point like a knife in the chest. “Here.” He pulled out a manila folder from his desk and slid it to Ben. “Tell me what do you see?”

Kylo brought the folder close to him, flicking through the pages.

A pair of drug addicts, the father worked casually as a bus driver, but his shifts had been cutting back due to missed work. The woman photographed in the folder had small pock marks and scars over her face and cheeks. She looked pretty far gone in the picture, and he suspected the father was too.

And then, on the last page, a picture of a girl, she couldn’t have been older than five or six. Her hair in three buns and sun-kissed in many freckles.

And there was the real win. Family, love, it was most people’s weakness.

“They have a daughter. She’s not living with them, but still, it’s all leverage.”

Armitage scoffed from the shadows, but his eyes were bright and watchful. “So what, we’re bringing kids in now?”

Snoke shook his head. “We’ll use her when we need to. Good find, son. For now, I have a better plan.” And then his eyes fixed on Kylo, like two armoured targets, leaning forward, voice low and caressing. “You’re in deep shit my boy. Manslaughter charges, murder with intent perhaps. It’s not good.”

Ben’s heart skipped a beat, he was only just sixteen, he couldn’t go to jail for the rest of his life. His life hadn’t even begun yet.

“But perhaps...” Snoke paused for effect. “All is not lost. Perhaps you would like it to disappear.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Anything is possible. If you’re willing to pay the cost.”

“Tell us what you will have us do.” Armitage stepped forward, his voice grandiose and pathetic in the same instance.

“Go for the hands. Make it so he can no longer work. I don’t care what you do, cut off his fingers, break bones, just make sure he can’t earn...”

Kylo swallowed. Shit. This was not what he was looking to do at all. But somehow, the gleam in Snoke’s eye gave him the impression that he would not be walking out of here freely tonight, or anytime soon.

“If he can’t work then he won’t pay,” Armitage stated, arms folded.

“Exactly. They’ll be desperate. And desperate people will do anything,” Snoke sneered as he turned to Kylo, “So, are you going to help us?”

Ben took a step back, eyes flicking between the exit and Snoke.

Would jail be worse than this—selling his soul?

“It seems a bit extreme,” Ben stammered, looking to Hux for support, but he received none. He wasn’t quite sure where this pale-faced guy fit in. He was barely older than Ben, but had obviously worked with Snoke for a while. If he had any moral issues with the underhanded side of Snoke’s business, he wasn’t about to show his cards here.

“Extreme, you say?” Snoke asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “More extreme than killing a young boy in cold blood? Indeed, what is a couple of minor bones to save you from lifetime imprisonment.”

Ben was silent.

“This is the end of the line for you son. There is no one left to help you.”

He hesitated. Snoke was right about one thing, this was the end of the line. If he took a job like this, his family would never take him back. The cost was increasing; family, freedom, morality…

“They’ll destroy you in there, son. You won’t last longer than a week,” Snoke continued. “The rich son of a senator. You may as well go in there and shank yourself.”

“Okay,” Kylo hissed, feeling heat curling up his neck at being pressured into this. In the end, he could always fake it, or run away. He would think of something…

“Excellent.” Snoke tapped the pads of his fingers together with a mercurial smile. “Hux here will video it for me. As soon as the job is done, I’ll make the call and you’ll be free.”

That night, Ben sat alone in one of the upstairs rooms of the brothel, still as stone, as if he was anchored to the bed.

There were papers sprawled at his feet and there was the picture of the freckle-faced girl in his hands. He only moved in micro movements, nostrils flaring, a tic tugging at the skin beneath his eyes, the subtle tremble of ash-white fingers grasping hold of the photo.

She was so young, without a family that loved her, or even knew she existed. He didn’t know why thoughts of her had grabbed hold of him. She was just a girl. But perhaps he took comfort in the fact that there were other people who were alone in this world.

Why could he not look away from the photo? Something about the innocence of her face. The quiet truth that they were both attached to this nightmare somehow.

The apartment had been a slum, with broken windows and exposed needles. No sign that a child had ever lived there or could ever return. The father had begged for more time, the mother was coming down off something and sat slumped in the corner, not really aware of her surroundings.

Snoke would give them more time. Years if he wanted, as long as he could keep them on a leash.

God knows what he would make them do over the years.

Or what he would make Ben do.

His phone dinged with a message. It hadn’t stopped ever since he’d left home. Message, call, voicemail, one after the other. Han, Leia, Luke, they’d even gotten his godfather Lor involved.

But he couldn’t go back. He’d made his bed the moment he walked out of that house and now he would lie in it.

He took his clothes off and got in the shower, closing his eyes as the water streamed down his face and over his shoulders.

There was a knock on the bathroom door, and before Ben had even grabbed a towel, a woman stepped into the bathroom. She had long brown hair and wore a sheer, red robe, with a lip ring and rose tattoo swirling across her breast.

Ben stumbled back, swallowing, his erection bounded up at the sight of her.

His cheeks burned and he tried to cover his penis, embarrassed, but at the same time unable to look away from the blush-brown nipples and curvacious waist leading down into rounded hips.

She had no underpants. No anything.

The prostitute smirked, her dark blue eyes running up and down his body too, as she tilted her head, trying to see what he was hiding.

“You must be Ben.”

She advanced on him again.

Was this the surprise Snoke had planned? He had not expected this. He was still a virgin and he sure as hell didn’t want to have his first time with an experienced woman.

“What—What are you doing here?”

Her laughter filled the room, snappy little laughs that reverberated off the bathroom walls. “Perks of the job. You’re a knight now, and Mr Snoke likes to keep his knights satisfied. My name is Tessa.”

She slipped off her sheer robe, not that it was hiding much before anyway. But even still, her naked body bought a new kind of flush to his cheeks and his cock throbbed, aching for release.

She stepped forward again, opening her arms as he dropped his hands, distracted by her nakedness. With a satisfied nod, she took note his size and smiled once more.

“Come here then, big boy,”

Fuck it!  So much for a romantic first time with someone that he loved. He was hardly going to turn her down. She ground her body up against his, rubbing her breasts against his chest, kissing his shoulder, neck, and jaw.

She leant up on her tippy toes, those blood red painted lips puckering as she aimed for his lips, but he grabbed her wrists, almost flinching at her touch.

“Don’t touch me!”

She laughed again, hyena-like. It made his blood boil. “What are you frigid or something?”

Blood coursed hot and angry through his veins, the stress and horror of the evening burned into his mind. He needed to explode, to get it rid of it all somehow. It was all too much, keeping it inside; the guilt, the shame, the fucking reality that he had killed a kid and broke a man’s livelihood.

Her hand curved around the width of his cock, pumping.

“You like this, don’t you kid?”

He grunted, a nod. Closing his eyes. “Just not all the touching, okay?”

She studied him dubiously, forcing him to look away from her.

“And that,” he almost growled. “That makes me uncomfortable.”

“What!? Me looking at you?”

“Yeah,” he grimaced, she was looking at him like a freak, but he didn’t care. If he was going to do this, he needed to have some ground rules. “Look, get a paper and pen and write this down.”

“You serious?” She scoffed at him, but did what he said anyway. “You can give this to all the girls here. No kissing, no touching, no eye contact …”

“Anything else?” Tessa asked with a dramatic eye roll.

“And no questions.”

“Right, no questions.” She wrote with a dramatic tap of her pen. “Just a fuck then.”

Ben nodded, face resolved, eyes dark and heart racing.

“Just a fuck.”

He’d missed things. Lots of details. Too many. As Rey stared up at him, wonderous and a little scared, still freckled, still young compared to him.

He hadn’t told her about the girl in the photo.

The words had been there, right at the tip of his tongue. Three little words. The picture…  It was you. It has always been you.

No. That would lead to more questions and more revelations. Some she may not be so ready to forgive. Was it too much to ask for just one night?

Rey hadn’t said a word. Even now, she sat with her legs tucked under her bottom, hands on knees, childlike and innocent.

“Say something,” his voice was thready, shattering around the edges. “ Please .”

Those hazel eyes, wide and dark in the gloominess of the room, wandered through the empty space, buying time, thinking.  

She shivered, the fire had burned down low and Kylo wanted to keep her warm in his arms, but maybe now she wouldn’t want him to touch her.

And why would she?

“So, let me get this right,” she said, her voice sharp-edged and stern.

Kylo’s heart felt like it had dropped to the base of his stomach, disintegrating in acid as she recounted the story in her own words.

“A boy who spent your youth bullying you faces you in the finals at this karate tournament and fractures your eye, and somehow gets away with it. Then, when once you’re  down, Snoke sweeps in and gives you advice to pull this move, which backfires in the worst possible way. Snoke then lures you in, promising to help you, but is really trapping you into a deal you can’t ever leave: work for him or presumably, he will expose everything you’ve done for him, even though he has forced you into each job by blackmailing you for the last.”

She took a breath, “Is that about it?”

Kylo furrowed his brow. “Yeah, I guess so,” he stammered out.

“Bastard!” she spat, lurching to her feet.

He almost laughed at her response, this was the last thing he had expected. Screaming, crying, leaving, hating, anything but… support?

She was storming around the room now, pacing back and forth in front of him.

“He thinks he can fucking manipulate everyone into playing his twisted games. Has no one stood up to him before now?”

“Once,” Kylo said quietly, remembering the broken ribs, the scars burned into his back, from the one time he had tried to leave. “It didn’t go well.”

“Fucking bastard!” she shouted this time, her eyes filling with hot tears. “How can any of us get out of this?”

“Hey,” he caught her as she marched past him once more, she was stiff in his arms, fiery and resistant. He stroked her hair, pulling her close to him. “Hey, it will be okay. To be honest, I thought you would have left after I told you— ”

“No,” she peered up at him, appearing almost angry at the thought.

“I killed someone, Rey,” and his voice broke as he said it.

“Yes, you did a bad hit, but Ben we both know you never meant for that to happen.”

Kylo shook his head, unable to face her.

“It was an  accident. Hell, I even sent the odd person to hospital when I was training. It was full contact martial arts, shit happens. Apart from that, you were a fucking child and Snoke took advantage of you. I think you said as much to me once. Anyway, what kind of person do you think I am to run away as soon as you open up to me?”

“I reserve the right to not answer that.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and with a sudden step forward, playfully drove a punch to his shoulder. He blocked her, unable to hide the smile now. She spun around and tried to foot sweep him, but he preempted her move, pulling her forward and lifting her in her arms in a bridal carry.

“You—” he tapped her gently on the nose— “are asking for trouble.”

“What? I wanted to see how good you are,” she teased.

Her eyes narrowed at him mischievously and all his senses rushing to the pulsing want between his legs. He had her now, trapped in his arms, at his mercy.

She bit her lip, eyes flicking to the bed involuntarily and Kylo raised his eyebrows, following her gaze knowingly.

“I didn’t mean  that —” She blushed.

But it was too late, no more talking. No more waiting, he swept her up in his arms, carrying her, almost stumbling along the way as he rushed to the bed awkwardly. Rey laughed as he threw her into the sheets.

“I meant your karate,” she exclaimed through her giggles.

“Sure you did.”

Covering her mouth in a thirsty kiss, he pushed his tongue within her lips as his hands worked around her body, finding the base of her jumper, stroking along the soft skin of her abdomen teasingly.

“What about the no kissing rule!” she gasped, throwing her head back and exposing a long sun-kissed neck as Ben licked along the line of her collar bone.

“Fuck the rules!” his muffled voiced grated against her chest, as his hands search greedily for the elastic of her tracksuit pants, tugging them down, unable to wait any longer. “I’m going down on you.”

He peppered rushed kisses down her abdomen.

“Okay,” Rey gasped, her chest already arching and collapsing with every touch of his fingers and lick of his tongue.

He yanked her underpants off and she squealed with surprise. “Honestly, you don’t need to—”

Her words fell away as he buried his lips between her legs, sweeping his tongue along her with slow, circulating strokes of his tongue. She arched her back in response, and with a breathy moan, she weakly tried to close her legs.

“It’s too much, you’ve done enough,” she said, although he suspected the intent was rather half-hearted, and with an amused smile, he wrapped his arms around her legs, locking them apart.

Her fingers searched down to his head, nails scratching through his hair in some primal motion, she was loud, and he liked it. It pushed him on, to kiss her harder, to lather every cavern and fold with his tongue.

“Rey,” he said between kisses.

“Ye—” she had tried to answer, but was unable to form a complete word.

Kylo smiled broadly, lavishing the way she responded to his touches. “Those rules—”

No answer, a base cry, unrestrained, her legs clenching in his hands, rock hard thigh muscles twitching and surging.

“Rey,” he said again, feeling so hard at the sound of her own pleasure, wanting to drive himself into her and share the magnificence of her body.

“Those rules... they were never meant for you…”

[ends]

#crimson lane #reylo #reylo au #reylo fan fic #reylo fan fic rec #reylo fan fiction #save ben solo

[joeys-piano]

For the character ask thingie: Chuuya 👀

TL;DR - I fanboy about Chuuya for a long time so just click ‘J’ to skip this post if you want xD

Send me a character for me to talk about

What are my thoughts on this character?From an aesthetic-perspective, I respect whatever fashion Chuuya has going on for himself. He exudes this sense of class and confidence, he seems very comfortable in his skin, and he’s a force to reckoned with – on or off the battlefield. He has a nice taste in hats, boots, gloves, overall attire. I’m a little bit of formal suit freak, so I really enjoy the attention to detail on his overall attirical design. His clothes portray sort of the duality of his character – how on one side of the coin, he’s a classy man who’s cultured in the arts and there’s this air of respect and formality. At the same time, on the other side of the coin, you get his rebel-nature that’s more free-flowing. If I was to sum his appearance to that of an an animal, he reminds me of a crow. Sleek, elegant, regal, bit of a troublemaker, ready for a throwdown, and he’ll never forget those that double cross him.

Even though you don’t see very much of him in the anime, Chuuya has the presence of a main character. He’s like a wrecking ball. You see him coming and he leaves behind this impact of emotion that you’re still reeling from, episodes later. From a writing standpoint, Chuuya feels like a solid character to me. He doesn’t feel like a caricature. He knows when to step down, he knows when to put his selfish pride or even his grudges behind him, for a moment, for the sake of finishing what he needs to do. His loyalty might be his downfall, but it’s that loyalty and trust he has in with others that gives him strength. To me, Chuuya is the kind of character that truly shines when he’s with others. He can play a solo-act, but his most memorable moments are when he’s in an ensemble or a duet with someone else.

Are they important to the general plot?I’ve only watched the anime for BSD, so I’m not sure what exactly Chuuya does in the rest of the story. In the general sense, I think Chuuya is important during pivotal moments in the story during action sequences and whatnot. But if I’m looking at the story of BSD and how it seems to revolve around the cast of the ADA and how the “camera” follows Atsushi on his adventures, for the most part in the anime adaption, I’d say that Chuuya isn’t important to the story. He’s more like a link or like an old flame to Dazai’s past. The focus isn’t entirely or sharply there, but you get these moments where it’s focused on and you get bits and pieces for sure. From what I see and know from the anime adaptation, Chuuya could’ve been written out and the story would flow more or less the same. With the addition of season 3 coming and more manga updates in the future, I’ll see what happens. Don’t get me wrong. Chuuya is a cool character, but his story isn’t the backbone of the general plot for BSD.

Do you relate to this character at all? Do they grip you emotionally?We’re both short and hate it when people comment about it, so that’s something. From a personal headcanon, I would think that Chuuya sometimes struggles with his thoughts on what it means to be human, considering his backstory. In some ways, I can relate to him on that because I’m not exactly human either. Probably what grips me emotionally about Chuuya is how he feels about betrayal, especially from someone he had some much trust on. It’s rare for me to hold grudges, but I’ll never forget anyone that double-crosses me. I share that characteristic with Chuuya and those are the rare moments where you realize how scary I can be.

Do you ship this character with others? Are you intrigued by their relationships with others? (platonic or romantic)I mean, I’m participating in a week-long event that involves a ship that has Chuuya in it. So yes. I like Chuuya and Dazai’s relationship, both romantically and platonically. They bring out the utter worst and the best out of each other, so I can seem them as frenemies or exes or something. But deep down, whether they genuinely care for each other or not, there’s some interpretations that they do to some regard. It’s ambiguous, so I’ll take what I can get. For Chuuya, I’m intrigued with his relationship with Ango. Something happened in the Dead Apple movie where someone owed the other a favor or something, and I’m curious how that came around.

Is there anything about this character that you would change?I like him the way he is – flaws and all. And….I can’t think of anything to change.

If you were in the fandom with this character or knew them in real life, how would you see yourself interacting with them?I would probably meet him at a bar. I’d be the evening pianist and I’m playing some smooth jazz over the keyboard. Sometimes when I do improv, I get inspired by what I see. I imagine myself seeing him in a corner, alone with a glass of wine delicately balanced in his hand, and I improv a little number inspired by him. It’s probably a sweet yet sad, close yet distant piano composition. Just before he leaves the bar, he gives me a handsome tip and that’s probably the only interaction I’ll actually have with him.

I wouldn’t want to have a close relationship with Chuuya. That would just be weird for me. Having a distant one has its advantages. I don’t need to know everything about him, and I don’t need to see him every day. But if those few moments that we meet and I’m able to play a little tune that softens his thoughts or lets his mind wander a bit, I’ve done my job. They say that wine tastes a little richer, a little fuller when you have a good music to accompany it. That’s what I would do for him. And in turn, he’ll be my muse and will inspire a lot of jazz improvs into the future.

Does this character make the cut as your favorite or least favorite character?He comes very close. I like Chuuya a lot as a character. He has everything going for him, and he has a lot of characteristics that I like to see or resonate with. Just a minor thing on my part – he’d probably take the throne as my favorite character of all time, if and only if in canon, he wore glasses. I know there’s an official art where he wears glasses and he looks adorable in them. However, the description on his BSD wiki page does not cite glasses as part of his appearance and he has yet to wear one in the story from what I know so far. So because of that, Chuuya is not my all-time favorite character but he’s very much beloved by me.

Would you hype this character or warn about this character to someone new in the fandom?Words are just words. People will come up with their assumptions after seeing him, so I rather not influence anything and let a newcomer figure out what their opinion or stance or whatever views they have of him come naturally. After they’ve established their thing for Chuuya, that’s when we can talk more about things. I like it when people make judgments on their own without the influence of the majority or from someone else. That creates a special bond between them and the character. Also, I don’t want to interfere with anything because sometimes when things like this happen, other characters are often overlooked. For a newcomer, I want them to have a sampled taste of everybody instead of focusing on only one character. You know what I mean?

Is this character popular with the fanbase?*stares at the majority of posts that reference/mention/has him in it*Yeah, I think so

#ask #i might have to write an essay one of these days about this man #but that'll be weird #and i don't want to weird y'all anymore than i have to

[littleoldrachel]

Tenth chapter is up! Read it here on ao3, or here on ff.net, or under the cut. 

Dedicating this chapter to @totally-aced-it for being the sweetest cheerleader <3 100 Ways to Say I Love You

Summary: In which actions speak louder than words, Sirius and Remus sort of fall in to a relationship, and even though neither of them have said those three all-important words, they both know it anyway.Or: 100 Ways to Say I Love You by Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.

Previous |  chapter 10/100 - “I’m sorry for your loss.” | Next Based on this post by p0ck3tf0x Tw for graphic description of a panic attack, discussion and memories of child abuse, references to disordered eating and self harm, grief

It's not often that Sirius is bored at work – there's usually so much to do and learn that he's focused and occupied from the moment he clocks in until he's forced out of his desk in the evening by his supervisor. But today is not one of those days; instead, he's half-filling in a crossword from yesterday's copy of the Guardian, and half-texting Remus, his computer screen idle before him.

Consequently, he jumps out of his skin as Akilah appears at his shoulder, silent in spite of their heeled, steel-capped boots. They drop a thick folder on to his desk, and it's the slapping sound that makes him sheepishly fold up the newspaper. Akilah rolls their eyes, tapping a ringed finger on top of the file.

"Good job on that submission, Sirius," they say, "you've got yourself a client."

Sirius jerks up, seizing the folder and flipping through it excitedly, "seriously?!"

"Siriusly," Akilah says with a cheeky grin, cackling as Sirius sticks his tongue out at them. "Are you gonna manage this on top of your big magazine deadline?"

"Watch me," Sirius says, with more confidence than he's used to expressing – but he means it. He finally feels like he's found his footing at Queerllustration; he's stopped feeling star-struck around his idols, having realised that they are just as nerdy and quirky as he is, he's been out on a pub crawl with all of his team and had a blast, and he's had nothing but positive feedback on everything he's submitted thus far. Even the prospect of running two big projects at the same time feels like a fun challenge rather than overwhelming – he is neither bored as he was at school, nor overwhelmed like at university, and the change couldn't be more welcome.

"Well, if you need anything, you know where I am," Akilah says, and Sirius grins, glancing over at Akilah's warzone of a desk (sketches, fabrics, magazines littered everywhere, half-full mugs of coffee surrounding their computer monitor like guards), "but I trust your judgement." Sirius' heart swells at their confidence in him, because is there any feeling in the world as good as being respected by someone you hold in the highest regard?

Speaking of – he glances back at his phone screen, which has three new notifications. One is a bunch of likes on his Instagram post of his latest coffee art (he might not be a barista anymore, but making patterns in steamed milk is fun, alright?), and the second is Remus' guesses at the crossword clue he'd sent him. He studies the crossword for a moment, realising with unsurprised amusement that Remus is correct, as per usual, and sends him an affectionate 'nerd' in return.

The third –

Oh.

It's a Facebook message, which is unusual in itself, because nobody in their right mind prefers Facebook Messenger to WhatsApp. But it's the sender of the message that makes him pause.

Regulus Black (1 New Message)

Sirius stares at the notification for a few seconds, which blinks back at him, flashing with new messages at alarming rate. Then he shoves the phone away from him, and it lands face-down at the edge of his desk.

He breathes.

For a few minutes, he manages to ignore the niggling sense of anxiety; he flips through the new folder without taking any of it in, he tries to edit a fight scene but frustrates himself with his inability to draw fucking hands, he continues sending memes to Remus, allowing him to take control of the conversation.

(Remus is… struggling, there's no two ways around it. Sirius hates the fresh scratches he sees on Remus' wrists, hates the tired and empty look in his eyes, hates the way Remus talks about himself as though he's shit on the bottom of someone's shoe. He hates that Remus still has to fight to leave his bed each morning, that he can't face work without having violent panic attacks, that he lurches between forgetting (read: not caring enough) to feed himself and eating everything in sight).

(And yet. Things are improving: once upon a time, the scratches would have been gashes, the bleakness of his expression would not have lifted, the self-deprecation would have been all that left his mouth. And Remus is trying – Sirius can see how hard he's trying, and it fills him with the fragile kind of hope that he wants to lock away in a tower to keep it safe. When Sirius asks about how he's really coping, he can see the struggle in Remus' mind, but Remus is fighting, and he is more open than he has ever been before about the reality of the situation).

(Sirius is sort of embarrassingly proud and concerned and grateful all at once).

His phone vibrates again, and Sirius clicks on the notification without thinking – expecting it to be Remus again. Only it's not, and the screen switches to Messenger before he can rectify this horrendous mistake.

Regulus Black: Sirius. I know you do not want to talk to me. I understand that sentiment. But this is of the utmost importance, and I do not have another way of ensuring that this news reaches you. I implore you to believe me that this is not the way I would prefer to tell you this, but again, this is urgent.

Regulus Black: Uncle Alphard has died.

Regulus Black: I am so sorry, brother. I know how much he meant to you.

Regulus Black: It was very sudden. The doctors say it was a stroke. Mother and Father – well, you can imagine what they are saying.

Regulus Black: I am sorry. I know that probably means very little coming from me. But, he was my uncle too. And I am sorry.

Regulus Black: In his will, Uncle Alphard has left everything to you, Sirius. Mother and Father are livid and are doing everything they can to get their hands on the fortune. But it belongs to you. One of your friends – MacKinnon - is a lawyer, I believe? Perhaps you can arrange something with them against Mother and Father. It is not important now, but I thought you should know sooner rather than later.

Regulus Black: There's something else. Mother and Father have sunk even lower than I thought possible and have barred you from attending the funeral. I do not know what they will do to you should you show up anyway. I will of course give you the details if you wish to come.

Regulus Black: You do not need to respond. But Sirius, please do not be alone. Please take care of yourself or let someone take care of you. I know this news must be very hard for you. But you were important to Alphard, and he would want you to take care too.

Sirius – he – he doesn't –

Sirius has a plethora of talents, but languages have never been among them – and for a while, he feels like he's had a passage of Mandarin placed in front of him, because the words? don't? make? sense? But then he realises it's more like he's reading an obnoxiously academic text, because he understands the individual words, but together it's like a riddle.

When he finally comprehends, it's like all the force of a brick wall crashes down on him – only it must be a set of walls stacked like dominoes, because it keeps happening. Every blow is crushing, every breath is harder and harder to reach because he's buried under mounds and mounds of rubble.

"Sirius," he hears, but it's muffled, and he is fading fast. There's even more pressure on his shoulders and he moans, shaking it loose – it's too much, too much, too much –

There are voices – beneath a rushing in his ears and the sounds of his choked gasps for air, people are calling his name and there's movement everywhere, but Sirius is drowning, drowning, drowningdrowningdrowning –

Something touches his neck this time, and he howls, jerking away violently, causing something to give way beneath him and he thumps down, knocking what little breath he has out of his lungs.

"Right, everybody out!" Someone shouts and claps their hands, and Sirius presses his hands over his ears as he continues to fight for breath, because it's all so loud, why are they being so loud? There's some kind of animal too – something is making an awful groan, as though it's been mortally wounded, and Sirius wants to sob at the sound of its distress, because it's appalling.

(When he's six, his father takes him hunting for the first time. Sirius loves what felt like dressing up in the fancy riding gear and is so excited to be on a horse again. But then the hunt begins, and Sirius watches a dog ravage a pheasant, his father's hand clamped on his jaw to keep his head from cringing away from the violence. Tears course down his cheeks as he pleads with his father to make it stop, "please daddy, I'll do anything," cries that are harshly silenced when his father backhands him hard, and spat, "I don't know why I'm so disappointed that you're as useless at this as everything else." When Uncle Alphard drops by later that evening, he is livid at the blotchy bruise across Sirius' cheekbones. Sirius can feel the phantom sensation of Alphard's gentle hands holding him in a rare, safe hug, can hear his voice explaining that under no circumstances are Orion's actions acceptable).

"Sirius."

Words are far too hard right now, and the only sounds he seems capable of making are pathetic whimpers, but he recognises that someone is trying to reach him from where he's trapped – someone knows he is here and suffocating.

"Sirius, you're perfectly safe. You're at work, you're having a panic attack. Can you open your eyes? I want you to see that you're safe."

Sirius is shaking his head violently before the person has even finished speaking, because he don't think he can cope with seeing the world in ruins as it now must be (or worse, the world as it was before, because if it's not in tatters, if it's just his world, how is he supposed to deal with that?).

"Okay. Okay, eyes closed then. I'm not going to touch you," they say, and Sirius feels tears smarting at his eyes. (He can't tell what he wants, because on the one hand, the thought of people – strangers, unknown people – laying hands on him makes him want to hurl, but also, he's an incredibly tactile person and the thought of a warm hug right now makes him physically ache with need).

"We're just going to breathe together, okay? That's all you need to do, and I know it's hard, but you just need to listen to me, and follow me, okay?"

The voice begins to count, and with it, Sirius loses all concept of time. After a while, and what feels like a thousand ragged, counted breaths, he becomes aware that the keening injured animal is in fact him, and the sound cuts off mid-wail. He feels overwhelmed – the combination of embarrassment, anxiety and grief have overtaken his utter panic, but it's still too much.

"You're doing so well, Sirius, that's it. Let's keep breathing a bit longer."

Obediently, Sirius continues to follow the counting breaths (what else can he do?), and slowly – achingly, excruciatingly slowly, he begins to return to himself. He can feel the smooth coolness of the floor beneath him, he can see vague shadows through his scrunched-up eyelids, he can hear the relative quiet of the office, save his noisy breathing and the computer monitors humming. He loosens his grip around himself ever so slightly, and when he doesn't drift apart, he forces himself to open his eyes on the next count of eight.

(When Sirius is eleven, he hides out at Alphard's apartment, which is smaller and drabber than the extravagance of Grimmauld Place, but feels more like a home than anywhere Sirius has ever known. Alphard insists that he teach him to cook, because "one day, little man, you're going to get out of that godawful house and family, and you're going to be free to live how you want to live… but you're going to need to be able to feed yourself!" It's the first time that anyone has expressed belief that Sirius is capable of something more than being a Black, and Sirius has never felt so hopeful and valued before).

It's dazzlingly bright, which hints at how long his meltdown has lasted, and he shrinks back into the shadows under his desk (how did he end up under here?). His muscles are throbbing from being held taut for so long and don't want to support his body weight, so he falls back with a soft thump. A coffee-brown hand reaches out and clasps around his wrist with a gentle tug, preventing him from thwacking his head against the ground.

He pulls himself back up, even though everything in him wants to lie down, curl up and cry. Akilah's concerned expression comes in to view, and Sirius feels another surge of shame at his behaviour.

"Hey, no, Sirius," Akilah catches his mortification, because of course they do, and opens their arms out for a hug. Sirius crawls forward, still humiliated but physically hungry for human contact, and allows himself to be swept in to Akilah's warm embrace. He closes his eyes against their chest (and a tiny part of him points out the enormity of the situation, because Akilah is awkward about their chest and the way it protrudes even under binding), and grounds himself against Akilah's heartbeat. "What happened? Is it the project?"

Sirius shakes his head, feeling a wave of fresh panic rise so fast that it's predatory, and he has to swallow down bile before he can speak. "I don't – um- I can't –" Words are much too much right now, and Sirius fumbles around for his phone, before shoving it in Akilah's direction instead, because the thought of having to say it out loud would mean acknowledging the truth in Regulus' messages, a truth which is too terrible to bear. They hold it steady as he shakily unlocks it, and Sirius can't watch as they read, doesn't want to see the moment they get it.

(He feels it though, because Akilah lets out a barely perceptible sigh and tightens their grip around him).

"What can I do?"

The compassion in their voice overwhelms him, and he feels a hot prickling at the back of his eyes. "I don't kno-w," his voice cracks, and he squeezes his eyes tighter shut, even as tears leak out.

"That's okay," Akilah says immediately, "do you want to go home?"

Sirius nods, even though he's not sure what he wants, but home means his friends and safety, and surely that will feel better than crouching under a desk with his employer.

"Is there someone I can call? I don't want you to be alone, and…" Akilah trails off as Sirius taps at his phone screen again, deliberately not looking at Regulus' messages, and switches it to the WhatsApp conversation he'd been having before – all of this. "Okay. Okay. I'll give them a call," they say, and Sirius feels himself relax the tiniest amount for the first time.

(Nothing is okay. Nothing. He is simultaneously empty of all emotion and overflowing with how overwhelmed he is by it all).

He's not sure how he gets from work to home, because he shuts his eyes again, forces himself to think about literally anything else. When he next opens them, Akilah is speaking and he's been burrito-wrapped in a blanket on James and Lily's couch. The lighting is soft and unobtrusive, the television is on but almost inaudible, and the cushion he's resting his head on is one of the smooth, velvety ones. He can appreciate what Akilah's trying to do, even if he can't feel any gratitude because of it. He vaguely remembers that Lily has a late shift tonight and that James has parents evening, but he doesn't mention either of those things as he's persuading Akilah that they can leave now. It sucks more of his energy than he expected to convince them, and he feels – numb.

He manages to hold it together for as long as it takes to feign half-smiles and reassurances that yes, I'll be fine, my friend will be here soon, I'll call you if there are any issues, but the second Akilah leaves, he's floating again, stitches coming apart at the seams, and he wraps his arms around himself again, pressing his face against the soft cushion until it's hard to breathe.

(Sirius has known for years now, and years of shouldering this kind of secret have worn a tired and heavy ache in to his chest. It's something that is so fundamental to him, no matter how much he wishes it wasn't, and yet, it's not all he is. But he knows his family won't see it like that. Then, one day, when he is fourteen and Alphard has just set a tagine dish before him, he cannot hold on to it any longer, and it comes spilling out of his mouth: "I'm gay." Alphard blinks at him, then smiles broadly, and says "okay. "Thank you for telling me. I love you, Sirius" before spooning a generous helping of couscous on to Sirius' plate. "More couscous?").

There's a knock at the door a little while later, but Sirius doesn't really hear it – or rather, he hears it but cannot register its significance. He huddles himself in to a tighter ball on the sofa, because if he loosens his grip for even a second, he is going to crack and fall apart and lose entire pieces of himself, and there is no coming back from that, he can't, he can't, he can't –

"Padfoot?" There's another knock at the door, and Sirius knows that voice, its familiarity would usually send butterflies fluttering in his belly and warmth around his heart. But not today, not now, not when he feels so incredibly numb and empty and hopeless, nothing can penetrate, nothing can help him.

"Padfoot, I'm coming in now." Sirius blinks and wonders fleetingly how much time has passed since that first knock. He doesn't open his eyes again, instead he squeezes them tighter shut as the door opens, as though he can force himself to wake up out of this nightmare.

Soft footsteps pad in his direction, but he is barely aware of them – he's barely aware of anything on a physical level. He's trapped inside his mind, disconnected from his body, and he knows that his fingers are tingling with a burning ferocity now because his entire arm is dead, but he cannot make himself move it – he doesn't know how anymore.

"Hey," the voice is incredibly gentle, like a wave lapping against the shore. Sirius wills himself to open his eyes. It takes the longest time for his body to get the memo, but when it finally does, the kindest of faces swims in to view. Their eyebrows are knitted in a concerned frown, their eyes are sad and crinkled, mouth turned down at the corners. He knows the name to this face, but his mind is so disconnected that everything's just foggy.

They continue talking, keeping their movements slow and obvious. Sirius lets the white noise wash over him like a tide, and keeps breathing, breathing, breathing. Eventually, it's like the world begins to come back in to sharper focus – shapes around the lovely face gain definition, the words being said make sense to him, and a name floats to the forefront of his brain: Moony. Remus.

"M'ny," he mumbles, and Remus stops talking immediately, moving close enough that Sirius can extract an arm from his blanket nest, reach out a hand and touch his chest.

"Pads," he says, equally softly, and within that single syllable is a multitude of empathy and support.

"Can you-" Sirius reaches for Remus' hands, but his dead arm sends a throb of stinging pain up to his shoulder, and his limb flops uselessly.

With one hand, Remus begins massaging his arm, beginning at his fingertips and working upwards. It sends tiny sparks of pain darting through him, but the sensation is strangely grounding, pulling him back to himself. Remus presses his other hand to Sirius' cheek, and the warmth of his palm seeps through the numbness, thawing the ice that has taken control of his mind.

It takes forever, but eventually, Sirius can wiggle his fingers without pain, and he immediately twists his wrist in Remus' grip, so that their hands slot together like jigsaw pieces. The grounding it gives him makes him sigh inwardly with relief – even more so when Remus shuffles closer, pressing their foreheads together. Sirius closes his eyes, breathing in Remus and all the comfort his scent brings, their lips so close they could kiss, only for once, Sirius has zero interest in kissing him.

Eventually, Remus presses a kiss against their entwined knuckles, and gently slides his fingers away. "I'm going to make us some tea, and then I'm going to cuddle the shit out of you. That okay?"

Sirius nods, even though it's not, and nothing will be okay ever again. Every breath he draws is one that Alphard cannot, and will not, ever again. It's like a knife twisting in his chest.

(He has to count deep breaths whilst Remus is out of the room, pleading with himself to not spiral once more).

Two mugs are placed on the coffee table with a light clunk. A warm weight settles next to him, and he doesn't even open his eyes, crawling blindly in to Remus' lap and pressing his face in to Remus' soft stomach. Remus runs his fingers through Sirius' hair soothingly, drags the blanket tighter around him.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Remus says quietly, and Sirius screws his eyes shut so viciously, it hurts, because those words. He knows people mean well by saying them, but what good does being sorry do? It's as meaningless as sending thoughts and prayers to the victims of a natural disaster – it's a nice gesture, but useless in the long run, and it is always about them, it's not really about the victim. And so, Sirius has always had a complicated relationship with those words – one that is part resentment and part exasperation –

And yet.

When Remus says it, it's different. Because Remus understands the weight of those words, having known his own fair share of loss in his life. And the way Remus says it isn't in an oh-what-a-shame-now-let's-talk-about-me sort of way, nor in a I-feel-so-bad-for-you-right-now way; it's entirely compassionate and empathic and full of the kind of love that Alphard had shown him – one that's unconditional and boundless and pure.

Sirius swallows all of these thoughts down hard, and opens his eyes again, twisting his neck to meet Remus' concerned eyes. He nods simply, cannot smile, and Remus links their fingers together once more.

"You don't have to cope with this alone," Remus says gently but with a firmness that steadies the sick, anxious feeling in Sirius' gut. "You are never alone, but especially not in this."

The tears threaten to return, and if he begins to cry now, he fears that he will never stop. Instead he turns his face back in to Remus' lap, allowing him to continue the head massage and start up a monologue about the impending Bake-Off finale.

"Don't leave," Sirius manages, what feels like hours later, once Remus has entirely wrung out an in-depth analysis of each contestant, before deciding that Ruby's firey-ness reminds him of Alice, and so is his favourite to win.

Remus squeezes him even closer, "never." He presses a kiss in to Sirius' hair, and Sirius feels himself welling up at the tenderness of it. He's not sure how much longer he can keep fighting the tears, though he's not even sure anymore why he's fighting them, he's not ashamed of these emotions, and he knows that Remus would encourage letting it out.

(Somewhere in his scar tissue, however, lies the memory of his pet dog being killed in a car accident, and being forbidden to cry, which has ingrained in him an expectation of punishment for expressing grief through tears).

Soon, James and Lily will be home, and even though he knows Remus has informed them both of the situation, their gentleness and comfort will be overwhelming. He snuggles closer in to Remus' lap, and almost smiles when he hears Remus' stomach let out a small growl.

"Hungry?" he says, in a voice that is scratchy with pent-up emotion, poking Remus fondly, and the other man squirms a little.

"When was the last time you ate something?" Remus counters, and Sirius frowns. Remembering a detail like that seems like it would waste all of the energy he's focusing on breathing and not crying, so he shrugs, because what does it matter? "Sweetheart, you need to eat."

Sirius shrugs again, not wanting to snap at Remus, but can't he see that he doesn't give a shit?

Remus sighs and says, "what if I make a stir fry? Something quick and simple?"

Unable to muster any strong emotions around anything food -related, Sirius shrugs yet again, which Remus seems to take as assent, because he makes to get up. Sirius involuntarily curls closer around Remus, his heart clenching at the thought of being alone again.

"Hey," Remus says so gently that tears spring to his eyes again. (Or maybe all this kindness is the tipping point on how long he can refrain from weeping). "I'm not leaving. You can come with me." He waits for Sirius' reluctant nod before moving again, this time pulling them up together.

Once in the kitchen, Sirius leans his weight against Remus' back, where he's chopping carrots, courgette and pepper in to strips, and wraps his arms loosely around his waist. He closes his eyes, and focuses on the sounds of slicing and sizzling, the smells of soy sauce and frying garlic, the feel of Remus' soft flannel on his cheek.

Eventually, the gas is switched off, and Remus turns with a hum, wrapping his arms around Sirius. "Ready when you are, love," he says softly, but makes no move towards dishing up, instead just holding Sirius like he's something precious and loveable.

The front door opens with them still standing before the hob, and James and Lily sweep in to the room, wearing identical expressions of protective worry. Sirius braces himself for what will surely be a barrage of affection and concern, but to his grateful surprise, they simply join the embrace in silence. Sandwiched between his three favourite people, Sirius cannot stop himself – the relief and the anguish well up inside him, spilling out of his mouth in a strangled sob, as tears begin to stream down his cheeks. As one, his friends draw closer to him, allowing him to collapse his entire body weight against them as he begins to choke on his emotions.

(His grief is sharp and thorny and comes on all sides – every breath he draws, it snatches from him and replaces with barbed wire and spikes that it plunges in to his lungs – it hurts, it hurts so much. There is no pain like this – nothing his parents said to him can compare to the blood-spattered mess his grief is reducing him to –)

(And God, it's never-ending).

Time must pass because his throat is dry and raw from the gasping, wretched sobs that have been ripped from it, and the front of Remus' shirt is entirely sodden with his tears and snot and saliva, and he aches all over from curling into himself like this. But he doesn't feel any of it. He feels nothing except the huge gashing hole where his peace and his contentment once were; now there is only anguish and pain. But eventually his body cries out in surrender, and his sobbing ceases all at once.

"Padfoot?" James says, very softly, gently touching the nape of Sirius' neck. When Sirius doesn't flinch away, he moves his hand up in to Sirius' dark curls, running his fingers through the tangles soothingly. Lily stands with a stiff difficulty, but Sirius doesn't raise his head to track her movements. Instead, he presses further in to Remus' chest, even though the dampness is awful, and Remus is probably sick of him –

"Sirius," Lily has returned, and Sirius lifts his face slightly to see her holding a washcloth. He closes his eyes, allowing her to wipe his eyes – his make-up is long-since ruined, but the warmth of the flannel soothes his sore cheeks and gets rid of the gross stickiness. When she's done, she sits back, looking more helpless than he's ever seen her – Lily is fiercely capable and dependable, and the sight of her looking so unsure is – frankly – terrifying.

Sirius takes a breath, and looks at James, who seems equally lost. With the two people he's come to count on most so powerless, he feels the ground begin to crumble beneath him, but he's saved from slipping through the cracks by Remus (because of course he is).

"Food. Bath. Bed. Cuddles. In that order. Non-negotiable."

It's rare for Remus to give orders – he is much more a follower than a leader, and Sirius means that in the best way, because there is nobody he'd rather have as a deputy. But the unusualness of the situation means that when he does take command, everybody snaps to attention immediately.

James hops up and begins reheating the stir-fry, whilst Lily makes them tea – peppermint by the scent of it. Remus helps Sirius to his feet, keeps an arm around his waist as he guides him to the sofa, and allows him to crawl back in to his lap. Minutes later, James and Lily come in with four steaming bowls and mugs. The heat of the bowl on his lap is uncomfortable, and the smell makes his stomach roll, but he knows that none of his friends will let him get away without eating, so he lifts a noodle wrapped around a carrot to his lips, and chews without tasting.

He manages half a bowl before he feels uncomfortably full and pushes the bowl away with a scowl. He knows he's being a bit of a brat, but he feels like he's earned it right now. Remus looks a little sad at the amount left in the bowl, but he doesn't push for more – it's just as well.

True to his word, Remus takes him in to the bathroom, and runs a bath in James and Lily's ridiculously big tub. He holds an Intergalactic bath bomb beneath the stream of hot water, because he knows that it's Sirius' favourite, and Sirius stares as the water swirls in to sparkling navy blue, glittering colours whirling across the surface. Remus leaves as Sirius undresses, but returns once he's in the water, and keeps up a steady stream of meaningless chatter. Sirius half-listens as Remus babbles on about the upcoming US elections, the dogs he saw today on his walk to work, his new medication and its side effects… the other half he is careful to keep on the water and not the intrusive memories that are attempting to barge through his mind.

But the warmth of the water is doing the trick. Sirius can feel the heat seeping in to his aching muscles, loosening the knots that have formed, and he relaxes just a fraction. And then a little more.

And then suddenly, Remus is stroking his hair back from his face, and the water is only lukewarm and he's so incredibly tired. Remus holds up a fluffy towel for him to step in to, and then hugs it around Sirius. They stay like that for a few minutes, just breathing, and it's nice and intimate and tender, and Sirius has to go and ruin it all by shivering, doesn't he?

Remus immediately whisks him to his bedroom, where a pair of fluffy pyjamas are waiting atop his pillow, and Sirius slips beneath the covers gratefully, his head heavy and groggy and sad. Remus presses a kiss to his damp hair, and then makes to leave, but Sirius growls, snagging his wrist, and yanking, so that Remus stumbles on top of the sheets.

"You want me to stay?" Remus says, as though the way Sirius is tugging the duvet around him isn't evidence enough, and Sirius refrains from rolling his eyes, if only because it would use his final scraps of energy.

"Obviously," he murmurs, and Remus smiles. He joins Sirius under the covers, and their limbs immediately tangle as Sirius curls around him. Remus wraps an arm around his shoulders, and Sirius pillows on to his chest, and it's so very nice and warm and safe.

"Good night, Padfoot," Remus whispers, as Sirius' eyelids close for the final time that night.

"G'night, M'ny," he slurs back, and swears he feels a kiss press against his cheek before he's off to the stars, floating in a galaxy of dreams and memories.

As peacefully as he slept, and as lovely as it is to wake up being spooned by Remus, his breath tickling the nape of Sirius' neck, the warm glowing contentment he feels pops like a balloon the second he remembers.

Remus is awake the moment he sucks in a choked sob, rolling him in to his arms and allowing him to weep in to his chest.

"It's not fair," Sirius manages, after what could be a few minutes, could be an hour. Then he feels like an idiot for saying so, because Remus knows that better than anyone. "It's not fair that he's gone and they're still here when he was a better man than – than –"

"I know, love," Remus says softly, but he lets Sirius throw his temper tantrum against his chest as he holds him, because he truly is a saint and Sirius does not deserve him.

There's a knock at the door, and Sirius freezes, before burrowing beneath the covers and tucking himself in to Remus' squish. The logical part of his brain – which obviously hasn't woken up yet – knows that it's just James and Lily, and they won't give a shit that he's tear-stained and sleepy. But the bigger part just wants to be left alone, so he doesn't emerge when Remus says, "come in," in his lovely, gravelly sleep-voice.

"Morning," James says, and the sound of mugs being placed on a hard surface stirs Sirius' interest – coffee? Tea? Water? He's so thirsty that any of those would be a dream. He pokes his head out of the covers, spies the coffee mug and launches himself towards it.

"Hey," Remus says, smiling fondly at Sirius' antics, "I would have passed that to you, you know?"

Sirius shrugs, settles himself against Remus' side, and carefully balances the mug on his knees, taking a sip even though it's scalding. Remus cards his fingers against Sirius' scalp - a sensation that usually makes him sag with pleasure, but today barely registers through the foggy grief-exhaustion-anxiety-sadness haze he's under.

"What's the plan today?" James asks, and the question is obviously directed at Sirius, but Sirius struggles to focus - it's all meaningless chatter to Sirius, because his world has shifted forever, why hasn't everybody else got the memo that everything is utterly wrong without -

"I'm at school until half five this evening," James tries, "and Lily's working till seven-"

"But I can swap shifts with Dirk, Sirius, if you'd like me to stay."

Sirius is already shaking his head, because the thought of being such a burden to either of them is unbearable - he cannot handle that sort of guilt on top of his already overwhelming load. (Even if the thought of being alone with his thoughts for a whole day is also unbearable - he will deal).

Remus clears his throat, "I have a day-off today. I can be here all day if you'll have me. Just need to get Alice to feed Winky," he says, and Sirius feels the relief like a shield, protecting him from the awfulness of his own mind. James and Lily seem similarly relieved, and Sirius feels a surge of both love that they care so much and irritation that they don't trust him to be alone. (His head is a fucking mess, and he's too tired to examine his conflicting emotions).

In lieu of having to come up with a verbal response, Sirius leans in to Remus' touch, and forms lazy half-signs, 'stay with me. Please.'

Remus murmurs, "always," quiet enough that even though James and Lily are watching intently, it's an intimacy that's just for the two of them.

Silence falls and Remus plays with Sirius' hair and Sirius' coffee cools and Alphard is dead.

(These are the facts, but they feel more like knives through his chest).

There's something else that needs to be said - Sirius can see it in the way that James and Lily, as in sync as ever, keep exchanging glances full of worry. But neither of them say a word, and the silence stretches longer and bigger and worse. Eventually, when he can't stand the tension anymore, he spits, "if you've got something to say, then say it, won't you?" It's harsher than he intends, and James flinches, but Sirius can't bring himself to feel guilty for his bluntness. (If things were different, he would be beating himself up for being so shitty towards his closest friends. Then again, if things were different, Sirius wouldn't even be feeling so numb to it all in the first place).

It's Lily who asks the question that they're all itching to, because Lily is the bravest of them all.

"We were just wondering when the funeral is, Sirius?" No matter how gently she asks it, Sirius' heart still shatters in to a thousand tiny shards, and it hurts - it hurts so much, how can she just say it like it's not rending the world in two.

Remus seems to sense something, because he reaches out and catches the mug just before it falls off Sirius' knee as he shifts violently, blindly lunging for something - anything to make it hurt less. He shoves his face into his knees, hugging his legs to his chest as tightly as he can, and he breathes, the raggedness of his broken heart still aching with every inhale.

There's a hand on his shoulder - too large for Lily's, too warm for James' - and even though everything in him wants to shrug it off, it grounds him enough that he can find the words to say to his knees, "it doesn't matter. I'm not allowed to go."

The grip on his shoulder tightens abruptly. "What the hell does that mean?" says Remus sharply.

"My - my parents don't want me there."

"When has that ever stopped you from doing anything?" James says incredulously.

"This is different," Sirius insists, "Reg says - they've barred me, and -"

"Barred you?"

"What the actual fuck," hisses Remus, and Sirius looks up in surprise at the venom in his tone. The hold on his shoulder is hard enough to bruise (and Sirius would know), and Remus mouth is a grim slash. "How the fuck are they so fucking evil, I will kill them-"

"Moony-" James says pointedly, but Remus shakes his head.

"They know how special Alphard is - was - to Sirius - they are doing this on purpose, and I cannot -"

"Moony."

"Don't Moony me, Prongs, how dare they bar him - this is so fucking unfair, that's-"

(Remus has removed his hand from Sirius' shoulder, but it's now shaking with how hard his nails are clenched into his palm, and Sirius would rather a thousand times that it was him Remus was hurting).

"Remus." Remus finally falls silent at James' I'm-a-teacher sternness, but still glowers defiantly. "Do you think this is helpful?" He nods his head at Sirius, who suddenly becomes aware that his cheeks are damp.

Remus has the grace to look ashamed as he deflates. Keeping his movements as obvious as possible, he moves back to Sirius' side, taking up his hand and twining their fingers. "I'm sorry," he says softly, and Sirius nods distractedly - he doesn't even know why he's crying, and he's more concerned with where Remus' nails have dug into his palms. Remus raises their joined hands, uses the pad of his own thumb to wipe Sirius' cheeks, and it's so tender it stings the raw edges of Sirius' broken heart.

James moves to Sirius' other side, and Sirius leans tiredly against his side - it's not even eight am and he just wants to sleep until he wakes up from this nightmare. Lily tucks his feet into her lap, shuffling closer, and for a moment, Sirius' sniffles are the only sound.

Eventually, James breaks it - "We can find out where they're - um. Where he'll be buried. And then we can go and pay respects. I know it's not the same, Pads, but -"

"Yes." Sirius says, unable to meet anyone's eyes, because he's terrified he'll see Alphard's disappointment that he can't even bring himself to stand up to his parents on this one small thing. Instead, Remus presses a kiss to his temple and Lily squeezes his leg gently.

"I'm proud of you, love," James murmurs, "we all are."

"For what?" Sirius says bitterly, "Alphard's the bravest man I know - knew. This isn't-"

"Having the courage to make yourself a priority is brave," Lily says fiercely.

James nods in agreement, "if you went to the funeral, you'd be seeing your abusers again. You'd be understandably anxious about that, and about making a scene, and you wouldn't get to actually say the goodbyes you need to. I know you know this."

"Sometimes self-protection is the bravest thing you can do," Remus says quietly, and Sirius closes his eyes. He wants to take their kindness and force his mind to accept it - to shove it at the voice that calls him a coward and shut it up because it's wrong, dammit.

But he's so tired and sad and empty, and the combination is too much for one person to manage. He curls into Remus' lap, facing away from the world's compassion that he can't quite convince himself he deserves. Remus returns to stroking through his hair in silence whilst Sirius wallows, and eventually James and Lily have to leave with kisses and well-wishes and the promise that they are only a phone call away.

(Sirius isn't alone - not emotionally, and certainly not physically - but he's alone in the intensity of this feeling. It's an exhausting, constant wave of grief that continually shudders through him, and it wears him down to the extent that he's slipping into a restless sleep once more).

It's Remus who phones into Sirius' work, explains the situation with a levelness that Sirius could never have managed, and arranges for compassionate leave. It's Remus who alerts their wider group of friends to the circumstances, details what he needs from each of them - knows what he needs from each of them - and responds to the overwhelming tidal wave of well-wishes. It's Remus who sits in silence with him for hours at a time, willing to listen when Sirius feels like talking (which isn't often, especially in the beginning), and ready to talk when Sirius' head is too loud and overwhelmed (which is often).

The next few days are not a blur. Sirius remembers them in sharp painful detail, and every breath aches like an old wound. He does his best to keep busy - he and Remus go to Richmond Park, trample through the snow-laden fields, walk as far as Remus' aching bones will allow. Remus takes him to the newest exhibition on Aboriginal art at the RA, and he wishes that his mind felt less foggy to appreciate its beauty and individuality. The two of them bake cookies - gingerbread shaped like dreidels - and binge the entirety of One Day At A Time and completely sort through Sirius' wardrobe.

It helps to keep himself occupied, because it prevents the memories from forcing their way through, though not even the sight of Remus with flour on the tip of his nose is enough to lift Sirius' spirits.

He's not sure why it hurts so much – he hasn't seen Alphard for a year, at least, and even then, their relationship has shifted from a paternal one to something like distant friends. The closeness had fallen by the wayside (and doesn't Sirius just loathe himself for allowing that to happen?) when Sirius had found friends he could rely on and a life he loved.

And yet it hurts so fucking much.

Perhaps it's the fact that he used Alphard's money to escape and rebuild his life afresh, without once going to actually visit his uncle and tell him how grateful he is. Perhaps it's the niggling voice in his head that whispers that Alphard knew about the abuse but still did nothing to remove him from it. Perhaps most painful of all, it's that in spite of the awfulness of his upbringing, his memories of Alphard are among his most nostalgic, but recalling them in a world where Alphard lives no longer is unbearable.

He finds himself going to text Alphard when he stumbles upon a recipe Alphard would have loved. He has to force himself to put down the scarf he's unthinkingly picked up for Alphard's Christmas present. He thinks of him when he hears Vivaldi, and when he passes bouquets of red flowers, and when he sees a deer frolicking through the fields, and suddenly his memory is everywhere.

(And it's unbearable).

(He's so, so tired).

Remus doesn't leave. That thought is the one that Sirius wakes up and lies down to. Every time he reaches for him, Remus is there before the thought has even fully formed. Every time his breathing becomes too tight and everything too much, Remus has his hands clasped in his own and is counting steady exaggerated breaths. Every time he begins to cry and doesn't know how or whether he'll ever stop, Remus holds him close and lets him sob in to his stomach, offering nothing but kindness and love and support.

And it should feel suffocating – like having an overly-attentive shadow, only… it's actually the biggest comfort he can imagine? Having someone who knows him so intimately means that he doesn't have to put into words how terrible he feels - because Remus gets it, and he gets him. James and Lily are, of course, wonderful, but it's Remus, and it's always been Remus, and there's nobody else Sirius would rather have by his side. Remus validates him and supports him and loves him unconditionally - and he knows any of his friends would do so too. But it's Remus.

(He spends a lot of his time wrapped around Remus' warm body, hands clasped together, Remus massaging his shoulders and neck, scratching his scalp, it's all Remus-Remus-Remus, and the tactile side of Sirius that craves physical contact is in bliss).

(Even if nothing else is).

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