#though I admit sometimes I think the lines are a bit muddled
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victorluvsalice · 2 years ago
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You and Your Friend by Snake River Conspiracy - Topic
Found this song while looking at @polyamorousmood's latest posts, and was intrigued enough by the sampled lyrics to take a listen. And -- yeah, I like it, and I think it's got the Valicer vibes! It's cool to link a song with genuine poly lyrics to my OT3, instead of finding ways to get a "standard" love song to fit. Granted, I'm a little muddled on what the Valicer vibes actually ARE -- while part of me thinks that the song would have to be from Victor's POV, as it's about being in love with someone and their explicitly-female friend (which suits Victor being the point of the V-relationship between him, Smiler, and Alice, with Smiler and Alice being the friends), the actual feel and lyrics of the song itself seems to lean a lot more toward SMILER being the POV character. I dunno, it just seems to suit them more than Victor. And platonic love IS a thing, so... *shrug* No matter what, though, "That's how I know I'm in love with you and your friend/Honest I do, I can't see you and me and her without each other" is definitely a real Valicer vibe. :)
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stevieschrodinger · 2 years ago
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I don't know, ficlet AU sort of thing.
Alpha Steve has a YouTube channel that, kind of, started by accident. Steve is not the most confident reader, like, at all. The words get kind of muddled and he got into a habit of just sort of trying to rush it, figuring he was going to mess it up anyway, so get it over with, right? And then he just sort of stops reading, even though he enjoyed it, because he couldn't get his brain to slow down and the muddling got worse and...yeah.
So one day, his platonic soul mate bestie suggests he read out loud. To someone. If he reads every word out one at a time, knowing it has to be clear enough for the other person to follow, that'll slow him down.
So, he tries it, but only for Robin. And it sort of works, kind of, and then she hits on him using something so he can only see the line he's reading, like a bit of card with a letterbox cut in it, and...Steve is on fire.
The words don't get muddled up so much, and his reading is slow and even, and he needs to read to someone, and Robin can't always be there. It becomes his own pet project, he reads out little bits of books he likes, parts of articles he has enjoyed, poems, whatever, and starts his own little you tube that has like, five followers, and they're all people he knows.
And then suddenly, almost overnight, Steve finds himself with four thousand followers. A very large portion of them are very clearly Omega, from the comments, and Steve suddenly finds himself with a lot of fans who are using his videos for white noise. He's literally reading thousands of Omegas off to sleep.
Which is...nice. Steve likes it. The hits and followers on his videos seem to settle down after a couple of weeks, and then, after having so many comments about how settling Steve's voice is, how the Alpha is relaxing and safe. Steve thinks fuck it.
As a test, he makes a ten minute video directly for that audience. He builds a nest, films it POV. He films the view of someone walking through the bedroom door, of what they would see as they climb into the nest, then resting the camera on his own chest.
Then he starts talking. Tells the omega how perfect they are, how much he cares for them, wants to protect, keep safe. How soft they are as he pets them, how warm and cosy they are in their nest. How snuggles with the omega are Steve's favourite thing.
He deliberately keeps everything as vague and gender neutral as he can. The video fucking explodes. Goes viral. Millions of hits, thousands and thousands of followers. Robin and the kids think it's hilarious, and encourage him to keep going, claiming he's doing a public service.
Hundreds of copycats spring up, but no one pulls it off quite like Steve.
He knows there are Omega out there getting off to his videos, despite there being absolutely nothing sexual about them, but Steve figures, whatever makes people happy.
He gets so many positive comments, omega telling him how much comfort he brings them. He has some regular commenters that he gets to know, too, which is nice. Sometimes he even takes requests, small things, the colour of his shirt, the time of day he shoots his videos, certain words and phrases.
One supportive commenter always stands out though : EdDio86. Steve's pretty sure he's male omega, and he's always so grateful when Steve posts a new video. The guy clearly has a lot of trouble sleeping, and apparently Steve really helps. They have a little back and forth in the comments, learning little bits about one another. Steve likes this omega.
Steve also gets the impression the omega is sorely lacking any comfort in his life. Considering the length of his comments, the guy never asks for anything.
Until he does.
At the end of a comment, always ever so politely thanking Steve, EdDio86 admits he's 'in a bit of a pickle' and could Steve, please, do a video where 'the omega' is with pup? Could Steve tell the omega that the pup is fine, and healthy, and that the omega is doing good and the pup is okay and everything will be okay...but cool if not. Bit of a weird request, I know, sorry to be a bother.
And Steve suddenly doesn't give a shit about the consequences of just,,,dropping his personal email out into the world like that, because he wants to tell this guy these things personally.
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bakudekublogblog · 1 year ago
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Katsuki is so fucking sick of hospital rooms. He hates the heavy scent of antiseptic, the too-starchy pillows, the way the bed crackles every time he moves. He hates the white-popcorn walls that he’s forced to stare at through the haze of heavy medication. And he fucking despises the plastic tube shoved up his nose with the quiet, but constant, beeping of several machines keeping tabs on his vitals. Everything about it sucks. The only slightly redeeming quality about this particular hospital stay is that he and Izuku are sharing the same room. Apparently, after Katsuki’s tantrum the last time they both nearly died, the nurses figured it was best for everyone if Izuku was put directly in Katsuki’s line of vision. And so there he is, still knocked out in his hospital bed opposite Katsuki’s. Half his head wrapped in gauze, face swollen with purple bruises, he’s bandaged just about everywhere, but he’s alive. Katsuki is too riddled with pain meds to do much other than stare at him across the room. But at least Izuku is there, hooked up to a heart-monitor, softly proving that he’s still breathing. Which gives Katsuki’s battered heart some much needed relief. 
Izuku still hasn’t woken up, though. Stupid, sleepy bastard. Always fucking sleeping when Katsuki is awake. How the fuck has Katsuki had three surgeries, one of them open-heart surgery, and he’s managing to flit in and out of consciousness, but Izuku is still out like a light? Katsuki thought Izuku swore to surpass him. Why the fuck does he think he can fall behind now? Katsuki scowls at Izuku’s tuft of fluffy green hair. 
Wake up or I’ll kill you , Katsuki vows.
Katsuki knows he’s in love with him. He should have known a long time ago really, but having his heart burst put everything into stark clarity. He can’t deny it now. Not even if he wanted to. The next time Katsuki greets death, he will do so without regrets. There’s so much he needs to make up for; he still has so much atoning left to do. He has to show Izuku he will be better and do right by him. Izuku can’t fucking die before Katsuki has the chance to prove himself. Even if Izuku never loves him back, Katsuki must at least prove that he can be good. That he is worthy of standing at Izuku’s side. 
Days pass and Izuku still doesn’t wake. Katsuki’s pleadings only get more desperate. Usually it’s just in his head, but sometimes, when it’s late at night and no one else is around, Katsuki will murmur to him aloud. 
“You don’t have to forgive me,” Katsuki whispers into the oppressive quiet of their hospital room. Only the soft chime of Izuku’s heart-monitor answers him. “You don’t have to be mine. Just wake up. Don’t make me live in a world without you.” 
Shadows dance as headlights stream through the curtains shading their window, and for a moment Katsuki thinks maybe--- but no. The car passes and Izuku hasn’t stirred. God fucking dammit. Katsuki doesn’t know why he’s surprised: of course Izuku can’t actually hear him. Tears prick at the corners of Katsuki’s eyes anyway. 
It becomes a nightly ritual. Katsuki’s mind is too muddled with medication to make sense most of the time, but at least it gives him something to do. God, he can’t wait until he’s off all this shit and actually, you know, move and whatever. His arm was so bent and twisted when he was admitted that they had to implant metal poles to strengthen it, and fuck if it doesn’t feel weird. Recovery Girl comes by every day to heal him, bit by bit so as not to exhaust his limited energy, and there’s a quirk specialist flying out from the states to repair Katsuki’s damaged muscle. They have assured him that with time and physical therapy he should get all his mobility back, but it gives Katsuki little comfort. He would cut the whole damn limb off if it meant Izuku would just wake up . 
“Please, for me,” Katsuki whispers, one night after a particularly exhausting round of visits from his parents, Izuku’s mom, and All Might. “Just this one thing. Just wake up. I won’t ask for anything else, just be okay.” 
Katsuki must drift off. The concoction of sleep-aids and pain medications dragging him into unconsciousness against his will. He thinks he might be dreaming when he hears ragged breathing and a soft croaky voice. 
“Ka— K’ch’n
 Kach—” 
Katsuki jolts awake, his heart-rate spiking and his head spinning. He can’t have— it couldn’t be—
 “ Kacchan
 ” 
[READ MORE]
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let-them-read-fics · 5 years ago
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Die For You
Requested by Anon: “hi :) can I request Jennie scenario based on The Weeknd’s song ‘Die For You’? I also wanted to say I really love your works, they’re really good”
Pairing: Jennie x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 3,705
Warnings / Misc. -- Angst, Fluff, Near-Death Experience, Happy Ending
Disclaimer: This writing is a work of fiction, and no disrespect is meant for those mentioned herein.
A/N: Thank you anon! My schedule is getting busy again, so writings may take a bit longer to get posted; I apologize for the delay with this one, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Let me know what you guys think!
PS ~ This is my first time writing a song request, so I kind of just went with it lol. It’s a little messy, but I think it has charm. Happy reading!
đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€đŸ–€
Jennie Kim has a magnetic pull to her -- one that is relentless and unwavering once it takes control of you. It’s hypnotic in every way; sweet torture in its truest form; and you’re always left to pick up the pieces.
The arrangement that you share with Jennie has been clear from the get-go: friends with benefits, no strings attached. Neither of you have time for anything serious, and this seemed like a win-win: always having someone to come home to when you happened to be in the same area at the same time? Hell yeah. 
You hate that you want me
Hate it when you cry
You're scared to be lonely
'Specially in the night
Gradually, though, things got messy -- lines became blurred as feelings mixed into the equation. You did everything in your power to make them go away, reminding yourself time and time again of the agreement you had. But in moments like these, as you lay in bed with Jennie, her head resting on your chest as your hand runs through her hair, you can’t help how your heart swells. Pale moonlight traces patterns on the floor, wiggling its way into the room to offer a soft glow and ambiance. In here, you’re untouchable: no cameras or prying eyes; it’s just you and Jennie, free to be yourselves. Given this fact, you’ve grown to have a love-hate relationship with these four walls; they’re your haven -- your refuge -- but they serve as a brutal reminder of just how limited your relationship with Jennie is.
Nothing is certain: weeks turn into months -- especially when she’s on tour or otherwise occupied with her busy schedule -- and you’re left to your own devices, waiting on her return. Each day without her brings you closer to believing that you’re strong enough to move onto something better -- something more consistent; but then there she is, knocking on your door again, completely pushing that absurd idea from your mind. One smile from her is enough to reel you back in, and it only makes you feel more conflicted. 
Jennie stirs in her sleep, nuzzling her face closer into you as she brings a hand up to rest against your collarbone. Her body twitches lightly, lips pursing and pouting against your neck, and you wonder what she’s dreaming about. She doesn’t seem to be distressed in any way, so you take the opportunity to get a good look at her. Within the next couple hours the alarm would be blaring that sound that you despise more than anything else in this world, signalling for her to get ready and head off to the airport to leave you all over again. Despite the circumstances, you're comforted by the fact that she always makes sure to set it for the very last second, barely giving herself enough time to catch her flight -- she wants to spend every moment possible with you, and she makes it a point to do just that. Tearful goodbyes in the back of your car would be too involved for your “relationship”, so you always try to seem unaffected (or, at least, as close to that as you can manage). You save your tears for when you arrive back home, where you spend the evening coming to terms with her absence. She would never tell you, of course, but her flights are known to bear witness to plenty of sadness for her as well; with each new mile added to the distance between the two of you, her heart breaks a little more.
~~~~~~~
It’s been 4 months since you last saw Jennie. The time apart had offered you a new perspective, something in the long nights without her affirming what you already knew to be true -- you weren’t capable of continuing on like this much longer. Nothing about your situation was ever simple; the instant you began catching feelings, it all became muddled. The one rule set -- the only principle you were tasked with following -- had been broken, and there was nothing you could do to repair it. 
A knock at your door echoes out across the empty apartment, and you quickly put down the food that you had been preparing. With a swift adjustment of the dial, you set the burner to simmer and make your way to the door. None of your friends had mentioned that they were coming by, so you’re genuinely clueless as to who it could be. 
“Jennie?” Surprise is inadequate in describing the feeling that courses through you upon meeting that familiar gaze. The metal of the knob is cool in your hand as you grip it, knuckles turning white while your emotions run wild. She had failed to let you know that she was coming back to town, neglecting even to text you recently.  
“Miss me?” How are you to answer that? Part of you wants to blurt out your thoughts, effectively ripping the metaphorical band aid right off, but another part of you wants to deny her: the past few months had allowed your feelings to become somewhat dormant as you attempted to see a future beyond this arrangement, one void of her presence. It’s completely normal to feel like that, you tell yourself. It’s strange, but as in love with her as you are, you’re almost as equally indifferent about it all. How many more times could you watch her walk away, only to string you along until she came waltzing right back in? 
The more important question of the matter is apparent: how would you even begin to tell her what you’re feeling? In the past, you’ve tried to make her aware of what you’re going through, only to be met by a change of topic. She always stayed reserved, opting to spend your time together talking about anything other than that.
Deciding that you were taking far too long to respond to her, she steps into the room, closing the door behind her. The time away from you had affected her more than she’s willing to admit, and she’s more than ready to embrace you. Her arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling your body flush up against hers, and she sighs at the feeling. “I’ve missed holding you, Y/N.” The sweet nothing does it’s job, making your heart flutter as the words register in your mind. You’re still tense, though, and she doesn’t fail to notice; before long, soft kisses are being trailed across your face -- her attempt at relaxing you. Sometimes you wonder if she knows your body better than you do: it responds to her, just like she knew it would, and you loosen up. 
After what feels like minutes of just standing there, bodies intertwined, her hands make their way to your hips. She leans forward and ghosts her lips over yours, her gloss smudging a bit in the process. A battle is being fought in your mind: should you allow yourself this indulgence? Or is this the time to be strong and finally put your foot down? The choice is made up for you by the way that she slowly backs you up against the wall, along with how her mouth brushes against yours as her warm hands steady you. Before you can stop yourself, you close the distance. 
Her lips move against yours in perfect time, a delicious rhythm being set in the process. It brings to mind the notion that maybe -- just maybe -- the two of you are meant to be. After all, you fit together like a puzzle, being complete in the presence of one another. 
As her fingers play at the band of your shorts, hands roaming further with each needy kiss she presses to your lips, you debate with yourself. Her actions tempt you to cave in and give yourself up to her, but you decide that you can’t go down that road again. At least not until everything gets sorted. Quickly -- as to not give her anymore time to change your mind -- you step back and run a hand through your hair. Hers is messy, lips red and pupils blown wide. She reaches out for you again, but you simply hold your hand up in response.
“I can’t, Jennie.” The words come out as a reluctant declaration, your tone sounding tired.
Her brows furrow, but you continue.
“I can’t keep doing this.” 
“Elaborate.” Her demand is clear, but you miss the effort that it took for her to come off that way. At your words, panic began to course through her; she can’t lose you. 
“Whatever this is,” you say, motioning between the two of you. “I can’t be someone who waits around for you all the time, just keeping your bed warm.” She wants to laugh at that one; it’s almost comical how far you are from the truth. Jennie knows she’s good at hiding her feelings, but she’s shocked that she managed to make you believe something that ridiculous about yourself. You mean the world to her -- she’s just too afraid to admit it.
“Y/N--”
“No, don’t even try to change the subject; I’m sick of it. Please, just listen to me for once.”
A subtle nod from her serves as your cue to continue.
“I never meant for things to get like this, Jennie, believe me. But I can’t pretend anymore: I like you, a lot. And after having you in the ways that I’ve had you
” you pause, allowing your eyes to trail up and down her body as you clench your jaw, “I can’t bear the thought of someone taking my place when I’m not around. Do you know how hard that is to deal with?”
Happens every time
I'm scared that I'll miss you
I don't want this feelin'
I can't afford love
She seems stunned, to say the least; she blinks a few times before gathering her thoughts and speaking up. “You’re all I think about, no matter what I’m doing.” For a second, you’re hopeful: your heart beats a little faster at her confession, and you finally believe you’re getting somewhere with her. Sadly, she continues: “But I can’t afford that. I don’t have time for a commitment like that, and we have something good right now. I’ve seen plenty of relationships go bad and end in heartbreak; why should we risk it?”
“Aren’t you tired of it? Sometimes I really start to think that you like me back, but then you’re as guarded as ever, pushing me away again. I never know where I stand with you. So unless you tell me how you honestly feel, you’ll have to take me off your list of fuck buddies.”
Your language catches her off guard, seeing as how it’s unexpected and unlike you. How are you so oblivious? You’re so much more than that to her.
“Fine, Y/N! I’m in deeper than I care to admit. I’ve tried to run from it, but I can’t. You’re the one person I can’t seem to forget, and I can’t stand you because of that. And yeah..” she pauses, a bit exasperated, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “I won’t deny that I’ve been with other people when I’m away.” You close your eyes at her admission, that familiar sadness beginning to seep in -- it wasn’t anything you didn’t already know, but that doesn’t make its confirmation any easier to hear. 
“They’re not you, though. They don’t know me like you do
 they’re not fun like you. I’ve never felt like this about anyone, and I don’t want to. It terrifies me.”
“That’s kinda part of the deal, Jennie -- it’s a scary thing. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but I’m willing to try with you. What we have right now is wearing me down, and I don’t deserve it; so either listen to your heart and be with me, or you won’t be seeing me again.”
Following your ultimatum, she doesn’t dare speak. Her brows are slightly furrowed again, jaw set, and she’s looking at the ground. Out of habit, your arms cross against your chest -- being vulnerable is never something you particularly enjoy (especially with so much on the line) but you’re sick of beating around the bush with her. One of the first lessons you ever learned from Jennie is that she avoids her feelings at all costs; so, standing there, you wonder what it would take to make her finally open up. Would your absence be enough? Maybe you were foolish for thinking so.
With every second that passes, silence remaining unbroken by the words that you so desperately want to hear from her, your heart sinks more and more. Every insecurity you have is swirling in your mind, further clouding it. Her lack of a response confirms your fears, and you nod quickly, knowing what you have to do. 
“Okay, I get it. I’m gonna take a walk, but you can stay here and take a shower since you just got in. When I come back, though, I want you gone.”
She doesn’t even raise her head to look at you. Inside, her heart is breaking; every fiber of her being is begging to say something -- anything -- but she stays quiet. It’s hard enough for her to keep her feelings for you in check with the arrangement you have now; if you become official, she won’t know what to do with herself. She’s falling hard, but she’s fighting it all the while -- her lifestyle doesn’t have room for love. You deserve someone who can be with you whenever you want them, not someone who’s always a world away. Calls and texts only go so far, and she knows it wouldn’t be enough for either of you. She’s spent your latest stint apart attempting to come to terms with the idea of life without you; it’s the last thing she wants, but she needs you to move on and find someone better. For you, she’s willing to hurt, so long as it means you’re happy. 
After a beat, she accepts your words, confirming that she heard you by giving a simple nod. Any remaining hope you were clinging to fades away completely, and you’re left feeling empty. Now at the coat rack, you pull your jacket over your shoulders and slip your shoes on. “There’s food on the stove, by the way. Don’t let it burn.” You say over your shoulder, too sad to look at her again. Maybe that’s some sort of symbolism: the wonderful thing you had spent so long creating was fizzling out right in front of you, Jennie being the one who could fix it all. She can step up and repair things, but that doesn’t seem very likely to happen. Tears are brimming in your eyes, and her heart breaks at the sound of your sniffles. 
Even though we're going through it
And it makes you feel alone
With a thud, the apartment door closes, and Jennie finally breaks down. It all hits her in an instant, and soon she’s sliding down to the floor, her tears mimicking her actions as they fall onto her cheeks. Why did this have to be so hard? Seeing the pain etched so plainly into your features was definitely the hardest part to all of this; she’s being cruel to be kind
 if only you knew that. 
I try to find reason to pull us apart
It ain't workin' 'cause you're perfect
And I know that you're worth it
I can't walk away, oh!
As soon as Jennie had realized her feelings all that time ago, she racked her brain for any and every logical reason to end things. She would pick fights over small things, praying to every higher power that you’d get tired of the stupidity and give up on her. So many other people had in the past, so why wouldn’t you? Knowing that you’re different from all the rest -- perfect for her in every way imaginable -- only scares her more. You lit a fire in her heart the day you met, and it’s only grown stronger ever since. 
~~~~~~~
20 Minutes Later
You have no real destination in mind; you’re content with just allowing your feet to take you wherever they wish to go.
Chatter from across the city makes its way to your ears, oddly offering a sense of comfort in your time of need. The night sky is full of stars, and the city bustles with life and activity. As you pass different businesses and shops, their iridescent lights shine just for you. Distant cars honk as they traverse the streets, and your mind begins to think of all of the different things those people might be doing right now. Surely some are having a great day, maybe on their way home, eager to be greeted by their loved ones. Others might be hurting just like you.
And you won't find no one that's better
'Cause I'm right for you, babe
I think I'm right for you, babe
Jennie fails to realize that all you want is her; you’re not naive -- you know how crazy her schedule is, but you’re more than willing to make sacrifices if it means she’ll be yours. No one makes you feel the way she does, and the thought of spending your life searching for something that can never compare scares you. 
A slight breeze rolls in, ghosting over your skin, and you’re reminded of all the times she would pull you in close to keep you warm. Her sweet perfume would fill your nose as you snuggled into her embrace, sharing the heat that her coat offered. Getting over her would definitely be a bitch.
It's hard for me to communicate the thoughts that I hold
But tonight I'm gon' let you know
Let me tell the truth
Baby, let me tell the truth, yeah
The peace -- if you can call it that -- is broken by a shout. “Y/N, wait!” Confused, you spin around on your heel towards the voice. It’s Jennie; she’s sprinting to you, her brown locks bouncing and flowing in the wind with every step. Conflicted, yet again, your feet appear to be rooted in their spot. What does she want now? It seems that every time you get your hopes up, she’s always letting you down. With this in mind, you slowly turn back around and continue your walk. Eventually she’ll catch up to you, but you need the extra time to gather your now-jumbled thoughts. 
Just know that I would die for you
Baby I would die for you, yeah
It all happened in a blur. As you began crossing the street to put more distance between Jennie and yourself, the high pitched sound of tires squealing against the pavement rang out. The car came out of nowhere, barrelling straight towards you with no signs of stopping; they had run a red light. Your eyes locked with the driver’s, both of you donning an equally terrified expression, and you had no time to react. Just as the bumper was about to come into contact with your body, you were instead forcefully shoved out of the way. Another person -- your savior -- comes tumbling with you just in the nick of time, and the driver swerves around you.  
“Are you okay?!” It’s Jennie; her voice is ripe with worry, her thoughts focused solely on your wellbeing. She doesn’t even notice the cut that she received from the fall. You bring your hand up to her forehead to assess the wound.
“Y-yeah, I’m good. But you,” you say, touching her injury and eliciting a pained hiss from her in the process, “...are not.” The two of you are breathing hard as adrenaline courses through your systems; once it has died down a bit, you stand up and check each other for any more sore spots.
“Thank you, Jennie. I don’t know how to repay you for something like that.” 
“I’d do it again a million times, Y/N. I’m sorry for putting you through all of this. I came to tell you that I love you, and that I’m done running. Seeing you leave really put things into perspective for me.”
“Am I supposed to believe that, or will you change your mind again?” The words are harsh, your voice laced with the bitterness that you still hold onto. You can’t find it in yourself to cushion the blow much; you’re still hurt by what’s happened in the past, and rightfully so. Beyond that, though, you’re trying to be cautious; after hearing her confess like that, you know there’s no going back. 
“Okay, I deserve that one. But I mean what I said. You’re the best thing in my life -- the best I’ve ever had -- and I just want you to be happy. I’ve always been afraid that I can’t give you that if I’m so far away all the time.” 
“Oh, baby,” you start, cupping her cheek and running your thumb across it soothingly. She leans into your touch, and your expression softens. “All I’ve ever wanted is you. You’re everything to me, you know that? We can do this together, so long as you’re willing to try.” 
“I am.” She utters before pulling you in, sealing your new agreement with a kiss. Her lips move against yours gently, taking their time as they attempt to make up for her previous behavior. It’s soft yet urgent, a million different things passing between you without words. 
Suddenly, you pull back, and Jennie panics for a second. 
“Did you turn the burner off?”
“Oh shit!” She exclaims, a look of pure fear gracing her features. 
Just as that cold, prickly feeling of dread begins to spread throughout your body, she grins. 
“Yes, I did.” 
You roll your eyes and huff loudly at her, delivering a rough shove to her shoulder. 
“Don’t do that to me!” 
She responds by pulling you in again, kissing away your frown. “I love you, too, if you didn’t catch that earlier.” You declare, feeling her lips turn up in that beautifully iconic smile of hers. She hums at that, pulling you in closer just as the chilly wind blows again. Huh, maybe the universe had been listening all along.
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gingersnappe-9 · 4 years ago
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Quisiera: Growing Pains (2)
Javier Peña / F!Reader; Post Narcos
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1.9K words
Summary: You have a lot on your mind. You never expected Javi to be one of them. But that's nothing a good soak can't fix, right?
Warnings: mention of loss of parent & degenerative diseases, minor depictions of sexual thoughts, minor profanity
A/N: because I'm a major dork, and no one asked, I created the floor plan for the reader's house and my friend @followwhereshegoes designed it in Sims for me. The photos are at the end of the chapter. I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!
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Your hair blew in the wind as you drove your work-beaten Ford F-250 home. Papers from a long day of checking up on animals and livestock fluttered beneath your now empty thermos for coffee. Your head bobbed with the familiar bumps and turns of the road as you drove home. The ride wasn’t unlike it had been any other day, but as you pulled into your driveway and peaked to the left and you knew he would be there. You had known for a few weeks now that Javi had been back. On a courtesy visit for Don JesĂșs -- Javi’s dad -- he had mentioned his son might be returning to Texas soon. That had to have been roughly two, maybe three months ago?
You never thought you would see him again. The kid who always thought he knew best. The one who was so sure of himself and that the world was his oyster. You weren’t surprised that he didn’t recognize you though. That was Javi you grew up with. This Javier was different. It was plain to see that he carried a weight with him. Knowing the things he knew, holding on to whatever he’d done in the back of his mind now and forever. He wasn’t the bright and shiny version of Javi you once knew, but he was still as golden as ever.
As you hopped out of the car and twirled the keys on your finger, you were beyond satisfied at your decision to postpone your reunion with Javi. Crossing the threshold of your house you recalled how panicked he looked. The quick flashes of “oh shit” in his eyes before he masked his uncertainty with precision and a charming smile. To others, he played it off fine, but you knew Javi before he was Agent Peña. You’d practically grown up with him so you were privy to those subtle tells.
Javi’s abuelos moved to be closer to their son and his family. His grandparents and your parents met in English class after they moved to America and the families stayed close ever since. Javi’s family was from Mexico, and yours came from Colombia. Each of your tĂ­os and tĂ­as helped watch and raise you and your primos. While most of your blood relatives were still in Colombia, you loved your found family here in the States. All of the birthdays spent in one another’s backyards with copious amounts of candy that came pouring out of piñatas. Big Christmas gatherings with mountains of food like ponche, pozole verde, and dulcitos like your favorite manjar blanco. Above all, you remember the laughter.
You laughed so much as a child. Someone could look at you in such a way and you would have burst out into a fit of giggles and happy squeals. It was a bittersweet thing to recall. Things were just
 different now. You grew up. Life changed, you certainly had.
This was the home your parents had built not too long after they came to America. You still felt like a little kid playing house sometimes. Being the sole occupant felt strange after the years you spent growing up with the place bursting with laughter, people, and above all love. But life changed. Your mother had died of a heart attack the year before you finished vet school. Ten years back, your father was diagnosed with early onset dementia and it was left to you to make the hard decision of placing him in a nursing home. You couldn’t care for him with the hours you worked at the clinic, and you didn’t think your heart could bear seeing the man you admired slowly fade away. It made you feel awful to admit, but there was only so much a heart could take. It could’ve been different if you still had your mamá, but it was just you.
Your body hitched a bit as you bent over to pull the dirt caked boots off your feet. Growing up is fun, they said. They never mentioned anything about rapid onset aches and pains once you passed thirty. You loved being a vet, you loved taking care of horses and all manner of livestock; being there for the folks who relied on you, but man alive was it taxing on the body.
As you padded your way into the study just to the left of the front door, you dropped the excess paperwork and lunch pale on your desk; your boots onto the old mat so as to not spread anymore dirt in the house. Trying your best to properly file away your paperwork, billing receipts and lists of future visits, you found your mind wandering back to Javier.
The wonderful way his bone structure had sharpened with age. Yeah he was a good looking teenage boy -- a bit on the thin side, but strong in body and mind -- but this version of Javi was a stud. His skin was naturally tanner than some, but it was even more bronzed by the sun from his time down in Colombia. A man with strong looking hands that wrapped the circumference of the tumbler glass filled with neat whiskey meanwhile yours could only manage to get around halfway. You were extremely annoyed at how he could pull off a damn mustache without looking like a creep. Finding that you were spending far too much time thinking about Javier Peña rather than getting your ass ready for bed, you set off on your nightly routine.
Pushing yourself up and out of the desk chair was more tiresome than you would have liked to admit, but not impossible. You then opened the door that led into your bedroom. It still felt a bit weird to call it your bedroom after all this time.
You had redecorated the place to your tastes. The main bedroom now had a beautiful four post bed with pleated gossamer drapes around the posts. The warm wood bureau and doors matched the deep trim of the window sills and frames throughout the house. You removed your everyday jewelry and placed them in the little wooden dishes you had bought in Colombia the last time you visited. You had just turned twenty two then, and didn’t care to remember how old you were now. Admiring the fine artistry of the delicately carved lines and lacquered scenery of a village always brought back fine memories, summers spent in a home away from home. Peeling off your work clothes proved a bit more challenging now that your muscles and bones had started to stiffen from the wear of the workday. You walked into your bathroom as naked as the day you were born, a small perk of having moved into the main bedroom since it had an ensuite bathroom.
After the long day, a shower just didn’t seem like it was going to cut it. You pivoted to the left and began to draw a steaming hot bath. A few drops of essential oil were splashed into the piping hot water. Your abuelita did always say, “Medicina cuando la necesita, pero los remedios naturales siempre son los mejores.”
Medicine when you need it, but natural remedies are always best.
Once the tub was filled as high as it could go and still accommodate your body, the taps were shut off, and you slipped into the warm bliss. The water worked its magic while you turned on a small radio that sat on the windowsill. It was tuned in to some station based in Mexico that always played mĂșsica rancheras. You were a self-proclaimed “old soul” and loved your parents' generational music. It was a not-so-guilty-pleasure for you. Even when you were younger, some of the other kids made fun of you for not liking the more modern music. But your mom always reassured you it was because you were un romĂĄntico. A romantic.
The soulful melodies and elegant guitar echoed through the steam from the bath as your aches and pains were softly pulled from your bones. The sky outside the window was a dusty pink muddled with orange. The heat from the bath was wonderful. Your mind wandered ever farther as you sunk deeper into relaxation. Tonight was one of those evenings you imagined someone else in the tub with you, it was one of the reasons you’d thrown in a couple extra bucks when you redid the bathroom. You imagined leaning against their chest, them running their hands up and down the inner part of your thighs, getting closer and closer to where you wanted their touch the most.
Big and strong hands. Ones that weren’t afraid to leave an imprint, a reminder of their presence. Your cheeks flushed at the thought of them gently pressing and squeezing into your thighs, chest, and hips. The fantasy completed itself when you put a face to this mystery man.
Warm brown eyes, a well-defined jaw, somewhat pouty lips that practically begged you to kiss them with a fucking mustache of all things. You imagined the sound of his voice right next to your ear, whispering dirty things while he continued to paw at your body with confidence. The fresh recall of your most recent conversation made the day dream seem all the more real. It was intimate, enticing. You hadn't had any real boyfriend in a while and with the luscious way the water lapped over your skin, you couldn’t help but squeeze your thighs together unconsciously as his conjured words echoed in your mind.
You feel so soft, Armorsita. Do you like when I touch you here, baby? Oh, you do. I can tell. Mi dama. Tell me. Tell me how much you like it, how much you love being mine. Let me have you, all of you. Let me show you just how much I love touching you right

Your mind snapped back when your head slipped from its perch on the back of the tub. The room felt steamier than it had before even as the water temperature had dipped to lukewarm.
Was I really just fantasizing about Javier Peña of all people?
It was official then. You needed to get into bed and sleep off whatever delusions these were and come back to reality.
Fully washed and dried, you finished your routine by lathering yourself in your favorite lavender body lotion. Your body felt much better without the thin layer of Texas dust smothering your skin. Something different, however, clouded your mind, or rather, someone. It was a bit alarming how easily Javier permeated your idle thoughts. The encounter suddenly became very clear.
Why did you say goodnight as sultry as you did? Was that even sultry? Why do I keep thinking about it being “sultry”?
Your mind recalled the brief moment your lips touched his cheek. It wasn’t unlike any other time you kissed a friend goodbye. You’d been doing it forever. It was how you said goodbye. You knew that, and so did he. So why did it carve out its own special place in your mind? Why were the sensations so clear and vidid? Why did you so badly want to do it again and again without pause?
Of course your mind would fixate on the person who had just recently come back into your life. It was only natural. Humans are designed to notice differences. It’s a survival technique. To pay attention to possible threats. And you had yet to make up your mind if you considered this version of Javier Peña a friend or foe.
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Taglist: @hnt-escape @betti-book @mcueveryday @athalien
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taetaemilktea · 4 years ago
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Criminal Cuddles
Summary: It’s no secret that Taehyung is huge on physical affection and that Yoongi... well... just isn’t. But when Yoongi catches a cold and wants hugs and cuddles in the midst of his fever-ridden loneliness, Taehyung is happy to oblige—if only Namjoon wasn’t such a responsible leader.
Sickie: Yoongi
Caretaker: Taehyung, mild Namjoon and Seokjin
Word count: 1,996
Author’s Note: If you know me, you know I love contagion haha! You can expect a part 2 with sickie Taehyung in the future! Fic inspiration from @foreheadfeels. Thank you for reading!!
~~~
Slowly. Slowly. Sloooooowly. He was almost there. Two tiny tiptoes and Taehyung had reached the closed door to Yoongi and Seokjin’s room unnoticed. Smiling to himself, Taehyung quietly turned the door handle with utmost care to make as little noise as possible. He had the door knob turned all of the way and was about to quietly push the door open when he heard a stern, deep voice call out his name.
“Taehyung-ah.”
Shit.
Taehyung turned around to find Namjoon shaking his head, arms folded across his chest. He knew he was in for a lecture.
Yoongi had come down with a terrible cold a few days earlier that honestly resembled more of a flu given the fever that he had developed a few days into the illness. Hobi had caught him stifling messy, miserable sneezes into his sweatshirt sleeves, waking up later than his usual 7:00am for coffee, and had alerted the other members.
Seokjin had shoo-ed Yoongi into their shared bedroom, immediately giving him medicine and tissues in hopes that the cold wouldn’t worsen. His hopes had obviously been crushed. Yoongi had a fever, chills, and a horrible cough the next morning.
Immediately upon hearing that Yoongi was sick, Taehyung flung himself towards Yoongi’s room and aimed to get inside. Taehyung was Yoongi’s safe space when sick. Yoongi loved Hoseok more than words could explain and would call him his closest friend, but Hobi’s germaphobe tendencies meant that he was unavailable for sick cuddles. Taehyung, on the other hand, loved cuddles. He slept with a pillow in his arms and latched on to the members any chance he got.
Yoongi was known for always giving into whatever Taehyung wanted—playing extra rounds of games with him, handing over halves of his beloved tangerines when Taehyung asked for some. Yet, never one for physical affection, Yoongi would whine and push away when Taehyung tried to hug him. He just wasn’t big on physical affection.
When he was sick, however, he pulled a full 180 degrees. He would crave hugs and to be held, which is all Taehyung could ever hope to give his hyung. The caveat was that Namjoon was too responsible, noting that every time he let Taehyung in, Tae would exit Yoongi’s room the next day with the same budding cold. Namjoon became conditioned to keep a watchful eye on Taehyung whenever Yoongi, or any of the members for that matter, got sick. Speak of the devil—
“You’re not supposed to be going in there. Yoongi-hyung is sick and he needs to rest,” Namjoon frowned. Taehyung returned the frown with a pout.
“Aish, Namjoonie-hyung! Yoongi-hyung needs me!”
“He needs to take medicine and to sleep. I know you want to be with him but you can see him in a few days when he’s feeling better. I can’t have you going in there anymore, otherwise you’ll catch his cold.”
“But you and Seokjinnie-hyung go in there all of the time. Why can’t I go in too?”
“Seokjin and I give him medicine. And we refill his water and take his temperature to make sure that his fever isn’t too high, Tae.”
“I do that too,” Taehyung retorted, a bit offended that he too wasn’t considered a caretaker of the group. Namjoon couldn’t help but chuckle, uncrossing his arms to instead face palm.
“I mean, sure Taehyung-ah, you’re very helpful. But after you’re done with all of that, you always crawl into his bed, snuggle up close, and practically help him hold tissues to his nose. That’s literally how you catch his colds all the time. Besides, you have to record with the rest of the vocal line later this week and I can’t have you getting sick.”
Taehyung frowned. He knew Namjoon was right. Sometimes he wished his leader wasn’t so good at, well, being a leader. There had been countless times when he, always prone to catching colds, would have to postpone their vocal recordings because he was too congested or had a fever too high to go into the recording studio. He always felt guilty about it, but he equally felt guilty about being unable to cuddle Yoongi to make him feel better.
Namjoon sensed the younger man’s sadness and walked closer to him, slinging an arm around his shoulder and walking him away from Yoongi’s door.
“You can see him real soon, Tae-ah. You just have to wait a little while longer. How about we go pick up some lunch? Are you hungry?”
Taehyung shook his head. All he wanted was to hold Yoongi, to make him feel loved.
~~~
Taehyung spent the rest of his afternoon moping. He tried to work on lyrics for his mixtape, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had played a few games with Jungkook, but was unenthusiastic and let Jungkook win (even though the Golden Maknae probably would’ve won anyway). Hoseok and Jimin seemed to notice his sad demeanor and aimed to cheer him up, but both knew it wasn’t worth the effort. They settled for giving him hugs and patting him on the back to reassure him.
~~~
Cup of tea and medicine in hand, Seokjin quietly pushed open his bedroom door to find Yoongi fast asleep in bed. His hair was simultaneously sticking up in different directions and sticking flat to his forehead as beads of sweat collected on his brow. Even in sleep, the poor man looked absolutely miserable.
Seokjin placed the tea and medicine on the bedside table, grabbing the thermometer from the bathroom cabinet and returning to Yoongi’s bedside. He gently shook him awake.
“Yoongi-ah? Yoongi-ah, it’s time to wake up.”
Yoongi rolled over with his eyes still closed and gave a moan of discomfort, eyebrows knit in confusion. One more gentle shake and Yoongi blearily opened his eyes, looking up at Seokjin.
“I’d say ‘good morning’ but it’s clearly evening now,” Seokjin smirked, motioning to the dark night sky just behind the window blinds. Yoongi merely peered up with a dazed, sickly look.
“Your fever doesn’t look any better,” Seokjin frowned, sitting on the bed and preparing the thermometer. Yoongi seemed to think for a second.
“I don’t feel good,” Yoongi rasped through his sore and aching throat.
“No kidding,” Seokjin chuckled, popping the thermometer into Yoongi’s mouth. They sat in silence until it beeped and Seokjin took it out. He frowned at the number. No wonder Yoongi seemed so delirious. He helped Yoongi to sit up and handed him the tea and medicine. The younger took it wordlessly, sighing as the warm liquid eased down his throat. He let out a few hoarse coughs before plopping back against the pillows and letting out a low moan, followed by a set of sneezes into the crook of his elbow.
“hH! hH’ESHHh!! hH’RSHh!! hH’ESHH’hiuhh!!”
Seokjin winced, internally praising himself for remembering to put on a mask before coming into the room.
“What else can I get you? Water? Do you have a headache? I can get you pain relievers?” Seokjin asked, handing Yoongi a tissue from the box on the bedside table.
“I’m okay. Thank you hyung.” Yoongi paused and seemed to think for a moment. “Is Taehyungie here?” He looked up at Seokjin with sad, fever-muddled eyes. Seokjin’s heart broke. He knew how much Yoongi loved to have Taehyung to keep him company while sick.
Before Seokjin even had a chance to respond, Taehyung peeked his head around from behind the open bedroom door where he had, no doubt, been listening in.
“Yoongi-hyung, I’m here. Please let me in, Seokjinnie-hyung,” he pleaded, looking worriedly at Yoongi. Seokjin sighed. He was easily persuaded. Unlike Namjoon, Seokjin wasn’t a leader of a world famous band. He was an eldest brother. The responsible hyung in him told him the keep Taehyung out, but the soft and caring hyung argued to let him in. He looked down at Yoongi, whose face dampened with disappointment. It only broke Seokjin further.
“Aish, Yoongi-ah. You’re not making this very easy for me,” he chuckled. He gave a sigh, followed by a long pause. “Fine. Come in, Taehyungie.”
Taehyung’s pout widened into his famous boxy smile as Yoongi met him with his signature gummy smile. Seokjin couldn’t help but laugh.
“You two are ridiculous. Namjoon is going to have my ass for this.”
In his fever delirium, Yoongi murmured, “That’s why you’re the best hyung.”
“I’m your only hyung,” Seokjin laughed, picking up the empty tea cup and swiftly leaving the room so Taehyung and Yoongi wouldn’t see his ears blush bright red at the complement.
“Come sit, Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi grinned and patted the bed. Taehyung walked over and, instead, pulled back the covers, climbing into bed and immediately snuggling close to Yoongi’s side. Yoongi hummed a laugh but it rapidly turned into a fit of hoarse coughs that he aimed away from Taehyung. He took a sip of water before resting his head against Taehyung’s chest.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Yoongi admitted once the coughing died down. While oftentimes very independent, Yoongi had been starting to feel lonely from being isolated in his room for so long.
“Me too. I’m definitely going to get in trouble for this, but it’s worth it.”
Yoongi smiled. “Namjoon won’t be mad for long, you know him,” Yoongi referenced their responsible, yet kindhearted leader.
“I know, but I have to record this week. I can’t let the vocal line down. Who knows, maybe I won’t get sick?”
Yoongi shook his head. “You will. You always do,” he gave a tired sigh and closed his eyes.
“I can’t help it,” Taehyung pouted. Yoongi murmured a hum in response. Taehyung’s familiar Daegu accent made him feel at ease and he could feel himself being pulled closer and closer towards sleep as Taehyung rubbed his wide palms and long fingers gently up and down his back.
Taehyung noticed that the warm fever was draining Yoongi’s already limited energy supply. He turned the lamp off and wrapped his arms around Yoongi, throwing a leg over his small waist. Humming “Winter Bear” out of habit, Taehyung’s deep and calming voice put Yoongi to sleep before Taehyung had even had a chance to whisper “Good night, hyung.”
~~~
Namjoon happily walked into the dorm carrying a bag full of Taehyung’s favorite treats and cough drops for Yoongi in his hand. He had felt a bit guilty about being stern with Taehyung earlier. He knew that Taehyung understood his orders, but couldn’t help feeling bad at seeing him with such a sad demeanor all day. He hoped the snacks would cheer him up—he knew how much Taehyung loved his strawberry yogurt!
Upon walking into the kitchen, Namjoon found Seokjin, Hoseok, Jungkook, and Jimin happily eating dinner together.
“Hey!” Namjoon greeted with a smile. “Save me some food please. I’m just going to go bring these to Tae real quick. Is he in his room?”
The four members seated at the table glanced anxiously at each other, each avoiding eye contact with their leader. Seokjin took a suspiciously long sip of water.
“Really, Jin?” Namjoon sighed in realization.
Seokjin just blushed.
Namjoon made his way to Yoongi’s room and quietly pushed the door open. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight he saw.
Yoongi was curled into a ball with his head laid on Taehyung’s chest. His nose was bright red and his cheeks were flushed a bright pink. He sniffled softly and curled closer into Taehyung, who had his face smushed into the pillow with his arms around Yoongi’s small frame. Namjoon had to admit, it was quite hard to be mad at such a sight. While the leader in him knew the following week would need to be adjusted if Taehyung got sick, he felt it was worth it to see that Yoongi, who had seemed in deep misery and discomfort each time Namjoon had walked into the room that week, slept peacefully with a hint of a soft and happy grin etched into his face.
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welllpthisishappening · 5 years ago
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falling feels like flying ['til the bone crush]
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Someone should revoke her title. 
They’re trying, Emma supposes. Inevitable death probably means people can’t call her savior anymore, but they shouldn’t call her that now and that’s almost entirely because of what an absolute and complete liar she is. Telling Killian she would have done the same after he admitted he didn’t get rid of the shears isn’t her most massive lie, although it might be her most ridiculous. And they both know it’s not true. She wouldn’t do the same thing, she has. More than once. 
AN: That gif has nothing to do with the story! Here is approximately 3.5K where I once again force Emma and Killian to acknowledge their trauma. Not in the Underworld this time, though! So maybe we’re all evolving here. I blame this gif set, which I saw this morning and felt compelled to write something about. Maybe that evolution is also a lie, actually. 
———
“I lied.” Killian hums, exhaustion clinging to the sound, and Emma understands that. Less so why she’s talking right now, but neither one of those words seemed particularly interested in preserving the quiet calm of this particular moment, and she’s never been a lightweight quite like this. In more ways than one, she supposes. Hazy thoughts drift through her brain, muddled as it is by buttered rum and the steady flicker of flames in the fireplace because naturally this is the sort of house that has multiple fireplaces, and she burrows her face closer. 
To Killian’s chest. 
Takes a deep breath, not quite slow, but maybe a little greedy, and they ordered both things. Pizza and Chinese, half-finished egg rolls and beheaded slices of cheese with extra peppers strewn across the coffee table because Emma always likes that extra bit of crust and Killian’s nothing if not a frustratingly endearing sort of pushover. 
With her, especially. 
She closes her eyes. 
“I lied,” Emma repeats, “in the hospital, I mean. Wrong verb tense.” “You’re not making any sense at all, darling.”
Her nose must be cold — if the way Killian tenses as soon as it brushes his skin is any indication, but Emma knows it’s far more than that and far deeper than that and she might be the world’s biggest idiot. Looming death does that to a person, she supposes. 
Breathing isn’t particularly easy. And that’s not only because she ate four pizza slices worth of crust. Still, using death as an excuse again seems like an emotional crutch and an unreasonable reason, her muddled mind capable of clinging to every single letter in that particular endearment. It might be her favorite. 
She’s not sure she’s ever told him that. 
Stupid, really. 
“I told you that I get it; what you did today, and that part’s definitely true. But, uh, the rest of it. That I would have done the same thing? Total lie, right? I mean, I did it. That’s what happened.” Nothing. Just flickering flames and the quiet hum of a TV, neither one of them has been interested in actually watching all night. Emma doesn’t even know what channel they’re on. For all she knows, the remote’s in the kitchen. 
She counts inhales. Tries to keep her exhales measured, most of her face still pressed into the collar of Killian’s shirt as it is. And it takes about five full seconds before his hand moves, starts tracing a calm line up her spine, following that path until he reaches the base of her neck and the goosebumps that have already exploded on her skin and oxygen is overrated anyway. Holding her breath as soon as his fingers card through the ends of hair is basically instinct at this point. 
“Felt wrong to point that out at the time,” he mutters, “all things considered.” “Been kind of a long day.” “Reuniting with long-lost relatives will do that.” Scoffing is not the best reaction. Nothing about this is funny. Includes far too much death and dismay, and Emma’s gaze flickers up. Of its own accord and something much deeper, like the absolute refusal to accept a world where he does not exist. 
Goddamn Captain Hook. 
She loves him so much sometimes she thinks she’ll simply burst with the force of it all. 
It’s a gross thought, honestly. 
And they’ve already spent far too much time in the hospital today.
“Is he ok? Li—” Cutting herself off, Emma grits her teeth, but one side of Killian’s mouth is already tugging up, and the kiss that lands on her forehead is as soft as anything. Maybe bursting isn’t so bad, actually. So long as she can come up with another word for it. “God, that’s so weird.” Killian hums. “Indeed.” “Thoughts, feelings, et cetera?” “Vast. And none of them particularly pleasant.” “Seems fair. That sort of day, huh?” “Indeed.” They need more blankets. Need more things that are theirs in a collective sort of way, but that’s a dangerous and disingenuous train of thought, and Emma’s fingers twitch towards the fire. To ward off the sudden chill that’s settled between her shoulder blades, and it almost works, but it does absolutely nothing to help the sway of her stomach and the acid lingering in the back of her throat, threatening to burn far more than what these meager flames are able to do. 
“Should have finished high school,” Emma mumbles, “then I could choose more accurate verb tenses from my inevitably vast vocabulary. Did. Have done. Would do again, several thousand times over.”
“That’s the future tense.” None of his words come with any kind of pointed emotion, but Emma hears it all the same. Can see the tightness that lingers in the corners of his mouth and the way he’s holding his shoulders, straight as a line, and some joke about rigging that she no intention of making, and the furrow between his brows makes every muscle in her chest twist. Ache too, for good measure. 
With the promise of everything she wants to say and everything she hasn’t or can’t and—
Fuck magic, quite honestly. And the rules no one’s bothered to mention until now. Seems like poor planning on everybody’s part. 
“You heard me.” “I did,” Killian agrees lightly, and his hand has never actually stopped moving. It’s nice. Steady. Something Emma can almost nearly time her breathing too. “I would also choose that particular tense. If given the choice, that is.” “Do you not think you have that?” “I don’t particularly enjoy the thought. I’m rather partial to the option of whim, you see. Pirate and all that. We don’t much abide by schedules and fated decision.” “Seems like it’d be in the by-laws.” “Well, by-laws by their very nature are rather contradictory to the entire pirate notion, but you’ve got the gist of it at least.” Emma laughs. Doesn’t quite regret the sound, even as out of place as it is — just presses it into the edge of Killian’s shirt and the buttons he never bothers to do, trying to brandh the smell of him and the feel of him into every corner of her memory and she’s not really sure what happens after. Once the prophecy is fulfilled, and all that. 
She’s got too much unfinished business. 
To totally leave this particular plane of reality. 
She doesn’t mention that either. Not when the crux of that business is breathing steadily under her hand, and Emma can’t remember when she moved her hand, only that Killian’s warm under her touch, and he’s always so much warmer. Than just about anything else she’s aware of. 
“I thought you were dead.”
Of all the things Emma expects to happen in the midst of this night and this moment — and it’s really not a very long list, admittedly — that did not even make the cut. Wasn’t a consideration or a fledgling idea in the back of her mind, several different vertebrae almost audibly objecting when she jerks her head up. To find Killian staring straight ahead, lips not much more than a thin line across his face. 
Seriously, the rigging jokes almost write themselves. Which is more than Emma can say about her clearly piece of shit list, as metaphorical as it might be. 
“I don’t—” “—When I saw you,” Killian interrupts, and none of the words shake. Come out like a stream of consciousness and memories neither one of them have able to shake yet. Or talk about. Can’t possibly be healthy. “Chained to that stone, blood dripping into my mouth, and then all of a sudden, there you were. Worried I’d simply dreamt you up, couldn’t imagine how you looked quite that lovely in that hell hole, otherwise.” “Oh, that’s kind of insulting, actually.” “Hair like the bloody sun.” “Better,” Emma murmurs. Reaching up, her fingers tangle with the charms around his neck. Pieces of luck and trinkets she hasn’t learned all the stories to yet. The idea that she won’t makes her nauseous. “You told me ‘you shouldn’t be here.’” “Aye, and I meant it.” “Because you thought
” “Living people don’t often appear in such a God awful place, do they? Not without something tragic happening, and my mind was impressively efficient on that front.” “Which one is that?” “Every threat that’s ever lingered, every person I would have gladly run through if it meant you were safe. Half of goddamn Camelot.” Emma might snicker. Killian’s arm tightens, though. And that’s all she’s really worried about. “I think I could have taken Arthur. Y’know if it had come to that.” “Likely not a very good swordsman,” Killian nods, but that’s only so his lips can trace Emma’s temple and the top of her hair. More than once. Like he’s still making sure. “Pampered prince—” “—He was totally a king, babe. That’s like...the most basic Camelot knowledge.” “Ask me in five minutes if I care at all about anything to do with Camelot.” “Should I time it, or
” He scoffs. Presses another half dozen kisses to any spot he can reach, and he can actually reach a fair amount of places. Emma’s impressed. Swooning too, but also pretty impressed. “I kept thinking about you,” Killian says, softer than the last few words have been, and it sounds like an admission and another promise, and it’s weird that it can be both. At the same time. “This house. What it was and wasn’t. All those possible verb tenses.”
“I’m sorry.” “Ah, that’s not your fault, love. None of this is, really, but—well, it did make it so seeing you, realizing you were there...left all of those thoughts crashing down around my ears, so to speak. Falling apart, like an avalanche of what hadn’t been and what I still wanted so desperately. No matter what Hades did.” “Stupid stubborn.” “I believe there’s something about a pot and a kettle in this realm.” “Don’t have that cliche in the Enchanted Forest, huh?” “Not that I’m aware of, no.” “Maybe you just didn’t go to a good college.” “Tell me every Greek word you know,” Killian challenges, and Emma rolls her eyes. Ignores the first few flutters of a headache brewing at the base of her skull. “It didn’t seem fair.” “Which part?” “All of it is also rather vast, but mostly that if you were there, then it happened again.” Narrowing her eyes, Emma tries to piece together those letters and the syllables they make, only to be marginally annoyed when she can’t make sense of them. Killian kisses the bridge of her nose. 
She might have to go get Tylenol soon. 
“Losing you without fighting, without challenge the goddamn reaper myself, was worse than anything He could have done,” Killian continues, and he doesn’t have to be more specific. “Worse than whatever pain I’ve ever suffered. Cut off twenty more limbs; it wouldn’t even come close.” “Do you have that many?” “Your humor lacks a little something; you know that, Swan?” “It’s a defense mechanism.” He noses at her hair. Drags the soft hum of what could very well be either an agreement or the opposite, or maybe even the sort of deep-rooted understanding that’s allowed him to sneak his way into the center of everything, across her skin. The specifics don’t matter, only that Emma’s magic roars under her skin, an inferno, and a symphony, meeting the challenge that no one has really laid down yet. 
“Do that again,” Killian mutters, a low chuckle as Emma’s scratches at his side. 
“I’m not sure I can, honestly.” “Pity.” “Something like that, yeah. And you’re not totally right, you know?” “Ah, and that’s almost rude.” “I’m serious,” Emma says, “that’s—none of that was your fault either.” Tilting his head only ensures that several strands of hair he still hasn’t bothered to cut fall almost artfully across his forehead, and Emma is grateful to a variety of gods, Greek or otherwise, that Killian doesn’t mention how much her hand shakes. When she tries to brushes them away. His hook finds her wrist instead, cool metal against freezing cold skin, and the state of her tongue is going to be a problem. Large as it is in Emma’s mouth, making it all but impossible to properly swallow while Killian’s lips sweep the bend of her knuckles. 
“Charmer.” “Aye, that’s my endgame.” There’s not enough room between them for him to run his hand across his face like Emma knows he wants to, and part of that isn’t really a bad thing, but the rest just seems like another entirely unfair thing, and Emma knows the rest is coming. Makes tears burn her eyes all the same. “They were just...gone, you understand? No chance to do anything about it. One moment they were living and breathing. Then Liam was dead. Slumped in my arms in the corner of a cabin he was supposed to spend the rest of his career in. He—he would have been a very good captain.” “So are you,” Emma says, fierce and determined, and Killian kisses in the inside of her palm. She’s moved her hand again. To cup his cheek. 
“For a time, maybe. But then she was gone too, and I thought I could feel it, you know. The exact way her heart crumbled in his hand, tiny bits of dust that I never wanted to blow off the deck. Like some of her still managed to stay. Is that—” The muscles in his throat move, jaw clenching, and Emma has to blink. She hopes the moisture on her cheeks isn’t tears. She’s not sure what’s a better option, really. “Must sound daft.” “No. I—I get that too.” “Do you?” “Not the only one who’s watched Rumplestilskin hold the heart of someone you loved.”
He can’t be holding his breath. His chest is moving much too quickly, but the burst of air that all but flies out of Killian is enough to ruffle the ends of Emma’s hair and possibly even dry some of the tears she’s still refusing to acknowledge, and she can’t get closer to him. 
She makes an admirable effort all the same. 
Like occupying the same few inches of space will ensure that she stays there. 
“Did you—” Killian starts, looking almost pained as the words war for his voice on the tip of his tongue. “Did you like her?” That didn’t make the list, either. It’s entirely possible that Emma is just garbage at making lists. She nods. “Anyone who loves you as much as I do is fine with me. Better than, even.”
His expression shifts again. Light lingers in his gaze, cautious hope, and misplaced optimism, gears whirring in his head that Emma can’t almost convince herself she hears. Her verb tense was on purpose that time. 
That’s a confidence boost, all things considered.
“She was something fierce,” Killian says, sounding reminiscent and not as sad as Emma has worried he must be. “Once she got away from him. Could get a grown man to do her bidding with a single look, the kind of glare that’d set you on fire from the inside out. It was—they loved her too. Men on the ship, would have followed her to the ends of the Earth if she’d asked. Probably even if she hadn’t.” 
His next inhale becomes an exhale almost immediately.
“She never would have asked,” Killian adds, almost entirely to himself, but then his eyes are back on Emma, and they’re a little glossy and just as blue and she’s holding her breath now. “She liked you too, I know it.” “I think she thought I was crazy, actually. Gold didn’t really have much tact in the...introductions.” “Ah.” “Right?” “Right,” he echoes, a pale imitation of her voice that makes Emma’s cheeks ache. From smiling. Legitimately smiling. Huh. “But I suppose that’s part of it, though. She was there again, and I—” “—I’m sorry. For...for all of it.” “Still not your fault, love.”
“How did you know?” she asks, and her voice doesn’t sound much like her either. Wobbles and warbles and some other word that fits the alliteration. “About me. And not being
”
“Dead?” Killian’s eyebrows jump. “Strawberries.” “Excuse me?” “That soap you use in your hair. Smells like strawberries, or strawberry adjacent maybe. Manufactured just a bit. I think it’s my favorite smell in the world.” “Backhanded compliment.” “No, no,” Killian shakes his head. His hair moves again. “It’s not. It’s—well, it’s you, love. Smells like everything that you are and—”
“—I’m manufactured?” “If you let me finish,” he chides, and Emma all but yanks her lips behind her teeth, “It smells like home. Smells like falling asleep next to you and a distinct lack of blankets.” He nips at the tip of her nose. She scoffs again; that’s why. “And your distractingly cold feet, and leather jackets, and how the smell clings to the collars, no matter how long it’s been since you’ve worn them. Lingers on your pillow too, and the fronts of my shirt. You fall asleep against me quite often, you know that.” “Can sleep anywhere,” Emma reasons. “Might be my greatest talent.” “I don’t know about that.” “If I call you charmer again, will you hold it against me for lack of synonyms?” “Tell me how charming I am again.” Emma scrunches her nose. “Now it sounds like my dad.” “Let’s leave the prince out of this. He’s only a prince, aye?” “Far as I know, yeah.” “Good, good. Strawberries, love. Touching you helped too, though. If we’re being frank.” “Anything except blunt force honesty seems silly now, doesn’t it?” Killian nods. Slow and measured, like anything else will snap this tenuous peace, and maybe they can just sleep on the couch. Getting up is an impossible prospect right now. Maybe they can make out a little before they fall asleep. 
“It’s a very big house,” Emma whispers, and they should really figure out a schedule for conversations like this. Talking about it all at once is exhausting. 
“It is.” “You don’t want to expand upon that?” “Oh, I want a great number of things I shouldn’t,” Killian admits, “but as much as I appreciate this fresh round of honesty we’re engaging in, the false hope would—” “—There’s no such thing,” Emma interrupts. “False hope. It’s an oxymoron, ask my mother. And I think you should get some sort of crew again.” “How would you suggest I populate such a thing?” She shrugs. Nearly hits Killian in the chin in the process. “Untold stories. Dwarves.” “I will not have dwarves on my ship.” “See, I knew you’d have opinions. And there was a possessive pronoun in there that time.” “Was there not before?” “No,” she says. “Just called it the ship. Like it’s not the most important thing you have.” “Well, it’s not.” Emma’s cheeks warm. “That was very smooth.” “Someone did guarantee I was a very good captain earlier.” Space continues to be relatively minimal between them, but Killian’s nothing if not adaptable, and he works with what he’s got. Swinging Emma’s legs perpendicular over his, she’s nearly sitting on his lap, an arm slung over his shoulders, which makes it even easier to get her fingers into his hair and his head to rest against hers, and he takes another deep breath. “I know you understand, Emma,” he says, soft and serious, and she doesn’t bother doing anything except cling to him. With everything she’s got left. “All of it, from the very start. So I don’t think I’ll apologize, actually. For what I’ve done, or what I’d still be willing to do. I won’t give up on you, do you understand me?” “Didn’t,” Emma says, only a little optimistic that’s the right verb tense. Maybe she can get her GED, or something. Before all of this ends. “In Camelot, or after. Accept or acknowledge, and I probably would have—” 
Announcing that killing Gold for what he’d done to Killian regularly crossed her mind in the twenty-four hours or so before they finally made it to the Underworld doesn’t really have the right sentiment for this conversation. Far too violent, and just as honest. 
She’d consider killing him now, too. 
For everything he’s doing, and everything he hasn’t, and she should have shoved him in that river. 
Killian doesn’t smile. At least not in a way that reaches his eyes, the same ones that are looking at Emma again, all blue and earnest, and his shoulders shift. When her fingers graze his chin, more than stubble there because, she imagines, spending a day or so underwater with a sibling he only sort of wants and kind of knows doesn’t leave much time for facial-type grooming. 
It’s a good look, though. 
Most of them are, in Emma’s experience. 
“This entire time,” she continues, “you haven’t given up on me yet.” “Works both ways, darling.” “That one crosses realms, huh?” “Pick up things spending so much time with you.” There’s nothing extra in the words. No sap-filled sentiment or promises she’s only a little hopeful will become actions. And they haven’t talked about the rest; might not even have time, but Emma will let herself think about all these empty rooms anyway, of the exact shade Killian’s eyes go when he stands at the helm, and she hopes he doesn’t cut his hair. Not yet, at least. Longer strands make it easier to touch him, to leave a lasting mark, and settle into his center the same way he’s taken root in hers. 
They fall asleep on the couch. 
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floatinginwords · 4 years ago
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Saved by the Devil (10/?) - Tommy Shelby
Summary: You spend a little time with Tommy (Again sorry about my summaries i suck at them)
Paring: Tommy Shelby x Fem!reader (not romantic..but we are getting there slowly but surely) 
A/n: Hi everyone. this chapter maybe a bit shorter than what i usually write and i didnt proof read this one so apologizes for that. This semester is just annoying. Too much going on for stupid online courses. Anyway this chapter is bit more in Tommys p.o.v, i mean we get a bit of readers in the end but yea...if you dont like that tell me or if you do tell me. If you guys have any questions or anything like that just tell me. And of course and always have a lovely day. 
Thomas Shelby leads you to a little apartment near his office. He knew he could have driven you to the train station, given you some fare as you went on your way. He could have driven you to London. Hell, he could have paid someone to do it. But there was part of him deep down within that didn’t want you to go yet. It was a surprise for him to see you in the office. He hadn’t been avoiding you, things were just getting hectic around with the business. And with the constant pressure from the inspector and the sudden charges on Arthur and Michael, his focus needed to be sharp. And then he exits his office and see you standing with Lizzie, Polly, and Esme. For the first since he’s known you, he actually detected a little bit of nervousness from you.
At first he didn’t understand why you wanted to help in his little plan. It didn’t make sense for you to put yourself in harms way with all the shit you’ve already been through. He notices that when he asks about your father the way you tense up. He doesn’t know why he asks, its something he rather not talk about either. But it was a question that bothered him for awhile. He could of asked your father, in that last meeting when

Thomas shakes his head from his thoughts turning to look at you who seemed just as dazed and muddled in their own thoughts. You were definitely an enigma to him. He doesn’t even remember what he said to make you laugh. All he remembers is that he did.
To him you laugh was like a canary singing a song of hope in the middle of brutal winter. Thomas doesn’t think he ever heard a sound so sweet. He feels his lips stretch into a smile, something that felt foreign on his face. It was definitely something he hadn’t done in awhile. So as he walks you to his place, keeping a gentle hand on your elbow to keep your balance. He couldn’t help but to think to himself ‘how can I hear that sound again?’
So he leads you in the apartment, setting you down on his couch. You flop down like a child and he cant help but be amused at your drunken state.
 “Mr.Shelby, I believe I drank too much.” You hiccup.
 “Thats alright,” Thomas says, “Listen you can rest here and we’ll talk more in the morning.” He doesn’t really want to end the night yet but he can see the fatigue in your face.
 You shake you head at him, “We can talk now. I don’t sleep very much.” You don’t look into his eyes as you speak which he finds odd. A detail he’s always noticed was the eye contact you gave. He couldn’t tell what you were searching but he appreciated it, not many people could look him in the eye.
Hes suddenly reminded of a conversation you had awhile ago. When you had bluntly asked him your father was dead. He had expected you to say nothing for that entire ride. But you didn’t. He remembers your question.
“Do your nightmares ever stay with you longer that you would like?”
He had answered honestly. The nightmares often lingered around him for days sometimes weeks. It wasn’t often he got a good nights sleep. He could see the sleep in your eyes wanting to take over. You were fighting it though quite easily like you’ve done it before.  He didn’t want to be overstepping any line and he also didn’t want to seem creepy remembering a conversation, a small detail from weeks ago. He wasn’t sure at all how you’d react to it. So he decided to say nothing, wait for you to take the lead. Which you did, mostly because your mouth seemed to have a mind of its own sometimes.
 “You get nightmares too Mr. Shelby, I remember you agreeing with me this one time
”You trail off slurring your word, “Sometimes they can be so much
”
 “What do you dream about?” He asks.
 You don’t answer. Thomas doesn’t pressure you for answer, you look to be searching for one. Your mouth open and eyes wandering around the room. But you give no answer.
 Thomas decides to speak, lighting a cigarette as he does, “I dream about France sometimes.” The answer surprise him. Hes not one for opening up.
 You don’t say anything so he continues, “I can hear the shovels at night. That’s when their the loudest.” He blows the smoke as he talks.
“I sometimes dream of the hospital
they didn’t exactly treat me great there. Sometimes its my father
” You say the word ‘father’ quietly as if it was like a little curse falling off your lips.
 Thomas wants to ask you what that man had done to you, why it seemed you feared and hated him so much. He wished he asked you in that first meeting with you. When he promised to kill him for you
..he knew then it was something you wanted, he didn’t know how badly
maybe if he had known he would have done things differently.
 “Sometime he’s not even doing anything
he’s just watching me. And smiling,” You say pulling him away from his thoughts, “It takes a moment for me to realize he’s not there. He’s not watching.” You stop talking suddenly, certainly not meaning to get that honest.
 Thomas clenches his jaw, “well it’s a good thing hes not around anymore.”
 You look up at him for the first time the whole night, meeting his eyes. Your stare sends shivers up his arms.
 “Right
” you trail off, looking uncertain. “Mr Shelby I-“
 “You know,” He cuts you off wanting to change the subject, “I don’t think this is very business like.”
“Excuse me.” You blink confused with the sudden statement.
 “I mean you won’t’ call me by my name because this is business but here you are at my place, drunk, talking to me about stuff that not business.”
 You scoff at him. “Are you really that bothered by it?” you tease
 “I just think in settings like this, you can let go a little bit.”
 “I think you should get used to disappointment, Mr.Shelby.” You emphasize his name a bit.
 “You must admit that we aren’t doing anything related to business.”
 “Then what would you call it?” You challenge.
 And he didn’t know what to call it. But he just felt more. Maybe it was friendship. He definitely enjoyed your company. He wasn’t afraid to admit that to himself. Hes reminded of the feelings of when you got hurt at the horse auction and went missing those three days. He didn’t want to admit that there was apart of him that cared for you. That part has been locked away ever since Grace. He had trusted her and loved her. And then she betrayed him. And there was just a part of him that just didn’t want to go through that again.
“Are you okay,” you ask, “you went quiet for a minute.”
 “ Yea just thinking.”
 “Do you wanna keep talking?” you say shyly.
 And he couldn’t say no to you. That night the two of you spend you time just talking. It’s the first time Tommy’s ever done something like that. Take a woman home and not bed her. He wasn’t thinking about doing that with you but it had dawned on him later that small fact. You listened to his stories about his family. You were an only child and had no stories nearly s fun as his. You tell him you wish you grew up in a big family. You list all the places you wanted to travel to and he watches you ramble about them. The two of you laugh and smile. Both feeling lighter in each others presence. He can see you loosening up a bit and he just wonders what your like when you aren’t fully on guard. He can fee himself doing the same. He doesn’t mind but he knews that hes going to berate himself later. Hours pass and You both fall asleep on the couch, neither of you remembering what the other was talking about as you do. It was the first time in a long time that either of you had fallen asleep peacefully.
 You wake up first, feeling an awful pudding within your head. Why was it that you never could know your limit. You attempt to get up when you sense an arm around you. A unwelcomed flutter of butterflies erupt in your stomach as you realize who the arm belongs to.
 ‘Fuck’ you think to yourself trying to untangle yourself from his arm, trying to understand how you even got roped up in him.
 Successfully you manage to unwrap your self from him, the warmth of his body leaving your side making you feel cold. You’re tempted to roll back but think against it. You stretch up from the couch and walk around the apartment quietly. It wasn’t very big. The living room connected to the kitchen. And his room connected to the bathroom. You wonder around trying to wake your creaky bones. You see a bundle of letters on his, dresser with very neat and lovely writing, addressed to him. You see a pipe beside his bed and pick it up wondering if he used this on himself last night. You walk backwards trying to take it all in. He didnt have much. A few pictures of him and his siblings. And that woman from before. The older one who gave you chills with her stare. Pol-polly you think her name was. You continue walking backward before bumping into his dresser. The letters falling down. You bend down picking them up not without looking more closely at the beautiful stationary. You see at corner of the envelope
From Grace
 For a minute  you’re really disappointed. And you don’t know why. And then the pieces fall together. When you remember Mr.shelbys horses name, “Graces secret,” And when Ada told you ‘he had someone last year.” You don’t know why you feel uncomfortable all of a sudden. You don’t feel right hanging around his apartment. Unless their not together? Wait why do you even care? You neatly stack the envelopes back to their place and calmly walk away, needing to distract yourself from the sudden intrusion of thoughts you would very much like to get rid of.
 You pass by Thomas sleeping body. You pause to look at him. Admiring the way his feature seem to soften up as he slept. You almost compare him to an angel. A knock on the door alerts you as you sit up straight. Thomas shoots up in a panic. He looks at you confused before getting up.
 “How long have you been up?” he asks you, heading for the door.
 You don’t answer. Watching him go to get the door. A small boy is behind the door, you cant hear what either of them say as they talk in hushed voices.
 “(y/n),,” he calls you over, “my brother finn here is gonna lead you to the garrison I have a meeting I have to attend to.” He says not leaving you any room to argue to deny his request as he grabs his jacket and locks the door before the two of you.
 “Ill be back soon, try not to run into trouble.” He says.
 You nod and go your separate ways, following the young boy through the streets of Birmingham.
Read pt.11
Tags
@babylooneytoonz @captivatedbycillianmurphy @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @evelyn-4034  @ms-dont-care @owenniasstars
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if-you-built-yourself-a-myth · 4 years ago
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Check Ignition: Part X
That Sobbe fake-dating Hogwarts au that one person asked for and I dove into headfirst.... ALL DONE! (besides any editing)
First part // Previous part
Thank you all for sticking with me here. I'm going to make some sweeping edits to this fic on AO3 sometime in the next months, so if you have suggestions, feel free to shoot me an ask. You can also request oneshots if you like :)
Robbe had whiplash. The phone call, the blurry note, the revelation, and now Sander. Sander at his front door. Sander looking into his apartment, at the world he’d done nothing but complain about and avoid while at school. Sander, who suffered like Robbe’s mother without Robbe ever knowing, and who listened to Robbe lament things that were not her fault.
He choked on his breath.
Sander had no problem continuing the conversation. “It wasn’t fake for me, okay? It never was. I need you to get that.”
“Do you want to come in?” said Robbe.
“Who’s at the door?” called his mother from the living room. Robbe bit back the part of him that wanted to hide her away.
Sander shook his head, and water flung from the ends of his hair. “I don’t need to come in. You just had to know that. So when you come back to school, we’ll talk.”
“We could talk, um, now.”
“I don’t want to ruin your Christmas,” said Sander. “Jens said you were free though, so I had to—”
The proximity was too much for Robbe, and maybe for Sander too, because Sander grabbed Robbe by both cheeks and pulled him in for a kiss. They should muddle through everything that just went down. They should clear a space in the living room to discuss everything that happened between them during the past few weeks, most of which was still a blur, even to Robbe. They should—
Robbe leaned deeper into the kiss. All that could wait. Kissing Sander felt like breathing air after being trapped underwater.
“Robbe, who’s at the door?” his mother called again.
They broke apart for a second, Robbe’s lips stinging. Sander looked at Robbe, blinked as if surprised, and went right back in for round two. Robbe barely mustered a breath to shout, “A friend,” before Sander’s mouth on his neck sent a shiver down his spine.
“This isn’t talking,” Robbe hissed into Sander’s shoulder.
“Shut up,” said Sander. The physical aspect of their relationship had always superseded communication.
Britt’s note poked out of Robbe’s pocket as they spun into Robbe’s mess of a room. Sander backed him up onto the bed, where Robbe fell back against a pile of clothing. Layers peeled off. They only separated for harmonious milliseconds, just enough time to get a breath or whisper a sentence that meant nothing outside of their bodies pressed together. If Robbe could do wordless magic, he imagined the whole apartment might have been vaporized in one firm wave of euphoria.
He was not unaware of his mother’s presence in their living room, and thus cast the muffiliato charm while Sander’s tongue danced over his teeth. The non-magical lock should hold. Any other noise would become nothing more than static in her ears.
His mother. Whom Sander thought he hated. They needed to talk about it.
Sander slid his hand across the bare skin of Robbe’s stomach.
Maybe they didn’t need to talk about it right now.
In no time, the early-morning sun cast golden rays through the binds on Robbe’s bedroom window. He woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in the sheets, and jumped again when he saw Sander’s body wrapped up beside him. Still here. Real. The sunlight made Sander’s face resemble an oil painting, glowing cheeks and serene eyes half-closed against the world. A line of drool cut a pathway down to Robbe’s pillow. Robbe disentangled himself from the bedclothes, pulled on a sweater, and tiptoed out of the room for breakfast. He knew he had some explaining to do.
Sure enough, his mother awaited him. She propped herself up against their kitchen counter, a mug of coffee clasped in her hands.
“Morning,” she said, blasĂ©.
“Morning,” said Robbe.
“I hope you used protection.”
Robbe blushed. “Mom.”
“Robbe,” she imitated. “You bring someone into my house, I don’t see her, and next thing I know she’s in your room. I’m not stupid.”
She. Her. Robbe swallowed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spring him on you. He was supposed to stay on campus.” He drummed his fingers on the countertop, waited for her to notice his pronoun use. Was it a casual way to come out to someone huge? Yes. Did he want to have a larger conversation about his sexuality when he only just understood it himself? Absolutely not.
His mother’s eyes widened. “If you mean to tell me you smuggled Jens in here—oh, his parents already hate me. I’ll have to make a call—”
“It’s not Jens,” said Robbe.
“I should hope not.” Her voice softened. “From the phone last night?”
This was a moment for honesty. Robbe started the coffeemaker and placed a mug of his own under the dispenser. He tried to recall anything awful he’d said about her during his time with Sander, anything that would make Sander think that their relationship couldn’t be real beyond the arrangement. He said, “Yes. I didn’t know he was coming.”
Four weeks. Four weeks had passed since he kissed Sander for the first time in the astronomy tower. So much had happened in that time. What if the whole thing was one long manic episode? No, that was stupid. There were symptoms to mania, and it would be wrong to assume Sander wasn’t completely stable. Lots of people were.
“What’s his name?” It seemed by now his mother had caught on. “You used protection, right?”
“His name is Sander,” said Robbe, “and nothing happened. Honestly.”
His mother waggled her eyebrows at him. He stared down at his bare feet, wondering when Sander would wake up.
The conversation lulled, so Robbe pretended to take a sip of his coffee, even though it was still too hot for his tongue. He supposed he should be thankful that the coming-out experience had not been as hard or as unpleasant as it could have been, but the lack of reaction felt incomplete, far too casual for the scenario in which it was presented.
“So,” said his mother. She looked behind Robbe into the hallway from whence he came, as if scared that Sander would be out of the bedroom at any minute. “That phone call
”
“He was in crisis,” Robbe offered.
“I might have heard my title mentioned once or twice.”
“It’s—” Robbe didn’t know what to tell her it was. He didn’t quite know himself.
Something in his mother’s eyes, though, told him that she did. “Listen,” she said, leaning toward him from her place on the counter. “I feel like there are a few things you and I haven’t really addressed. It’s my fault, in a way, for keeping them unsaid.”
Robbe nodded along.
“You and I, we’re—” Her breath caught. “Lines must’ve been crossed at some point, y’know?”
“I don’t know what that means,” said Robbe.
“It means I love you so much. Even if I wasn’t there for you. I know there are moments that you can’t forgive me for, but—”
“Do we have to have this conversation now?” Robbe was still lightheaded from the previous night, and from waking up next to Sander, and from gathering the courage to casually come out only moments ago.
“Yes, now.” His mother took him by the hand, her fingertips brushing his knuckles, and for a moment, he was with her on the side of the road as a child, watching for passing cars. “I love you, and it’s okay if you hate me. If that’s what you have to do.” Before Robbe could protest once more, she cut him off. “I heard you on the phone last night, and you said you didn’t, I know. But we don’t talk much, do we?”
Robbe burned his tongue on his coffee rather than answer.
“I know that my illness isn’t easy for you to deal with. It isn’t easy for me either. And I know sometimes it feels like we’re not
 I don’t know. Sometimes it might feel like I ruined everything.”
He could deny it, but she’d know he was lying.
“Your Sander
 in the phone call, well, it seemed like
”
“He has it too,” said Robbe. “Bipolar.”
“Do you love him?”
Robbe dropped his head into her shoulder and inhaled. There were so many moments they missed because of her sickness. There was so much of her that he never wanted to talk about with anyone outside of his father, who knew everything anyway. In the action, though, he hoped she understood everything that he couldn’t say right now: Yes I love him, I’m trying to forgive you, I love you too. I understand you. I’m sorry for the way I talked about you, even if I’m not sure I regret it yet. Sometimes, all you need is time. He knew he’d have to wait for the betrayal to dissipate. Step one was admitting he loved her anyway.
The timer on her phone beeped for medication. She dropped his hand to go for the foyer, where her pills waited on display in the hallway.
Robbe stopped her with a whisper. “I don’t want him to go through what you did.”
“You remember that blood sausage recipe?” she asked. It seemed off-topic, enough to derail Robbe’s train of thought.
“Of course,” he said.
“You and your father had such a great time making it for Christmas every year. I thought maybe—” Robbe’s mother pulled something from her pants pocket, an index card with loopy cursive handwriting.
Robbe looked down at the card, back up at his mother, back down at the card again. He didn’t know what to say, so he said the first thing that popped into his head. “You don’t ruin things. I don’t know why I—”
“Youruin plenty,” Robbe’s mother said. “We don’t need to start coddling each other now.” She motioned him back to his bedroom with a wink. In some bizarre way, they’d reached a tentative understanding.
***
Robbe expected for Sander to be asleep when he returned to bed. In the grand scheme of things, it was still quite early. But Sander was awake, combing the room, searching for his shirt and pants among the chaos of Robbe’s floor. His hair stuck out in all different directions, and Robbe let himself wonder at the warmth it spread through his chest. He’d never felt this way about anyone before. Of course it would be Sander that did it.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, more to be conversational.
“Hogwarts,” said Sander.
Okay, not what Robbe wanted to hear. “What?”
“I’m going back to Hogwarts. Supposed to be there for the holidays.”
It hit Robbe again: the possibility that everything was as fake as their original relationship. Mania, or something. Mania didn’t normally work like that, but— “I thought we had to talk,” Robbe said.
Sander shrugged. “You made it clear you didn’t want to.”
“How?”
“Well, we didn’t.”
“You kissed me,” said Robbe.
Sander abandoned the search for his own shirt and pulled one of Robbe’s threadbare sweatshirts over his head. The bottom skimmed up at his hips, and the sleeves were a little short at the wrists. A moment later, he recovered his jeans. Robbe couldn’t stop him from getting dressed without feeling dirty, so he blocked the doorway as much as someone with his stature could.
“You talked to Jens?” he asked.
“Said you’d be here,” Sander said. “It was a stupid idea. I don’t know why I came. Nothing changed.”
Everything changed. Robbe bit his lip. He wasn’t sure how to articulate the things he was feeling anymore, not in the chaos of all this new information at once.
“I don’t want you to go.” He reached out to hold Sander’s wrist.
Sander shook his hand away. “No, I’m going to ruin everything. That’s why they want me there, that’s why you want me there.”
“I don’t want you there. I want you here.”
They stood at a faceoff, and Robbe dropped Sander’s wrist to make a barrier across the doorframe. Such a motion felt childish. If Sander pushed at his arm, Robbe decided, he’d let Sander through, because he wasn’t here to keep Sander in places Sander didn’t want to be.
No movement. Sander took a deep breath and sat back on the bed. “Even this,” he said. “I feel fine, but it was crazy to come here. Sometimes I do things and they’re crazy and I don’t realize. I don’t want you to hate me.”
Robbe thought about his own mother. She wasn’t crazy. She was sick. He couldn’t promise to feel like he loved her one hundred percent of the time, but he loved her just the same. Never had he hated her.
“I won’t,” he said. “I can’t.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Then I’ll do my very best.”
The paper that Britt gave Robbe in the astronomy tower shot up from its dejected place on the ground, its requirements fulfilled. The writing shifted from overlapping words, to cursive, to a legible, block print. Robbe would read it to completion later:
Robbe:
I’m not an expert. These are things that have worked in the past. He should tell you more than this.
1. Be there. That’s the big one. Sometimes he’ll ask you to be close to him, other times he’ll want you to leave him alone, and that’s fine. Just be there.
2. Talk to him. It’s his illness and he knows more about his experience than anyone else.
3. He’s not stupid so don’t treat him like he is. I know I do sometimes. Don’t be me for him.
4. Not everything is an episode. It’s going to feel like a lot of stuff is. I don’t know how to get around it.
5. Ask for help when you need it. It doesn’t do anyone any good if you pretend you can take care of everything by yourself.
Britt
But for now, Robbe let it flutter downward once more. He thought back across their time together thus far. Kissing Sander in the Quidditch stands, making out in the upper corner of a classroom, sharing breakfast in the Great Hall. This started as a way to keep Noor off his back, of course, but somehow, it blossomed into a long joyride of self-discovery and love. Love. The word hit him just as hard as it had on their first date by the Great Lake. Sander looked at Robbe like that, and Robbe knew he needed more than a fake relationship. Here it was. All he had to do was show Sander the same.
Robbe couldn’t go anywhere if he tried.
“It was easier when you thought we were pretending,” he said, pushing aside all doubts. No more disclaimers. No more stepping back and letting Sander walk in the other direction. He knew what he wanted. “When it was fake, you didn’t have to worry about me leaving.”
Sander shrugged. “Low stakes. Like a game.”
“Alright then, let’s play a game.” Robbe’s confidence built as he found his stride. He took a step away from the doorway and grabbed Sander’s hands in his own, the smooth skin he’d imagined against his every night this week. Sander let him. “It’s called Robbe and Sander, minute by minute. How you play it is you only worry about the next minute. You and I together. If you could pretend it was real, how is it different when it’s real?”
The gap between them closed in an aching kiss, teeth tugging on the edge of lips, fingers dancing over goosebumped shoulders. Robbe hoped Sander could taste the sincerity on his tongue. Each kiss bled into the next, peaceful, a request for more. Robbe was asking, again and again, and Sander was replying in the same vein. Yes, I want this with you. If you’ll take me, I want this with you.
“I’m going to mess up,” Sander whimpered, pulling away an inch.
“Okay,” said Robbe.
“What if you regret this in the future?”
“Okay.”
“Robbe, what if it was better off fake, what if—” He cut off as Robbe leaned in for yet another kiss. Melted into the sensation. The muffliato charm might be a nice investment.
“What you and I have,” Robbe whispered into Sander’s lips, “has always been real.”
Tomorrow, Jens and Moyo would call to see how the night went. They gave Sander directions to the house in accordance with article XII, section VIII of Operation Sobbe. Robbe, Sander, and his mother would make blood sausage and cry laughing when Sander took the first bite. Robbe would return to Hogwarts after break with Sander’s hand clasped in his own. But tonight, if Robbe could do wordless magic, the world would freeze in this moment forever.
And afterward, the view from his bedroom window beat that of the astronomy tower, because it reflected their faces back.
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logsfm · 4 years ago
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hey my loves   !   i’m mia  ,  21 from the east coast   !   i have not roleplayed in sheeeesh   ...   like five or six months   ?   but i am so excited to be here for opening with all of y’all   .   i spent like all morning trying to weed out this gal logan right here   ...   she’s a trip   ,   that’s the best overall description i have for ya   .   anywho   ,  lets get to the actual thing you’re here for her lil intro   .   also if you wanna mssg on discord here ya go  Â đ€đąđ„đ„đšđ­đ«đšđŻđŹ 𝖜𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖊#7040   .
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logan samara-de jaager was spotted in the fashion district adorning  air force 1’s university blue  , with some airpod pros on . they’re most likely listening to  benz i know by kelvyn colt  . you may know them as  @delogan  or as that  bella hadid  lookalike . their  twenty fourth  birthday just passed . while living in  the upper east side  , they’ve gained a bit of a reputation . they’re known to be  querulous  but on the other hand  passionate  . wonder if they’ll be the next person to hit the headlines . ( cisfemale / she/her +  mia / twenty one / she/her ) + ( “ logan de jaager seen shoving ex in hotel footage during heated argument , not so sweet huh? ” / “ miss de jaager was spotted sneaking into ex beau’s apartment , what could she be up to? ” / “ sweet socialite or greedy trust fund baby ? milan de jaager publicly accuses daughter logan of stealing $1M 
 ” )
born into the true lap of luxury . the daughter of real estate magnate & high - profile attorney milan de jaager and his wife , british born socialite lana samara . the two of them held high favor within the 1% but were also able to find a perfect balance . they did a great job of separating personal life from the tabloids . it was rare to really know the happenings of their day to day . they had this particular kind of mystery to them , if you will .
it wasn’t long before lana began to instill the very same rhetoric she received as a child into her own   .   quality over quantity   ,   was the motto   .   just not in the way you’d assume   .   the quality at which a de jaager presented themselves to you was much more important than than quantity of time you spent with them   .   looks   ?   they’re everything   ,   in the de jaager household   .   time was simply a societal construct implemented to catch you on a bad day   ,   for that very line of thinking they embodied being late   .   rushing out of the house to finish your make up in the car   ?   a literal sin in the eyes of her mother   .
she was encouraged to take part in ballet and beauty pageants growing up   .   anything that could showcase how beautiful their daughter was lana and milan were on board for   .   personally logan hated ballet but she couldn’t deny she loved the applause the night of a showcase   .   she also couldn’t stand pageants but loved having all eyes on her as she went on stage   .
it became quite clear as the years went on that her parents were much more like close friends to their daughter than like rule - instilling guardians   .   she would text them to dismiss her from school   ,   get them to buy her   &   her friends alcohol for sleepovers  /  parties   ,   was very much so that kid who got high with her parents   .   really anything you could do with your friends   ?   was fair game with logan   &   her folks   .
at sixteen a friend of her moms who was going to be a designer for spring fashion week that year asked if logan would want to walk for him   .   she was quick to accept the offer and before she knew it she had multiple offers to walk in that years fall fashion weeks   ,   because of how easy it came to her   -    though   ,    she’s the first to admit she never really took modeling all that seriously   .
it was just a year later that her way of life changed drastically , logan and her twin brother had been caught by paparazzi on a friends boat in the hamptons snorting a white substance , anyone with eyes knew exactly what the group of teenagers were doing . upon returning home the two received the crackdown of the century . their once friendly parents turned to strict jail like guardians . often reminded that they put the families reputation at stake . the pressure to be perfect was something logan had never had to deal with until now & she almost cracked under the pressure at every turn .
it wasn’t until she left for college that she was finally given some room to breathe , attending the university of florida was the best choice for what logan truly wanted to do with her life - become a sports analyst . growing up she was infatuated with sports & and would have been involved in much more than just cheerleading had her mom allowed for her to get so much as a speck of dirt on her . during her time in florida the paparazzi seemed to find her more often than not , something her parents often denounced both over the phone & in public . the longer she spent away from the upper east side the more she became america’s sweetheart & simultaneously a thorn in her parents side . she graduated from university in 2018 , only returning back to new york for the sake of work . she’d been offered a reporting job with espn , on top of taking up modeling gigs here & there when ever she felt necessary .
personality 

one thing is very true about the de jaager’s & is very much so the same for logan ; she is not to be trusted . she can be extremely charming when she wants to be . she could sell a bag of rocks to a beach & get a princess to sell her sole to sex work . she knows exactly what people want to hear & when they want to hear it and has no qualms about lying straight to someone’s face if it means she gets something out of it . in fact sometimes , she might lie to your face just for the sheer fun of being able to call you gullible .
she’s very much so a spoiled brat although she hates when anyone call her one , she feels like she has more layers to her than that broad term . hand in hand with that is her drama queen like tendencies , any situation were there is a simple solution she will find a way to blow vastly out of portion .
due to her mother’s heavy influence growing up , she can be rather vein & materialistic . catch her like “ i can’t date a garbage person ” to someone simply because they’re not as rich or known enough for her liking .
it’s rare that you’ll ever see her jump out of character . she’s very calculated & aware of who she is ( or who she needs to seem like ) so if you ever see her emotions getting the better of her , you’ve really broken her .
she’s the type to dabble in a little bit of anything   ?   she’s a rich nyc party girl who’s been partying well before anyone should have allowed her to so she’s done it all   .    you’d be kidding yourself to think you could surprise  /  scare logan on a wild night out   .
she’s quick   &   creative with her sense of humor   .   she has both a crude / dry sense of humor   ,   as well   ,   and really just doesn’t find goofy things to be funny but more or less embarrassing   ( so if she ever tells you you’re goofy , remember it’s not a compliment ) .
her upbringing   &   parents sentiment on tabloids once reflected massively on logan   ,   but now she couldn’t quite care less about it all . after all she spends hours in front of cameras on a regular basis for work . although she does tend to shy away from people who she deems are hungry for fame or attention   .   she’s been used in the past for fame   &   will never let it happen again   , plus she’s the type to lap up attention so she likes to have as little fame whores around her as possible , more shine for her .
when she isn’t being a total nightmare though she’s actually really fun to be around ? she’s playful & loves to keep the party alive . often can be found claiming “ i’m high on life ” although everyone saw the pictures , logan , we know what you’re really high on , girl .
very chatty girl , too . victim of foot - in - mouth syndrome , big time . she doesn’t try to be disloyal & spill people’s secrets ( or does she ? ) but she can’t help herself . if she has piping hot tea she’s gonna spill it because she doesn’t wanna burn herself .
very observant girl , who loves to people watch but her observations can sometimes get muddled when she starts judging people a little too hardcore .
she’s also a undercover couch potato    &    by that i mean if you give her an option to go out   &   do something she’ll never outwardly choose to stay home to watch netflix and snuggle up under the blankets but secretly she’s hoping   &   praying she gets a chance to do so   .
plots   ...
END THIS ( L.O.V.E ) / her first love   .   these two brought the absolute worst out of one another   .    they messed her up so much that she has a weird perspective on what love between two s/o’s should even feel like now   .   maybe they had another s/o at the same time as her   &   kinda just strung her on   &   when it came out were able to lie so much to her that she believed them   .   idk   ,   in truth we could really plot something completely different as to what they did   &   inevitably what the breaking point was   .   maybe they broke up with her   &   had they not ended it maybe she would’ve still been okay with being in the relationship   .   idk i just feel like this one could be fun as hell   .     also they’d be the one whom she was caught arguing with in one of her headlines   .   ( 0 / 1 )
AFTER PARTY / this is a more reckless take of party buddies   .   im envisioning a group of people who when the parties over they all pull up to close by gulf course   ,   indulge even more in their choices of substance   ,   there is a naked gulf tournament going on   ,   there are drunks driving golf carts   ,   swerving and pouring bacardi all over the course   .   running from security when they pop up   .   it’s tradition at this point   &   if someone doesn’t come it’s almost disrespectful at this point   .   idk i just love the thought of this kinda vibe   .   ( 2 / ? )
SECRETS / okay so this one is messy   .   basically logan was very private for most of her life   (   thanks mom   &   dad   )   and during the early stages of highschool she lied to everyone saying she was a virgin   .   she told each one of these individuals that they were her first whether it be to make them fall for her   “   innocence   ”   ,   want to chase after her   ,   or whatever else we might be able to plot out   .   inevitably they compare notes at some point and find out that she’d been lying to them all   .   we can plot out how they confronted her i feel like we could make this real dramatic though   .   this would also be a backstory plot so   ,   we  can also plot out how things have transpired since for them   .   ( 0 / 3 or 4 )
BEST FRIEND / these two girls take best friends to the next level   .   they relate to one another on every level and are there for one another at all times   .   there is never a moment where they are competing with one another because they know that their #1 in there respective category   .   they are one another’s ultimate hype beasts   .   they truly embody chaotic goddess vibes   .   it’s like they were placed on this earth simply to be friends because they compliment one another that well   .   ( 0 / 1 )
LETS FALL IN LOVE FOR THE NIGHT / they are the one that’s there whenever she’s down   .   they have the ability to make her feel like they have some sort of old love whenever she’s around them   .   those feelings only last for the night though   .   they enjoy when she rambles on about sports or the novel she just recently read or really just anything she enjoys can put a smile on their face   .    they know better than to ever confuse what is going on between them though   ,   they know that she’ll never be theirs   .   whether they’re okay with this or not we can definitely plot out   .   ( 0 / 1 )
MOANA / they are not a fan of logan   .   they see her for what she is   :   an attention seeking   ,    spoiled brat and the fact that they don’t want anything to do with her makes her want them all the more   .    when they finally slept with her it was only to prove a point to her s/o at the time   ,   to prove that she’s not the sweet girlfriend she claimed to be   .   basically they’re the person who outed her for being a ho ho ho but despite knowing that they outed her for that she still tries to hook up with them because they were the best she ever had    .   they often turn her down but after a while not even they can deny that they’re attracted to her   .   they still don’t fuck with her though   .   also i think it’d be cool if their were two of them   &   maybe they worked together to out her to her s/o that didn’t believe she was a cheater   ( 0 / 2 )   also bring the s/o that they outed her to   ( 0 / 1 )
ELEVEN / the type of relationship that is stuck in the grey area   .   they’re more than friends but they don’t necessarily admit to having feelings for one another   .   honestly they probably don’t even think they have feelings for one another   .   it’s a weird dynamic   .   they spend the most of their time together late at night   .   there meeting time    ?   11pm   .    they go on wild joy rides to the beach   .   heads out of the sun roof as they let out a loud woo   .    the only thing accompanying them is a big bag of weed   .    sometimes they have deep talks   ,   honestly they probably know more about one another than anyone else   ?   because of these adventurous of theirs   .   when they aren’t having deep talks they’re running across the beach aimlessly   &   rolling around in the sand with one another   .   it’s really just a very pure plot that i need in my life   .  ( 0 / 1 )
TRUST NOBODY / this is someone who used logan for fame / attention   .   they either became close friends or even started dating   &   they used everything they learned about her or what went on between them to relay back to a tabloid / would call paparazzi to come and take pictures of them together whenever they’d go out   .   ( 0 / 1 )
some other plot ideas i’d love to see   :   x   ,   x   ,   x   ,   x   ,   x   ,   x   ,   x   ,   x   ,   x   ,   x   ,   x   .
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eggytranslations · 4 years ago
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Volume 1, Chapter 2-Turnaround
Content warnings: blood mention, death/dying
After looking at this world one last time, Shen Qingxuan’s mind relaxed, and his vision blacked out immediately, as if somebody had used black cloth to completely cover his eyes. There was not a single ray of light. At the same time, the feeling of heat he was struggling to keep down also came surging forth. Suddenly his mouth was filled with a tepidness that reeked of blood and stung the nostrils.
He knew it was his own blood, but Shen Qingxuan still disliked how this smell was rank and unpleasant. He could only think that his own body had actually become this foul. However, by no means did he see that what he spit out was not any ordinary blood, but a lump of jet-black with a bit of red in it. The smell was actually coming from the vicious, bone-corroding toxin, and mixing with the heavy stench of blood, which made one want to vomit even more.
This unpleasantly acrid smell pervaded the very small side room. Even Master Shen, who was tending by his side, had the churning desire to vomit within his chest.
The steward opened the doors and windows very quickly, and while urging the servants to clean the room and to give the young master a cleanse, he also withdrew out the door, and quietly called for the villa’s old servants to solemnly make plans for the funeral arrangements.
Although Shen Qingxuan had fainted, he still had some weak breathing. But any old person with some experience knew that this obstacle could not be surpassed by their young master.
While he still had one final breath and his body was still warm, they brought clean clothes for him to change into, hoping to send him neatly cleansed on his way.
In the cold wind, the quiet villa, after going through a day and a night of pandemonium, fell into another type of stillness within the misty fog of early morning.
White streamers, sackcloth, joss paper, coffin. Everything needed for the funeral and interment were all carried into the courtyard from the back door of the villa in the dawning light with cautiously small noises.
Shen Qingxuan sometimes sunk into a borderless darkness, yet, sometimes he clearly awakened.
Though he could not move, he still listened carefully to the subdued external voices and footfalls.
He also did not know what would greet him. In his short spans of clarity, he thought there might be the legendary Ox-Head and Horse-Face carrying a soul-guiding rope to bring him on his way, though that was also unknowable. But his clarity was still very short, and his mind could not turn over many thoughts before sinking into darkness again.
In this muddle-headed state, he did not even know how long it had been. Perhaps it was exceedingly endless, or an acutely brief moment, Shen Qingxuan vaguely sensed that the world beyond the bed curtain suddenly quieted down.
As if it was a deep pool of eternal night, never again having a trace of human sound.
Even the sound of wind had also disappeared without a trace.
Internally, he felt anxious and unsure, yet he did not have the energy to open his eyes to look.
Shen Qingxuan lay there, very anxiously struggling to gather his thoughts, and listened attentively to the sounds outside.
But there was still no noise, and no news.
Although Shen Qingxuan could not open his eyes to look, his heart was clear. At this time, there was no way his father would let him lie here by himself. He would definitely station a few servants to watch over him, yet he could not hear a thing, and could not sense any trace of human activity either.
It was as if, in this entire world, there only remained his deserted soul that lay here alone, dragging out a feeble existence.
Just as he was in doubt and anxious, another mouthful of blood spilled out of the corner of his lips, slipped down the side of his face and fell behind his ear. First there was a wisp of warmth, then the exposure to frigid air slowly chilled the thread, as if it was a tiny little snake, meandering and climbing about his neck. There was no one to help him wipe it, nor was there a servant girl’s surprised yelp. It was as if the entire world lost its voice.
The feeling of not having a place to settle made one uneasy, and Shen Qingxuan was no exception. He held in his already weak breaths, and seemed to indistinctly be waiting for something.
Feeling as though he was dreaming, Shen Qingxuan heard the sound of light footsteps. Intangibly, like a fantasy, yet like reality, which made one unsure if one was dreaming or if it was real. He could not help but guess if it was the long-awaiting Ox-Head and Horse-Face who finally revealed themselves, drawing their soul-gathering rope, leading him onto Huang Quan Road.
Yet he did not know, the only reason he could still breathe until now was because the man in the corner had cast a spell.
In this delirious state, Shen Qingxuan distinctly felt something ice-cold touch upon his forehead. It seemed soft yet hard, wide and cool, and covered his entire forehead.
Shen Qingxuan only thought that thing’s form was very familiar, but could not remember what it was at the moment.
Yet, just as he was racking his brain to think, he heard a voice arrive in his ear that said: “The life line is rather prosperous, with an entire lifetime of riches and honor.”
Shen Qingxuan absentmindedly thought in his muddled state, this person has a very nice deep voice. Then he suddenly realized that the frigid thing resting on his forehead was this man’s palm.
How could it be this cold? So cold he almost did not recognize what it was. Before he finished thinking this question through, Shen Qingxuan then thought, who’s life line was he talking about?
“Yours.” That voice seemed to know what he was thinking, and replied quickly.
Shen Qingxuan’s train of thought froze for a moment, and then randomly thought, this person was full of shit. If his life line was so vigorous, how could he fall to this point.
“The life line was excessively rich, and incurred a vile person, that’s all.” The man’s tone was casual and light.
When Shen Qingxuan heard this news, it seemed to stir up his heart’s worries, and he no longer refuted him, quieting down.
The man also stilled for a moment. His gaze examined Shen Qingxuan’s face yet again, before continuing to say: “Shen Qingxuan, today I spare your life—would you like that?”
Although Shen Qingxuan’s life was hanging by a thread, his mind still had a sober and clear spot. Sensing that this man appeared in a bizarre way and this did not seem to be a dream, his ill-at-ease mind had already thought about more than 10 possibilities. Yet he never expected that he would say such a thing. He blanked again. He subconsciously thought in his mind: his current situation was already irreversible, and the only way to save his life would be if an immortal made their powers known.
Could it be, he was an immortal?
Actually, this guess was not strange, but it did make one feel ridiculous.
“I am a yao.” The man’s deep voice, that Shen Qingxuan thought was pleasant to hear, sounded once again. Finally, Shen Qingxuan heard clearly this time. This person was not speaking by his ear, rather, he was really and truly letting his voice ring directly in his mind.
Yao? What kind of yao?
Although Shen Qingxuan, who had already disregarded life and death, could not help but be startled, he was not excessively terrified. He instinctively pressed about the matter.
“The snake that bit you today was me.” The man’s tone was extremely flat, as if saying this kind of thing cannot be any more natural. Being a snake, cultivating successfully into a yao, biting a person—he admitted it so indifferently, so very nonchalantly.
He was straightforward to the point that he stumped Shen Qingxuan, who did not know how to respond best for the moment. If he could move even a little bit right now, it was very likely that he would have already tightly twisted his brows.
Instantly, Shen Qingxuan recalled his words from before, and realized this snake could really save his life.
Except, he also could not help but think: so he was actually a snake yao, no wonder his hands were that cold.
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jcisthebestfightme · 5 years ago
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BJYX Song #5: Rainbow
BJYX Song Series List
Disclaimer: This is all my own speculation. Do not take seriously.
After two bittersweet songs from dd, time we start our heart-wrenching journey with gg. 
The song “Rainbow” by Fish Leong was sang by gg during a bts that was filmed on dd’s birthday (160 minutes 1 year anniversary bts.) Right before he sang this, dd’s assistant was called about some “arrangement.” We have no idea what the arrangement is but we know it involves dd arranging something for gg because the assistant asked gg “arrange what?” and then gg responded with “Lao-Wang (dd) wanted you to arrange.” Then the assistant said “Oh, you guys are in such a hurry about it, I thought it was something super important.” Gg then repeated “No, Lao-wang wanted you to arrange it.” The poor assistant then said “I arranged it.” And gg responded “You arranged it, I got it.” Then dd chimed in “I already arranged it for you, why don’t you understand.” Then dd and his assistant started talking about his manager coming. The camera then panned to gg who started singing this song. 
So from this exchange, we don’t know what they were arranging. It’s possible that it’s something like a type of food that dd wanted his assistant to give gg. But does this require them to confirm with the assistant that it’s already arranged? So it must be more important than snacks. On the flip side, the assistant seem to think the arrangement isn’t super urgent, which tells us that it’s not some super important job-related issue. Thus, from eliminating other hypothesis, my personal theory is that they were talking about dinner, more specifically dd’s birthday dinner that he wants to spend with gg since that was the day of his birthday.
So if they’re spending dd’s birthday night together and it’s all loving and sweet, why would gg sing such a sad song at the moment? There are multiple things happening at this moment. CQL filming is coming to an end and ggdd no longer have an official reason to be together all the time anymore. In addition, they will need to leave their roles as WWX and LWJ. I’m unsure of ggdd’s relationship at this point. I think it’s either still flirting/two-sided crush without clear confession or very early stage of a very immature relationship. Either way, even though gg already confirmed his inner feelings on 622, the relationship, or lack of an official one, is at a point that will make him feel insecure. I think this is true for the start of every early relationship. You’re very happy and excited that you’re together. But because you love the other person so that that you’re also afraid of losing them and thus become insecure on the inside.  I think this song “Rainbow” perfectly describes this fear of loss feeling. 
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ććœšæ”ŽçŒžé‡ŒïŒŒèŽČè“Źć€Žă€‚(Sitting in the bathtub, with shower head on.)
ä»Łæ›żæˆ‘ć“­æłŁïŒŒćƒäž‹é›šă€‚ (It [shower water] is substituting for my tears, just like the rain.) ć…¶ćźžæˆ‘äžçŸ„é“ïŒŒçœŒæłȘ有æČĄæœ‰æ”ă€‚(Actually I don’t know, if my tears are coming out) ć°±ćƒèż™æ•…äș‹äž­ïŒŒäœ æœ‰æČĄæœ‰çˆ±èż‡æˆ‘。(Just like in this story, whether you truly loved me or not.)
When gg started singing, he sang the two bolded lines. I’m not sure if he kept singing because the camera was cut off. It’s possible they cut it because the next line was too obvious. While he was singing, he did look over at dd.
I find it interesting that he didn’t start in the beginning of the song. Usually when we think of a song, we either start singing in the beginning or at the chorus. But gg started in the middle of a stance, in the middle of a sentence! Why? This tells us this particular line stood out to him. Obviously, gg wasn’t crying at the time, at least not visibly. Is he saying that even though you don’t see his tears, he’s sad on the inside? The line “in this story” is also significant. The story can mean the story of CQL, as the story of WWX and LWJ are coming to an end. It can also mean the story of their summer together. Gg described the filming of CQL before as a “dream.” Is he scare this chapter of his life is closing and he has to let go of something, someone, or a relationship? Then the next line “whether you truly loved me or not” can be gg questioning whether his relationship with dd is based on LWJ and WWX’s relationship. To me, gg is almost asking if dd ever loved him in this summer of filming and that he’s content if he did, even if their relationship doesn’t last afterwards.
è™šćŒ±çš„çȘ—ćž˜ïŒŒç•™äžäœă€‚(Weak curtains, can’t hold on.)
æˆżé‡Œçš„é»‘ć€œïŒŒäčŸèŠè”°ă€‚(Darkness in the room, also need to leave.)
æž…æ™šć”€é†’äș†æˆ‘照äș꿘šć€œçš„æąŠïŒŒ(Dawn woke me up, shining on last night’s dream)
äž€ç›Žćˆ°èż™æ—¶ć€™ïŒŒæ‰ćŒ€ć§‹æœ‰äž€ç‚过‚。(It is not until now, I finally start to understand a bit)
The first three line is describing waking up from a dark night. It feels like the person is trying to keep a dark feeling bundled up but reality is shining light on that darkness and forcing them to come out. It’s like coming back to their real lives, in modern clothing, that this reality is waking gg up from his dream. But his dream with dd should be happy right? Why is it dark? I think it’s dark not because it’s a nightmare, but because his feelings about it aren’t clear. He feels like the relationship isn’t grounded and thus it feels “dark.” This is also why reality is like sunlight, exposing their muddled, unclear relationship. There’s a word in Chinese call “曖昧 (ai mei)” that perfectly describe this feeling of excitement mixed with sad uncertainty people have in an ambiguous time of a relationship.
The last line talks about finally able to understand something, but the song doesn’t tell us what that something is. I think to gg, he’s starting to make plans of what to do with his feelings and relationship with dd after filming. He’s starting to understand how to sort out whether their relationship is real or if it’s affected by the summer. (Spoiler alert, he went to Japan and had weak contact with dd for awhile to try to get out of his role. I believe there was also a period in late 2018 where they didn’t really talk but they finally sort out their feelings in 2019). 
äœ çš„çˆ±ć°±ćƒćœ©è™čïŒŒé›šćŽçš„ć€©ç©ș。(Your love is like a rainbow, the sky after rain.)
ç»šçƒ‚ćŽæ•™äșșèż·æƒ‘ïŒŒè“ç»żé»„çșąă€‚(It’s gorgeous yet perplexing, blue, green, yellow, and red.)
Here, the song tells us that the love, the relationship is beautiful, just like a “rainbow” so we know that the “darkness” we talked about before is not that the love isn’t beautiful. It’s a rainbow that comes after the rain, which usually represent tears and sadness. So we know that this love is bittersweet. It’s also “gorgeous yet perplexing”, furthering emphasizing the ambiguity of the relationship. Here, four colors in the rainbow are described. Here’s my analysis of the color: “blue” is LWJ, “green” is dd, “yellow” is a combination of ggdd, and “red” is both gg and WWX. People often say that ggdd are in a four-way relationship with WWX and LWJ. These 4 colors perfectly describe the harmony yet dissonance we see building this “rainbow” of a relationship. While the 4 can make up a relationship, they’re ultimately still separate colors and we want the harmony of “yellow”, not a mix of the other three colors. 
Side note, there are many motifs that come up in songs gg choose. “Blue” and “green” are colors that repeat. The word “summer”, “wind/breeze”, “dream” and “loneliness” also tend to show up. This paints us a picture the scenery that gg is trying to describe. To him, this relationship is a picture of a summer day with gentle breeze, with blue sky and green fields and it’s like a dream. Doesn’t this scene look just like the hills we see in the Untamed? It’s probably also why “blue sky white cloud” is a symbol of love to ggdd. (I swear the motifs in songs gg pick are more consistent than some literature I read in high school.)
äœ çš„çˆ±ć°±ćƒćœ©è™čïŒŒæˆ‘ćŒ ćŒ€äș†æ‰‹ă€‚(Your love is like a rainbow, I open my hands.)
OhïŒćŽćȘèƒœæŠ±äœéŁŽă€‚(Oh! I could only embrace the wind.)
In this part of the song, even though the love is beautiful like a rainbow, the person can only hold on to the wind, and not the beautiful rainbow. Why wind? I think it’s because “wind” is fleeting, like the quickly passing by and leaving love. That’s how I think gg feels about this relationship, it’s beautiful yet ephemeral. 
ć»æˆ‘çŠ»ćŒ€æˆ‘ïŒŒäœ ć°±ćƒă€‚(Kiss me and then leave me. You are like)
ć‡șć€Șé˜łäž‹é›šïŒŒéšŸæ‰æ‘žă€‚(Sun comes out, rain falls, hard to decipher.)
è¶Šæ˜ŻćŠȘćŠ›æŁæ‘©ïŒŒè¶Šæ˜Żæžäžæ‡‚ă€‚(The more I want to understand, the less I understand.)
ćȘć„œæ…ąæ…ąæ‰żèź€ïŒŒèż™æ•…äș‹ć«ćšé”™ă€‚(I can only slowly admit, that this story is wrong.)
This part of the song is probably the saddest. It describes a relationship so uncertain that it’s painful. It’s possible that gg feel like his relationship has a lot of push and pull. Sometimes they’re super close and happy, yet other times he’s unsure if it’s true love. The reason I say this is that in another song that dd later share, he also described this feeling of push and pull, uncertain of how close they should be. (Yes, foreshadowing a future analysis.) I think many relationships have this period of ups and down. The end talks about how this “story is wrong.” Does gg think he’s wrong about how dd feels about him in this relationship? I don’t think so. But I think he feels like it’s “wrong” because he’s not sure what’s “right” or how to make it “right.”
OhïŒäž€ć±‚äž€ć±‚ïŒŒäž€ć±‚äž€ć±‚ïŒŒäž€ć±‚äž€ć±‚ïŒŒćˆäž€ć±‚ć±‚ïŒŒçš„èż·ćź«ïŒŒæˆ‘æ„äžćŠć›žć€Žă€‚ (Oh many many many many many many, [and another] many layers of a maze, I don’t have enough time to look back.) OhïŒćżœć·ŠćżœćłïŒŒćżœäžŠćżœäž‹ïŒŒćżœäžœćżœè„żïŒŒćżœć‰ćżœćŽïŒŒçš„æŠ˜çŁšïŒŒéƒœæ˜Żäœ çš„æ‰ćŒ„ă€‚(Oh sometimes left, sometimes right, sometimes up, sometimes down, sometimes east, sometimes west, sometimes forward, sometimes back, the pain, it’s all your trick.)
This part was really hard to translate because the song was trying to use fast repetition to mimic the feeling of agitation you feel from being lost in an ambiguous relationship. The person is completely lost inside the maze created by the person they love. So does dd create a maze for gg to decipher? I don’t think so. We all know that dd is straightforward with his feelings. But gg still feel like he’s trapped in a maze because there are too many outside factors that can ruin this relationship. 
ć»æˆ‘çŠ»ćŒ€æˆ‘ïŒŒäœ ć°±ćƒă€‚(Kiss me and then leave me. You are like)
ć‡șć€Șé˜łäž‹é›šïŒŒéšŸæ‰æ‘žă€‚Â (Sun comes out, rain falls, hard to decipher.)
è¶Šæ˜ŻćŠȘćŠ›æŒœç•™ïŒŒè¶Šæ˜Żäž€æ— æ‰€æœ‰ă€‚(The more I want you to stay, the more likely I would end up with nothing.)
ćȘć„œæ…ąæ…ąæœŸćŸ…ïŒŒé›šćŽäœ çš„ćœ±èžȘ。(All I can do is to look forward to your shadow after the rain.)
I think the last two lines fits gg’s personality and his feelings that we have discussed before in “If I were a song” perfectly. Gg’s love the type that creates a secure home for the other person, and is willing to wait for them, not asking to bind them right now. So he knows the more he wants dd to “stay” and forced a relationship after they’re done filming to be just like when they’re filming, thee more likely it will end badly. This is one of the most mature ways I’ve seen someone deal with relationship. I feel like too many people are obsessed with “we were once this way or that way” so when the environment changed, you can’t accept that the relationship may change and constantly try to live up to a past memory (I myself fell victim to this once.) So gg knows that in order for the relationship to be stable, he must be mature and wait for dd to come back to him on his own. This is because he knows his own feelings for dd will not change. After the “rain”, the dark ambiguous feeling that is muddle by filming, is over, if the relationship last, gg know dd will come back to him.
I definitely think gg is more secure and mature in this relationship than dd. But he still have uncertainty he has to face. He also can’t 100% predict what dd is thinking or feeling. He’s probably also worry that dd is too young and may change or regret his decision later. In both “If I were a song” and “Rainbow”, we see gg giving dd the space to choose the type of relationship and how the relationship will develop. A lot of people believe that dd likes gg more because he’s more straightfoward and obvious about it. But I actually think, that gg loves dd just as much, if not even more because gg is constantly thinking about this relationship realistically and trying to plan for the best, realistic future for both of them. Happy early 23rd birthday dd! I hope after two years, the ephemeral rainbow has turn into an eternal yellow ray of sunshine. 
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moongazer606 · 5 years ago
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Who Are You Calling Old? Pt. 2
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader
Words: 1914
Warnings: alcohol consumption
Summary: Part two!! It’s been a few weeks, but you finally have another run-in with Bucky at the bar.
Part One
Tags: @palaiasaurus64 @thenewlarislynn​ @calspalkira 
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In an effort to not feel like a stalker, you decided to actively avoid looking up Bucky Barnes online. You didn’t want to see any paparazzi photos of him and the other Avengers, you didn’t want to know which small country they had saved now, or what restaurants they were visiting or what clothes they were seen buying. You just wanted Bucky to be the cute guy you had maybe kind of flirted with at the bar a few weeks ago. 
You hadn’t seen him, or Captain America, at the bar since. A small part of you missed him. Or at least missed being able to glance over at him as you played darts with your friends. He was easy on the eyes, that’s for sure. You supposed if you did happen to look him up, you’d find some explanation for his absence. Maybe the Avengers had moved back down to New York City, or maybe he was in Europe somewhere. However, no matter how tempted you were, you never did look him up.
Every so often Jess would catch you scanning the bar for the man and tease you. None of your other friends really knew about your interaction with the celebrity. It had only been a brief encounter really, yet somehow, almost a month later you were still thinking about him.
It was just another Friday night. You and your friends had already been here for a few hours and you were many drinks in. Your cheeks were flushed and you were laughing a little too hard at everyone’s jokes. You were standing with your friends, your gin and tonic in one hand, and a dart in the other. You had just thrown your first two darts and were lining up to take your last shot. 
Just as you released the dart, Jess leaned in and whispered in your ear, “Don’t look now but someone is checking you out from the bar.”
Before the dart had even met its mark, you whipped around to look for him. Your eyes landed on him almost immediately. He was sitting on the same stool at the bar, though this time he was turned to face the dartboards, his elbows back on the bartop. 
“I told you not to look!” Jess hissed. 
You were too busy smiling at Bucky to notice Jess now. You turned around briefly to check that your last dart had hit center before announcing you were going for another drink. You heard Jess suggest that maybe you had had enough to drink, but you just kept walking.
Bucky’s eyes were on you the whole way as you focused very hard on not tripping in the heels you were wearing. While you walked you realized that he had his hair pulled back tonight with the barest hint of 5 o’clock shadow. No matter what, you’d find him attractive, you thought. Especially because with his hair back it gave you an even better view of those steel blue eyes. When you got to the bar, you hopped up on the stool next to him and he turned to face the bartop.
“What’s a girl gotta do to buy you a drink?” you asked with a grin.
“And here I was going to buy you one,” he smiled back, crooked and boyish.  
You scoffed jokingly. “So old fashioned. This is the 21st century you know, old man.”
“Do men in the 21st century usually buy drinks for girls who haven’t introduced themselves first?” You could see him smiling into his glass as he took a sip of the clear liquid.
“Might I point out you haven’t introduced yourself either? In fact, the first time you spoke to me you were making fun of my drink order.”
He turned his body slightly to face you, and held out his hand for you to shake. “I’m James Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky.”
“I know,“ you smirked, putting your hand in his. His hand absolutely dwarfed yours, somehow making you feel even smaller next to the super soldier.
“And yet I still don’t know your name.”
You thought about teasing him some more, but decided to just introduce yourself instead. He gave your hand a solid shake, repeating your name out loud. You liked the way it sounded in his deep timbre. 
At that moment, Max finally made his way over to the pair of you. It took your alcohol muddled mind a moment to realize you still had your hand in Bucky’s. You quickly snatched it away and turned to smile at Max.
“Another gin and tonic, please,” Bucky ordered. You were about to protest when he nodded his head towards you, continuing, “And for the lady?”
“I think it’s time I switched to water, Max. Thank you.” 
As soon as Max was out of ear shot you turned back to Bucky, giving him a shit eating grin as you leaned your chin on your fist. He looked at you before facing forward again. “What, doll?”
“I thought only old people drank gin these days,” you mimicked his words from the night you met.
Before he could answer, Jess came up to you. You could tell she was trying to remain perfectly casual in Bucky’s presence, her eyes darting to him every so often, as she told you they were all going to head out. “You’ll be okay, right?”
“Max is bringing me a water as we speak, I’ll be just fine, Jess.” You saw her eyes dart to Bucky again. “Bucky, this is Jess. Jess, this is Bucky,” you quickly introduced.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Bucky told her as they shook hands. You noted that their handshake was significantly shorter than the one you had shared. 
For a moment you thought Jess was going to say something more to him but instead she turned back to you, gave you a quick hug, and went to rejoin the rest of your friends where they waited near the door. You raised your hand in farewell before they all filed out. 
When you turned back around, you noticed that Max had brought your drinks. You took a few large gulps of your water before spinning in the stool so you were fully facing Bucky. “So?” you prompted.
“Still on me about the gin?” he questioned taking a sip of it.You nodded your head with a grin. “I know you know who I am now. Which means you also know I wasn’t lying when I said I was old and didn’t look it- unlike some people.”
“You have to admit it tastes better than a scotch and soda though, right?”
“It sure does,” he winked, raising his class to you. You gently bumped your water glass against his, before you both drained their contents. When he called Max over you thought he was going to order another round, but instead he paid both his tab and yours.
“I was supposed to be buying you a drink!” you protested.
“Maybe next time, doll,” he assured you, tossing a few extra bills on the bartop for good measure. You raised your eyebrows at the prospect of a “next time”. “Let’s get you home.”
“I live just down the road,” you told him as you both stood from the stools.
“Let me walk you. It’s late.” 
He gave you a crooked smile that you couldn’t help but return with a nod. As you both made your way to the door, he gently guided you with a hand at the small of your back. Once outside, he pulled his hand away, but stayed close beside you. He was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off of him and part of you wished he’d touch you again. Between the water and the cool night air, your head was starting to clear a bit. 
Even in your heels you had to tilt your head up to look at him. You could see him scanning the surrounding area as you walked in a comfortable silence. At this time of night there was no one else around. You had never felt unsafe walking home from the bar, but it was nice to have the security of a hulking super soldier next to you.
Your apartment, which was above a place that claimed to buy and sell gold, was only a few blocks from Shade’s, and you were there faster than you wanted to be. You stopped in front of the door that led up to your apartment, and turned to face Bucky. 
“Thank you for walking me back.”
As you looked up at him now, alone on the empty street, the only light came from a nearby streetlamp and a neon sign in the shop window. You became hyper-aware of just how alone the two of you were now, and just how quiet the street was after the bustle of the bar. You could hear Bucky’s shoes scrape on the pavement as he took a hesitant step towards you. 
He reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and then left his hand there to cup your jaw. Without thinking you took a step forward, closing the distance between you. You placed your hands on his broad shoulders to steady yourself as he brought his lips down to yours. The kiss was gentle and soft, like he was afraid of breaking you. He pulled back after just a moment, those steel blue eyes meeting yours. Your eyes flicked down to his lips before making eye contact once more.
That seemed to be the only que he needed before leaning back in for another kiss. He seemed more sure of himself now, your lips moving together in perfect sync. He wrapped his arms securely around your waist as you clung to his shoulders. This time when he pulled away you were both breathless and grinning. You rested your foreheads together as you tried to catch your breath.
“I’ve been thinking about doing that for weeks,” you admittedly shyly, your voice barely above a whisper.
You felt more than heard him chuckle. “Yeah, me too, doll.”
After a few more moments you let go of each other so you could fish your keys out of your purse.
 “I’d invite you up, but I don’t think your old fashioned sensibilities would allow it,” you joked as your shaking hands managed to unlock the door. You turned back to face him.
“I’ve got work in the morning anyway, but maybe we can grab dinner sometime this week?” he asked, a little bashful. “I’ll even let you pay if you want.” 
Having a sudden thought, you reached your hand back into your purse, pulling out a Sharpie. You held your hand out expectantly to him. He looked a bit confused before placing his hand in yours. As neat as you could, you scrawled your number on his forearm. “Call me sometime and we’ll set it up.”
He gave your hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Alright. Well goodnight, doll.”
“Goodnight, Bucky.” You leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.
With a grin, he shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to walk back in the direction of the bar. When he was about a block away he turned and raised a hand in farewell. You did the same before finally going inside. You were still grinning like an idiot as you climbed into bed and fell asleep.  
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cynicalrainbows · 5 years ago
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The Next Best Thing Chapter 18
In which Cathy is having a Bad Day.
The weekend is good, but things start to go wrong almost immediately after- Monday morning, or maybe even Sunday night.
She goes to sleep, after another chapter of Little Women, thinking about tarlatan dresses and what corsets must feel like, but she ends up dreaming about much scarier things- little attic girls with sewn up mouths scratching on the underside of her mattress and rooms full of cobwebby birthday cake and running through an empty art gallery after the tips of her parent’s coats that keep disappearing round corners no matter how fast she chases after them-
It’s a muddled, unsettling sort of dream- and then the day starts out in the worst-ever possible way because when she wakes up, her sheets and pajamas are cold and wet and sticking to her bare skin, and she’s so horrified that she actually sort of wants to shrivel up and die right where she is, just disappear from existence entirely.
(If she had to choose, she thinks she’d take the little attic girl, sewn up-mouth and all, over this.)
Thankfully, she’s spared Catalina having to find out (she thinks then, she really would die of embarrassment) because when she comes out of the shower, Catalina doesn’t even think of ask why she’s showering in the morning when she had a bath the night before- she just says that she’s going to put on a load of laundry before work to try and get on top of the housework and can Cathy put her own things in?
She can.
It’s a relief, and actually a very, very lucky coincidence because Catalina never usually does laundry in the morning ever, even though the laundry makes things into even more of a rush.
It turns out that Catalina’s alarm didn’t go off on time so they’re running a bit behind.
Still, even though she’s had longer in bed than normal, she’s tired.
 Catalina looks unusually ruffled too, and she looks oddly concerned and earnest when she asks Cathy if she’s alright.
‘I’m fine.’ She tries to look like she means it.
‘Are you sure, mija? You know you can tell me anything.’
She nods as convincingly as she can and Catalina doesn’t look entirely convinced but she stops asking anyway.
Now she’s on the phone, trying to explain to her boss why she can’t come in early, while she makes coffee and stuffs files into a bag.
‘-I understand but
.. I know-.....Look, I’m just having a bit of a stressful morning, but I’ll make it up, I can just work through lunch again
..Yes, no I do understand, truly-.... What’s that?’ Catalina eventually slams the fridge, looking annoyed. ‘No, she CAN’T take herself to school James, she’s SEVEN
. No, I don’t care what your kids were doing at that age-’
She keeps arguing and Cathy stirs her cereal round a little too vigorously in irritation that Catalina is apparently telling everyone she’s too much of a baby to take herself to school.
(She bets she could really. She’d probably be fine, even if she had to get a bus by herself like the really big children do. Not that Catalina will listen.
‘I don’t think you’d like it, mija.’
‘I would.’
‘But the bus makes you feel carsick, I thought.’
‘Only sometimes. And it’s different when you’re grownup, grownups don’t get carsick.’
‘I wish you’d told that to Maria when I got my first car.’ Catalina chuckles, momentarily distracted. ‘My backseat was never the same- I told her at the time she wouldn’t like tequila-’
‘What?’ 
Cathy is confused; Catalina looks like Kitty when she’s caught sneaking cubes of sugar from the bowl.
‘Nothing, mija. But you still can’t go to school by yourself.’
Catalina is VERY unfair sometimes.)
Catalina sighs at the puddle of milk by her bowl and drops Cathy’s school bag by her chair.
‘Please be careful mija, we’re late as it is-’
This feels unfair when it’s Catalina who woke her up late in the first place and she mumbles something to this effect under her breath while spooning up the last of her Shreddies.
‘WHAT was that?’
She knows it isn’t good when Catalina speaks sharply like that, and doubly so that she isn’t even calling her mija- so she doesn’t repeat it and shrugs instead. Still. It ISN’T her fault they’re late.
Catalina doesn’t press it, but she frowns and whisks away Cathy’s bowl, so she doesn’t even get to drink the milk she’d been saving til last.
‘Your dinner money is due today-’ Catalina’s phone starts ringing again, sounding more insistent and angry with each vibration. ‘I have to get this- can you go and get the cheque and put it in your school bag? It’s on the table in the hall- Hello?’
Cathy’s so annoyed about the milk- about the general badness of the day in general- that she doesn’t even answer, just stamps her feet harder than necessary when she goes to put on her school shoes.
‘Cathy, stop that NOW-’
She stops. Reluctantly.
It’s not a good beginning.
*
 Catalina drops her off in such a hurry she has to run across the playground to join the back of the line before her class goes inside, so it’s not until they’re all in the classroom that Cathy notices that everyone seems to have more bags on them than usual.
Her stomach flips over- of course, it’s Monday.
Swimming day.
School swimming lessons had paled in comparison to Anne’s sleepover- which is why she hasn’t thought about the fact that they’re starting today for a while- but now, with everyone else chattering excitedly about how far and how fast they can swim, about whether it’s true the pool they’re going to has a waterslide or a wave machine, about whether it’s true that everyone has to jump into the pool to begin, whether they can swim or not
.now it feels like a bit more of a big deal.
Especially when Anne pauses in showing off the fancy green goggles (that her Mum dropped off at Jane’s that morning before school) to ask where her swimming things are.
 (The shame of Kitty biting Grace has, it seems, gone over rather better than expected with the other parents, since apparently they all have rather strong feelings about being treated like babysitting services. 
Because of this, Anne and Kitty are no longer in disgrace and can go home- which is a good thing, because Jane has called in a couple of favours to cover her shifts and is running out of people she can ask.)
Having to admit she’s forgotten to bring her swimming things makes Cathy’s tummy feel all tight and anxious- is forgetting swimming things like forgetting homework or is it even worse? Is she going to get into trouble?- and then Anne looks sympathetic and lowers her voice.
 ‘Did Catalina forget?’
She isn’t really sure whether to say yes or no- did she? Did both of them?- but she nods uncertainly anyway and Anne looks sorry for her because Anne knows all about parents forgetting things for you.
‘If I’d brought my spare bikini, you could have borrowed it-’
‘That’s ok.’
‘I’m sorry you don’t have your stuff. Will you still be allowed to swim?’
She doesn’t answer.
She’s let Anne borrow things too many times to count, she's expressed regret that Anne doesn’t have this or that hundreds of times, and she’s never once felt strange about it
... but she isn’t sure she likes it being the other way around. 
Not one bit.
They’re interrupted, luckily, by the register. And following the register, dinner money collection.
It’s only as the teacher takes out the familiar red plastic folder that she remembers something else- the cheque, still sitting on the hall table.
The teacher looks at her oddly when she has to admit she doesn’t have anything to give her.
‘What happened, Cathy?’
‘I-’ She’s about to say that she forgot it but then it occurs to her that she’s already going to have to admit to not having her swimming things and she really doesn’t want to be in trouble twice today, and maybe she’ll be in less trouble for the swimming things if the teacher feels sorry for her. 
So she opens her eyes a bit wider, trying to look all honest and sad and brave, like one of the poor street children in the storybooks they sometimes read at Christmas.
‘Catalina
..wouldn’t give me any dinner money today.’
It’s not really, really a lie, not exactly. After all, Catalina didn’t give her anything at all. And it was a cheque she was meant to pick up from the hall table, not money. So really, she isn’t lying.
(That’s what she tells herself, anyway.)
The teacher doesn’t question her any further, thank goodness, she just shakes her head and makes a little mark by her name.
‘Alright- you go along and have dinner as normal today.’
‘Yes Miss.’ 
(She’s wondering if maybe she should explain- that really, it was just Catalina forgetting rather than not giving her money on purpose, and actually, Catalina didn’t really forget at all
.but she doesn’t quite have the words.)
‘And don’t look so worried-’ The teacher smiles reassuringly at her and pats her shoulder. ‘It’ll all be sorted out.’
Which she takes to mean that she can have the dinner for free today and bring in the cheque tomorrow and no one need be any the wiser about anything.
Which is a relief.
(She’s glad Catalina doesn’t have to find out about her not-lie.)
*
She cheers up a bit as they all get into line for the coach- because Anna brings up the sleepover and the other girls start asking questions and looking jealous and it’s nice to feel special
.. But then on the coach, the teacher stops Cathy and Anne squashing onto a double seat with Anna and because Cathy is on the end, she’s the one who gets sent to find a new seat. 
The only one left is next to Stephen Gardener, who picks his nose and fries ants with his pocket magnifying glass at playtime and likes to try to stamp on people's fingers when they drop things under the table. 
This is NOT a good day at all.
They’re only engaging in a little tiny bit of under-the-seat kicking as they negotiate seat boundaries and leg room, but unfortunately, it draws the attention of their teacher (who is looking more ruffled by the minute and doing lots of dark muttering about her own views on school swimming lessons). 
They got told very firmly to stop-this-instant on pain of being left behind at school, and this makes Stephen subside almost at once (with one final secret kick to her ankle) but Cathy wonders if maybe she should carry on because that would be one way at least to avoid having to get into trouble for the missing costume.
(She doesn’t know how Anne manages it all the time- forgetting things is so stressful and horrible that for once she doesn’t even think about how the jerky hot coach is making her feel carsick. She doesn’t EVEN care that Anna and Anne are whispering and giggling together in a very annoying way down the aisle- she just wants to be able to press a big button like on the television remote and fast forward to tomorrow so the stress of dinner money and swimming costumes can be over and done with and everything can go back to normal.)
The class is lining up to go into the changing rooms when a teacher stops her.
‘Where are your things?’
She bites her lip- she doesn’t know this teacher, she’s a special just-for-swimming one and she isn’t sure if she’ll be the sort of teacher who acts like forgetting things is a personal affront to her. She’s wishing she’d said something to her own teacher, because then maybe it would be sorted out like the dinner money thing, but it’s too late now.
‘Did you forget them?’
Before she can say anything, her real teacher comes over, looking harassed and carrying a clipboard. 
She gives a little sigh- obviously noting Cathy’s bagless state- and then draws the swimming-teacher away a couple of steps and starts whispering to her in a way that is apparently very rude when you do it in class but just fine when it’s teachers, even if they’re not even whispering properly and she can still hear bits of what they’re saying.
(At least when she and Anne whisper, they do it properly.)
‘....both parents
.quite recent
.still settling back in
.’
She knows exactly what’s being said, even without hearing all the words, because it’s just a version of the same story that everyone around her seems to be telling one another
.but she still doesn’t like it.
It’s also very odd to have something so enormously, earth-shakingly huge trimmed down and stuffed into a few neat potted sentences- as if Mum and Dad dying is just another piece of news, like any other. Her teacher at least is using her Very Serious voice- and the swimming teacher does a little sad face when she hears and shakes her head
.but it’s not enough. 
(She doesn’t really know what COULD be enough.)
‘....some problems
. Not sure they’re coping
.dinner money
.-’
(She hopes very hard that they’re talking about someone else’s dinner money and not hers.)
Eventually, the swimming teacher turns back to her, her eyebrows knit with cloying concern.
‘Did your- ah- your godmother forget your swimming things, dear?’
She nods. It isn’t a lie, really, is it? After all, they BOTh forgot them.
‘Poor little thing.’ She clicks her tongue. ‘We’ll find you something, poppet.’
Stephen sniggers and Cathy wishes they were back on the bus, so she could kick him with plausible deniability. 
(No one will believe her foot slipped all the way over to where Eddie Bonner and Stephen are pinging the straps of their goggles at one another. Worse luck.)
She doesn’t want to be in trouble, but she doesn’t like being a ‘poor little thing’ or a poppet either, and she’s starting to wonder if perhaps it wouldn’t have been better to just be honest about everything all along, when she’s handed a spare swimming costume and all thoughts of everything else go out of her mind.
The spare swimming costume is awful- all bobbly from being washed one time too many, somehow too tight and too baggy and a nasty sickly pink colour. 
The towel smells damply sour.
‘Yuck!’ Anne wrinkles her nose, and Cathy sort of wants to push her over, especially when she sees the big, fluffy towel Anne is taking out of her own bag.
(It looks suspiciously like one of Jane’s Nice towels, which means the towels that are for bath use only and not for swimming and definitely not for picnics, sunbathing or anything interesting at all. She wonders if Jane knows Anne has it.)
‘It smells funny!’
Anne is giggling but Anna isn’t.
‘I don’t think it does.’
She’s grateful for Anna’s help but mostly just annoyed at herself. How COULD she forget swimming day, when she’s been looking forward to it for weeks?
Watching the others get changed into their own pretty costumes makes her feel even worse, and then she feels a stab of anger at Catalina too. 
Why DIDN’T she remember it was swimming day, why DIDN'T she make sure Cathy had her own towel and her blue-and-silver swimming costume, when all the other Mum’s managed to? 
Even if she isn’t a Mum, it’s meant to be her job now- isn’t that what Catalina keeps reminding her, that it’s ok to let her do Mum-things?
(Her own Mum wouldn’t have forgotten. Her own Mum would have remembered- she wouldn’t have forgotten an important thing like swimming day because she’d know how it important it was

Then she thinks about how her Mum won’t EVER know about swimming day, how she won’t EVER be able to tell her- and how no matter how good she gets at swimming now, it doesn’t matter because Dad won’t be there to be proud of her. 
She tries to think about Mum swimming in the sea and screaming at the seaweed- the story made her feel warm and good and happy on Sunday- but now it just makes her sad.
 She’ll never swim with either of her parents again, just hear stories about them swimming with other people.
 It feels suddenly so unfair that she has to grub for scraps of other people's memories of them: why can’t she have her own? 
And for that matter, why can’t she just have them- not the memories of them but real, live parents who sort out things like dinner money and swimming costumes for you?)
She’s so busy thinking about this- and so reluctant to put on the horrible suit that it makes her slow getting changed, and she’s the last one out of the girls changing room when the swimming-teacher stops her AGAIN.
‘Don’t you have a bobble, dear?’
‘Why, Miss?’
‘To tie your hair back, of course...Oh well, I can see you don’t-’ She unsnaps an elastic band from around her wrist and before Cathy can dodge, her hair is being scraped back painfully into a much-too-tight ponytail.
‘There! Much better!’
It isn’t much better but she can’t say that. She definitely can’t explain that she always has her hair loose and extra-fluffed out when she goes swimming at home.
(She isn’t a baby anymore, she KNOWS that mother otters fluffing out their babies to keep them buoyant is totally different to her fluffing up her own curls. 
It’s not like she doesn’t know she won’t go under with her hair tied back- she can swim properly now, after all, she’s not a baby afraid to go into the water even with armbands on.
 She just LIKES having her hair fluffed out for swimming- but it’s not like she can do anything about it now, especially not when the elastic is so tight it’s making her head sore.)
They all have to line up and jump into the water and then swim to the side to prove they can all swim well enough to be in the big pool- but she somehow ends up a second behind everyone else jumping in, and she’s thinking so much about whether her hair really COULD affect her floatyness that she forgets to hold her nose
.and then she’s choking and splashing and her eyes and nose are burning and aching, and she has to grab onto the side cough until someone pulls her out.
It’s embarrassing, once it stops being scary- more so because the minute she can breathe halfway normally again, the just-for-swimming teacher is taking her hand like she’s Kitty’s age and taking her over to a whole other section of the pool.
‘We’ll try you over her, dear-’
For a moment, she’s completely confused- and then she realises.
They think she can’t swim.
She’s been put in the beginners group- along with the other children who can’t swim. Some of them don’t even want to get into the water and are clinging to the steps like they think they’re going to drown.
There’s a new swimming teacher with them- she’s smiling and going on about how much fun it’s all going to be and how they don’t need to be afraid of the water at all, it won’t hurt them.
They have to line up along the wall, with the water lapping around their tummies, and do silly things like blowing bubbles with their faces in the water.
(Cathy wonders if this is a punishment for not being able to swim.)
She wants to speak up, to explain that she’s been put in the wrong group, that she can swim perfectly well, that it’s all a mistake-
‘Go on, lovie!’
The new swimming teacher is beaming brightly at her.
‘But I’m not- I can-’ She can’t quite figure out how to explain properly- she doesn’t want the new teacher to think she’s being rude, after all- and it’s so frustrating that she can’t just SAY it.
‘There’s nothing to be scared of- be a big brave girl now!’
This stings- she wants to explain that she isn’t a BIT scared, that she learnt to swim without armbands or anything at all, and not in a baby pool like this but in the big, choppy, heaving grey OCEAN, with the waves breaking ever minute, and that even THEN she wasn’t frightened even though she was two years younger
.but that makes her think about Dad’s hand in hers as he led her into the water, and his hand under her head as she floated on her back and how proud he was when she did it for the first time, how proud they both were, and him telling her all about the special strong lady swimmers who swam all the way across the channel to France and how she’d decided then and there that she was going to do that too one day, and how he’d nodded seriously and said that he’d cheer her on the whole time from the boat
..and then she has to duck her face down quickly into the water, so quickly that more water goes up her nose and the chlorine stings her eyes.
(It’s ok- it doesn’t count as crying if your face is already wet.)
**
The lesson is boring boring boring but she doesn’t want to try saying anything because she doesn’t want any more memories to come back. She does look over to the other group a few times- they’re splashing and shrieking and swimming, real proper swimming. They’re learning strokes that she’s known for AGES, and it’s so frustrating, knowing that she should be up there among them.
After what feels like hours, they come out of the pool and Anne immediately asks her what happened.
‘Why’d they put you in the other group?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you can swim already-’
‘I KNOW I can swim already!’ She wants Anne to appreciate just exactly what she had to put up with so she starts telling her all about how boring and babyish it was, but rather than being properly sympathetic, Anne just gives her a funny look. 
‘Why didn’t you SAY something?’
It’s too hard to explain- the way the words stuck, the way the memories had started tugging at her like an undertow that might pull her off her feet any moment- so she doesn’t
*
They don’t have enough time to dry off properly after swimming- and she doesn’t like feeling the towel on herself more than she has to, so the rest of the day feels damp and chlorinated.
Then Catalina is late picking her up,something she normally wouldn’t mind, except that it rankles when she thinks of the horrible pink swimming costume and how much her hair hurts all scraped back (somehow this is Catalina’s fault too) and how Anne keeps boasting about being in the top five in one of the stupid swimming races.
(It’s so unfair- she can swim better than Anne, she KNOWS she can, and Anne knows it too. But no one else does- even as far as Anna knows, she’s one of the ones who can’t swim.)
‘Hello, mija-’ Catalina is juggling an armful of folders and her handbag as she aims an apologetic smile at the teacher, who nods tightly. 
‘Hello.’ It comes out flat.
(This is not the first time Catalina has been late, but it’s the first time Cathy’s minded so much.)
‘How was your day?’
She shrugs. She doesn’t want to talk about it. (She bets if everyone at Catalina’s work suddenly thought she couldn’t swim, she’d not want to talk about it either.)
‘I’m sorry I’m late mija, I got a call just as I was about to leave work-’ Catalina is smiling but she looks a tiny bit anxious too, like she’s trying to sound happier than she is. ‘I have exciting news! We’re going to have a visit from your social worker tomorrow- nothing to worry about, just so she can check everything is alright and I was thinking we should really-’
Catalina breaks off when the teacher comes over to them.
‘Mrs Trastamara?’
It’s a sign of Catalina being more stressed than usual (even if she’s trying to look calm and normal) that she doesn’t correct the teacher for calling her ‘Mrs’, which is something she’s usually VERY quick to do.
‘Yes?’
‘Could we have a little word before you go? Just quickly?’
‘Of course-’ Catalina looks a bit confused but she smiles anyway. ‘What is it? Is there anything wrong?’
The teacher glances at Cathy and Catalina follows her gaze. ‘I think it’s best if we perhaps talk privately- Cathy, could you wait outside for a moment?’
She nods and slides from her chair obediently.
Outside the classroom, she counts the coat pegs over and over, and wishes on every one that the teacher is just going to talk to Catalina about something normal and safe and boring, like the PTA or the summer fete.
Maybe, after all, everything IS ok- maybe everyone has forgotten everything, including things she may or may not have said about dinner money or the lack of it
.
Then the door opens and Catalina comes out.
She does not look happy.
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bananaofswifts · 5 years ago
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Taylor Swift’s folklore Dismantles Her Own Self-Mythologizing: Review
The singer-songwriter's eighth album cuts away the pop scaffolding for dark, dreamy contemplation
The Lowdown: Born of isolation, Taylor Swift’s eighth album, folklore, interrogates the pop star’s self-mythologizing and turns her gaze outward. Created during the ongoing pandemic, Swift collaborated remotely on 11 songs with Aaron Dessner of The National, who shared orchestrations composed inside his own quarantine. The results lean toward modern folk and glitchy experimentation, abandoning pop bombast but not the drama of swelling strings or anxious percussion. The accompanying visuals depict a gloomy summer, and listeners can imagine Swift watching storms barrel across the Atlantic horizon and wandering old-growth forests in half-done braids, alone or with a companion socially distanced beyond the frame. Dropped on 24 hours’ notice without her typically painstaking roll-out, the 16 moody songs delve into “fantasy, history, memory” and find Swift roaming her past loves with fresh, if tired, eyes — but also writing complex fictional scenes beyond her own experience. From a lyrical standpoint, it’s arguably Swift’s most contemplative, ambivalent, and expansive work yet.
The Good: While 2019’s Lover tried to please everyone with a wide range of half-baked genre parodies, folklore sounds like an entire album sprung from “The Archer”, the previous record’s most self-aware, unresolved, and memorable track. There are no pop-radio bangers here, but once I stopped howling “CRUEL SUMMER should’ve been a single!!,” folklore’s melodies and choruses ribboned into my ears and got tangled with my own memories.
Dessner’s influence is palpable, and his orchestration is consistently gorgeous — an unexpected tone to which Swift responds deftly. Jack Antonoff, Swift’s friend and longtime producer/co-writer, also worked on the record; though still distinctive, Antonoff clearly follows the cloud-covered path set by Swift and Dessner. Swift duets with Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon on “exile” to elegant effect; the song acts as a contrapuntal of a dissolving romance, the two voices alternating while remaining separate, harmonizing only with themselves. Like most of these songs, “exile” marks maturity: The lyrics are clever but restrained, and the emotions are not only high-pitched but possess complex, shifting depths.
This album fits comfortably among what I’ve been spinning this summer: Jamila Woods’ LEGACY! LEGACY!, Waxahatchee’s Saint Cloud, and HAIM’s Women in Music Pt. III — albums full of momentum, contemplation, push-and-pull in equal measure. Swift signals growth both personal and creative throughout folklore. Superficially, perhaps, she drops the F-bomb twice — a transgression against “radio-” and “family-friendly” that she’s never dared before. The first line of album opener “the 1” is “I’m doin’ good, I’m on some new shit” — even as she explicitly passes her hand through an old flame. It’s that self-awareness and willingness to both hold herself responsible and forgive that set these songs apart. “mirrorball” sounds like lost Jimmy Eat World jangle-pop laced with melancholy pedal steel and builds to a stunning bridge where Swift admits: “I’ve never been a natural/ All I do is try, try, try 
 I’m still trying everything to keep you looking at me.” Swift has never sounded so honest, and the scrim between her interiority and position as global pop powerhouse has never been so transparent.
Though Swift dons rose-colored lenses for even the darkest heartaches, her perspective at 30 has made her lyricism even more piercing. “I hit my peak at seven,” she sings on a wistful track about a lifelong friendship. “I was too scared to jump in, but I was high 
 Are there still beautiful things?” On album standout “invisible string”, Swift sings, “Cold was the steel of my ax to grind/ For the boys who broke my heart/ Now I send their babies presents.” She’s so often dealt in retro tropes of riding in cars with and borrowing sweaters from crushes (and that’s still present here), but this banality is fresh and hits harder. In the same song, she credits destiny with uniting her and her true love, but subtly undercuts the clichĂ© — “isn’t it just so pretty to think/ All along there was some/ Invisible string/ Tying you to me?” She understands the myth-making required of every romantic love — and the constant retelling if that love lasts.
Until now, Swift has been an excellent narrator of the dramas of young love, big friendship, and staying true to a certain narrow-minded integrity. She has been America’s favorite crazy white girl, setting fire to the love letters and reputations of those who wronged her or erecting pedestals to her current squad or lover. But the only notably pointed finger on folklore comes through “mad woman” (much improved over the pseudo-feminist gloss of “The Man”). Swift seems to have realized that the pain of growing up often comes down to how we navigate the tension between expectations and reality — of our relationships, achievements and setbacks, and our choices.
From that calm, Swift’s imagination expands, and she’s consciously trying to write from perspectives not her own, including eccentric heiress Rebekah Harkness in “the last great American dynasty” and a lightly vindictive corpse in “my tears ricochet” (singing, “I can go anywhere I want, just not home”).
The Bad: Sometimes Swift still seems caught in the mechanism of her own massive professional apparatus. The album’s promotional Instagram filter is a “glittery sepia-tone,” which feels a bit tone-deaf, and the self-styled portraits of Swift appear to reference a glamorous mid-century sad girl a la Sylvia Plath.
On occasion, Swift can’t resist the pop-culture tropes embedded in her psyche: “illicit affairs” seems cribbed directly from a Sex and the City episode, and the teenage love-triangle series (“cardigan”, “august”, “betty”) evokes any number of late-2000s CW soaps. Yet, the restraint exhibited here, and lines like “meet me behind the mall” and “you can’t believe a word she says/ Most times/ But this time it was true” effectively refresh the clichĂ©s yet again.
“epiphany” seems to try to connect periods of global and American crisis, from World War II to COVID-19. While there are a few standout lines — “hold your hand through plastic now” — the ideas are muddled. You can hear the impulse to speak more broadly about the world beyond her walls, but she hasn’t quite figured out what to say yet. Perhaps that’s next.
The Verdict: On folklore, Swift has come of age, emotionally and sonically, and proven herself — not that she needed to — as not only an exceptionally autonomous auteur but a nimble collaborator with an ever-broadening palate.
We live in an era when Americans are examining and dismantling national myths on a grand scale. Swift, too, is expanding her perspective yet starting at home, evaluating ongoing struggles, failures, and choices, weaving larger themes into her well-worn tapestries of bittersweet, young love. The songs of folklore show Swift piercing holes in her own narrative and persona and seem to ask: What’s the account we give to ourselves and to others? Can we look more closely? Can we change the story and survive?
Essential Tracks: “cardigan”, “mirrorball”, “invisible string”, and “peace”
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sylvain-writes · 6 years ago
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Scarlet Letters (TMNT Raphael x Reader)
Chapter 8/8: Bitter and Sweet
Rated M (Mature)
(Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ao3)
Since passing out in the Turtle Van, you’re not sure how much time has passed.  You regained consciousness several times to the excitement of blue eyes and brown, but it feels like forever since you’ve seen Raphael. 
In the space between asleep and awake, memories fuel your concern.  You remember being taken, finding Leo, your escape through the temple.  You remember Michelangelo stealing you away and Raphael disappearing into the madness.  When you wake in the lair this time, it’s with a strangled cry.
Mikey looks up from the table, startled by your shout.  You stare at him for a moment to catch your breath, but he doesn’t stare back at you.  His gaze is affixed to a point above.  Turning your head, you follow.  You don’t realize you’re lying with your head in Raphael’s lap until you’re looking up at him.  
In periphery to your vision, there’s movement.  Donatello has entered the room.  He and Mikey discuss something amongst themselves.  But Raphael’s hand alights to your head and you sigh.  He brushes his fingers over your hairline and you can’t focus on anything but the relief of having him close.
“Ya guys can beat it,” Raphael grunts.  Though he shoos his brothers away, his sights are set on you.  There’s no anger in his voice or his eyes.   “I got it from here.”
“Right,” Donnie says shortly.  Then, dutifully, he reminds his brother of your care.  “Poultice, tea, anti-inflammatories-”
“I said, I got it,” Raphael raises his voice at that, but only enough to get his point across.  “Now, the two o’ you, get the shell outta here.”
After a bit of commotion, and what sounds like the a fight over who can leave the room more quickly, you and Raphael are alone.
His thumb brushes over a lump on your forehead and though his touch is a comfort, you wince.  “How do you guys go through this every night?”
Raph frowns.  He’s apologetic, guilty, when he admits, “It ain’t always like that.”  Your stomach drops when he looks away from you, even though his eyes only leave you for a second.  There’s pain in his expression as he asks, “Where does it hurt?”
“Hmph.”  The effort it takes for you to lift your arm is substantial, but you manage to gesture a wave over your body as you lay.  “Everywhere.”
“There’s Tylenol on the tray,” he explains, but he’s already reaching for the water glass and pills.  
You have to roll onto your side to take them and find that although the position makes it impossible to look up at Raphael, you’re more comfortable.  The fabric of Raphael’s sweatpants is well worn.  His muscles under your cheek have just enough give.  You snuggle in.  And when Raphael’s heavy hand comes to rest on your side, you settle.  “Is this alright?”
“I don’t gotta be anywhere but here,” Raph drawls.  The lazy lines he draws over the crown of your head tingle down your spine.  You’d like to stay awake, but the safety of Raphael’s presence eases you to sleep.
⁂
When you wake in the lair again, you think a few hours have passed.  Maybe a day.  Muffled voices rise and fall in the next room.  Curious, restless, you move to sit.
As before, Mikey is hovering nearby, waiting to announce your every movement like it’s his job.  You think, Maybe it is.
“Dude,” Donatello chides.  “Space.”  The bespectacled turtle adjusts his glasses as he muddles herbs in a small stone bowl.  “Sorry,” he apologizes to you, but you shrug it off.
“It’s fine,” you croak through your dry throat.  
“But you’re up!  You OK?” At Donnie’s direction, Mikey’s taken a step back from the couch.  Even so, he greets you with enthusiasm.
You shake your head, unsure.  “Almost.  Can I get a little help?”
Without missing a beat in his work, Donatello kicks his younger brother - a quick strike of his heel to the back of Mikey’s knee.  Mikey’s stance falters, for just a second, before he whips his head around to scowl.  Donatello jerks his chin toward a tunnel in a silent reminder.
“Oh!  I should tell Raph you’re up.” Mikey takes care in helping you to your feet, though he still jostles your shoulder more than you would have preferred.  
“I think I can manage that myself,” you say, but Mikey remains at your side until you both feel like you’re steady.  The voices in the next room get louder, then hush.  “Just follow the arguing, right?”
Mikey looks from Donatello to you with a hint of amusement.  “You really do know Raph.”
You choose to ignore the wisecrack to make your way down the tunnel.  It’s slow going, but soon you’re leaning against the wall at an entrance to a large room.  Judging by the mats, the training equipment, and the walls of weapons, you can tell you’ve stumbled upon the dojo.  
In front of a small altar of incense and candles, the brothers engage in a heated discussion.
“You can’t keep going out there alone.”  There’s an edge to the blue-banded turtle’s order, and an even sharper one to the reply.
“I ain’t waiting for them to come back, Leo.”
Your cheeks burn as you watch the brothers square off against each other.  This isn’t what you want for them.  
“It’s done, man.  They’re gone.”
“You can’t say that for sure.”  Raphael paces as he seethes.  “Ya don’t know.  What they did to ya, what they did to
”
Exhaustion heavy in his voice, Leonardo insists, “You heard Donatello.  All that’s over.”
Raphael’s large knuckles are white in his fists, but he keeps them at his sides.  “I gotta be sure, Leo.  Every last one of ‘em’s gotta pay for what they did.”
The eldest draws out his sigh.  “We gotta be smart about this-”
“Oh, and I’m not smart?  I’m just the big, dumb idiot, right?  Got all of us into this shit, so it’s frickin’ unfathomable that I could get us out.  Right?”
“Raph-” Leo starts in, but you’ve seen enough.
“I thought you two were supposed to be making amends or something.” Although you stand at the entrance, you’re sure they can hear your voice waver as it carries across the room.
“We were just clearin’ the air,” Raphael grumbles.  But the expressions he and Leo wear assure you nothing has been resolved.
Waving his hands in the air, Leo tosses in the towel.  He doesn’t acknowledge Raphael with a ‘goodbye’ or a ‘good luck’ when he leaves him.  He passes you, however, on his way out; and with a nod as he goes, he says, “Glad you’re up.”
You give him a nod in return.  There are things you need to say to him, to all of the guys, but Raphael comes first.  “Can we talk?”
“Yeah,” Raphael answers, and you’d think he was just given devastating news.  “We should talk.”  He gestures down the tunnel with a sweep of his hand.  “My room’s down there.  It’s private.  I’ll, uh, be there in a minute.”
You hesitate at the edge of the mat long enough to see Raphael isn’t hanging back to alleviate his frustrations by punching dummies or throwing shuriken at targets.  His slow steps take him to the altar, where he lights a new stick of incense.  He touches a folded pile of cloth and bows.  You know the significance of this spot.  A memorial for their father.  When Raphael’s knees touch the ground, you turn away.  He deserves the quiet moment to himself.
In the tunnel, Mikey’s waiting to lead you to the door across from his quarters.  But even if he hadn’t pointed out which room was Raphael’s, you think you could have figured it out.  The mismatched drum kit.  The knit bedspread. The band posters on the wall, curling at the corners.  The desk, covered in comics and cds.  Even the melancholy tune playing from the boombox at the head of the bed.  It all just kinda fits him – the guy who’s half in his head, half in his fists.  The guy who has so much heart that sometimes he can’t contain it.  
Raphael’s footsteps are heavy.  You’d recognize his approach even among his similarly built brothers.  Mikey’s presence has been a comfort, but with the way your heart clenches at the sight of Raphael, the youngest turtle’s company can’t compare.
Raphael mumbles for the young turtle to scram as he shuffles in.  The tray of medicines is full but small in his hands.  You hug yourself as you survey the blend of treatments from the East and West.  It’s an impressive array.  Their father taught them well, you think; he would be proud.
You start to say as much before stopping.  It’s not your place.  Even though it feels like  you’ve known Raphael much longer than a few days, you don’t know enough about his relationship with his father to make that kind of statement.  
Taking care to balance the tray upon the mattress, Raphael kneels in front of where you’re seated at his desk.  Your lungs ache with the strain of a forgotten breath.  
Unable to hold himself back, Raphael reaches out for you.  His strong hands are warm when they find your shins.  Perhaps they picked up the heat by coincidence while he prepared the pot of tea.  But, maybe, he had warmed them on purpose.  
His hands slide up to the bend of your knees until they come to rest upon the sides of your thighs and you shiver.  His grip on you tightens as he looks you over, assessing the worst of your injuries.  The way his eyes are trained on your face, then your arms, you can tell he deliberately avoids your shoulder.  
His eyes lock on the gash over your left eye.  He sniffs shortly before taking a small square of gauze off the tray.  It’s astringent smell reminds you of the night you were taken away.
You flinch and he freezes and you both whisper, “Sorry,” on an exhale.  
In his eyes you see he doesn’t quite understand why the smell of alcohol would set your heart racing and your throat tight, but you’d rather let the moment pass than explain it to him.  He’s only trying to help, you remind yourself.  This is Raphael; you’re safe with Raphael.
When you’re ready, you nod for him to continue.  You drop your gaze from the sad confusion in his stare and focus on the stitches in his lip, instead.  They’ll be ready to come out any day.  
Raphael brings the gauze up to the wound above your eye slowly, tentatively.  “Did Donatello have a look at ya?” he asks, as if to fill the silence.
You wonder if this is what he’s like - if he’s usually one to fill silences with questions to which he already knows the answer.  But when you have a closer look at him, you notice the deep crease of his brow and the tight hunch of his shoulders.  Maybe it’s common for him or maybe it isn’t, but you realize he needs the silence filled.  At least, for now.  
With a hand over his wrist, you assure him, “He’s seen me.”
At that, Raphael expels a long stream of air.  When he inhales again it’s like he’s been waiting for assurance of your safety before allowing himself to breathe.  His split lip relaxed with his sigh and you wonder how his other wounds are faring.  He heals so quickly, it’s hard to tell by sight alone.
“Have I been down here long?” you ask, your thoughts returning to his stitches.
“It’s Thursday,” he says.  But that’s all he gives you before shifting the conversation.  “I been makin’ that soup ya like.”  He gives your forehead a final dab of antiseptic before bringing his hands to his lap.  “Ya ain’t eat nothin’, though.  When ya’d wake up, it wasn’t for long.”  Raphael mentions the soup like he’s disappointed in himself.  Like the soup was a cure all that had failed you, like somehow he had failed you.
You lay a hand on your stomach, but you think the empty feeling there has less to do with a lack of food and more with the hollow tone in Raphael’s voice.  “Maybe later.”
Raphael nods, his head hanging low even as he reaches for the old teapot.  
Raphael pours tea like he’s done so many times in ceremony with his brothers.  He won’t hand it over until it’s perfect.  He adds a bit of honey and a leaf of mint.  He takes a sip, then cools the drink with a gentle blow.  Finally, he offers the cup to you.  
“Oh.”  As the cup passes into your hands, he tries to pull back.  He apologizes, as if he’s just remembered something important.  But you don’t let him backtrack; you don’t let him feel badly for testing the temperature and bitterness of the tea he’s prepared.  You accept the drink without hesitation.  
With a flush to his cheeks, Raphael busies himself with the work of crumbling herbs into a bowl of water.  But there are hidden glances.  He’s waiting for you to have a taste.  He seems to hold his breath as you bring the cup to your lips.
You take it in sips as he soaks a cloth in the small basin.  The drink is almost too sweet, but there’s an oddly familiar scent carried on its steam.  The tea tastes the way your scented candle had smelled and you wonder if this is medicinal or if it’s just what Raphael thinks you like.  Eventually, you’re hit with the aftertaste of herbs so bitter they just about numb your tongue and you think, perhaps the tea is both.
You let Raphael cleanse your wounds with the cloth he’s soaked and then apply fresh salve with a soft brush.  He starts with your eye and foregoes your shoulder, and there’s no doubt now that he’s avoiding that wound for a reason.
The salve stings at first, but Raphael cradles your face in his hands and blows a cool stream of air over the gash.  The breeze cuts through the pain until the medicine soothes.  
“You’re warm,” Raphael murmurs, his thumbs rubbing along the line of your jaw as he adjusts his position in front of you.  “You sure that’s normal?”
Raphael’s hands on your cheeks are cool now, but any hint of fever you had is long gone.  You hum your contentment and lift your uninjured arm.  Raphael makes a small sound of concern at the movement.  Despite the way it twists your heart to have him ignore your shoulder, the delicacy of the little pop in his throat is such a contrast to his bulk that it almost brings a smile to your face.
“I’m not gonna break,” you say to quell his fear.  And you bring your hand down upon Raphael’s head.  For a guy who once said he was no one’s pet, he responds to physical comfort with the greed of someone who is constantly denied what they crave.  He melts under your touch.  You rake your nails over Raphael’s scalp and he bows his head.  He allows your touch, uninterrupted for a minute, before he remembers the bowl in his hands and regains his composure.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, not really meeting your gaze as he swirls the brush through the medicine and passes it over your forehead again.  
“Yes,” you respond with a soft smile.  Your fingers continue their exploration, now trailing around Raphael’s ear with short pets and long caresses.  
When Raphael stills, his attention has finally fallen to your shoulder.  His speech starts and stops and you see that only by not acknowledging it was Raphael able to hold himself together this long.  “I
 I gotta put this on the
 On your
”
“It’s OK,” you assure him, exposing the old and recent wound.
When Raphael sees it, his nostrils flare and his eyes take on a sheen of regret.  You quickly cover your shoulder again, if only to save him from the sight for a minute.  “I didn’t want this for ya,” he says, quavering.
“It wasn’t you.”  Your voice breaks and you wish you could rewind.  You wish you could steel yourself and try again.
The tremor in Raphael’s hands reminds you of your first meeting.  It’s enough that you take the bowl of salve from him before he drops it.  You bring his hands to your lap and tell him, this time slower, stronger.  “It wasn’t you.”
Raphael shakes his head as he stands, and for a fleeting moment you think he’s going to leave the room.  That’s still your fear, you realize.  That he’ll leave; that he’ll be gone.  That you’ll be strangers before you can be more.  But he only goes as far as his bed, to sit upon the edge and bury his face in his hands.  
“It was my fault.  It was my sai.  If I hadn’t gone topside that night
 If Leo hadn’t followed
 If I hadn’t let myself get distracted and taken that fall
”
You stand to face him.  “Then we wouldn’t have met.”
The song playing in the background changes and Raphael sags under the weight of foreign lyrics you don’t understand.
“I ain’t supposed to get a happy ending.”  His eyes lift toward a movie poster you hadn’t noticed before.  You should have known he was a romantic at heart.  A part of you did, you suppose.  
With a hand on his cheek, you bring his attention back to you.  “It doesn’t have to be that way.” 
With a shake of his head, he drops his gaze to the hand that hangs at your side.  He takes it up and begins the careful work of picking glass and gravel from your palm.  With a click of his tongue he sneers; it’s a self-deprecating sound. “This is just the way it is.”
His fingers pluck at your skin like he’s done this before.  For you.  You wonder how many hours he’s sat with your hands in his, picking glass out of your wounds so they could close.
You lay your other hand atop of his in a request for his undivided attention.  “I don’t know anything about happily ever after, but I’m not going to let you end something between us that hasn’t even started.“
"Please.” When he looks up again, he isn’t trying to hide the trembling in his lip.  His eyes glisten as he begs for you to let him win this argument.  “Being with me puts you in danger.”
You draw back your shirt collar, exposing your shoulder once again.  “I’ve been in danger since long before I met you.”
His hand comes up, covering the wound like his touch can heal.  You wish it could.  A part of you believes it does.  The hardness of your heart has softened; he’s someone you want to let in.  You won’t let him push you away so easily.  
“I wanna keep ya safe,” he says.  “I need ya safe.”  There’s a pause as his breath catches in his throat.  “When I saw you in the temple
”  His voice cracks, but he forces himself to go on. “When I saw what they’d done
  I had almost lost ya and I didn’t even know.”
“It’s Ok." 
Raphael’s hands and voice are shaking so much he can’t continue.  He turns away, hanging his head.  His hands curl into fists against his temples.  
Standing in front of him, you lay a hand upon his arm.  You smooth your fingertips down to his wrist.  You massage deep circles into the pressure point below his thumb.  His fists are massive and his muscles are hard, but your persistent touch coaxes the tension from his fingers. 
Raphael lets out a halting breath.  As he struggles to find his center, his hands reach out for you.  They only go as far as the hem of your shirt, where he tugs at a split seam and frowns.  Though the pain in your shoulder screams for you to keep still, you cradle Raphael’s face in both of your hands.
“Look at me,” you whisper, but your request is firm.  Then, you wait.  You wait for his eyes to meet yours.  You wait for him to really look.  You’ve known him just a few days and already you can’t imagine a life where you don’t get to look at him looking at you.
“Ya shouldn’t hang around me,” he says, emboldened by the distraction of keeping his hands busy.  His voice quiets as he goes on, until it’s barely enough to reach your ears.  “I’m no good for ya.  Dis ain’t the life I’d want for
 for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”  You watch the flash of recognition in his eyes when he realizes you know what he’s trying to say even when he can’t find the words, that you hear him even in his pauses.  You bring your heads together and time seems to stand still.  
With your mouths already close enough that you’re exchanging air, all it takes is the lift of your chin to bring your lips to his.
The first kiss is a test, a taste, a surrender to the temptation that’s been building between you for longer than you’ll admit even to yourself.  Your lips meet and strong hands slide around you, pulling you in.  He tastes like the tea you shared.  Like mint and lemon.  Like bitter herbs and too much honey.  He pulls you in by your sides until you’re standing flush against the edge of the bed between his knees.  
Raphael gasps.  His breath warms your skin in puffs of air as your hands roam his plastron.  His grip on you tenses, as if startled, before relaxing to explore you as well. 
He kisses the less severe of your wounds.  Your forehead, your temples, the bruises on your jaw.  There’s reverence in his touch.  Devotion on his lips.  His mouth reaches the dark veins along your collarbone, the buttons securing the top of your shirt, and then he stops.  His breathing stutters and his hands falter before he buries his face into your neck.  He holds your body tightly against his chest in the pause.  
"You Ok?"  Your fingers twirl the tails of his bandana.  But when he doesn’t answer, you use them to tip his head back to look into his eyes.
“I ain’t never-”  He blinks up at you, leaning into your caress.  “I ain’t done this with anyone.”  He’s covered in cuts and bruises of his own.  There are dark stains on his bandana that you’re sure are blood.  But you bring his face up and press your lips to his.  After a stunned moment, he kisses back.  
Though it scares you, Raphael’s confession spurs one of your own.  "I’ve never been with anyone who makes me feel the things you do
"  
Raphael must catch the change in your breathing, the quickening of your pulse.  But still, he worries.  “I can understand if ya don’t want this
” he says.  “If ya don’t want me.  I know I’m not the-” Raphael’s words stop abruptly as you cover his mouth with yours.  The swiftness of your kiss, the urgency, catches him off guard.  He releases a guttural moan against your lips and you immediately pull away. 
“Is it your stitches?” you ask, cradling his face in your hands.  “Did I-” but before you can voice any more concern, he draws you back to him.  
His thumbs trace the line of your jaw as his lips find yours for another kiss.  He kisses you like he needs this as desperately as he needs to breathe.  He can’t get you close enough.  He pants into the crook of your shoulder as he breathes you in.  “No.  No, I want
 I want this.  I want you.”  Then, he’s the one holding you steady to look into your eyes.  “Do you?”
Your hands work the knot of his bandana as you hold his gaze.  You give a short nod before slowly lifting the mask from his face and tossing it aside.  You lean in and speak your answer upon the corner of his mouth, “I want you.”
He picks you up under your thighs without breaking your kiss and lifts you onto the bed.  When he lies back against the pillows, he brings you with him.  Your bodies find each other easily, aligning side-by-side as if practiced, as if you were made to fit tucked into his embrace.
When he touches you, it’s tender, tentative. He knows his own strength and he’s more cautious than he needs to be. But he takes direction well and he’s eager to please.  
His attention to detail is like worship.  The way he says your name is like a prayer.  The way he begs more, please, don’t stop sets your blood aflame.  
He revels in the flush of your skin, in the heat of your arousal.  He craves it.  Can’t get enough with his hands, with his mouth.  The desperate noises you make as he brings you to the edge leave him wide-eyed and yearning. 
When you lay your hands on him, he rises into your touch.  When your nails draw patterns up the insides of his thighs, he trembles.  The sounds he makes are sinful.  You want to taste them on your tongue, swallow them in a kiss.  His body’s responses to you drive your hunger for more.
"Ya gettin’ t’ me with those little moans, Killa."  Raphael’s hands slide carefully around your shoulders to your neck, tipping your head back with gentle encouragement.  The press of his kisses warm your forehead.  His lips linger.  His breath comes heavily through his nose. 
Your break that kiss to leave a trail of them down his plastron to his thighs.
You bring him off with your mouth as his hips thrust and stutter.  His hand kneads your hip in time with your movements, guiding you to speed up, hinting at how close he is.  He cries out as he finds release.  
Raphael’s knuckles caress your face as you lay beside him.  At some point the two of you managed to sneak under the sheets.  Now you’re enjoying the company of his silence.  When Raphael’s focus lingers too long on your shoulder, you hold his hand still and his attention shifts to your eyes.  
“How do ya do that?”  He whispers into the slip of space between you.     "How do ya touch me like this and say things like
 and expect me not to-”
“Not to what?”  Your fingers trip mindlessly over the curve of his shell.
His eyes flutter closed at the sensation.  “Not to ask ya to stay?”
“I never said I wanted to go."  
You draw yourself into him before broaching up the subject that plagues each of your minds.  "Did you guys find out anything?  About the antidote
 about me
 why they took me
”
Raphael holds you to his chest, protectively, possessively.  “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout none o’ that.”
With his hand cupping your face you know he can feel it when your jaw starts to tremble.  “No, no, no.  Hey.  Ya safe here.  Ya safe wit’ me.”  His forehead is solid against yours.  “Nobody’s gonna touch ya.  I won’t let 'em.”
A voice from the doorway cuts through Raphael’s murmuring and sends a shock through both of you.  “It’s unlikely they’ll be after more of your blood, anyway.”  Donatello presses forward, entering the room without invitation and speaking a mile a minute.  You and Raphael blink at his intrusion with disbelief.  “The sample they have in their possession is sufficient.  It’s highly probably they’ve distilled and manufactured, er, synthesized rather, enough antidote to serve their purposes and then some.  You see, the poison deposited in the wound you acquired as a child-”
Raphael twists toward his brother with a snarl.  “Donnie, just how long 'ave you been over there?”
Donatello makes a small sound of thought before he responds.  “I did happen to arrive a few minutes prior to making my presence known.  And perhaps a moment sooner than you would have preferred company.  But by my calculations, I waited ample time for post-coital canoodling and arrived well within your refractory period in order to-”
“Refractory?" 
Donatello raises his hand and voice to enlighten his older brother about the male orgasm.  To which Raphael responds by flipping him off, with gusto.  
“Factor this.”
After a bit of colorful persuasion on Raphael’s part, Donatello makes his way out of the room.  Your fingers, conversely, make their way up the scutes of Raphael’s shell.
Raphael mumbles something under his breath as he slides his knee between yours.
"What’s that?”
He kisses you without urgency.  Your heart swells with the implication of his patience.  “I still gotta treat your shoulder.”
You give your consent against his lips.  You smooth your palms over the bumps of his shell.  “Later.”
He hums into your kiss, churrs under your touch, and holds you like he’ll never let you go.
@fukyouthink
So, this may not be the final chapter. I'm not thrilled with how it turned out. We'll see. Thank you all so much for reading. I hope you've enjoyed it.
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