#and trying to shuffle that deck was a nightmare in particular. takes SO long

[essektheylyss]

Just since I was in the mood and have not been focused at all, I also dragged out my Alleyman Tarot deck for the fun of it, and first of all, despite not doing much tarot in the past six-ish years, I've somehow become better at shuffling, which is GREAT because holy hell there are so many cards, but second of all, man I need to work with this deck some more. It's the most unhinged deck I've ever used and I love it.

[moonyswolfie]

The Prophecy

This is the first time I write a James x reader fic and honestly, it might be my favourite piece so far. I also could not help including some fluffy Wolfstar.

TW: mentions of the prophecy announcing Jily's doom

Pairing: James Potter x Seer!reader

Masterlist

The gift of Prophecy is not for the faint of heart. While the idea of glimpsing the future may appeal to some, they often disregard the fact that said future may not be as happy as they expect it to be. Tragedy is inevitable, after all.

Some may argue that the future is never set in stone and it can change at any given moment. And it is true, but would the changes be for better or for worse?

Ever since you discovered your affinity for Divination in your third year at Hogwarts, it was like something unlocked in your mind. That’s when the visions started. It was slow at first, one every few months, but the number increased over time and here you were, three years later, seated at the breakfast table in the Great Hall, shuffling your Tarot cards in order to make sense of your latest vision. Your dream interpretation notes were scattered next to your half empty plate and a piece of parchment and quill had your undivided attention at the moment.

The Fool.

Merlin, could this deciphering process be any more frustrating?

You hated that card with your whole being. It was perhaps the most vague out of the whole deck and it never really told you anything, especially when it came alone.

You shuffled again.

Nine of Swords.

This time you couldn’t hold back the eye roll. Nightmares. Well, no shit. This particular piece of the future did indeed come to you in a nightmare, but it was very fragmented and it did not make a lot of sense on its own.

Hence why you were furiously trying to decipher it.

There were times when you could have sworn the deck was working against you and either stating the obvious or giving you the most useless information possible. You were a firm believer that Tarot cards, while an instrument, had a will of their own and the particular deck you decided to use today was your most stubborn one.

You should have gone with the Rune stones or even your pendulum. You would have had more answers by now.

Pendulum work was not the same as Tarot readings. The crystal was more precise, but the downside was that it took you a lot longer, seeing as it could only offer ‘yes’, ‘no’ or ‘maybe’ answers.

You made it a habit, over the years, to combine the two. When the vision was particularly odd or even a bit eerie, you tried to get a better idea with the cards, untangle the emotional part with the Rune stones and finish with the pendulum that would guide you towards a clearer image.

This morning, however, it felt as if you would need a whole entire miracle to work it out.

“Good morning, love” the gruff voice of your very tired best friend snapped you out of your mental rant.

“Good morning” you mumble back, not yet looking up from the levitating deck of cards that throws another one at you forcefully, as if out of spite.

Ten of Cups.

Family.

That was it, you were officially going to go crazy. You knew that there was a deeper meaning hidden beneath the order and combination, the fact that none came out reversed and, of course, the Numerology. But your brain was not cooperating at the moment and it felt like your intuition took an early vacation because the cards felt empty. For all you knew, they might not even be correct and Peeves was just fucking with you bright and early in the morning.

With a defeated sigh, you lift your head and give James a smile as he takes his seat next to you, a brow raised and a bemused smile playing on his lips.

“Don’t start” you warn, anticipating his awful jokes at the expense of your serious interpretations that he believes to be useless in the long run.

He raises his arms in surrender.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you want to.”

“I just don’t understand why you exhaust yourself trying to make sense of these. You know as well as I do that barely a few are ever about you personally. And it’s not like you could warn every single person you see visions of.”

He has a point, you know he does, but what would it say about you if you didn’t even try?

Probably that you would be better rested and less snarky, but that was besides the point.

“This one felt personal” you try to argue only to be met with a look that betrays exactly how many times he heard you say that.

You clear out your deck of cards and the notes and books still open around you, placing everything carefully back in your school bag as James takes his plate off the table and fills it with everything in sight. The rest of the Marauders joined you in the meantime, all of them appearing to be in different states of exhaustion.

“Well good morning to you too, sleeping beauties. Rough night?”

Your teasing was answered by Sirius who let out the most dramatic groan as he leaned his forehead against his boyfriend’s shoulder, as if his mere presence at the breakfast table instead of still being in his bed and snuggling Remus was the greatest pain he’s ever had to endure. Remus did not bat an eye at his dramatics, however, more than used to Sirius’ behaviour by now.

You turn to James, brow raised in a silent question, but he just shook his head.

“It’s too early, darling” he muttered and continued eating “what did you dream about?”

That catches the attention of the other two boys and they turn curious eyes on you. Listening to you talk about dreams and visions you’ve had was not uncommon and they were always very invested in what you saw versus the reading that came after, explaining everything. It was like their own little daily puzzle to piece together before you gave them the correct answer.

“It…I don’t know, exactly. I only saw pieces and it looked as if they were years from now and from each other. I think it has to do with a family being torn apart, if my reading is to be correct. And something about nightmares, but truthfully, that could be about a different thing. Maybe the pieces are not even related” you shrug and look down, blushing faintly under the boys’ gaze.

Remus frowns and puts his fork down.

“What did you see, exactly?”

“A flash of magic, there was a scream, someone running up some stairs, a Dementor…and I felt this inexplicable coldness when I woke up, as if the creature left its mark in the real world, somehow.”

You shake your head, hoping to also shake this confusion and the images away. You were used to tragedy and whatnot, but the Dementors were where you drew the line. Those nightmarish beasts belonged far away from this school. If it were up to you, a world apart would not be far enough.

Remus hums, considering your words.

“It seems like you have an idea about the premonition already.”

You sigh and throw the deck of cards a disapproving look.

“I would have a better idea if those spiteful motherfuckers didn’t thrive in times of torture. Next Saturday cannot come faster.”

Your reply causes Sirius to bark out a laugh and Remus to let out a wounded whine. You almost chuckle, realizing your mistake, but stop in time as to not upset your other best friend further.

“I’m sorry, Remus, it’s nothing personal. I just really need the full moon to cleanse my cards and crystals and…well everything, I guess.”

James frowns and extends a hand to pick up the cards, but you slap it away at the last moment. He knows better than to touch anything you use for Divination.

“Why not cleanse them in the sunlight? And why am I never allowed to touch anything?”

His childish whine caused you to roll your eyes so far back that you were sure you saw your brain.

“The sunlight is usually used for charging, whereas the moonlight is reserved for cleansing. Except these – you lift the cards – don’t like the sunlight and lose all their energy as if in protest. And for the millionth time, Jamie, you cannot touch them because you will leave your energetic fingerprint all over the objects that are programmed to answer to me and me alone. Your energy would confuse them and they would stop working properly. I’m struggling with them as it is, don’t make it any harder, please.”

“Why don’t you use the other deck?”

Lily’s voice catches you off guard because one, she never speaks before breakfast and two, you didn’t realize she was paying attention to the conversation happening around her.

You let out a sigh and throw James a pointed look.

“Because Prongs here decided that he was bored waiting for me one day after class and attempted a love reading. And not only did he mess up that deck, he also managed to lose a few cards.”

Lily laughed, soon joined by Sirius and Remus, who shook his head and returned to his now cold breakfast.

“And what did the cards have to say?”

Peter, the last of the Marauders who managed to remain unnoticed until now, inquired, genuinely absorbed by the exchange. You felt a little guilty for not noticing him sooner and promised yourself to be more aware of your surroundings from now on.

James answered him, a proud smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

“That I already found the love of my life, but the timing is not right, so I have to wait a little longer.”

To say that everyone is shocked would be an understatement. Remus stopped with the fork halfway to his mouth, Sirius regarded his best friend as if he suddenly grew an extra head and Lily cocked her head, awed but disbelieving at the same time.

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm lightly.

“Stop lying to them. I had to step in and do the reading all over again with a different deck.”

“See, now that sounds more like the James we know” Lily mumbled between spoonfuls of porridge.

*

Fate had a way of taking everyone by surprise – even the ones who already had a glimpse of the tangled threads of future. One decision could lead to greatness, whilst another – no matter how similar – could be one’s downfall. One action can change the course of one’s life.

And such was the case of your relationship.

To say no one expected you and James to start dating in your seventh year at Hogwarts would be a lie. To say no one expected your relationship to actually last over the years would be closer to the truth.

Despite his years of infatuation with a certain redhead, Remus and Sirius had a bet going on regarding when he’ll finally realize that he’s been in love with you all this time and chasing Lily was a hopeless endeavour. The latter became obvious when her secret relationship with Mary was discovered, but the first part was still a work in progress.

It was the little things that gave his feelings away, but ironically, the two of you were completely blind to them, much to the bewilderment of your friends.

That is when they decided to meddle.

And thank Merlin they did, because your life could not be more perfect – married to the love of your life and waiting for your son’s first Hogwarts letter.

When James came downstairs this morning to prepare his coffee, he was met with the sight of you, seated at the dining table and shuffling a deck of Tarot cards. He smiled to himself as he took notice of the charmed steaming mug on the counter awaiting his arrival and moved silently to grab it and take a sip, careful as to not disturb your reading.

The levitating deck threw a card on the table and knocked the pot of ink next to your scattered parchment, managing to drench them in the black liquid.

Your groan of annoyance had James suppressing a chuckle, as he was fondly reminded of a similar scene that took place 15 years ago.  

You were aware of his presence behind you. Of course you were, you were working with unstable magic, so you always had to be on your guard. But this, his lingering presence and silent watching has become a ritual over the years, one neither of you could start the day without.

“Don’t start” you warn, but instead of severity, you tone was full of love and fondness.

He raises his arms in surrender, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you want to.”

You finally turn around in your seat, taking in the amused expression on your husband’s face. He placed the mug back on the counter and came behind you, leaning down to place a sweet kiss on your temple.

“I know better than to say anything, my love.”

You laugh and shake your head, catching his hand and placing a kiss of your own on his knuckles.

“You sure do.”

It took a while to decipher the vision you had almost two decades ago, but you did. And you were right, it was personal, but you never shared it with your friends. There was no point in it, seeing as life (and your friends) had other plans for James and Lily.

Dumbledore called it a prophecy, but you were certain you only saw a possibility. The future is, after all, uncertain.

“I love you” you whisper, but he heard it loud and clear.

His smile was so wide and so full of love, you were not sure where he stored this much happiness.

As he took a seat next to you, his lips met yours in a soft kiss, interrupted only by his equally quiet, but powerful confession.

“I love you too.”

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

Fortune’s Rule, Part 3

Ok, I thought this was going to be a 3-parter but, once again... it got away from me. So this is the third part and I’m almost entirely sure it’s the second last part. 

Part One Part Two

Pairing: Damian Priest x OFC

Word Count: 3,902

Content advisory: The smut has arrived! 

Indeed, for the rest of the night, you’re lost in your thoughts. ‘Damian’ you repeat in your head, thinking of how well the name seems to suit him but not knowing why. Damian with his long dark hair and tattoos, and that knowing, sinful smile. You haven’t been attracted to anyone since Johnnie and even that had more or less fizzled out by… you try not to think about it but the images come to you anyway. 

It’s the same sort of thing that you dream about, the sensation of being back in the woods, cold and desperate, clinging to the bag of money that still sustains you, shivering at the thought that your boyfriend and best friend might be dying in the water or that they might survive and know that you abandoned them. It’s like you can almost hear them dragging themselves towards you, broken steps from broken bodies. 

“Excuse me?” a sharp voice snaps you back to reality. 

“Yes,” you stammer, “I’m sorry.”

“Two PBR,” the young man says, his voice making it clear that he’s repeating this. 

You nod and turn around to get the chilled bottles out of the fridge but when you stand again, your body freezes and one of the bottles slips right out of your hand and shatters on the floor. For a second, you see Cynthia in the alley across the street, next to Damian’s store, slowly advancing from the shadows in the same terrible state she is in your dreams. 

But then a man emerges from the alley, adjusting his belt to make it clear what he was just doing. He sports a vest covered with badges and short, crimson hair but he is nothing like Cynthia. He jogs to catch up with a small group of punks and they all take off together, which leaves you in shock, standing in a rapidly expanding puddle of beer laced with broken glass. 

You sheepishly take a third beer from the fridge and hand them to the customer, not even bothering to count the money he drops on the bar before grabbing a couple of towels to soak up the mess. It takes that plus an entire roll of paper towels and a thorough mopping to clean up the mess and even then, you’re not certain you got all of it. The scent of cheap beer is in your nostrils for the rest of the night. 

Of course, this would be the night that you have customers lingering until nearly two, stretching out the time before you can take Damian up on his offer. But the sign in his shop stays lit, like a beacon letting you know you can find your way there no matter how late you come. So you let the customers stay and serve them as long as they ask. And when they’re gone you make yourself go through the closing rituals to the last detail. 

When you go to shut down the lights, you feel yourself shiver a little and you could swear that you see a shadow moving somewhere in the back but you turn and rush out of the place, locking the doors and closing the security gate before rushing to find out what your dark stranger has to tell you. 

You’re frightened by the screech of tires, a car Plotinus down the road well above the speed limit, loaded with kids blasting some sort of trap beats and hollering at you for interrupting their ride. You could swear that you looked down the street when you started to cross and saw nothing. Shaken, you instinctively grip your bag to your side and scurry the rest of the way to the shop door, ringing the bell as a handwritten sign instructs. 

There’s a loud buzz and you push open the door, much heavier than it looks, to find yourself in a dimly lit cavern of strange and slightly ominous artefacts, jars of leaves and roots, rough crystals and many, many books in a wide range of languages you’ve never seen before. 

“So you decided to come,” the familiar voice greets you from behind the cash. He’s bent over, arms folded on the counter, sharp eyes fixed on you with that same, inscrutable smile that seems his natural state. 

“I guess I was curious.”

You shuffle forward slowly, surprised that even stooped the way he is, he’s still taller than you. It’s like he’s a human projected on a screen, huge and frightening. 

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” he soothes. “Or what I have to offer.”

Your first instinct is to insist that you’re not scared but you know damn well it’s obvious you are. You give him a weak smile. 

“I don’t know if I believe in any of this,” you mumble. 

“It doesn’t need you to believe in it.” He rises and pulls aside a sheer curtain that leads to a back room glowing with crimson light. “Follow me.”

A street-smart person, the sort of person you’d like to think you are, would tell him to go fuck himself and head for the door. Who knows what he’s got waiting back there? Certainly not you, who couldn’t put up a fight against him under any circumstances, with every dollar to your name slung over your shoulder. He could skin you alive and it’s doubtful no one would ever hear your screams. 

Damian raises his eyebrow a little and steps back to allow you to pass. And you do, entering the room so that your back is to him, so that you wouldn’t even see an attack coming. 

He circles around you, eyes fixed on your body the entire time. You grip the strap of your bag involuntarily. If he’s a charlatan peddling hoodoo, there’s no reason to think he would have a problem with direct theft. 

“I’m not going to steal your money,” he tells you. “I told you, this is on the house.”

He takes a seat at a round table at the center of the room and motions for you to take the chair opposite him. You follow his direction as he picks up a deck of cards, running them thoughtfully through his large but surprisingly graceful hands. 

“Take these,” he says, placing the cards in front of you. “I want you to shuffle them and when you’re done, I want you to cut them into three piles from right to left.”

The cards are awkward in your hands, larger than a playing deck, and you feel clumsy as you move them around, trying desperately not to drop any. 

“How long do I shuffle them for?”

“Until it feels like you should stop.”

You’re tempted to roll your eyes at this but you keep shuffling, pleased as you get the hang of it and then, suddenly, your mind just tells you to stop. It’s like you hear a literal voice and your hands stop moving without you even having to think about it. You lay the deck out in thirds and he nods to show you that you’re doing it right before picking them up. 

He pauses, running his palm over the cards before laying them out in an odd pattern. He stops and starts several times, reacting like he’s reading a book, except that the book is you and you can’t tell if he likes what he sees. 

“So I was right about the accident,” he says quietly, his eyes still studying the strange images in front of him. “That’s a bad injury you’re carrying.”

“It hurts sometimes. It’s not so bad.”

He shakes his head and locks his eyes on yours. “You don’t believe that.”

He runs his fingers over one particular triad of cards, nodding as he does. 

“But you did get some money from it.”

“Insurance,” you croak. 

He shakes his head more emphatically. “No, you’re not telling the truth. This didn’t come from any legal means. You did something bad to get it. Maybe that’s why that bag always feels so heavy.”

“It feels heavy because I have everything that’s mine in it.”

“You live alone like a hermit. You work at a job that pays you under the table, I think. You’re cut off from everyone and everything. And what you have you carry with you everywhere.”

“I told you that last part. And the rest is stuff you could have guessed just from watching me.”

“You think I’ve been watching you?”

You stiffen because the truth is that you’ve been watching him, wondering about him, wanting to speak to him with something like the casual confidence he has speaking to you. 

“Well I have,” he adds with a quick wink. 

You feel your whole body flush and look down to hide the excitement that you know is in your eyes. 

“When I say you’re carrying everything with you, I’m not just talking about a bag of money.”

“Are you trying to psychoanalyze me now? Or question me?”

“Psychoanalysis never gets a person as far as I can get. And I don’t have to question you because everything is right here.” He waves his hand over the table. “I just have to put the pieces together. I told you, it’s a gift.”

You purse your lips and he looks down at the cards again. Occasionally, he’ll draw a new one and place it over top of others. 

“If you’re going to get where you need to go, you have to let go of all this.” He looks at your tense face and clarifies, “And, no, I don’t mean your money. The money doesn’t really mean anything.”

“Spoken like someone who’s never been without it.”

“Fair enough. I’ve always been able to get what I need. But you can’t. No matter how careful you are with that bag of loot, you’re not going anywhere until you confront what’s really weighing you down.”

This time, you do roll your eyes because it’s starting to sound like he’s recruiting you to a cult. 

“Those nightmares are going to continue and they’re going to get worse, you know.”

For the first time, you sit bolt upright and let out a little gasp. 

“The cards aren’t telling me what it is, not yet. Which means it’s pretty dark.”

“So how do I deal with it.”

Damian reaches across the table and takes one of your hands in his, turning it upward so that he can see your palm. You assume he’s reading it but instead he strokes along your fingers and between them, his touch like a moth’s wings. He hisses as he feels you tremble at the stimulation. It’s like he’s opening something up in you, delicately brushing aside the stitches that hold you together. He works his fingers up from your hand, over your wrist, never exerting any greater pressure, exhaling in a long, soft sigh as he trails his fingertips up the inside of your arm, coming to rest in the hollow of your elbow. Lifting his hand away, he stares deep into you, and it’s like he’s pushing and pulling the breath into and out of you with his own, at the same languid pace. 

Placing your arm back on the table, he cuts a glance to the side of the room. Following his gaze, you’re surprised to see a couple of sinks with chairs in front of them, hairdressers’ stations. 

He smiles when he sees your confusion. “The place was a hair salon before I bought it.”

“And you decided to leave those here in case the fortune telling business got slow?”

“Maybe,” he laughs. “Actually, I like them. They help.”

“They help you see the future?”

He turns back to you, his expression dead serious. “They help me help others.”

He stands and takes both your hands, guiding you back to your feet.

“In order for people to overcome their obstacles, they need to cleanse themselves and release what’s inside them, or else they’ll never be able to understand what it is.”

“Is that what you think I need?”

He steps close to you so that you can smell his skin, musky with layers of herbs like the ones he sells, wicked, magical scents that make your skin prickle. He doesn’t speak, but touches your head, running his fingers through your head and over your scalp, pressing slightly on certain points as he strokes all the way down to the base of your neck. He repeats the action and as he does, you swear you can feel the circulation increasing. Your forehead throbs but it’s not like before; it’s like there’s something leaking out of you. 

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let it out.”

Your head falls back but he cradles it there, his free hand continuing to trace patterns on your skin. At first, it’s like he’s putting you to sleep but then it starts to feel like he’s waking you up, that you’re becoming more alert than you have been in a long time. The scent of him seems to thicken and grow earthier, greener, wetter, but you realize it’s not him at all. It’s the forest and the river and once again you’re cold and alone. Tears leak from your eyes. All you want is the power to say that one word: Help.

And then you’re back in the red-lit room. Damian is standing flush against you, cupping your face in his hands and regarding you with a knowing expression. 

“Come,” he whispers and leads you to one of the hairdressers’ stations. 

He eases your aching body into one of the chairs and adjusts it so that you’re reclined with your head tipped back into the sink. You feel the water on your skin but it’s the strangest sensation, like it’s the exact same temperature, so perfect and comfortable you feel like you could enjoy it forever. 

Damian runs his hands gently through your hair, separating it and working through the tangles with the precision of a surgeon. He moves your head from side to side, manipulating the knots in your neck and smoothing everything up and out into the water. 

Then you feel something thick and balmy, something that smells like rosemary and lavender and sage, things you remember from your grandmother’s garden, lifetimes ago. He works the substance through your hair, into your scalp, the pressure of his touch slightly heavier now, like he’s coaxing something to the surface. 

He rinses you clean and presses your hair into a towel and finally you open your eyes, only to have him run his hand over your face. 

“No, just relax. Let yourself enjoy it.”

In your whole life, you’ve never had a man wash your hair before. But no man has ever made you feel the things you’re feeling now before. So you close your eyes again as he moves away. 

For a few seconds, you don’t know where he’s gone, but then you feel his hands on your thighs, just above your knees, the heat from them radiating upward. You immediately tense but he presses his hands down a little more firmly. 

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Let me help you”

His hands slide up, lifting your shirt so that your stomach is exposed. You flinch again and then you feel his breath against your abdomen, the light touch of his lips trailing over the skin while he wraps his hands around the small of your back and lifts a little. With his tongue, he draws a line from just below your breastbone all the way down to the low-slung waist of your denim shorts, pausing slightly to press a soft kiss on the edge of your navel that makes you shiver. 

He unbuttons your shorts, kissing the hollow between your hips and flicking his tongue over it. You glance down and his eyes are fixed on yours. He stops moving. 

“Put your head back. Let yourself go.”

You want to tell him that you’d like to be an active part of what’s happening but the look in his eyes makes you think that he has something in mind and you want to know what it is. So you let your head rest and close your eyes, focusing only on the feeling of the man between your legs. 

He slides your shorts and panties down in one smooth movement and runs his palms up your thighs. Then he leans in again, his breath hot against your pussy, and even that has you releasing a few needy sounds and lifting your hips, trying to get him to dive in. 

Instead, he lowers his head a little and kisses all along the folds of flesh, exploring them with his lips and tongue, humming in satisfaction when he feels your body react, or when another sound escapes you. He presses his tongue at the very back of your opening and slowly draws it along, all the way up to your swollen clit, which he captures between his lips and sucks gently for a second before releasing it again. 

It’s like the rest of your body isn’t even there and that the only part of you that’s real is your starving core. Every sensation you can feel is coming from his attention and the rest of you is floating in some sort of suspended animation. He rests his hands on your hips, pressing his thumbs into the depressions next to the bone and even that seems to build your excitement. Then he starts to push his tongue inside you, pressing against every nerve at your entrance firmly and with unerring precision. 

As he does this, you feel like part of you has escaped. It’s like you’re standing over your own body, looking down at the still figure of a woman, throat flushed, gasping for air, crying out feebly for something. 

Damian flattens his tongue and works it around your clit again, soft strokes at first, then swirling it in tight circles and then flicking the engorged bead enough to make you feel like you’re about to explode before he returns hungrily to your dripping folds, massaging the fleshy mound just above your clit with those long fingers. 

He rocks back and forth, shifting between your pulsing labia and clit until your whole body is trembling, something you seem able to see from your vantage point hovering overhead. You’re clutching at the arms of the chair, at the edge of the sink, at anything. Your cries are getting shorter and sharper as the tension increases. 

This time, he doesn’t shift positions. He works on you determinedly until your orgasm erupts and as it does, it’s like the whole of your body opens and some sort of energy flows out, something hot and light and wonderful that continues for ages. And it’s not like you haven’t had lots of orgasms but this is something completely different. It’s like your body has melted against this man’s mouth, like the orgasm isn’t going to stop although, finally, it subsides and your body closes itself up again. 

You’re so weak you can’t even move. When he appears next to you, offering a bottle of water, he has to help you sit up before he tilts the bottle so that you can drink from it. 

“Take it easy,” he murmurs, wrapping one massive arm around your shoulders to keep you steady. “You’ll be ok in a couple of minutes.”

Your head hurts but it’s a different pain, softer and more diffused, like something you could forget once you had something else to focus on. Damian, meanwhile, has pulled up a chair and is watching you, arms resting on his knees. And still there’s that coy smile. 

“I don’t know what to say. I wasn’t expecting…” you stutter. “Thank you?”

His smile broadens and he runs his hand lightly down the side of your neck. “I told you, you need to relax a bit so that whatever you’ve got inside there can escape.”

You shudder. “I’m not sure I want it escaping.”

“I’ll tell you again: it’s the only way you can deal with it.”

“Does that mean you want me to tell you all my dark secrets?”

“Maybe I know them already.”

You straighten up, a little of your wits returning to you. “I don’t know if you’re that good at reading minds.”

He stands and helps you up, resting his hands on your shoulders. As you get back on your feet, you notice an impressive erection in his pants. You step so that you’re pressed against him and run your hands up his chest, sighing in appreciation when he cups your head in his hands, gently removing the towel and allowing his fingers to weave themselves in your still damp hair. 

You mirror the gesture, gripping his dark locks and pulling him down into a kiss. You have to stand on your toes even with him lowering his head, but he steadies you with a hand on your back and gladly returns the kiss, grunting a little when you grind your hips against the bulge in his pants. The intensity builds so that it almost feels like he’s fucking you with his tongue again, like he could make you come like this if he really wanted to, even though it’s physically impossible. 

Finally, you pull away, dizzy again, and grip the waistband of his jeans. 

“Why don’t I help you with that?” You pant. 

He shakes his head and it seems so contradictory to what just happened that it takes you a moment to register that he’s saying no. You dive in for another kiss, which he enthusiastically returns, making you bold enough to rub your hand insistently over his bulge. 

He pulls back, shaking his head once again and lifting your hands off him. 

“I don’t do that on a first date,” he tells you. 

“Are you serious?” He can’t be. You can still taste your pussy on his breath.His hard-on is straining against his pants. 

“Yeah I’m serious. I’ll do what I just did for you but for the other… It’s a rule I have.”

“Do you have a rule against me getting on my knees for you?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “actually I do.”

You roll your eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. 

“Some women would think that’s a pretty good arrangement.”

“Well this woman is wondering if she gets a second ‘date.’”

He grins. “You know where to find me sweetheart.”

“Does that mean you want to see me again?”

“I’d love to see you again. But you know that.”

The truth is that you feel like you don’t know anything about this man who seems to know everything about you. He walks you out to the front of the store and bids you goodbye letting his lips trail down your neck and along your collarbone, finishing with a soft, slow kiss to the hollow of your throat. 

“Catch you later,” he whispers. 

The door closes behind you and you make your way down the stairs, once again feeling unsteady. As you reach the sidewalk, the neon sign shuts off. Whatever business he’d planned on doing tonight ended with you. You linger a few moments, hoping that the door will open and he’ll either tell you to come back or walk down to meet you and take you somewhere that he can work more of his witchcraft on you. 

Nothing happens. It stays dark and quiet.

[jostens-pitch]

the shuffling of cards

summary- non exy/mafia au where all andrew had known all his life was disappointments and despondency. he'd never wanted anything because he was always given nothing, but somehow neil had managed to become a something. told through unproductive therapy sessions and late night rooftop talks.

can be found on ao3 as well !

Andrew’s life consisted of disappointments and despondency. He didn’t believe in a god, but it was clear he had been dealt a bad hand of cards in this lifetime. There was no point sugarcoating it. His life amounted to nothing more than stifled cries for help and scars; late night terrors weighed down heavily on him.

Disappointments and despondency, that’s all Andrew knew; he was content with it.

He had to be content with the cards he was dealt, otherwise he’d drive himself insane trying to level the playing field. So on nights where his bed covers felt too similar to a body pressing against him, when the wind outside his window sounded too much like whispered threats, when his nightmares were hard to distinguish from reality, Andrew simply shut his eyes and imagined himself with a deck of cards. He shuffled them in his mind, forcing himself to focus on the reds and blacks that flashed each shuffle. It never calmed him, but it was enough for him.

Betsy was the only one who knew of the way Andrew viewed his life. It was obvious that she didn’t approve, often saying that by replacing himself with inanimate objects he was just repressing trauma. He didn’t care, but he had tried to reassure Betsy of her concerns during a particular session.

“I don’t even know how to play cards.” Andrew said.

“That’s not funny,” Betsy sighed. “You’re hurting.”

Andrew stared blankly at her, he had already begun to imagine shuffling a deck of cards. “I’m content.”

“‘Content’ and ‘lonely’ are closely related, Andrew.”

Reds, blacks, aces, diamonds, spades, clubs. They all flipped wildly through Andrew’s head, taunting him. He didn’t need anything or anyone. The cards had made sure of that the moment he was born. Only fools plagued by disappointment wished on stars for their wants. Andrew knew better than them, he knew the stars laughed at the fools; he knew they spit their wishes back at them. Andrew knew better, but he was human and he was weak.

The stars had spit Neil Josten back at Andrew.

It was the only explanation for the way the boy was thrown so suddenly into his life. Andrew had been content, he had his deck of cards and he had his disappointments. He didn’t want anything, he hadn’t looked to the stars for anyone. He was fine.

Yet Neil came crashing into Andrew’s life, bringing his secrets and his scars with him. He left burns where he landed long after the fire had been put out. He had become a shadow that loomed over Andrew, never getting too close or appearing too threatening. It was nauseating, so he avoided Neil at all costs.

Andrew could handle it though. The stars could go fuck themselves. Neil was nothing, and it would stay that way. The hand he had been dealt was all the guidance Andrew needed, its spades and diamonds becoming knives and bullets. As long as he had his knives and cards, there was nothing he needed. It had been that way for nineteen years.

“Neil seems to have become a permanent fixture in your life.” Betsy noted one session.

“What gave you that impression?” Andrew’s voice remained flat as usual.

“His name pops up frequently during my sessions with Aaron and Kevin.”

“Patient confidentiality, Doc.” He had reminded her.

Betsy rolled her eyes. “Maybe the cards have switched hands.”

“Ha,” Andrew huffed. “I forget you have a sense of humor.”

She had smiled at him, writing something down on her notepad. Andrew caught a glimpse of the words she had written, seeing “Neil”, “friends”, and “lonely”. He remembers frowning, not liking the connections Betsy had been drawing.

If she thought Neil was the answer to his problems, then Andrew had sorely mistaken Betsy’s abilities. There wasn’t an “answer” to anything relating to him. His mother hadn’t wanted him, he had been sexually abused for years, he went to juvie, he killed his mother, and he had survived it all by envisioning shuffling a deck of cards. Those weren’t problems that had solutions, it was just how his life was; disappointments and despondency.

-

During his freshman year at Palmetto, Andrew had discovered the rooftop of his dormitory building. He hated heights, but the air so high up was crisp and burned his lungs the same way a cigarette did. The view wasn’t anything impressive, but it made Andrew feel as if he was finally away from the men who had hurt him. He had spent a lot of nights sitting on the edge of the rooftop, shuffling cards in his mind and burning his lungs with smoke and cold air.

This year was no different; on the first night of sophomore year, Andrew made the journey up to the rooftop for a smoke and to clear his mind. His session with Betsy that day had rattled him more than it should have. She had decided today that they should discuss Andrew opening up more, maybe making friends this year. He ignored everything Betsy was saying, already knowing that what she wanted wasn’t realistic. Most wants weren’t. Andrew was perfectly fine with what he had, but the session had cast a shadow of doubt in his mind. He hated it.

He pushed the door to the rooftop open with unnecessary force and in his angry rush he almost didn’t see Neil slouched over the edge. Andrew froze, unsure of what to do. While Neil had been at Palmetto for the summer, Andrew had made sure he was never alone with him. It worked out, seeing as how Neil was always with Kevin and Aaron studying or with Matthew Boyd, who didn’t like Andrew. Thinking over his options, he was tempted to walk up behind the boy and thrust his arms out to push him off. He almost did, but when Neil turned to face him, he saw blue eyes that should’ve been brown. For a moment he thought it was a trick of the light, but-

“I don’t like surprises.” Andrew said.

Neil raised a brow. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

Andrew ignored the remark and walked over to where he usually sat on the edge. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it with practiced ease. He knew he was stalling, but for once in his life Andrew didn’t know what to say. The implications behind Neil’s words were dangerous.

The cigarette smoke burned Andrew’s throat as he spoke. “Shouldn’t Boyd be babysitting you?”

“He’s with Dan.” Neil said with a shrug.

Andrew hated how Neil let his taunts roll off of him so easily. He brought his cigarette to his lips again and inhaled, watching Neil out of his peripheral vision. The thought of pushing him off the edge still seemed amusing to Andrew.

“You know,” Andrew said, turning to face Neil, “I could push you and make it look like an accident.” He blew smoke in the boy’s face.

To Andrew’s surprise, Neil breathed in the smoke with a smile on his face. The damn stars and fools he thought bitterly.

Neil took a moment to respond, still inhaling all the cigarette smoke he could. “Matt told me you’d threaten me eventually. It’s good to know you think so highly of me.”

Andrew huffed and took another drag from his cigarette, choosing not to dignify Neil’s words with a response. He’d let him think whatever he wanted. At the end of the day, all Andrew wanted was nothing. There was nothing on his mind, no one on his mind. Not even boys with pretty faces and eyes so blue they seemed to glow in the dark.

Silence settled upon them as Andrew finished the last of his smoke. He cursed at himself for leaving his pack back in his dorm. For once, he wished he had more than his deck of cards in his head to distract him. Neil’s presence, even sitting three feet away, was too much for Andrew. Just as he was about to get up and leave, Neil spoke.

“I wear colored contacts to stand out less, in case you were wondering.”

Andrew’s shoulders tensed. Why was he offering up a truth so willingly? Was he expecting something in return? No one offered themselves up without the reward of transparency.

“I don’t remember asking.” Andrew said.

Neil turned to him again, offering a small smile and a nod. “I know.”

They allowed silence to settle over them again, not moving until it was late and they had to go inside. Later that night, as the reds and blacks shuffled through Andrew’s mind, he thought he saw a flash of bright blue as well. He didn’t sleep that night.

-

Neil said things that made Andrew want to slit his throat and sew it back together again.

That’s all Andrew had come to learn during their nightly rooftop sessions. He hadn’t meant to make them more than a one time thing, but Neil kept showing up and Andrew couldn’t bring himself to tell him to fuck off. During the day they ignored each other, but when night fell they’d come together on the rooftop. Andrew had to remind himself often of the disappointments and despondency he’d come to rely on over the years.

Tonight, Neil turned to Andrew and said, “I know there’s more to you than cigarette smoke and knives.”

Andrew’s hand froze on its way to taking another drag from his cigarette. Once he noticed, he let his hand drop quickly next to him. Andrew knew Neil saw the way he reacted to the statement, and it made him want to push the cigarette into Neil’s lips and burn them. Maybe that would stop the boy from speaking.

The two stared at each other for several long minutes, Neil’s eyes expectant and curious while Andrew’s were cold and unbothered. Andrew could hear thunder rumbling, a storm brewing above them. He was tempted to just let the storm be an excuse to leave without answering, but before he knew it he was speaking.

“There’s also a deck of cards and being dealt a shitty hand.” Was all he said.

Neil, though visibly confused, seemed to accept the answer and turned back to face the lights of the buildings before them. They sat in silence as usual before the storm brought its rain and forced them inside.

Andrew was glad the storm came so quickly since Neil’s words were floating through his mind. He noted how he said “I know” instead of “I think”. Andrew spent the night in bed agitated at himself for allowing a runaway to read him so easily. Fuck whatever Neil thought he knew, fuck himself for giving more away more information, fuck everything.

Disappointments and despondency. That was it. That was all Andrew would allow himself to know. His deck of cards were all he needed. There was nothing more to him than that.

Nothing.

-

“You look more tired than usual.” Betsy observed during their session the next day.

Andrew glared at her, not feeling up to their usual banter today. Neil’s words had clung to his brain all night and no matter how many times he shuffled his deck of cards in his head, he hadn’t been able to calm down. It was infuriating being so weak.

Sensing his annoyance, Betsy set her notepad aside and leaned in closer to him. “Andrew, I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Do you now?” Andrew said.

“Yes. It’s my job to know and it’s your job to tell me.” She pressed on.

Andrew looked down at his nails and began to pick at a piece of dry skin. “It’s not a job if I’m not getting paid for it, Doc.”

Betsy laughed, “Well I’m getting paid, so either you tell me what kept you up all night or we sit here for the next forty-five minutes. Either way, I’ll make money.”

It’s sessions like this that remind Andrew why Betsy has been the only psychiatrist to ever hold his attention longer than one visit. He knew that she was more than willing to sit and stare at him until their session ended, and normally Andrew would stare right back, but after last night he just felt raw.

Letting out a deep sigh, Andrew gave in. “I took your advice and befriended Neil Josten.”

“Andrew, that’s great-”

“Your advice was shitty.”

Betsy paused, startled by the quick change in Andrew’s demeanor. “May I ask how?”

“Little Neil seems to think he knows all about me.” He explained, making sure to keep any emotion out of his voice.

“Is there something wrong with him thinking that?” Betsy asked.

Andrew looked her in the eye. “You know about my deck of cards, don’t ask stupid questions.”

“My apologies, but maybe it’s a good thing. He seems to have taken an interest in you.”

“All he does is say things that make me want to cut into his face and rearrange it.”

Betsy grimaced at the visual and opened her mouth to respond, but a frantic knock on her office door cut her off.

“Ms. Dobson?” Andrew’s eyes widened slightly. He knew that voice almost too well. That voice asked him questions that made him want to peel his skin off and burn it.

Neil’s head popped up from behind the door before Betsy could stop him. He looked sweaty and out of breath, his eyes slightly panicked as he saw Andrew sitting in the chair. He clearly hadn’t known that Betsy would be in a session right now. Andrew couldn’t help but wonder why he seemed to be in such a rush to see her.

“Neil! I thought we had an appointment at three?” Betsy asked, getting up from behind her desk and meeting Neil at the door. Andrew curiously watched how they interacted.

“I- uh,” Neil opened the door fully and stepped inside, standing on the tips of his toes as if he was getting ready to run. He casted a weary glance at Andrew before speaking. “It's the FBI. They, uh, contacted me this morning and told me my dad is in custody.”

Andrew raised his eyebrows. The FBI? Interesting.

Betsy’s eyes widened, looking between Andrew and Neil for a few seconds before sighing.

“Andrew-” She started.

“I know,” He cut her off. “I’m not getting paid to be here anyways.”

Betsy smiled at the subtle joke, watching as Andrew collected his things and got up. He made sure to not look Neil’s way as he was scared his eyes would give away everything he wanted to ask the boy. He knew he’d have time tonight. There was no way Andrew was letting Neil skip out on their rooftop session. Tonight, he’d be the one asking questions.

-

For once Andrew was the first to arrive at the rooftop, so he sat at the edge and pulled out a cigarette to light. For the first time in a long time, he was alone on the roof. He thought he’d be relieved to be alone, but for some reason he felt like something was missing.

Disappointments, Andrew reminded himself, despondency.

"Content" and "lonely" are closely related, Betsy’s voice replied as a black spade shuffled after a red ace. Andrew scoffed at himself; even his mind was arguing with him now. Pathetic.

Andrew waited for nearly an hour for Neil to show. Once the hour had passed, he began to think that maybe the runaway had finally escaped. It wouldn’t have surprised him, it had been clear the day they met that Neil was a runner. It was one of the reasons why he avoided him for so long.

“My real hair color is this awful red-orange thing.”

Andrew couldn’t help but jump at the sound of Neil’s voice. He hadn’t heard the boy walk up behind him, which in itself made him uneasy. Andrew had come to survive on his hearing abilities warning him of threats approaching.

Turning around to face Neil, Andrew allowed his heartbeat to slow down before speaking. “Thank god for the brown, then.”

Neil let out an uneasy laugh. This was the first time Andrew had ever seen him so nervous around him. Normally he was teasing and unperturbed, always using his quick wit and cocky mouth to annoy Andrew. This quiet, insecure Neil was something he didn’t think he liked.

“Why did the FBI tell you that your dad is in custody? Normally a person is told by their frantic mother.” Andrew squared his shoulders and raised his chin, daring the boy standing in front of him to lie.

“My mother is dead.” Neil said, looking into his eyes.

Hiding his shock, Andrew carried on. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s a long story and I’ll tell you whatever you want, but,” Neil stood up straighter, “I think it’s time you expose your truths as well.”

Andrew blinked at him. “I told you last night-”

“No, if I have to answer all your questions, then you have to answer mine.” Neil said.

Of course Neil wanted something in return, Andrew had known that from the start. He had known that no sane being would offer to expose their soul without some consolation. It was human nature, and Andrew knew human nature more than anyone. Still, it didn’t lessen the blow of disappointment he felt in his chest, but he figured it was only fair. An eye for an eye; a truth for a truth.

“Fair enough.” He replied, lighting another cigarette.

Neil nodded, shuffling over to where he normally sat during their rooftop sessions. He took a few moments to collect himself, inhaling the smoke that Andrew blew out and slowly returning to the Neil that Andrew had come to tolerate.

“My mother wasn’t a good person, and my dad sure as hell isn’t one either.” Neil began. Andrew turned his attention to him, his deck of cards had been put away. “My dad is a big time crime boss back in Baltimore. Everyone calls him the Butcher. He… he was awful.”

Neil leaned back from the edge and lifted his shirt up, and Andrew surveyed the scars that were just barely visible in the moonlight. “All the big scars are from him. He tormented my childhood until I was ten. That’s when my mother stole some money from him and we became runaways; that’s where my smaller scars are from.

“My mother did everything she could to keep me safe from him. Her methods were… extreme, but they kept us alive. She’d beat me if I looked too suspicious or if I complained. I remember this one time when she repeatedly kicked me in the stomach for not finishing a meal.” Neil’s hands went to his stomach, touching it gently as if he could still feel her kicks.

“Every few months I had a new name, a new face, a new home; we were constantly on the move since my dad had his men searching for us. Whenever they found us, we would just barely manage to make it out alive. It was exhausting living in fear of being caught and tortured to death. We managed to outlast them for eight years, but eventually they won. My mother died a few days after they had ambushed us. I-I thought she was fine, but I guess she had internal bleeding.”

Neil took a shaky breath and Andrew noticed with alarm that he was crying. He had never been good at comforting someone given the fact that no one had ever comforted him. Neil’s tears shined against his face and made Andrew want to reach out and brush them away. Instead, he took the cowardly way out and pretended he hadn’t seen the tears.

“Still wondering how the FBI is involved.” Andrew said, glancing at Neil.

Neil snorted at him. “You have no patience, do you?”

Andrew shrugged. “I’ve been told it’s something I need to work on.”

Shaking his head, Neil continued. “When my mom died, I freaked out. We were in the middle of nowhere somewhere on the east coast. All that was around us was the beach and a forest. I had parked our car and pried her bloody body out of the passenger seat; I knew I had to bury her, so I did. Once I was done, I went back to the car and set it on fire so no one would know what had happened and walked away. I walked aimlessly for a few hours before the cop cars pulled up next to me. Apparently a woman had seen me burying my mother’s body and burning the car, so she called the police.

“I had been too emotionally drained to protest as they put me in handcuffs and drove me away. All that I was aware of was the fact that I was getting further and further away from her body. Once they had me in custody, all the years of hiding and running had caught up to me. I told them everything, from who my dad is to how my mother died. They didn’t believe me, but once the FBI took over it was clear that I was telling the truth.”

“And I’m assuming the FBI just dropped you off here at Palmetto for safekeeping?” Andrew interrupted.

Shrugging, Neil nodded. “Yeah, that’s kind of how it went. They told me that I could come here if I changed my name and promised to never contact my dad or his men. They said that if I gave them all the information I knew, they’d keep me safe here while they went after him. It wasn’t a hard deal to accept.”

Andrew processed everything he had been told. As barbaric as the story had been, he knew Neil couldn’t have been lying. It was too elaborate to make up, and judging the way he reacted in Betsy’s office that day he had seemed genuinely alarmed. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired.

“Alright.” He said.

“Any more questions?” Neil teased, not really expecting a response.

“Actually, yes. What’s your real name?”

Neil’s smile vanished and he turned away. “You really don’t hold back, huh?”

Andrew stared at him, waited for an answer. Really, he was just stalling in hopes of Neil forgetting to ask questions himself. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to tell anyone anything. Not even Betsy knew the full story.

“Fine,” Neil huffed. “It’s Nathaniel Wesninski.”

“Quite a mouthful.” Andrew said.

It was quiet for the next half hour as both of them let Neil’s words sink in. Andrew could tell it had taken a lot to tell his story, though that didn’t mean he’d pity him. Life had been cruel to them both, dealing them the worst hands it could.

“It’s your turn.” Neil said softly after a while.

Andrew felt his breath escape him, refusing to face Neil. If he was going to tell his story, he would pretend that he was by himself on the rooftop, speaking to the stars as they fooled poor souls.

“My mother hadn’t wanted twins, so she kept my brother and threw me out. It was a poor choice, really. I’m far better than Aaron. Went into the foster care system, got tossed around by a bunch of old men who liked to touch little kids, found a really good foster mom whose son liked it when I stifled my cries into my pillow. Stayed there until I found out I had a brother and he threatened to hurt him as well. Moved in with Aaron and his mom, found out she beat him regularly, killed her for it and made him hate me. I ended up in juvie for a few years, got released, and then lived with Nicky and Aaron until we came here. The end.” Andrew took a deep breath once he was done.

It took several heartbeats for Andrew to gain the courage to look at Neil, who had been silent the moment the story was finished. He couldn’t tell whether or not the boy was alarmed, but Andrew doubted Neil was in a position to judge him. Some people killed their moms, others buried them.

“I didn’t even get to ask a question. This hardly seems fair.” Neil finally said.

Andrew allowed a ghost of a smile to grace his face. Disappointments and despondency had been all he had known for nineteen years, his cards had been his security blanket. Now, here was a boy with fake brown hair and ridiculously oversized clothes who seemed to be doing everything right. Andrew had never needed anything, but maybe this nothing could stay.

-

After they traded their stories that night, nothing had really changed between Andrew and Neil. They still did their nightly rooftop meetups, they still avoided each other during the day, and they still sat in silence until Neil managed to say something that made Andrew’s heart stop. The only change had been Andrew now wanting to kiss Neil’s lips instead of burning them with a cigarette.

The change had been terrifying for Andrew once he realized it. He had never wanted anything in his life before. He’d never wanted Christmas gifts or a lock on his bedroom door. He’d never wanted a family who loved him back or hands that protected him instead of violating him. All he had needed were his cards and its knives and bullets. Yet Andrew wanted Neil Josten, a runaway with a past that rivaled his own traumas. He told Betsy this during one of their sessions.

“That’s great, Andrew!” She had exclaimed. The smile she flashed him had been one filled with pride. Andrew looked away from it.

“He’s still nothing to me.” He had deflected.

Betsy shook her head. “I think he’s something.”

“Maybe,” Andrew glanced up at her, “but I’m sure you know me well enough to know I won’t do anything about it.”

Betsy’s smile had been a sad one.

Andrew replayed their conversation continuously in his head after their session had ended. He wasn’t ready to admit it just yet, but a part of him knew that Betsy was right. Somehow, in between their late night smokes and unwilling truth sharing, Neil had become something to Andrew. Something that he wanted to kiss, maybe even hold close if he could.

It was almost as if life had spared him another chance, shuffling the cards on its own and dealing a new hand to him. Maybe the stars hadn’t spit Neil Josten back at Andrew in spite, but rather as an apology. If this something was worth his time, he thought that perhaps he had a right to find out.

Fuck disappointments and despondency, Andrew could feel that the new hand he had been dealt was a good one.

-

“I know you hate wants, but I know you want something.” Neil said a few nights later.

He had come up onto the rooftop a few minutes after Andrew, bouncing around the area and swinging himself in circles like a little kid. It was the most carefree he’d ever been on the roof, and it was then that Andrew noticed that his hair was now auburn.

“I want you to go back to brown.” Andrew replied, watching as he finally sat down on the edge.

Neil flashed him a smile, running his fingers through his hair. “Something tells me you actually like redheads.”

Andrew felt his face flush at the wink sent his way. He flipped Neil off and took a drag from his cigarette. The fucker was right, but he’d be damned if he let him know it.

“All I want is nothing.” A cloud of smoke escaped Andrew’s mouth as he spoke.

Leaning close to him, Neil whispered, “I’m nothing.”

He was especially bold tonight, something that made Andrew’s skin burn pleasantly. It was a weird sensation he’d never felt before, actually wanting the attention he was receiving. Tonight was full of firsts, it seemed.

“How are you so sure of my feelings for you?” Andrew asked, allowing himself to lean in closer as well. For once, not knowing what might happen next didn’t scare him.

“You hate being vulnerable. That’s how I know.”

All the air was knocked out of Andrew’s lungs. He searched Neil’s face, looking for any indication that this was just a game to him. When he found nothing, his heartbeat sped up. Neil was staring just as intensely back at him, his face raw and readable.

Andrew inhaled shakily, moving his hand up to hover a few inches in front of Neil’s cheek. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes.” Neil nodded. Andrew’s hand pressed carefully against his cheek, he gently smoothed the tender skin underneath his thumb.

“Can I kiss you?”

Neil looked into Andrew’s eyes, and it was then he was sure that he had finally been dealt a perfect hand. “Yes.”

Andrew pressed their lips together as soon as he knew he could. He hadn’t known just how much had wanted this until now. The feeling of Neil’s rough and chapped lips against his felt like sinning in heaven. It felt right yet tasted dangerous. It was maddening and it was addicting. For just a second, Andrew felt like the giddy little kid he never got to be.

Neil was the first to break the kiss, pressing his forehead against Andrew’s. “Woah.”

Andrew didn’t say anything, but he allowed his thumb to graze against Neil’s cheek once more. This close, he noticed freckles scattered along his face and Andrew resisted the urge to kiss every last one of them. Somehow, he knew that this is what coming home felt like.

“Oh, fuck.” Neil threw his head back with a groan.

Andrew frowned, pulling away slightly. “I was told I’m a good kisser.”

Rolling his eyes, Neil dug through his pants and pulled out his wallet. He counted the bills inside and groaned once more. “I owe Kevin twenty bucks.”

“Care to lend me five dollars? I think Bee was secretly betting on this too.”

“Fuck you.”

Andrew smiled, covering it with his hand. He was used to disappointments and despondency, so this was a nice change of pace. He was finally done shuffling his cards.

[quillandinkjournalism-blog]

{ @quillandinkjournalism | @nightmare-keef }

Jamie had been staying in Nightmare's suite for a few days now. He'd done a significant amount of work on his article, but wasn't ready to send it out. Otherwise, he'd spent much of his time trying, and failing, to relax. He'd kept to himself, really, aside from a few brief visits from Nightmare. He'd spent a lot of time crying over the last few wasted months. The fear of being alone. Trying to learn to readjust.

He wasn't sure why it felt like everything was falling apart now, when he was safe on the Massive and Christopher was far away. Loud noises still startled him and he still didn't feel like himself. He had night terrors. He'd gotten numb with Christopher; it became normal, like being with him was just how it was supposed to be.

Currently, Jamie lay in bed after trying to soothe himself with a long bath with unexpectedly luxurious products, having sat with a glass of wine and a book of poetry. But he felt worse the moment he got out, seeing that his bruises had hardly faded. His knee wasn't sore anymore, but he still bore the marks. After some time in bed, Jamie wiggled over for his phone, sending out a text.

[TXT] Hey Keef. Would you want to come visit with me for a little while?

Nightmare had been distracted easily over the last few days. He felt twitterpated all over again, just like he had when he and Jamie were first getting to know each other. But he knew that it just was not the time. It was not the place. There was healing to be done and boundaries that had to be upheld. Being supportive from a slight distance was the very best thing he could do for Jamie right now.

Not that it stopped his heart from settling in his throat whenever his phone chimed.

The redhead had been washing fruit for lunch when one such message came through, causing him to jump slightly, managing to slice his thumb on the blade. He cursed under his breath, bringing the finger up to his mouth as he read the message and typed one back with one hand.

[TXT] Of course. :D

[TXT] I am in the kitchen. Got any requests?

Jamie picked up his phone when the messages came through, tugging it under the blankets with him and reading them in the darkness of his covers, a small smile tugging at his lips at Nightmare's response. He'd always been such a sweetheart.

The brunette considered the question for a moment, smiling a little wider when he decided how to respond.

[TXT] Are there any of those fruit tarts left from dessert yesterday? I liked those. I think I could probably eat an entire tray of them if you let me.

[TXT] And maybe a cup of coffee.

He nestled further into the bed, holding his phone to his chest. He couldn't help the way his heart skipped a beat. Everything was so different, but even all of the things he knew about Nightmare now - the boy was so much the same. Sweet, loving, kind, reliable. He sighed softly.

Nightmare smiled softly at the response. Of course he wanted coffee. He would be legitimately surprised to find that the human's blood was not composed completely of the stuff.

[TXT] I am sure I can find a few of them left over. They are pretty much a staple of the royal household.

[TXT] And - cup o' Joe.  You got it.

The redhead set about gathering up as many of the Tarts as he could put on one tray and brewing some fresh coffee. Dib had been very particular about stocking legitimate coffee from Earth, quite unimpressed with the synthetic stuff the Irkens were able to replicate. He spent probably ly a bit longer than he needed to drawing a tiny Eiffel Tower in the foam of one oversized mug before setting it and the remaining pot on the tray and stepping forward, through the shadow and into the hallway just outside his room.

He raised his hand, rapping his knuckles against the metal door and called out, "Jamie? Can I come in? I come bearing gifts of coffee and snacks."

Jamie couldn't help the big grin that split across his features, tossing the blankets off of him and sitting up in the bed. "Yeah, of course. Come on in. It's open."

He was wearing a comfortable and extremely soft cream-colour oversized sweater, paired with simple black leggings and fluffy reading socks. It didn't seem to matter what time of year it was, when he was home he wore whatever was the most comfortable, even at risk of complaining about the temperature.

Not that it was evening at all, and he likely shouldn't have been hiding in bed - Jamie flushed a little and pulled the blanket up over his knees.

If Nightmare thought it was inappropriate to be lounging in bed at this time of day, he called exactly zero attention to it. Instead, he walked in with a bright smile on his face, wearing vibrantly green jeans and a black t-shirt with the logo for Wicked across the chest, paired with a green newspaper boy cap and suspenders. As he made his way over to his small table to set down the tray he greeted happily, "I have succeeded in acquiring a fair few tiny fruit tarts and some caffeine."

He picked up the coffee from the tray, carrying it over to the bed where he sat on the edge and handed it over to the human asking, "How are you feeling today, James?"

"Good," Jamie replied at first, smiling at Nightmare's adorable outfit and taking the coffee gently in his hands before he sighed and looked down at the little Eiffel Tower drawn in his foam. "Well. No, that's not entirely true," he began, "I was doing better this morning. And then I got into a bit of a funk, I guess."

Shooting his head back up, he forced a smile at Nightmare and added, "Thank you. For bringing me tarts and coffee. I'm glad to see you. How are you?"

Nightmare pouted slightly but within a moment his smile was back and he replied, "It is understandable for funks to happen. You have been through quite the ordeal."

He tilted his head to the side and asked sweetly, "Would you like to talk about it or would you like to be distracted from it?"

Jamie took a sip of his coffee, pulling a face when it was still just little too hot. "I think for now I would like to be distracted. But if I want to talk about it later would that be okay?"

He couldn't help but to curse himself under his breath, raising a hand to adjust his glasses uncomfortably. He really wasn't the type to ask things like that - if he was feeling something, normally Nightmare would get an earful of it while he stormed around the apartment, blathering about what it was that made him upset until he felt better. He did what he wanted, within reason of course, but he wasn't timid by any means.

Nightmare smiled softly and gave a nod, "Of course. I am always happy to listen to you but I will do my best at being entertaining unless you decide that a listening ear is something you want."

The redhead twisted his wrist in the air and was suddenly holding a deck of cards. Whether it was sleight of hand or actual magic was uncertain. He gave a smile and asked, "Wanna play some cards?"

Jamie laughed when the cards seemed to appear out of nowhere, picking up one of the tarts as he nodded, "Yes. I'd love to. But you know how bad I am at cards."

Nightmare smiled as he began to shuffle the cards, in a manner which he told himself was not an attempt to show off in any way, merely to entertain the boy and distract him from his woes, "You are plenty good at some games. I distinctly remember you beating me at Go Fish five hands in a row the night we moved downtown and they did not turn the power on until the next day."

He began to deal out some cards and asked, "M'kay, so do you want Go Fish or do you want Slap Jack?"

Jamie laughed, taking a big sip of his coffee before setting it on the table next to the bed and repositioning himself, sitting cross-legged across from Nightmare. "That was a really good night," He said, "We ordered really horrible takeout and I played music on my phone. Uh… Go Fish. I think my chances are a little better."

Nightmare grinned down at the cards as he mused back, "That was really the very worst Chinese food I have ever tasted in my life. What even was that mu shu wrap? I swear to Christ they just opened a pack of flour tortillas and called it good."

He looked up with a smirk and added, "I did make good on my word for vengeance in the form of a scathing Google review."

"You did. That was the best-worded negative review I've read in my life. You really should have turned it into slam poetry, honestly," Jamie giggled, sorting through the cards in his hands before looking up and asking, "Got any sixes?"

The redhead chuckled, plucking a six out of his hand and passing it over to the other. "I could probably track it down again. But I have never been much of a poet."

Nightmare kicked off his shoes before folding his legs up on the bed and getting a bit more comfortable. He smiled up at the brunette and said, "Maybe I could get a shitty fast food critic column in Quill and Ink, though. I will make them extra funny."

"Hah, thank you," Jamie said, taking the six and pairing them together. "I think you should do it. It would be really funny. And I am sure our readers would dig a bit more comedy. Do you still read it?" He asked, humming over his cards for a moment before adding, "Got any twos?"

"I can probably do that. Gives me a reason to eat out at all the shitty fast food places that I totally never go to because I am a good boy and always stick to my budget." He pulled a two from his hand, passing it over and adding, "That was sarcasm, by the by."

He flashed another smile and admitted, "Well, from my perspective it has been quite a while since I have read it. In the Nightmare and everything. But I do not think I have missed any issues."

"Sure you are," Jamie snickered and continued as he settled his twos, "I keep forgetting about that time difference. It was so quick for me that it's hard to remember you were gone for so long. What… What was it like there?" He asked, lowering his cards for a moment with a frown. "You haven't told me much about that place. Dib either, really."

Nightmare gave a shrug, but he continued to look up at the human, "Spooky. Cold. Dark. I mean it is like a reflection of this world, but just… way more fog and ambient screaming."

"Oh," Jamie said, chewing on his lip for a moment before continuing, "I'm sorry you got stuck in there again. All of you. Um. Have a Jack?" he asked a little awkwardly, casting Nightmare a light smile.

The redhead gave another shrug and replied with a smile, "It was not so bad without the Professor there. He was super fucked up. But like… the other Nightmares? They are alright people. We were on the Massive, kind of. But the Tallests had their nightmares and Dib and Zim. Even Mika and the smeets. And really they were alright. We all worked together to get through it because they were kind of separated from their reality too."

He plucked a Jack out of his hand and passed it over - how likely is it that he had been dealt all of these cards? That is neither here nor there.

"Oh," Jamie replied, raising his eyebrows as he took and sorted the Jacks off to the side, "I didn't know that. Is there a nightmare version of like… Everybody? How does that work? Aaaand do you have an ace?"

Keef hummed softly and replied. "It is really up to Dib, I would think. I know that the majority of the people that have doppelgangers are people who Dib had direct reason to fear, so it is hard to say who all made it in. I adore that boy but he has some issues."

He dropped his hands to his lap and added chipperly, "Go Fish."

Jamie laughed at the response, drawing from the pile and grinning widely when he drew his ace, showing it off to Keef with a snicker as he sorted it aside as well. "Looks like Go Fish is the game for me. And he really does. Always had, that one," he snickered, asking, "What about a nine?"

Nightmare grinned widely at the remark, glancing down at the four cards left in his hand and musing, "It certainly looks like you are stomping me." He plucked a nine from his hand and passed it over adding, "We should play cards more often."

"You'll have to teach me some more games," Jamie said with a grin, setting the cards aside and humming for a minute before he scooped them all up together. "I'm gonna chalk that up as a win. Sit with me?" He asked, handing the cards all to Nightmare and settling back in the pillows, picking up another tart and eating it more slowly.

Nightmare snatched up his own cards as well as Jamie's, shuffling them once back into the deck which seemed to simply vanish in his hand as he nodded at the request. The redhead began to crawl along the bed until he was able to turn and rest against the headboard and mused, "I would be happy to teach you some new games. I bet you would really like War or Speed. They are a lot of fun."

"Yeah? It might be nice to know how to play some different ones. Maybe one day I'll actually be pretty good," Jamie replied, smiling at Nightmare before he decided to lean in a little bit, just nearly resting against him but leaving enough space so they weren't quite touching, not wanting to overstep any boundaries.

Nightmare did not miss the sudden much closer proximity. His cheeks flushed brightly and he lifted his eyes to look at the ceiling, wringing the hem of his shirt in his hands as he mentally told himself that he was a professional and he had to be able to not give in to the fluttering feelings in his chest. He nodded and replied, "Yeah. I would love to teach you some games and I am sure you will catch on in no time. It will be lots of fun."

Jamie didn't miss the signs of nervousness. He knew Nightmare well enough at this point, and besides, he acted much the same way on their first few dates, even clumsily knocking a tray of dishes out of the server's hands by accident. Jamie scooched a little closer, leaning just slightly into Nightmare and replying, "It will be. Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?"

Keef glanced back up at Jamie, flushing all the brighter as the human closed more of the gap between them and he responded with a timid smile, "Not really. I was just planning on spending some time with you. I do not have much in the way of work right now because even though I was gone for two years I am still, technically, on the two-month sabbatical that I took from my practice. Not on probation anymore though. The Tallests are considering it 'time served' and just wrote off my charges."

"Well, I'm really glad to hear that your probation is finished. You can come and go as you like now, yeah?" Jamie asked, smiling down at Nightmare and humming as he snuggled a bit closer. "It's funny. We'd always talked about taking a vacation together and we were always so busy with our work we never got the chance."

Nightmare chuckled softly, bringing one hand up to his hair nervously, accidentally knocking off his cap as Jamie pressed himself against him and replied, "I ah. Oops. Yeah. I guess I can. You know… leave if I wanted to." He took a shaky breath before flashing a bright smile up at the human and asking, "If you were able to take a vacation, where would you want to go?"

Jamie giggled, plucking up the fallen cap and putting it on himself, sending his fluff of brown hair into his eyes before resting his head on Nightmare's shoulder. "I dunno. Somewhere warm I think. Cocktails by the pool. Or maybe somewhere historical and fabulous like Prague or Rome, or maybe Berlin. What about you? I guess with space travel that opens up a ton of options, huh?" He asked, reaching down to pick up one of Keef's hands in both of his own, turning it over to trace lines on his palm and examining his green nail polish.

"I like warm places," Nightmare replied distractedly as Jamie leaned against him and took his hand. He cleared his throat softly and added, "I ah. I have always wanted to go to Ireland. I mean. Not exactly warm. But I like the green. Or ah. Rome would be nice, yeah."

"A holiday in Rome would be incredible," Jamie agreed, falling silent for a few moments and turning to look at Nightmare, catching the blush on his cheeks against the stunning green of his eyes. It was like being with him took away all the worry and difficulty he had been dealing with. Leaning forward, he cautiously pressed a chaste kiss against Nightmare's cheek before pulling back again.

Nightmare was not certain he could blush any harder until the instant that he absolutely did. He shifted his hand to touch the spot on his cheek with the tips of his fingers, letting out a soft sigh. He looked up at the human with his brow furrowed and said softly, barely above a whisper, "I… I'm a monster, James. You don't… you don't want to do this."

Jamie blinked a couple of times at Nightmare's words, raising a hand up to caress his cheek with a slightly concerned expression. "Keef… I have seen you. I know what you are. But more importantly, I know who you are. And even more importantly than that, I don't think anyone, especially now, has any right to tell me what I do and don't want. And I want to kiss you."

Nightmare sighed softly, leaning into the touch but averting his eyes at the words. He wrung his shirt in his hands and said quietly, "I want to. I have missed you so much. I have wanted nothing more than to kiss you for such a long time. I..  I worry though. That with everything you have gone through… that I might be taking advantage."

Jamie's expression softened at Nightmare's words, taking the boy's hands in his own to stop their wringing, squeezing them tightly. "All I've wanted since that day I left the Massive was to see you again. And I thought maybe if… Maybe if I had a stupid little rebound fling that I could come back to you clear headed."

He sighed and looked away, resting into Nightmare slightly. "But it got out of hand. It's my fault, I shouldn't have - I should've been more confident in myself that you were what I wanted. You've always been what I wanted."

Nightmare did not stop Jamie from taking his hands and slowly turned his eyes upward to look at him as he spoke, though he had the general look of a dog begging for scraps or affection.  He swallowed thickly, his mouth feeling incredibly dry as he asked softly, "Are… are you sure?"

"Yes," Jamie replied, leaning in just slightly and looking into Nightmare's eyes. "Yes, I'm absolutely positive. Please. Kiss me."

The redhead brought his bottom lip between his teeth at the answer. It was the answer that he definitely wanted to hear. The one that he had hoped for and fantasized about for years. He had a hard time though, shaking away the fear that he was doing more harm than good.

But, even with the nagging fear Nightmare pressed forward to gently catch Jamie's lips, kissing him softly and sweetly. He brought his hand up to rest against the human's jaw and he could not help but to purr softly into it.

Jamie immediately melted into the kiss, leaning forward to return it just as softly and letting his eyes slip closed. He let out a happy hum, sliding his hands up to grasp Nightmare by the suspenders, smiling just slightly into the kiss. It was everything he had wanted, too. It was like everything settled back into place.

Nightmare had forgotten how soft Jamie was, how sweet he tasted and how perfectly they seemed to fit together. He wanted to give into all the feelings that he had managed to bury down deep for so long, to tousle with the human in the sheets and feel him more thoroughly. But instead be gave a few more very soft kisses and pulled away just enough to say, "I missed you so much, Jamie."

Jamie whined when Nightmare pulled back from the kiss, but he was still smiling when he replied, "I missed you too Keef. I really, really missed you." He leaned forward again, kissing Nightmare a little more deeply, letting his hands slide up along his chest. His lips were perfect, all that he had been craving for months.

Nightmare gave a soft moan into the kiss, pressing forward to meet the enthusiasm of Jamie's kiss with equal exuberance. He could not really believe that this is how this situation ended up panning out. He had spent so long trying to get over this boy. He didn't even dare imagine that someday Jamie would want to take him back.

The redhead pulled away again, catching his breath but managing to say, "James. I think. Um. I think we should slow down. A little… can… can we maybe just. I dunno. Cuddle, maybe?"

Jamie was flushed when Nightmare pulled away from him, panting lightly. He looked to the redhead with a smile, nodding and holding his arms open for Nightmare to snuggle up to him. "It… Yes. It's probably a good idea. To slow down. C'mere."

Nightmare let out a sigh of relief when Jamie agreed to slow down. It was, by no means, because he did not want this. But he did not want to fuck this up. The redhead moved into the space created by the boy's outstretched arms, pressing his head against his chest and purring softly at the sweet contact.

He let his hands rest on Jamie's chest, fingers flexing softly in the fabric of his sweater much like a cat kneading. Nightmare glanced up at the boy and quietly said, "Thank you, Jamie."

"I should be thanking you, Keef," Jamie hummed, wrapping his arms around Nightmare and lifting a hand to pet his hair. "I'd be so lost without you. I'm sorry I'm still… A little loopy. It's worse when I'm alone." He leaned down, pressing a kiss into Keef's hair. "There are very few things that make sense right now, or that feel right. But you do."

Nightmare refrained from stating that a monster making sense and feeling right spoke volumes about the boy's mental state. While he felt it was true, it was unhelpful.

Instead, he snuggled close to him, hiding his face in the thick fabric of his sweater and purred softly into the crook of his neck as he whispered, "You do not have to be alone anymore."

Jamie held Nightmare firmly, reveling in finally being close to him again and allowing himself what he’d been wanting all this time. “I know,” he replied quietly, not sure that there was anything else left to say. He let himself go quiet, just enjoying Nightmare’s company and the closeness of him, the way his hands felt against his chest.

[adriennescomingbacktolife]

(OOC: This is collab piece with the handler of Silvio Leon. The writer(Ampersand) is extremely talented and I absolutely recommend that you expand your horizons and check their site out. 

https://oracularmysteries.wordpress.com/

Thanks!)

===

“Hey, you made it!” Silvio beamed as his client and co-worker walked through the front doors of the coffee shop. He’d already settled in at a table, a cold brew, a pink cake pop and his deck of cards set out before him. The shop was relatively sparse, though a few people milled about, sipped their drinks, or tapped away at their laptops. The air was redolent of coffee, brewing tea, rich pastries, and the walls were hung with art from local creators. “You want a coffee or a tea or anything? My treat.” Adrienne Levi, phone in hand, was just finished firing off a text when she acknowledged Silvio with a smile. Sitting across from him, she finally answered. “Oh, um, mint tea if they have it.” “Sure!” He got to his feet, nodding toward the counter. “Back in a flash. Anything you want to nibble on?” “Surprise me.” Silvio gave Adrienne a little salute before heading back to the counter, returning a few minutes later with a steaming cup of fragrant tea and a croissant dusted with sugar and slivers of almonds. “Figured this would be a good combo,” he said, setting the food down for her and taking his seat again. “Don’t want to do a reading on an empty stomach, y’know?” He leaned back and sipped at his coffee. “So, have you ever done this before? With the tarot cards, I mean.” Taking a sip as well, Adrienne shook her head. “I’ll be honest. I’m kinda intimidated by this. Not by you personally.” Her voice was quiet, just loud enough for the table. “I think perhaps by the idea of the unknown. Skeptics would say that you’re just good at reading people.” Almost down to a whisper, as if those people could be listening. “But it feels like something not easily explained.” She paused, perhaps feeling ridiculous. Her normal conversational tone resumed. “Sorry, sometimes I talk too much. No, I haven’t is what I mean.” “Aw, I don’t think that at all. I like hearing people tell their stories.” He picked up the deck and started shuffling it. “I’m asking because I just want to let you know things might get kinda personal. The cards might tell me things you would rather I not know, and that’s fine. If things start getting a little too intense, let me know and we’ll stop. I don’t want to be poking my nose where it doesn’t belong. Is that cool?” Adrienne bit into the croissant, taking care not to dump sugar all over her t-shirt. Between chews, she acknowledged Silvio’s conditions. “Very.” “Okay, then, let’s get started.” Spreading the cards across the table between them, he sat back and gestured with an open hand. “I need you to choose six of the cards here. Think about what you want answers to; it’ll help guide the reading.” Adrienne’s hands hovered over the cards, feeling trepidation over a choice that could be considered rather mundane. Silently, she separated six of them in no particular pattern. This was after much thought, she had no real idea of what these cards were except that maybe one of them meant that she would die any moment. Or one saying that she’d become a princess and have her own castle. That lack of knowledge released her to allow someone who clearly knew what he was doing to take over. “There. Six cards.” Lacing her hands on her lap, she sat up, watching Silvio intently now. “Alright. We’re going to do the universal six-card spread reading. If I need to stop at any time, just let me know. First, we’re going to see how you’re feeling right now.” Turning over the first card revealed an illustration of an angel blowing on a trumpet. Below it, grey-skinned men, women, and children rose joyously from their crypts, arms raised. “Judgment. You’re feeling like you’re putting a chapter of your life behind you or moving on to a new phase. But that’s not a bad thing. You’re sort of taking stock and figuring out where to go next.” Glancing up at her, he said, “I think that fight you had with Lab Rat King was a turning point. There was something different about that match, wasn’t there?” The nightmares could attest to that. And while some of the lesser wounds had started to fade away, the boot shaped bruise on Adrienne’s neck had started to color up like the prettiest sunset. “Didn’t feel like it was a fight, Silvio. I don’t know what that was. Like it was the worst night in a long time but afterwards, people started talking. No one’s ever paid much attention to me. Kinda weird.” He nodded and turned over the next card. “Let’s look at what you want.” The second card showed a crowned man seated on a throne, holding a scepter and looking out with a stern expression. “The Emperor. You want the support of a male figure in your life. I’m guessing that’s probably Knox for your upcoming match.” Looking up to meet her eyes, his brow knit. “You still okay, or do you want to stop? We’re about to get into what your fears might be.” Adrienne thought about Knox briefly. He had been polite at every turn. But he had also dictated her involvement in that match. But she didn’t fear what he may do. She felt empowered to voice any discontent with him. This certainly was not the norm for any woman much less Adrienne. But Silvio’s insistence of continuing consent was refreshing. Instinctively, she looked around, just in case someone was eavesdropping. “I’m okay.” He nodded and turned over the next card to reveal a figure of an old, white-bearded man shrouded in grey. In one hand the old man held a staff and in the other a lantern he held aloft. “The Hermit.” Silvio looked thoughtful, lips pursed as he tapped the card lightly with one fingertip. “You’re kind of the odd person out here. In a group of four, you’re the only woman. There might be some fear there that you’re not going to get the kind of support you need. Those douche canoes you’re facing off against said and did some pretty shitty stuff to you. It was inappropriate floor to ceiling, but I get the feeling they’re not used to having somebody point out their asshattery as specifically and incisively as you have. Knox stepped in, but let’s be real - no guy is ever going to understand being targeted like that. You are unique in this particular scenario, and maybe there’s some trepidation about what that means.” He took another sip of his coffee to give them both a moment. “You still cool about going on? The next card is going to deal with what you’ve got going for you.” She put a finger on the Hermit card. All of the other women in this company seemed so complete. Completely actualized. She knew that wasn’t the case but the card struck a chord alright. Sharing a few words here and there was one thing, but she felt out of place. Adrienne just wished she had someone to talk to other than her mother. Looking up, she nodded back. “Yeah. I’m good with this.” The next card he turned over showed a woman robed in white and wreathed in flowers with a serene expression on her face. Bent at the waist, she calmly holds the jaws of a fierce-looking red lion. “Strength.” He smiled and looked up at her with dark eyes that spark with delight. “Not that surprising. You’ve been showing everyone time and time again how much heart you have; how courageous you are. That’s what you’ve got going for you. That’s what’s going to see you through this. It will not fail you.” “Is that one real?” She twirled a strand of her dark hair nervously. “I mean, they all sound pretty right. I feel pretty pathetic sometimes. This summer’s been the first time I’ve ever been out of Clearwater by myself.” “There’s a Japanese saying I like. ‘Fall down seven times, get up eight.’” The fortune teller looked at her with a gentle smile. “Everybody has rough times. Everybody fails. That isn’t always your fault - you can do everything right and still not win. That’s not you being pathetic - that’s just life. What matters is that afterward, you still get up and you try again. You aren’t weak for losing. You’re strong because you don’t let it stop you. I’ve seen you fight. I see you changing and adapting with each match you have. And y’know what? Whoever thinks of you as weak does so at their own peril. You have the right heart for all of this. Everything else - your physical conditioning, your mic work, your move set - those are all things you can learn. You can’t teach heart. You either got it or you don’t. Believe me - if and when we ever get into the ring together, I’m not going to be stupid enough not to take you seriously.” “Thank you, that could actually be fun. And not terrifying.” Silvio grinned and turned over the next card to show a robed woman sitting between black and white pillars, a crescent moon at her feet and a diadem on her head. He clucked his tongue and raised a brow. “Ah hah. See, I kinda feel like this is cheating since you already told me, but what you’ve got working against you is insecurity. Those feelings might be coming from within or they might be imposed from without. But whatever the case, there’s some Doubting Thomas in your life. Ignore them. They don't know what they’re talking about. You’re on the right track.” There was that first urge to stop. She barrelled through, fingers clutching the gold band on her finger. “I guess. You’re ...you’re talking about Danny, right?” Adrienne still wasn’t clear on how this worked so maybe she was just confirming what was obvious. “Danny’s complicated. But th-there’s one more, I’m okay with that.” Silvio’s brow knit and he gave her an apologetic look. “Hey, I’m sorry if that struck too close to home. And, maybe that is who the card’s addressing, but you would know better than me. This last card is how things are all gonna turn out. You’re sure you want me to read it for you? If you want a minute, that’s fine.” Settling her nerves, Adrienne smiled. “I’m ready. I’ve worked so hard and sometimes I’m not sure what for. Stopping now would be unfair to … me.” He nodded and flipped the last card to reveal a woman suspended in the sky, swathed in blue silk and surrounded by a wreath of greenery. In each hand, she held a baton. “The World. This is good. Success and fulfillment. This is going to be the culmination of your endeavors and hard work. I’m pretty sure you’re going to break out into a win here for Chaos 95, and it could not be more deserved. I, for one, cannot wait to see you pummel that skin melting penis-faced manifestation of toxic masculinity with below average hair and his mopey, complicit little crony who clearly missed the entire point of Watchmen and is likely salivating over the prospect of jerking one out to the, fabled ‘Snyder Cut.’” He gave a little shrug. “Pardon my language there.” Adrienne shrugged. “You’re cool. They’re jerks for sure. But they’re also the real deal.” She looked at the card. Everything felt right, but this one resonated with her. The words he said, and the art. Adrienne had come a long way. She’d been Danny’s girl for so long. And in the darkness, she was less. Face down, with a forearm against the back of her neck, she’d been told her place explicitly by a monstrosity she didn’t want to name right now. But this image here defied that. “But I’m prepared for them, Silvio. And I realized that they aren’t an exception here. They’re caricatures, but I know better. I’m going to drag them all out into the light.” “Hell yeah, you are!” he laughed. “I mean, dang, we’ve each gotten our shit rocked by Knox at this point, so we both know he’s a strong partner to have. Those jack wagons have shown everyone their true colors, and now they’re upset at people calling them out for what they really are. Disinfect them with sunlight, Adrienne. They might be a real deal, but there’s a reason to forgo Great Values for name brand, y’know?” Sweeping up the cards, he took out a box for them from a backpack he had hanging off the chair behind him. “I gotta head out soon, but I have a gift for you. I do my readings for my promos with just the Major Arcana cards, but there are also four suits that you can use along with them. Wands, cups, pentacles, and swords. There’s one that made me think of you.” Pausing to stick his cake pop in his mouth, he shuffled through the deck before coming to the card he wanted, then drew it out between his index and middle finger. “Here you go. The Queen of Swords.” He laid a card between them. It showed a woman seated on a throne wearing a crown of butterflies upon her head. She was dressed in regal fashion, and held a sword in one hand while the other was extended forward. Behind her, grey clouds gathered on the horizon. “The sword suit’s element is air. She holds a sword in one hand and holds the other out in greeting; she’s open, but doesn’t lack self protection. Her open hand can also be interpreted as putting thought into action. The butterflies she’s crowned with indicate free thinking and an active intellect.” Silvio tapped the clouds gently with one finger tip. “The dark clouds here signify that she has known sorrow in the past, but she is not letting that prevent her from seeking the horizon. She is determined, independent, and isn’t afraid to tell it like it is.” The card is pushed across the table to Adrienne. “It’s yours.” If it were anyone else, the little gasp would have looked facetious. Like any person, Adrienne had received a number of gifts over her life. Rarely, if ever, had she been given something that was given to her - with her in mind. The recently departed bike was a gift with the implication that Adrienne didn’t fit into that blue dress like before. Quickly, she wiped away the wetness in her eyes because she could go do that later and maybe not be weird in public. Holding the card gently with both hands, Adrienne focused on the image. Queen’s something used too often these days. But this was better than anything else she’d been. Finally, she looked to Silvio, astonishment in her eyes. “Thank you.” Silvio face contorted with concern over the reaction for a moment, fearful he’d said or done the wrong thing. As she looked at him, though, that expression on her face, he gave her a sheepish smile with teeth slightly pink from the candy coating of the half-eaten cake pop. “Aw, heck, I’m just glad you like it. You’re doing a great job, Adrienne. I can’t wait to see what you have to show us next.” Washing down his dessert with a last swig of coffee, he got to his feet and hefted his backpack over one shoulder. “I got a client to meet at the parlor, but if you ever need anything, drop me a line, okay? I got your back.” “Same here.” Adrienne waved goodbye with her free hand, clutching about the coolest thing she’d seen in a long time to her chest. “Bye, Silvio.”

[awesome-donut-me]

HOOK

Director;Steven Spielberg

Starring:Dustin Hoffman , Julia Roberts , Robin Williams

Summary : When Captain Hook kidnaps his children, an adult Peter Pan must return to Neverland and reclaim his youthful spirit in order to challenge his old enemy.

Critics;

Roger Ebert

The ads for Steven Spielberg’s “Hook” ask the question, “What if Peter Pan grew up?” but the answer, alas, is that then he would probably star in a lugubrious retread of a once-magical idea.

Robin Williams plays the harassed businessman, and Maggie Smith is the old granny who’s able to suggest the most wonderful possibilities when she whispers, “Peter, dear - don’t you know who you are?” Actually, he can’t remember a thing that happened before he was 12, but Hook can and kidnaps Banning’s two children because he wants to lure Peter back to Neverland for a rematch.

The sad thing about the screenplay for “Hook” is that it’s so correctly titled: This whole construction is really nothing more than a hook on which to hang a new version of the Peter Pan story. No effort is made to involve Peter’s magic in the changed world he now inhabits, and little thought has been given to Captain Hook’s extraordinary persistence in wanting to revisit the events of the past.

The opening of the film promises more. Spielberg sets the scene in modern-day America, where the executive lifestyle leaves no time for fathers to spend with children. Then Robin Williams takes his wife and children back to London to visit Granny Wendy, who adopted him as an orphan, and as the kids sleep in the very same bedroom where the original story began, we get the Spielberg visual trademark of the blinding light on the other side of the rattling window: The promise of magic, just outside.

After the children disappear and Peter finds Hook’s kidnap note and is told by Granny Wendy who he really is and why he must follow, I was poised for a breathtaking first view of Neverland , but what I got was a dreary disappointment. The long, long, long Neverland sequences take place in a cluttered rag-and-bone shop of art direction; there are too many characters, too many props, too many signs, too many costumes, bad traffic direction, and no sense of place or space. The whole thing looks like what it is, a movie set, right down to the unconvincing backdrops, and for some reason there’s a shift to red and brown in the color spectrum, so Neverland (which in my imagination, at least, is on a lush green island) looks as if it’s in the midst of a drought.The other key characters appear: Hook, played by Dustin Hoffman as if he were doing an imitation instead of a performance, and Tinker Bell, played by Julia Roberts more as a duty than a pleasure. There’s not much wit here. What exists is supplied by Robin Williams, who does the best he can to be amazed and enchanted by his shabby surroundings, and by Smee (Bob Hoskins), who is sort of Hook’s official sidekick.There’s also a large group of orphans in Neverland who are massed as if for group photographs and shunted here and there as if waiting for auditions for “Oliver!” The crucial failure in “Hook” is its inability to re-imagine the material, to find something new, fresh or urgent to do with the Peter Pan myth. Lacking that, Spielberg should simply have remade the original story, straight, for this generation. The lack of creativity in the screenplay is dramatized in the sword fighting sequences between Hook and Peter, which are endless and not particularly well-choreographed. They do not convince me that either Williams or Hoffman is much of a fencer. Has any Hollywood director ever given thought to bringing in a Hong Kong expert like King Hu to do second-unit work on the swordfights? The cheapest Asian martial arts movie has infinitely more excitement in its sword sequences than the repetitive lunge-and-shuffle that goes on here. Then comes the ending of the movie. Or the endings. One after another. Farewells.

Poignancy. Lessons to be learned. Speeches to be made. Lost marbles to be rediscovered. Tears to be shed. The conclusion of “Hook” would be embarrassingly excessive even for a movie in which something of substance had gone before. Here we get the uncanny suspicion that “Hook” was written and directed according to the famous recipe of the country preacher who told the folks what he was going to tell them, told them, and then told them what he had told them.

Entertainment Weekly

Peter Pan, who is now a 40-year-old attorney named Peter Banning (Robin Williams), has returned to Neverland, flying there on a cloud of fairy dust to rescue his two children, whom Hook has kidnapped. Hook is eager for a showdown, but Peter, who has no memory of his life as a puckish sprite, isn’t up to it. He’s flabby, anxious — the sort of careless, selfish father who has one ear glued to his cellular phone and who never shows up at his son’s Little League games. Hook has granted him three days’ grace, so that the Lost Boys can whip him back into shape. Can Peter regain touch with the wild child he once was?

It’s hard not to bring great expectations to Hook — Spielberg’s attempt, after nearly a decade of hyperkinetic roller-coaster rides (the Indiana Jones series) and misguided forays into the Real World (The Color Purple, Empire of the Sun, Always), to return to the pure-hearted fantasy material he has brought off with more excitement and magic than any other filmmaker. Hook is jam-packed with ”entertainment value,” enough to give you your money’s worth, and to guarantee (in all probability) that Spielberg earns his. Yet something has clouded this director’s vision. Except for Hoffman’s performance, the movie is so frenetic, so bursting with movement and rowdiness and special effects, so drenched in gooey, mythic sentiment about the child within, that nothing in it quite gels. The problem isn’t that Spielberg has lost his gift for fantasy. It’s that he no longer seems to know (or care) about anything else.

When Peter arrives in Neverland, it looks like the set for some over-budgeted, cast-of-thousands musical from the late ’60s. Hook’s fantastically huge galleon dominates the local dock, and the whole place is teeming with grinning pirates and bathed in overly bright fake sunshine. Spielberg must have wanted everything to look cheesy on purpose, and as long as Hoffman is strutting up and down the deck of his ship, making juicy threats, it works. Peter and his two children (Charlie Korsmo and Amber Scott) seem to have entered a surreal Hollywood-backlot nightmare.

Peter goes off with the Lost Boys, which is when the movie should sweep us up into the wonder of Neverland. Instead, it turns into a fairy-tale aerobics workout, with Peter getting pummeled into shape at the Boys’ woodland hangout (which feels every bit as stagy and enclosed as the set for Hook’s galleon). Spielberg’s idea of childhood turns out to be a lot of noisy, macho roughhousing, which the movie inflates into junior — Robert Bly bonding. In one scene, Peter and his chief rival try to top each other with gross-out insults — a funny bit, until one of the boys smiles at Peter and says, ”You’re doing it, using your imagination!” Peter, in addition, has to discover his ”happy thought,” the equivalent of Billy Crystal getting in touch with the ”one thing” he loves in City Slickers. Except that the happy-thought business is repeated ad nauseam. Instead of letting his themes emerge naturally, Spielberg keeps punching up the mystical undertones. By the time Peter is reborn as Peter Pan, complete with green tights, a fawnlike stare, and what looks like an Elizabeth Arden perm, it’s borderline embarrassing, because this Peter has too little connection to the adult he once was. He’s so ”pure” he’s an airbrushed fantasy of born-again boyhood.

There is, of course, lots of flying, and young kids will love this stuff. You’re always aware of the effects, though, because Spielberg hasn’t integrated the matte shots, storybook backgrounds, and other technical devices into the story; they’re held up for the audience to ooh and aah over. Julia Roberts, in particular, suffers from his obsession with technical bravado. Wearing a Lulu-style pixie hairdo that doesn’t flatter her (why does everything in this movie seem left over from the kitschy ’60s?), she tries hard to make Tinkerbell into a sharp-tongued, tomboy spunkette, but she keeps getting zapped in and out of the picture. The whole movie zaps you. Spielberg piles on flashbacks, sword fights, baseball games. It’s Peter Pan redone with a channel selector.

Spielberg once made us respond to the fantastic by revealing the hidden wonder in the world around us.What’s missing from Hook is any sense that Spielberg, as an artist, remains in touch with the essential current of everyday experience. His whole vision of what it means to return to childhood seems like some whiz-bang concept derived from the media. Like Michael Jackson, he has spent too many years cloistered with his gizmos, his empire, his blockbuster dreams. The loss is everybody’s.

[missmungoe]

THE SUBTLETIES OF CERTAIN HEARTS // Sabo x Koala // rated T // aka the friends-to-lovers bed-sharing fic I couldn’t get out of my head

When he was younger, he had nightmares of a life he couldn’t remember; bars on the windows, and flames climbing along the walls. A deck tilting beneath his feet, and water filling his lungs even as it couldn’t quench the fire lapping against his skin.

He’d been with Dragon’s people for a few weeks, but the transition was—difficult, at least at first, and as his physical injuries slowly healed it was becoming clear to Sabo that there were other, worse wounds; ones that sat so deep he couldn’t even remember the cause.

One night he woke in a cold sweat, heart in his throat and a scream lodged at the bottom of his windpipe, and it had taken time to find his way back—to himself, whoever he was, and to a state of mind calm enough for sleep to claim him again.

He’d wondered, sitting in the mess at breakfast, barely touching his food, if anyone had heard; if his screaming perhaps hadn’t been as silent as he’d hoped, and he’d been embarrassed at the thought, because it wasn’t something he could control. But he’d made a vow to try—that, whatever lingered from that life he couldn’t remember, he’d try and move past it, because if he couldn’t have the good memories, if there were any at all to have, then he sure as hell wasn’t going to be stuck suffering through the bad ones.

Of course, that worked about as well as expected, but it wasn’t the nightmare that woke him this time. Instead it was a small hand on his brow, and when his eyes shot open, the flames extinguished with a gusting breath, it was to find another pair looking down at him, large and understanding in a familiar face.

“Scoot over,” Koala whispered, and offered no further warning before she’d shuffled into bed with him, and promptly tucked herself against his side.

There was a moment where he was unable to move, mind still reeling, and caught in that strange void between dream and reality where strange things happened, like weird girls coming into your bed to hog your blankets. But when he blinked his eyes a few times and found that she was still there, Sabo realised it wasn’t his imagination playing tricks on him.

“If you don’t breathe you’ll suffocate,” she said, and if he hadn’t been so thoroughly caught off guard he might have found the time to be embarrassed at the realisation that he’d been holding it.

He let his breath shudder out, but he didn’t move, arms stiff against his sides. Because he didn’t know her—didn’t know any of these people, but then with the amnesia that went for just about anyone in his acquaintance. And the smart thing would be to just tell her to go back to her own room, and—

“It’s okay, you know,” Koala said then, voice gentler now, and no trace of teasing in her words. “To want company,” she added, and Sabo felt the press of her cheek against his shoulder, as though to emphasise the words.

He didn’t tell her that he did, because he hadn’t realised that was what he’d wanted. But he felt it now that it was alleviated, that curiously desperate craving—for another warm body against his back, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. He thought he might have had that once, wherever he’d come from. Maybe even more than one.

“I talk in my sleep,” she announced then, the words wrapped around a yawn. “I hope you don’t mind.”

He said nothing to that, partly because he didn’t really know what to say, but also because there was a word threatening on his tongue, that he wouldn’t have minded if she sang, because he was already starting to feel sleepy again, and the other night it had taken him hours to fall back asleep after he’d first woken up.

“I snore sometimes,” he said instead, the words quiet. And he didn’t know how he knew, he just felt that he did; that someone had once told him he did.

She hummed. “Don’t worry—I’ll pinch your nose shut.”

Despite himself, Sabo smiled, but said nothing else. He didn’t have the chance before sleep claimed him, entirely without warning. And he didn’t thank her. Somehow, between waking the next morning to find her drooling on his shirt and his nightmares miles from his mind, he forgot.

But he thought then—and would soon know it with a surety that he’d never question over the course of their long years together—that she understood, anyway.

—

They didn’t share a bed every night, and he didn’t question how she knew just which ones he needed it; if she really could hear him screaming through the walls, or if there was something else that tipped her off. When he’d been younger he’d thought it might be a girl thing, but he’d dismissed it after he’d asked her and she’d rolled her eyes and flicked his nose so hard it had brought tears to his.

And it didn’t really matter how she knew, just as it didn’t really matter why she came, because it wasn’t just for his sake, Sabo was quick to realise.

Whenever she woke him up from his nightmares she’d always say something, a gentle “Move over” that brooked no argument, or a “Mou, Sabo-kun, do you really need the whole blanket?”, her voice seeming to anchor his mind in the waking world. And he’d always understood why she did it, but had never managed to find the words to explain that he was grateful—for her understanding that he didn’t want coddling, or questions, but that it wasn’t always easy to come back to himself on his own; that her voice helped, when he scrambled for reality, the nightmare still at his fingertips.

But there were nights where she’d say nothing at all. Often, it was the nights there were no dreams clinging to his mind, and he'd wake to find her standing by his bed, no smart remarks offered.

And he didn’t ask on those nights, when her eyes didn’t hold understanding but fear, and her smiles were nowhere to be found. Instead he just made room for her, and allowed her to settle down, yielding more of the blanket than he usually did, and he would know from her silence on the matter that what bothered her hadn’t just been a run-of-the-mill bad dream.

She preferred to sleep with her back to him on those nights, but still close enough to touch. And it would take years before he’d realise why, and that the pressure of another body against her back had a different effect—had an entirely different significance—than it did for him.

She told him outright, one day; shared the nightmares that kept her from sleep and their reasons, and Sabo wished that he could give her something in return. Not just for his own sake, but because she looked at him and saw, past the scar and the amnesia. And he’d never wanted his memories back as much as he had in that moment, when she’d shared such an intimate truth and all he’d had to offer was himself. What few pieces he had to give, anyway.

But—“Silly,” Koala said, in response to something he hadn’t even spoken out loud, but that going by the look on her face, she’d still heard. “This is enough.”

She didn’t say you’re enough, but he heard it, regardless. And he felt it, in the way she tucked her head beneath his chin, as though it was the easiest thing in the world, and told him to go to sleep.

—

He’d imagined it more times than he could count, and had believed so earnestly that getting his memories back would grant him some semblance of peace he wasn’t prepared for what it did bring him, in the end.

That first night he didn’t sleep a wink. A reasonable assumption as to the cause was that he’d been out three whole days, but looking up at the ceiling of the infirmary, Sabo knew the truth to be a different one.

It all made sense now; that particular nightmare, and the uncanny feeling that he’d had someone, once. And not just one, but two, and Dadan, and Makino, and—

His mind wouldn’t give him a break, and whenever he closed his eyes what he found wasn’t his brother’s face as he remembered it, sharp-boned cheeks darkened with freckles from the sun and wearing the smirk that promised it would turn the world on its head one day. Now what he saw was the picture from the paper—the boy he’d known once, no longer a boy, sharp cheeks gaunt and sallow and freckles that hadn’t seen the sun in weeks.

No, Sabo didn’t think he could have found sleep if his life had depended on it.

The door slid open then, the hinges creaking, unnaturally loud, given the person who slipped inside, but it was her way of announcing herself, he knew.

Closing the door behind her, Koala leaned her weight against it, and didn’t take a step closer. And she didn’t say anything, not “Scoot over” or “Can’t sleep?” or anything else that she might have said, once. But there was an offer there regardless, Sabo found, sitting loud in her silence.

And he remembered how she’d reacted, the naked relief he’d found on her face when he’d woken to find her at his bedside, and the fear that she hadn’t even tried to talk away, that she’d thought he’d never wake up.

And he didn’t know which of them needed it most tonight, but it didn’t matter.

“Stay?” he asked, voice still a little hoarse from screaming, and then three days without use. And he could probably have said more, or phrased it differently so that it sounded more like an offering and less like a plea, although he didn’t know which of those she heard in truth. But he doubted that mattered much, either.

Wordlessly, she pushed away from the door, kicking her shoes off as she made to cross the length of the infirmary. And she didn’t tell him to make room. Instead, she settled down against his side, the small adjustments familiar things as she made herself comfortable, and when she sighed he felt it as his own.

She was asleep within minutes, and considering the top of her head Sabo wondered idly just how many hours she’d sat awake at his bedside while he’d slept. And he knew she probably hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he didn’t mind, a small, tired smile tugging at his mouth as he remained awake, gaze no longer fixed on the ceiling, but on the soft rise and fall of her back, her breaths heavy with exhaustion.

He’d tell her, he decided. In the morning when she woke, he’d tell her about Ace—about Luffy. About where he’d come from, and the world he’d left behind. The brother he’d lost, and the one who was still alive, somewhere across the sea.

He didn’t know how she’d react; if she’d look at him after and see someone else, someone she didn’t recognise, but even as he thought it another resurfaced, a sudden certainty that if she’d caught him so much as thinking it, she’d have given him an earful.

And it helped, somewhat. It was enough, Sabo found, fingers touching the tips of her hair where it fell against her neck, an anchor in her presence that helped settle his thoughts. His life wouldn’t be the same after this, but for now it was enough, knowing that whoever he’d been and whatever he did with the knowledge, she wouldn’t ask him to be anyone else.

—

It had changed, over the years. Or, the way others perceived it had changed, even if the two of them hadn’t.

“They’re sleeping together,” he overheard someone saying one day, walking down the corridor to the mess hall. Not a cruel remark, just a matter-of-fact statement. “If you know what I mean.”

He stopped in his tracks, and it took him a moment to realise that they were, in fact, talking about him, although it took the actual mention of his name to solidify the realisation, and it caught him so off guard that for a moment Sabo forgot that he was not-so-covertly eavesdropping.

“You know what it’s like at their age,” came the wistful sigh then. “What I wouldn’t give to be in my twenties again.”

“They’ve been sharing a bed for years, though. They’re not the only ones here who do.”

“Yeah, and it was cute when they were ten, but they’re not anymore. And most grown adults who shack up in this place do it for a very specific reason.”

“They don’t really demonstrate it though, do they? I’ve never even seen them kiss.”

“Maybe they’re just being discreet. Which can’t be said for everyone.”

“Yeah, I—wait, what are you looking at me for?”

“My room is adjacent to yours. And I have ears.”

A spluttering laugh followed that remark, and then footsteps in his direction, and he’d backtracked out of the corridor and the conversation so fast he’d almost tripped over his own feet, and hadn’t been able to look Koala in the eye for the rest of the day.

His blatant avoidance hadn’t gone unnoticed, although Sabo hadn’t imagined it would, which was why he’d been avoiding her in the first place, at least up until the point where she’d tracked him down. And she’d questioned him about it, of course she had, because she’d known something was off, and hadn’t let him off the hook until he’d caved and told her.

When he was done she looked at him, hands perched on her hips and her brows furrowed, and he was torn between trying to decipher what she was thinking, and looking everywhere but directly at her face.

Then, “Does it bother you?” she asked, tilting her head.

Sabo blinked. “Me? Doesn’t it bother you?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve heard worse gossip around the halls. This is pretty mild, considering.”

He was sure his expression yielded all of his concerns, because then she sighed, and when she smiled next it was almost rueful. “We can stop, okay? If you’d rather.”

The words were out before he’d had time to think them through. “And if I’d rather we didn’t?”

The corner of her mouth lifted. “Then that’s okay, too.”

Sabo returned the smile, but watching her now, he wondered if he’d been bolder, he might have asked if she’d rather the rumours were true. And the idea had resurfaced so out of the blue and so suddenly it stole his breath and every coherent thought, until he was left feeling like he’d just been sucker-punched in the gut. Which was fitting, really, given the object of his distress.

He didn’t sleep that night, too busy pondering the shift in his perception of what they were, and he was relieved when she didn’t show up in his room. Relieved, and something else, something that might have been disappointed, even if he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept it for what it was. Because the implication was such that he didn’t think he could have hidden it from her. She’d take one look at his face and know exactly what he was thinking.

And for all that he knew her almost better than he knew himself, Sabo couldn’t for certain say that he knew how she’d react to something like that.

—

The rumours ceased to bother him after a while, realising that in a line of work like theirs, people sought small amusements to ease the burden of their business, like mess hall gossip, and a variety of different betting pools. And they were far from the only ones being discussed.

But even if he didn’t care what other people thought, he couldn’t quite seem to get the suggestion out of his mind now that it had taken root—that there might be more between them than strictly platonic feelings. Or at least, the potential for something more.

“You’re hogging the blanket again.”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“Well it is technically my blanket.”

She gave it a tug, but he didn’t relent, and laughed when she shoved the pillow in his face instead.

“What are you, ten years old?” Sabo asked, lifting the pillow to give her a whack with it, but she caught it in time, tugging it out of his hands and out of his reach.

Koala stuck her tongue out. “That would make you nine, then,” she chirped. “Given that you’re a year younger than I am.”

Sabo didn’t offer a remark to that, and hoped his smile didn’t look as forced as it felt. And he couldn’t help but think back on the conversation he’d overheard, weeks ago now; that it had been cute when they were ten. Now, ‘cute’ wasn’t the word that came to mind when she raised her arms over her head like that, arching her back in a languid stretch, a contented hum slipping free of her lips and her shirt riding up her stomach.

Well. It wasn’t the only word that came to mind.

And he wondered, in what had become a well-visited line of thought, if she might welcome it if he took things a step further—if he were to kiss her, that is, although there was another thought following at its heels, but it was brutally shoved down before he’d had time to even consider it fully.

Koala tilted her head to look at him then, her expression telling him quite plainly that he hadn’t been able to hide his thoughts as well as he’d hoped, although Sabo figured the heat creeping up his throat might have something to do with it. “What?”

Her hair fanned out across the mattress, and she was fiddling with the corner of the pillow, watching him. And he’d considered how he might go about this more than once, but had always dismissed the idea as something that was more likely to earn him a black eye than happy reciprocation.

Although taking in the sight of her now, her eyes inquisitive and her smile curious and inviting, the urge was there, and suddenly, entirely unavoidable.

He reached for the pillow then, and he saw her eyes flashing, a challenge alighting in them before her smile followed suit. And Sabo acted before he’d given himself time to second-guess the decision, fingers curling around her wrist, giving her hand a tug and startling a yelp from her laughing mouth. But when she fell forward, no doubt expecting to get the pillow in return, he saw her eyes widening, realisation dawning in them half a second before he caught her mouth in a kiss.

It was entirely impulsive, and for a moment he feared she might punch him—or worse, calmly push him away, but when she sighed into the kiss and he felt her hands against his cheeks, pulling him closer, the relief was such that he almost forgot to respond.

She was soft. The whole of her was soft, the hands cupping his face and her lips against his, and it was so at odds with how he’d come to know her, bare-knuckled punches and pinched ears and tripping his feet when they sparred. And yet there were traces of that side of her as well; the grip of her hands a little too strong for tenderness, even if the press of her nose against his was entirely gentle.

Pulling back, her tongue darted out to lick her lips, and Sabo didn’t know what he’d expected, but whatever it was it wasn’t what he got.

A huff escaped her, and, “It’s about time!” she laughed, before she smacked him in the face with the pillow. And he was so startled by her reaction for a moment all he could do was gape.

Lifting it from his face, the smile he found on hers was somewhere between fond and annoyed. “I thought I was going to have to do it,” Koala said, fiddling with the corner of the pillow again, before adding, her voice quiet, “Or that—that you might not want to.”

She’d dropped her gaze now, and there were a lot of ways he could handle this, Sabo knew. Laughing probably wasn’t the best option, even if it was a little ridiculous that they’d both held back on account of the same fear. And someone else might have said something suave, but with his mind still reeling from the kiss and her reaction to it, he didn’t think he could have managed to say much of anything.

But then they’d never needed words to say things.

And so instead of talking, he kissed her again.

—

“Oh?” Robin asked over breakfast, glancing up from her book when they entered the mess. “Something’s different.”

There was something to be said about being under the scrutiny of eyes as knowing as Nico Robin’s, Sabo decided—Dragon’s gaze almost seemed like the kinder alternative in comparison. And he wondered not for the first time what kind of people were in his little brother’s crew, given that she’d introduced herself as the saner of the bunch.

“Is that a new blouse?” she asked Koala then, her smile curving, far too pleased and making no secret of the fact that she’d been referring to something else entirely. “It’s lovely.”

Koala’s eyes twinkled, and Sabo felt suddenly like making himself scarce, but—perhaps deciding she’d teased them enough, Robin smoothly steered the conversation in a different direction, and breakfast commenced without further remarks about new clothes, or the nature of their relationship.

But for some reason her first observation lingered, and, “Is it different?” he asked Koala later, making their way from the mess hall to train.

She tilted her head, and her small smile told him she’d known the question was coming. But the slight twinge of nervousness in her expression also told him she hadn’t been entirely unaffected by Robin’s words. “Do you want it to be?”

Sabo paused, and she came to a stop, one step ahead. The corridor around them was empty, and he watched her outline in the open doorway, the light from outside throwing her shadow large against the stones. “That—depends,” he said at length.

Her brow furrowed a bit. “On?”

He felt suddenly at a loss, as though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it—the sense that he didn’t want things to change, exactly, except it would have to, if they were…more, than they’d been. “On—I don’t know. On us?”

Her look softened a bit at that. “We’re still us,” she said. “Aren’t we? I’m still the same, I just…want to kiss you now.” He watched her worry the inside of her cheek between her teeth. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No!”

Then, realising just how visceral his reaction had to have sounded, and finding in her barely suppressed smile something that looked distinctly pleased, Sabo laughed, rubbing a hand against the back of his head. “I mean—”

She was quick, covering the step spanning the distance between them and lifting up on her toes in a single breath, gloved fingers curling around his cravat to tug him down to meet her. And the kiss was brief, too brief for anyone to catch if they were to walk by, but it lingered even after she’d sank back on her heels, not even bothering to stifle her smile now.

“Don’t overthink it,” she said, smoothing her fingers against the cravat. “Let’s just do what we’ve always done.”

Sabo smiled. “But with kissing?”

She laughed, and when she gave his hand a tug, he followed. “But with lots of kissing.”

—

It was at once different, and not. They were still them; they still went on assignments together, and sparred after breakfast. Except that when he reached out a hand to help her up now he’d tug her close for a kiss, and whenever he did something particularly reckless on a mission, her anger held a note he hadn’t heard before, something that carried more than just fond irritation at his impulsiveness.

He’d kiss her knuckles then, if she had her gloves off; or her forehead, if she had that furrow between her brows that usually accompanied one of her lectures. And he’d watch her anger bleed out of her, along with a sigh, and she’d punch his shoulder and murmur idiot, and Sabo would refrain from cheekily pointing out that it sounded more like an endearment now than anything else.

They were small changes. She still shared his bed on occasion, except she slept closer now, her fingers curled around his and her head tucked into the crook of his neck. And it would take time for them to see the bigger picture—longer than it took those around them, who saw more clearly, and with all too knowing looks—but when they did see it, the fact that there’d been changes wouldn’t matter.

They were still them.

—

Eating his brother’s devil fruit had an…unforeseen consequence.

Several, in fact.

“You’re too warm,” Koala groaned, tossing the blanket off. “It’s like sleeping next to a furnace.”

If they’d been younger Sabo might have told her to go back to her own bed; that she would either have to deal with his blanket hogging and his now unnatural body temperature, or take her chances elsewhere.

But they weren’t kids, and they weren’t just friends anymore, either—not for a good while now, and it was impossible to forget suddenly, although he thought it might have something to do with the fact that she’d taken to wearing less clothes to bed.

She blamed it on the heat, and instead of remarking on it Sabo kept his eyes studiously on the ceiling, to keep them from straying anywhere else, like the slip of bare skin below the hem of her thin shirt, or the bare legs that lay, half-tangled in the discarded blanket.

“Sabo-kun.”

He tried to keep his voice level. “Yes.”

“Find anything interesting in the ceiling cracks?”

His sigh held a laugh. And of course she’d noticed—had he really thought she wouldn’t? But she didn’t sound upset, only gently teasing, although he didn’t let himself think too much about what that might mean, knowing it might be nothing.

“I think there’s a new one,” he said. “Over on the left. It looks a little bit like a lizard.”

He felt her shift, the mattress dipping under the movement, but he kept his gaze fixed on that same crack, running through the pale stone. And he knew his accelerating heartbeat betrayed whatever ease he was trying for, but when he felt the touch of her fingertips against his jaw he didn’t care what she found in his eyes when he inclined his head to look at her.

Her hair was an endearing tangle, loose strands clinging to her brow, gleaming with perspiration, and in that moment Sabo thought he couldn’t have dragged his gaze away if he’d wanted to.

She kissed him, then—touched her mouth against his, a seemingly tender gesture but deceptive because it was the kind of kiss that carried intent, and he felt it in more than just the press of her against him. And when he threaded his fingers through her hair and found a sigh shaking loose of her, Sabo felt the decision as she made it, even before she moved, rolling them over until she sat across his hips, the kiss breaking only for a moment, before he felt her smile against his mouth.

He hesitated, hands curved around her shoulders, but when she sank against him he sketched them down her arms, to settle on her hips. And she was warm; a gentler kind of heat than his, and the bare skin that met his fingertips when he dipped them under the hem of her shirt was so soft it dragged a noise from him that it took him a moment to recognise as his own.

He felt her laugh ghosting against his mouth, and there was a question sitting at the back of his tongue—an are you sure about this, because he knew what she had in mind now, but before he could ask she beat him to it.

“Is this okay?” he heard, the murmur questioning, but with the gentle weight of her on top of him and the soft skin under his hands he couldn’t manage much else but to nod, and hoped it wasn’t too eager, or that she could tell how his hands shook, following the arch of her spine under her shirt.

But she didn’t flinch when his fingers found the brand; didn’t break the kiss or pull away, and when he pressed his palm flat against the protruding scar tissue he felt her shuddering sigh, and wondered how deep it had sat when he felt her back sinking under his hands, as though in relief.

It was difficult thinking straight when she was so close, and he could touch her. And this was different from kisses stolen on missions or between sparring rounds, or those that were longer and which sometimes chased them off to sleep, to dreams he hadn’t shared with her yet, and was glad she hadn’t asked about, the times she’d woken to find him gone.

As though having read his mind, Koala drew back, brow arched and her smile entirely too clever, and Sabo felt his laugh as it escaped him, recognising the look—that familiar, all too knowing one that told him certain things hadn’t gone unnoticed now. But then given her position, it wasn’t all that surprising.

But—“Silly,” she told him, flicking his nose, and he wondered if she could read more in his expression than what she felt where she sat across his hips. “I want this.”

She didn’t say I want you, but like so many things between them, he knew it without being told.

He rested his hands on her hips, finding the gesture easy now—natural, as though it required no further thought once he’d done it, but then they’d always been good at accommodating for each other, fitting themselves together, lives and limbs and annoying sleeping habits.

And he wondered then, a shiver of almost giddy excitement following the thought, how this would be; if they’d find a rhythm in this as easily as they did everything else.

Drawing a breath, “So is this where you tell me it’s about time?” Sabo asked, only partly joking, and Koala hummed a laugh, but when she met his eyes her gaze had softened.

“No,” she said, touching his cheek, the pad of her thumb sketching a curving path along the scar. And it was an entirely new thing, Sabo found, because he knew what it was like to feel wanted in this world, but not like this—not this kind of desire, so earnestly offered.

He thought about the mess hall gossip, and how many years it must have flourished without their knowledge, but it ceased to matter when Koala met his eyes, more than a decade of friendship between them but something quite different in the promise he found on her face now as she added—

“I think this is just the right time.”

—

It ceased to be about nightmares, after that.

Instead it was a wordless question exchanged over the table in the mess, or a lingering touch to his shoulder during training. Little things yielding little, intimate secrets, and they shared a bunk now more often than not these days, even when work and training left them so exhausted they didn’t have the energy for anything but sleep.

Then again, watching the tender sprawl of her limbs against the mattress, her skin bared and her slumber easy and undisturbed, Sabo suspected it had been years since it had been just about nightmares.

—

She was asleep against him the night Baltigo went up in flames around them.

And he’d never been more glad of it, tumbling off the bed, half wrapped around her and feeling a loose piece of debris bounce off his back. The ceiling was coming down, and for a moment he kept her tucked beneath him, hands grappling for discarded shirts and trousers, and his heart shoving up his throat, but—“You okay?” he managed, hands finding her shoulders, looking for injuries.

Koala was in the process of pulling on her shirt, and for a single second, when her eyes met his it was panic he found, the same he’d seen so often, waking to find her crawling into bed with him.

But a moment later it was gone, wiped from her eyes and her features and replaced with the same determination that had so often gotten them out of tight fixes. And when she gave a nod he shoved away the urge to kiss her, the act smacking of a this-might-be-our-last sort of finality that he wouldn’t even consider, even as it drummed along his veins with every new crack shooting through the ceiling above their heads.

Pulling on his pants, he didn’t bother grabbing his own shirt, and when they moved he kept one step ahead of her, pushing through the chaos and the fighting. And it was like his nightmares, even if they were old things now, people screaming around him, and fire always at the corner of his vision, eating everything in its path.

But his flames burned brighter this time, and it was what allowed them to escape, out through the ruins of their broken headquarters, little more than a skeleton of charred stone. And Sabo caught a glimpse of where her room had been as they picked their way through the rubble, nothing there now, the entire corridor of rooms having collapsed on itself.

He caught her hand then, and didn’t let go; kept her in his line of sight as they fought their way towards the ship, back to back, an intimacy in their cooperation not unlike another they shared, and a trust just as implicit—a knowledge that when he moved, she’d be there to meet him; a small nudge of her hand, and he’d adjust his stance accordingly.

But he didn’t smile, thinking about it; didn’t zone out like he occasionally did when they sparred, when he couldn’t quite get the image out of his head, of how she looked like perched across his hips. Now it was a darker thought that occupied him, that if they didn’t make it out of here, or if only one of them did…

He didn’t give himself the chance to feel relief, even as they watched Baltigo burning from the deck of Dragon’s ship. Because it was an easy mistake, thinking they were in the clear before they really were, and they’d made enough mistakes already by assuming—by thinking they were beyond being touched, an organisation that couldn’t be toppled like any other.

Koala’s hand was still in his, slender fingers tucked against his palm, her gloves missing. And it wasn’t about comfort now as much as it was a lifeline, and Sabo couldn’t tell if it was anger or grief that made his chest constrict, wondering how many things Blackbeard would take before it was enough.

Dawn had crawled across the sky when they finally retired, and when she tugged at his hand, Sabo followed, not caring who saw or what they read into the gesture, the unspoken question that sat suddenly loud between them, and the near desperate grip of her fingers around his. And it was inelegant, and a little rough, hands gripping too hard for caresses and the feel of her almost too much, after a night that could just as easily have promised him an empty bunk, and no hands nudging his where she wanted them, bossy in this as she was in anything.

He pulled her close, after, despite her muttered protests about his body temperature, although they were half-hearted, Sabo found, as she pressed shaking hands against his back and pushed herself as close as she could get. The bunk was barely big enough for one, and their embrace far from comfortable, limbs intertwined at odd angles and her heartbeat loud in his ears.

“I wasn’t going to,” Koala said then, quietly, and it wasn’t until she continued that he understood what she’d meant. “I had so many meetings today, I was asleep on my feet. And I don’t—I don’t know why I went to your room instead of mine.”

The memory of what her room had looked like resurfaced, and his breath felt suddenly heavy in his chest. But there was something else, too; a refusal to consider what might have happened that manifested in something that felt almost like defiance. Because they’d lost too much tonight to dwell on the things they hadn’t.

He imagined he might have tried for a smile, if it hadn’t felt so beyond his reach, but, “I think the general consensus was that it was our room,” Sabo said at length. “I keep—kept, finding messages for you on my desk. And you had more clothes there than I did.”

The past tense sat, an acrid taste on his tongue, but he felt Koala hum in agreement. “Then maybe that’s what we should do when we regroup and start over.”

And it might have been too soon, coming from anyone else, but if there was anyone who understood what the words start over entailed, it was her. And it didn’t make better what had happened tonight, but it was enough. Right now, they were enough.

“I’d like a bigger bed, though,” she said, and despite himself, Sabo felt his smile quirk.

“If you didn’t hog the whole mattress, we wouldn’t need it.”

“You’re too warm and you snore. If anyone is a bad bunk mate here it’s you,” she huffed. “I don’t even want the blanket anymore—it’s too hot.”

“You’re still here, though,” Sabo said then, before he could stop himself.

Koala was quiet for a long moment, and there was a split second where he regretted saying it; regretted bringing up the suggestion that she might change her mind.

A sigh then, falling against his throat, and, “Silly,” she said, the endearment desperately familiar, but when she splayed the flat of her palm over his heart the words she spoke next sounded more like a promise than a reprimand—

“Where else would I be?”