#(the fact that they both have books very early on that open with them morphing in public to help people/animals proves this To Me)

[grandwretch]

now why the fuck would he say this

if not for the fact that he just realised he has a type

[minor-solemnity]

Invention and Intrigue pt.4

Tag List: @jinxqsu​ @naps-and-lemons​ @riddles-wifey​ @mainlynonsense @cakesarecute

You look at him and see raw, unfiltered ambition, power and intellect combining to create a formidable young man who won’t be satisfied until the world is remade in his vision. You also see the way he looks at you, as though you are something precious and fierce and delicate and dangerous in your own right. He isn’t afraid of violence, you think he might enjoy it, but when he touches you, he’s gentle and careful. Protective and maybe a touch possessive. 

You still spend a lot of your evenings with Tom. The only difference being that he touches you more often seems to reach for you without conscious thought or effort. You’ll be sit side by side and his fingers will tap rhythmically on your upturned palm. He’ll kiss your cheek after he’s walked you back to your common room and when he leaves, he’ll pause before letting your hand drop from his, as though he has to consciously remind himself to let you go. For someone who so rarely displays joy in physical proximity in public, he is surprisingly demanding behind closed doors. You’re charmed. 

In public, you both keep your distance. You smile at him politely in the halls and he nods in acknowledgement in return. You like it this way. It makes the moments when his guards drop that much more satisfying, and honestly, you’re not sure you’d be able to stand Melanie’s excited gushing if she were to find out that you were dating. 

There’s also the matter of his Slytherin cohort. 

If you were a more idealistic person, you would probably be annoyed by the fact that he keeps his distance. You would probably question what you are to him. If he viewed you as something fun to pass the time with, but not good enough to be seen in public with. You’re not an idiot, no matter how much you might act like it sometimes; you know that your blood plays a large role in why he is so keen to keep your budding relationship a secret. 

But you aren’t a more idealistic person and therefore you understand perfectly that his friends (though really, you’re not sure if you can call the boys he spends time with his friends) would likely abandon him if they knew about you. You’re honestly not sure how Tom even managed to build such a loyal following in the first place. You’ve not spoken about it, but you’re aware that Riddle isn’t a pureblood surname.

And so you spend two glorious months sheltering your relationship from the world, wrapped safely in your shared love of magic and the possibilities it holds and, more often than not, the green blanket that Tom had gifted you. 

It’s on one of these nights in early summer, when the sun has only just started to set, and you’re making the most of the warmer weather that it all goes horribly wrong. 

Tom leaves you in the entrance hall because he is Head Boy and apparently that means he has responsibilities that don’t include walking you back to your common room. You’re halfway up the steps to the first floor when the stunning jinx hits you. Distantly you hear footsteps and then there is a shadow looming over you and a familiar loud cackle ringing in your ears before everything fades to darkness.

You come to in a classroom you vaguely recognise as the one that Tom had taken you to when you’d kissed for the first time. You spare a moment to appreciate with grim irony that you weren’t wrong in your prediction that going into the dungeons would lead to (a probably very painful) death. Lestrange stands in front of you and your heart starts hammering when you see he’s holding your wand loosely in one hand whilst his own is pointed directly at your chest. You glance at the door behind him, wondering briefly if you try and make a run for it, but Lestrange is bigger, stronger and faster than you and without your wand, you are more or less helpless against him. “People like you contaminate everything,” He spits. You know exactly what he’s talking about. He must have seen you with Tom, must have realised what you were to him. By the looks of it, he isn’t best pleased. In fact, his aristocratic features practically distort themselves under the weight of his disgust.

Lestrange raises his wand and you are preparing yourself to welcome death with open arms when the door slams open. Tom is a rigid pillar of anger. There’s absolutely nothing behind his eyes and whilst he isn’t the most expressive person under normal circumstances, it’s nothing compared to the blank, cold rage that you see in him now. In front of you, Lestrange stills, something flashes in his eyes that you think might be fear before it fades. “Stay out of this, Riddle, if you know what’s good for you,” He says, and he’s angry, yes, disdainful and haughty, but you don’t miss the slight hesitation in his voice.

Tom doesn’t either because the mirror that is his expression cracks and a slow, cruel smile twists his upper lip. He looks terrifying and you’ve never been more grateful to see him. “Put your wand down,” He says, and it’s soft, cajoling, completely at odds with the predatory gleam in his eyes. “Put your wand down and look at me.” 

And the thing is, Lestrange does. If you were unconvinced of the sway that Tom holds over his peers before, you aren’t any longer. You think that they would walk through fiendfyre if he ordered them to. Tom doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move a muscle. He isn’t even holding his wand and a thought begins to form in your mind that he might just tell Lestrange to leave. You hope he doesn’t. You don’t care if it’s cruel of you, but you want him to suffer. 

Lestrange makes a strange choking noise, and it takes you a moment to realise that he’s trying to suppress a sob. For a moment, you wonder how Tom is managing it without his wand but then you remember the book he’d been reading months ago and your wonder morphs into shock and then awe. Legilimency. 

With his back turned to you, you can’t see what’s playing across his features, but his hands are shaking and your wand clatters to the ground. Seeing the opportunity for what it is, you dart forward and scoop it up, immediately feeling safer and less afraid. Tom motions for you to join him, and for the first time since he appeared something resembling human emotion flashes across his face. As soon you’re close, he wraps an arm around you and presses his mouth against the top of your head in a vague approximation of a kiss. From where you’re now standing, you can see Lestrange’s expression all too clearly. His features are no longer distorted in disgust but rather in anguish. Eyes wide and unseeing, he shakes in front of you, any sense of superiority reduced to ash.

“Leave.” A single word. An order, a command and Lestrange is scrambling out of the room. It’s only when you can no longer hear his footsteps that your breath hitches and you begin to shake. You’re not sure how long you stand there, face buried in the folds of Tom’s robes, his hands rubbing gentle, comforting circles against your back, but finally, you begin to calm down enough to disentangle yourself from him. He leads you back out of the dungeons and towards safety.

When you get to the entrance hall, Tom turns and offers you his hand. “Walk with me.” His eyes are still hard, as though he still hasn’t shaken the cold contempt he’d exhibited earlier. 

He must see the trepidation play out across your face because his expression softens marginally, dark eyes searching yours almost imploringly. Slowly, tentatively, you reach out and curl your much smaller hand in his. The dry warmth of his skin seeps through you, calming you in a way that you’re not sure is entirely advisable. 

Six months ago, you had thought of Tom Riddle as an enigmatic, child prodigy. The finest wizard to step through the gates at Hogwarts since Albus Dumbledore himself. A portrait of politeness and charm. Now you look at him and see raw, unfiltered ambition, power and intellect combining to create a formidable young man who won’t be satisfied until the world is remade in his vision. You also see the way he looks at you, as though you are something precious and fierce and delicate and dangerous in your own right. He isn’t afraid of violence, you think he might enjoy it, but when he touches you, he’s gentle and careful. Protective and maybe a touch possessive. 

It’s an intimidating thought, to say the least. To feel safe and assured in his presence is probably akin to self-destruction, but here you are: walking, hand in hand, through the rose garden. 

“You know, I thought I had a good idea of what my future would look like,” He murmurs, running his thumb across the back of your hand. You hum noncommittally because your suspicion that his interest in the darker aspects of magic isn’t entirely academic is now confirmed. He has plans for his future, and now, you suppose, he has plans for yours too. “I think that the future might look very different from now on.”

“How so?” 

“I’ve decided to take Slughorn’s advice and go into politics.” The words themselves don’t surprise you. Tom’s ambition, his intelligence, his ruthlessness all spell the beginnings of a lucrative career in politics. What surprises you is the fact that this wasn’t his original plan. But then you think about how you even came to know him and what drew you to each other in the first place and you begin to understand that Tom’s plans likely never constituted anything you could call legal. “When I first came to Hogwarts, I knew immediately that if I wanted to get anywhere in this world, I would have to ingratiate myself with the old families. They’re the ones who hold the real political power in this society. They’re the ones who have the final say on what legislature passes and what fails before it even reaches the Wizengamot. I’ve worked hard to… cultivate a loyal following, purebloods who will carry out my will without complaint.”

That still leaves you though. You’re not so modest that you’re unaware that you are, at least, a factor in Tom’s change of heart but that still doesn’t erase the unspoken issue that Lestrange’s actions had dragged into the light. “They might complain if you were to be seen with me, Tom. They will complain.” You sigh and regret for a future that has not yet come pass fills you. You can see it now, Tom, as Minister for Magic (because you cannot imagine that he would settle for less) with a beautiful pureblood wife to give him credibility in the eyes of a traditionalist society. “As you said, they’re the ones with the real power.”

“You misunderstand me.” He says and he leads you to a bench where you both sit. He turns his body towards you, sitting so close that your knees knock against his. He doesn’t let go of your hand, instead, he interlaces your fingers, holds it against his chest. You don’t want to hope that maybe this isn’t the end like it surely must be, but you find yourself hoping nonetheless. “They’re weak,” He says plainly. “They’re weak and they’re frightened. Lestrange attacked you from behind and stole your wand because he is afraid of you. I would burn their entire world to the ground for you.” He pauses and then smiles, slightly sinister, slightly cruel, entirely lovely. “As it stands, I merely intend to irrevocably change it. They will follow if they know what’s good for them.” 

Melanie says that you’re dramatic, but you don’t think you hold a candle to Tom. Conviction and sincerity blaze across his face and you can’t look away. You pull the hand which is still wrapped tightly around yours to you and kiss his knuckles. “I'll be with you every step of the way.”

END

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4)

A/N: Tom becomes minister for magic - his political enemies always seem to mysteriously disappear or otherwise change their minds. Reader makes sure that no one can prove anything tho. The Statute of Secrecy is dismantled and integration is in baybee. 

[flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash]

Irresistible Danger - Part 51

Synopsis:  After being caught outside the compound on your own, Negan decides to punish you in the best way possible ;)

Words: 3,279

Warnings: nsfw, smut, swearing

ID Masterlist can be found HERE

Masterlist of all my fics can be found HERE

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Author’s Note: Holy crap, can y’all believe I dove back into writing this fic after almost two years with no updates?! I’m still shook over it haha. I will say that this fic has gone way off canon at this point (I haven’t watched the last few seasons of the show and also didn’t finish the last few issues of the comics). However, I’ve had a vision for certain characters and events for the last how many years, so I don’t plan to change them just to try and fit canon. I also now realize that while I tried to make “you” as nondescript as possible, there are physical traits and actions of her character that haven’t been as inclusive of all potential readers as I had thought when first starting the fic 5 years ago. I apologize for that, and plan to be more aware of those things with any reader characters I write in future fics. My plan is to post a chapter update every Friday from here on out, until it’s over, so fingers crossed I can accomplish that. Enjoy! :D

Cloud Nine

You surfaced from the depths of sleep slowly, rather than the more abrupt jolt to consciousness that usually started off your days. Feeling cozy and relaxed, a slight smile tipped your lips in contentment. It didn’t take long to realize that the reason for your positive mood was the large, warm body with which you were currently sharing the tiny, twin-sized bed.

Eyes blinking open, you took in the delightful sight of masculine bare skin. You were curled up against Negan’s side, cheek cushioned on his chest and both legs were wrapped around his nearest thigh. The bedsheet was pulled up over your back and ended teasingly right above his hips. One of your hands lay palm-down on his stomach, fingers twitching slightly in delight at the feel of the hard muscles beneath the soft skin. You could tell from the curve of his body that he was sitting with his back reclined against the rickety headboard. You might’ve found his positioning odd, but you were still a little hazy from sleep and so could only feel happiness at not waking up to an empty bed, like last time. 

You were on cloud nine after talking things out with him last night. Being able to work through a conflict together had been major progress, and you had been proud of yourself for laying down your boundaries regarding your here-to-stay friendship with Ben, as well as standing your ground regarding the situation with Trixie and the pregnancy test. It was important that Negan learn to trust you when it came to situations such as those, and it seemed as though that message had finally gotten through to him last night. 

The fact that he had even come to your room and taken the huge step of apologizing for his hasty reaction still had you a bit in shock. The evening had panned out much differently than your original plan of going to bed angry. Instead, you had gone to bed very satisfied, and then woken up next to the man who was very quickly becoming essential to your daily happiness.

He must’ve felt you shift against him, one hand coming down to rub your bare shoulder as he gave a soft, “Mornin’, doll.” 

His raspy morning voice sent tingles down your spine, even as your brain fought to stay awake. It still felt way too early to be sitting up and conversing, so instead of returning the greeting, you buried closer into his side and grumbled, “What time is it?” The words were muffled against his skin, nose pressed into his chest hair as you inhaled the glorious male scent of him. 

You felt him lean over towards the side table. He must’ve been checking your watch, because he replied, “‘Bout 6:50.”

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Language.” 

“Hmph. Do you always get up so early?”

“It’s more productive than sleeping half the day away and being late to everything.” 

That got more of a response, as you finally lifted your head to glare up at him for the jab. However, he didn’t notice, as he was too focused on the book held in front of him. It was then that you realized why he was sitting up in bed, a smirk crossing your face at the novel he had open and was intensely reading. You felt a spark of desire low in your belly, the sight of a sleep-tousled and naked Negan lounging in your bed while reading Harry Potter an unexpected, but welcomed, aphrodisiac.

“Thought you didn’t read ‘fucking kid books’?” you sarcastically asked, quoting back his initial description of the series. 

You received only a low grunt in response, his eyes not leaving the page. You weren’t offended, since you’d probably react the same way to someone trying to interrupt a reading of Harry Potter. In fact, you were a bit jealous that he got to experience the magical world for the first time. His curiosity must’ve gotten the better of him when he saw it lying on your bedside table, and it appeared as if he had already read a small chunk of it. 

He didn’t seem to notice you staring, his attention still focused on the book. In fact, he held the page a scant few inches from his face, eyes squinted into slits. The sight was a tad humorous, though you wondered how long he had been struggling to see the words. 

“I thought you needed glasses to read?” you asked. 

“Fuck, you always so full of questions this early in the morning, doll?”

You pinched his side hard enough to make him jump and growl out another expletive, before giving him a saccharine smile and lifting a brow expectantly when he glared down at you.

Attention finally taken off the book, he reached over and plopped it down on the side table before rubbing his eyes with both palms. “I do. Felt like it took me a fucking hour to get through that last page.”

The fact that he had continued trying to read and hadn’t easily given up, despite his struggle to see the words, told you more than anything how much he must’ve been enjoying the novel. A warm thrill settled in your chest at the thought of him taking an interest in something he usually wouldn't bother with simply because you enjoyed it. 

The warm thrill morphed into more of a low heat and traveled down your body as your gaze refocused on his bare skin. Moving the hand on his stomach upward over his chest, your fingertips traced the outline of the tattoo on his left pec.

“What prompted you to get this?” you asked, curious if there was a meaning behind the skull and criss-crossed rifles.

Giving a low chuckle, he replied, “Youth and stupidity.” 

Giving a huffed laugh in return, you trailed curious fingers over to the other tattoos on his arms, inquiring about each one as you went. Some had a story behind them, others not so much (you had tried not to roll your eyes when he explained that the revolver on his right forearm was the same one he had handled once and thought was ‘fucking cool as shit’). He also had a few scars on his upper body, some from before the apocalypse but most from after. You listened intently as he opened up about each one, drinking in as much personal information about the man beside you as possible.

Not wanting to stop the exploration just yet, you pushed up on your other elbow and journeyed over his throat, tracing his Adam’s apple before running your fingers delicately through the surprisingly soft beard framing his gorgeous mouth. 

Capturing the questing hand in his own, he brought your fingers to his lips. The breath caught in your chest when he kissed the mostly-healed scar from the knife injury you had acquired a few weeks prior. Heart beating frantically at the gentle gesture, you smiled up at him when he released your hand and allowed it to resume exploring.

“So,” you tried for calm and casual, fingers moving up to lightly trace his ear before diving into his thick hair and mapping the streaks of salt within the pepper. “What are your plans for today?”

It took him a few seconds to answer, his eyes having fluttered closed as your nails gently massaged his scalp. You smiled at his obvious enjoyment of your touch, at how he had lowered his walls in this moment and was allowing himself to be both physically and emotionally vulnerable. 

“I wish they were to stay here and enjoy this fucking delightful body of yours all day, but I have a meeting with my Saviors at eight.” 

The thought of spending an entire day frolicking in bed with Negan caused a dreamy sigh to leave your lips. His eyes opened and zeroed in on your mouth at the sound, that magical tongue of his coming out to lick his bottom lip as he added, “Though, that’s still about an hour away…”

At that, he quickly rolled over so his lean body was pinning you into the mattress, his lips cutting off your squeal of surprise before it even left your throat. The hand still in his hair tightened, causing him to give a low groan and grind his hips down into yours. You tried to make a mental note of his reaction to the touch, but seeing as how there were no barriers keeping his quickly-hardening erection from pressing into your thigh, all higher levels of brain function quickly flew out of the room. 

Bracing above you, he leaned down and started kissing your neck, a move guaranteed to make you melt. When his mouth descended over the curve of your breasts, you tried to lift your head to watch his downward progress but a sharp pang of discomfort at your scalp made you wince and try to jerk away, which only succeeded in making the pain even worse. 

“Ow, wait!” you blurted, causing Negan to instantly freeze and look up at you in alarm. 

“Doll, what-”

“You’re on my hair! Move your hand!”

Quickly realizing his mistake, Negan moved the hand that had accidentally been pinning a large chunk of your hair, and by proxy your head, to the mattress. 

“Fucking hell, I’m sorry, doll,” he cursed, making as if to lift his body off you entirely. 

Now wanting his faux pas to ruin the moment, you pushed his shoulders sideways and hooked a leg up over his hip before commanding, “Roll over.”

He hesitated for a moment before relenting, the two of you somehow able to switch places on the narrow, twin-sized bed without falling off. Once the semi-awkward resituating was done, he was on his back and you were straddling his hips. The move caused the sheet to fall off, exposing your entire body to his gaze. Based on the way his eyes grew hazy with lust as they took in your bared curves, not to mention his obvious erection, it was safe to say that he didn’t mind this change in position one bit. 

Warm, calloused palms drifted up over your thighs, hips, and the sides of your waist, before cupping breasts that were begging for his touch. Leaning down, your already-hardened nipples pressed into his palms as you kissed him hungrily. Shifting your hips, you started rubbing forwards and backwards over the erection pressed between both your lower stomachs. You moaned into each other’s mouths at the sensation, pussy lips parting around his girth so that your wetness coated his cock, the fat head bumping against your clit with each slide. 

“I think I like being in charge,” you purred. 

Giving a dark chuckle that sent shivers down your spine, he replied, “Enjoy it while it fucking lasts.”

Planning to do just that, you reached over to pluck a condom off the side table, incredibly grateful to whatever deity helped you successfully open the foil packet and smoothly roll the latex down over him on the first try. Tossing the empty packet over the side of the bed, you wrapped slightly trembling fingers around his swollen cock and lifted your hips, lining him up with your entrance. Maintaining eye contact, you slowly slid down his length, mouth falling open on a whimper at the feel of him parting overly-sensitive flesh that was still a bit sore from the activities of the previous night. Despite Negan’s initial threat over you stealing both coconut oil from the kitchen and condoms from his room, his only “punishment” last night had been fucking you relentlessly into the mattress until you had multiple orgasms and could barely even remember your own name.

In spite of the slight burn as sore muscles again stretched around his thickness, you didn’t stop until he was fully seated inside. His cock felt so big in this position that it was almost overwhelming, but you sat up so that your hands were braced on his chest and used your thigh muscles to start a slow up and down rhythm. 

His fingers reached up and pinched your nipples, causing you to clench around him. He groaned at the sensation, gaze becoming more intense when you slightly picked up the pace. It felt magnificent, but at the same time you craved more of the hard, rough friction that he had given you the night before. Body trying to find that friction on its own, your hips swiveled in a circle as you sank back down, which must’ve felt just as amazing for him as it did you, since he gave a strangled moan at the same moment his hands immobilized your hips in a bruising grip. 

“Alright, doll. My turn.”

That was the only warning you got before he braced his feet against the mattress and moved up in you, hard. Falling forward onto your palms with a gasp, fingers curled into the bedsheet and hips writhed in pleasure when he repeated the move. He continued the sharp, deep thrusts, watching your face closely before wrapping a hand around the back of your neck and pulling your mouth down to his own. His tongue thrust into your mouth possessively, as if trying to claim as much of you at once as he could. The pace was brutal yet unhurried, each thrust feeling like a deliberate attack on your sanity as his movements drew fire over your skin and consumed you, body and soul. 

Pressing down into him while leaning forward caused your clit to grind against his lower abdomen in the perfect way with each thrust, building up the orgasm that had previously hovered just out of reach. Breaking the kiss with a cry, you saw the expression of intense concentration on his face as he continued to move your bodies together in perfect rhythm. Breasts pressed into his chest and mouth panting at his ear, your body gave into his, letting him drive you up and over the edge, into the abyss of pleasure. 

“Negan,” you moaned, muscles tightening then releasing as the orgasm washed through you. His answering grunt and curse signaled his own release, though he continued his driving rhythm through it all, wringing each drop of pleasure from your body until it collapsed limply on top of his.

Resting your head on his shoulder, you again traced over the tattoo on his chest, waiting for your heartbeat and breathing to slow back down to normal. Glancing up his body, you found him already looking back down at you, a relaxed and satisfied grin on his lips that was only witnessed behind closed doors, when the two of you were alone. His hand idly stroked over a piece of hair laying on your shoulder, the gesture making you think back to earlier when he had accidentally pinned you to the mattress, and the resulting ungraceful maneuvering to switch positions in a bed that was entirely too small for two adult bodies. A light laugh escaped you that caused Negan to raise an eyebrow in question. 

“Just remembering your super smooth move from earlier,” you teased. You wouldn’t admit this out loud, but it was actually a bit of a relief to know that even Mr. Harem-of-Wives, Sex-God Negan wasn’t always flawless in the sack. 

“Making fun of me, doll?” he growled. 

“Maybe.”

Whack. The loud crack, accompanied by the slight sting of sensation against your left asscheek, caused you to jump and look at him in wide-eyed shock. 

“Did you just spank me?!” you exclaimed.

“Maybe.”

Before you could form an appropriate reply, he silenced any retort with his lips. Shallow creature that you apparently were, the move worked, and when he pulled away a long minute later, your brain conveniently forgot why you were supposed to be coming up with a retort in the first place. 

Negan glanced over at the side table, where your watch sat. Also looking over, you saw that it was now almost 7:30am, which meant he had half an hour to go back to his room and become presentable for his 8am Savior meeting. You were curious what the meeting was about, but didn’t want to ruin the perfection of the morning by bringing up a potentially serious topic. 

“Much as I hate to say it, doll, duty fucking calls.”

Your expression must’ve showcased more than you thought, since he gave a chuckle and said, “How about I make it up to you by finishing our fucking chess bet?”

Interest instantly piqued, you sat up on his chest and replied, “The third outing?! Can we go today?”

He looked at you consideringly, before giving a slight nod and agreeing. “We fucking could, but I won’t be free until the dinner hour.” 

Much as you didn’t want to skip out on your duties, even if it was with the leader of the establishment, you also weren’t about to turn down more alone time with Negan, especially outside of the Sanctuary. 

“I could meet you at the front gate at 5?” you suggested. That would give you just enough time to make sure dinner was fully prepped and almost ready to serve, since the community ate their meal from 5 to 7pm. It lessened the guilt, since you wouldn’t be completely leaving Ben and the staff short-handed. 

“Works for me, doll,” he said, gently rolling you off his body and to the narrow strip of mattress free beside him.

Biting your lower lip to keep from gasping at the empty sensation when he pulled out his now-flaccid dick, you watched him rise slowly from the bed. You took possessive pleasure in viewing his naked body, thighs clenching at the sight of him stretching muscular arms up towards the ceiling with his head tipped back. The pop of his back and resulting grunt made you comment, “I think from now on we might be better off in your bed. I have no clue how we even managed to fit in mine all night.” 

“Thank fucking god. If I have to spend any more nights in that fucking thing, I’ll be stiffer than a cock in a brothel.” 

Rolling your eyes at his that’s-so-Negan one-liner, you pulled the sheet up over your chest and settled in to watch him get dressed. You felt a bit like a voyeur when he removed the condom, tied off the end, and tossed it into the little garbage can. You felt a lot like a voyeur when he leaned down to pick up his boxer briefs and the sight of his bent-over ass almost made you whimper out loud. 

“You sure you can’t skip the meeting and stay here?” The words left your lips before your brain could even stop them. 

Turning to look at you, the desire must have been written all over your face because that muscle in his jaw ticked and he ran a hand down over his beard in obvious frustration. You swore he started to take a step back towards the bed, but he caught himself and instead returned to the task of getting dressed. 

When he was done putting on the navy tee and dark grey pants, complete with his signature black boots, he did finally come back over to the bed. Leaning down, he cupped a warm hand possessively around the side of your neck and placed a heated kiss on your lips before slightly pulling back and saying in that sinful, husky voice, “5 o’clock, doll. You better be ready for me.” 

With that, he straightened, crossed the room, and let himself out. As the door clicked softly shut behind him, you replied with a dazed, “Yes, sir.”

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

[previousloversandmuses]

Slow Burn - Prologue

Part I | masterlist

A/N: This is a “must read” precursor to the whole series. Please read it to know what the origin story is. 

Pairing: Y/N x Obi Wan Kenobi

Words: 2048

Warnings: None. Brief mentions of violence. Low self esteem.

I am always one to experience emotions at a heightened frequency. Dangerous for a Jedi in training I know, but the council never took it as a sign of caution, just a minor set back. Happiness is bright, and beaming, even painful. My cheeks hurt for days after, smile lines sculpting my skin too early in life. Anger is powerful, my skin becoming vicious, and hot. Ripping through me like a silver bullet, and tearing my already unrelenting gut apart. I am loud, I am violent, and most of all, passionate. I would later become grateful of this curse, turning it into a blessing. Sadness is so deep. Tears crash like an ocean, and my heart would ache in my chest. The physical symptoms of my despair become overwhelming, and make me sick.

A fresh eighteen myself, my graduation is only a year or so away. Compared to other padawans, ones that don’t deal with the same struggles as myself, have already been graced with knighthood. They make their masters proud, and have already completed more missions at sixteen than I think I ever will in my entire career. 

I had the choice to become independent, to take my morals by the throat, and shove them deep down inside me, never to be seen again- but it really just isn’t that easy. See, I’m taking this time for meditation, or even a “behavioral therapy” of sorts. I have meetings with other council members, more powerful, and more prominent than my own master, who is often off tending to matters elsewhere. A mighty general he is, but they see me as someone who would cause more of a distraction, so I stay here at the temple left to my own devices. Sometimes I think it may be because I’m a woman, and other times I just take a good look in the mirror and recall the outburst that has stained my face only minutes before. 

Today was like any other; wake up, meditate, exercise, study, combat training, study, try and find time to eat something, and study. I walked down the main hallway with Master Yoda. He spoke to me about how he once struggled with his emotions as well, but with enough meditation, learned how to keep them at bay. Looking down at him and his vacant expression, I was surprised he had ever even felt an emotion a day in his life. That was until seconds later…

Stopping in my tracks, my hand flew over my heart. I recalled feeling out of breath, like my heart had physically stopped beating in my chest, or at least was trying to catch up with the rest of my body. I was shaky, yet somehow managed to take a knee. Something was off, that feeling in my chest grew and grew until I was faced with the blackest black I had ever felt. The darkest emotion to ever run through my body, as cold as ice, and heart stopping. It was deep, I felt it within the darkest abyss in my soul. It wrapped around my insides and nestled itself a home deep within the most shielded corners of my subconscious. That’s when Master Yoda felt it too. His hand flying over his heart, and steadying himself on my own shoulder. His face morphed into a snarl, gasping at the sudden pain that now infected his unwavering calm aura. 

...

After a painstakingly slow recovery, I sat on the edge of my bed. My quarters were neat and tidy. My bed, usually made up in the morning, because I have always been one for a routine. My walls weren’t bare, in fact they were almost completely covered in photographs I have taken from my travels as a Padawan. I'd go to the library, and butcher borrowed books, clipping photos of different words, and alien fauna. But today, those bright colors capable of producing fantasies for hours and hours, seemed black and white. 

I had been staring at the floor for sometime, desperate in trying to heal the ache in my chest. It felt as if I had a cold, like the burn after a deep cough. I felt so tight, so tense, an actual living embodiment of rigor mortis. Yet, at the same time, I hardly felt all there. It was as if my existence was floating all around me, and my shell was sitting vacant on an uncomfortable mattress. The knock on my door was enough for me to engulf myself again. 

“Y/N, are you decent?” The voice asks. 

“Yes,” I reply, rolling my shoulders back. 

“The council has requested an audience. Please report downstairs within the next few minutes.”

I nod my head, as if whoever was behind the door could see me. 

“An audience,”  I think. “Let’s add another year to that training plan, shall we?”

...

Walking downstairs to the council room, I can’t help but feel that all eyes are on me. They cut through me like a hot knife, slicing me thin. I feel so vulnerable. Like everyone around me can feel what I feel, and if I’m being honest, they probably do. A good Jedi who is in tune with the force, and especially in tune with others, can sense an intense emotion from a mile away. I’m sure at this moment I pretty much equate to an open book. No reason to try and hide it, force knows I struggle with concealing even an inkling of agitation. 

Seeing the council room in sight, I take a deep breath. This is it. I’m done for. This reaction was way too over the top. I’ve scared people, I’ve scared Master Yoda. Might as well just turn in my saber now and call it a day.

I walk into the door. Only a few masters sit scattered around. Master Yoda of course perched dead center, Master Windu waiting patiently to his right. But my master was nowhere in sight. You’d think if they were going to terminate me, that maybe my own mentor would be among them? Shaking his head, sending me glares that one could only compare to fucking daggers. He was tough on me for sure, maybe he was too ashamed of what I’d done to even bear to see me in this moment. 

“Coming here so quickly you did,” Starts Master Yoda. “Grateful we all are.”

I smile and bow my head. 

“Y/N,” Master Windu starts. “We’re here to discuss the events that happened earlier.” 

Oh god here it comes. This is it. I’m totally done for. I can’t even keep myself calm now. My face, getting hotter and more red by the second, is going to be the biggest tell. At least let me go out with some dignity. 

“Your reaction, what you felt at least, was not just brought on out of the blue. Master Yoda had the same experience, as did all of us on the council, and most Jedi and padawans in the temple.”

“I don’t understand.” I say. 

“At around 1 Coruscant time, an enemy bomb was detonated on Nal Hutta.”

Then it hit me. My heart sinking, I began to shake my head. 

“Unfortunately, Unit 505, and Master Cato were all killed on impact.”

My ears ring. Slowly, I move over to a chair, bracing myself. 

“That’s,” I start, trying to find the words to say. “He would’ve felt it, all of them would, I don’t understand.”

“We have a feeling it was planted by a Sith. That’s the only way it would’ve clouded any judgement.”

I slump into it, my vision going black, my head spinning. 

Master Cato has been with me since I was a very little girl. Although rough, tough, and brutally honest, he has done nothing but be a father to me time and time again. Everything I do is a reflection of him. He had been so busy at war, fighting day in and day out, I caught myself missing the commands, and demands I once so passionately despised. I took our whole relationship for granted, and now, is this the price I have to pay? The last time we spoke he told me how disappointed he was in my outburst in my Alien Fauna lab. I was being stubborn, I was bratty, and rolled my eyes. We had argued that entire call. He didn’t even attempt to say goodbye. Now, for an eternity, I will have to face the catastrophic guilt of my actions. Live with the fact that I never, ever told him how much I appreciated him. And even, how much I loved him so. The closest thing to family in my life, gone, in the snap of a finger. 

Both Master Yoda and Master Windu continued to talk but it all felt like empty words. I couldn’t hear them anyway. 

“Although this situation isn't ideal, we and the rest of the council applaud you for being able to feel something most of us haven’t been able to experience yet.” Claimed Master Windu.

I don’t listen. I stand up again. 

“What am I going to do? I don’t feel comfortable with being knighted yet. I had- we were working on so many things I-,” I stumbled on my words. 

“You’ll get placed with a new master.”

“There are no new masters. And even if I had been trained a certain way, I don’t know how to learn otherwise.” 

There is silence. 

“The force works in mysterious ways. Meant to happen, I feel.” 

I scoff. “Meant to happen,” what an evil thing to say.

I begin to walk off, stopping of course, only to get in the last word. 

“Not only have you told me that my master has been killed, but you lack any empathy. There is no emotion in your eyes. Nothing.”

“We mourn your master y/n, just as much as you do. You know what we stand for. You know our view on attachments.”

“He's like-,” I choke. “He was like my father.”

I can’t even begin to explain the pain I feel. Disgust in myself, I should’ve been better. I could’ve been better. The last few years of our relationship I’ve just been behaving poorly and rebelling, and then getting angry at him when he made me face the consequences. Like I wasn’t aware of the job I was made to do. I should’ve been nicer, I could’ve been nicer. It’s all going in a circle, all the things I should’ve done just morphed into things I couldn’t do. Maybe I was too emotional. Maybe my tears that fell leading up to this moment was all part of the plan, the final kicker to show that I wasn’t apathetic enough for this job. My empathy, my burning passion will always be my biggest flaw. This hole that gapes inside of me will never be filled, and now it grows bigger. It’s like a disease. Am I enough? Will I ever be enough?

“Put you with Master Kenobi, we will.” States Master Yoda. 

Master Windu is quick in turning his head. He glares at him. 

“Master Yoda, General Kenobi has just finished his training with Anakin. It is far too early to give him a new Padawan, if at all.”

Yoda nods, almost giggling. 

“Yet so freshly knighted, a Padawan Anakin already has. Obi Wan will have no problem with taking on a student. Graduates soon, she will.”

“But General Kenobi and I have two completely different methods of combat, let alone ideals.” I scoff. 

“All Jedi have the same ideals.” Adds Windu. 

“He is a Jedi guardian, I am a Jedi sentinel-“

“Train with General Kenobi you will. Not long ago he also lost his master too soon.”

Master Yoda nods to me. He stands up and walks over to the large windows behind him. Looking out over Coruscant, he takes a deep sigh of relief. 

“Master Windu,” says Yoda. “Get in contact with the 212th battalion.” 

I watch on as my fate now rests in a stranger's hands.

[clearlynotjanus]

Loceit Appreciation Week: Day Four, Debate

READ ON AO3

Chapter Summary: Tired of the neglect he experiences at the hands of staunch Morality, when Janus is sent to the Dark Side, Logan attempts to follow some years later. CW: Food mention, Moceit fight Word Count: 3448 Genre: Gen, Hurt/comfort Rating: Gen Ships: Platonic Loceit

taglist: @sanderssidesangsttrash​​​ @catalinaacosta​​​ @whatishappeningrightnow​​​ @anxiousbean4404​​​ @vexelore​​​ @the-dead-and-the-decaying​​​ @serpentinesomebody​​​ @poptartsaysurloved​​​ @robertdownerjr​​​ @dangitsbrightinhere​​​ @iamuncomffy​​​ @sanderdarksides​​​ @evertriedsoywithyourpopcorn​​​ @dragonfander @virgilstarantula​​​ @a-rudethude @indubitably-emo @gay-artist-626​​​ @cosplayhanna​​​ @edupunkn00b​​​ @wouldntyou-liketoknow​​​ @awesomerandomgirl1​​​ @rizzyluke​​​ @sevencrashing​​​ @all-panic-nodisco​​​​ ​​​

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Though Logic and Self Preservation never had the chance to spend very much time together before the older boy’s disappearance, the conversations they did have were constructive, engaging, and supportive. Which was quite the opposite of what the others had to offer as the years dragged on. During the six that followed the unfortunate event, Logic found himself dismissed and belittled at every turn. Eight years old at the time, he didn’t exactly understand what had happened to his friend. It was confusing, and no one seemed willing to talk about it. The other Creativity mourned like Self Preservation was dead. Fear didn’t seem to notice. Morality cringed whenever Logic brought it up. He didn’t understand.

Time went on well enough then. Eight years old turned into nine, then ten, then eleven; then Fear morphed into Anxiety and the other Creativity disappeared. Even Logic could have called that one -- and he had. If only Morality listened to him and his advocating for the curly haired Creativity’s ideas. If only Fear had let him help more instead of jumping to improbable conclusions. All of it was a shame and it made Logic’s stomach hurt. He had liked that Creativity.

Eleven, twelve, and thirteen passed; then Anxiety disappeared as well, giving Logic a foreboding sense of loneliness. He didn't get along perfectly with Anxiety, but still. It felt like the Sides were dropping like flies. At this rate, Thomas would be more Dark than Light, Creativity said. Morality told them that was nonsense; as long as they three stayed good, Thomas would be fine. But Logic couldn’t help thinking this one was more his fault than the last. Perhaps if he had better communicated reality to Anxiety, things could’ve been different. Morality assured him it had nothing to do with anything like that; Anxiety just couldn’t be worked with. That didn’t sound right.

Through the beginning of his teenage years, the dismissal deepened. Too young, too inexperienced, too angry, too serious, too silly. No matter what Logic did, he couldn’t get through to them -- especially Morality, who seemed adamant that he had no idea what he was doing yet. The arguments ranged from petty to serious. No, Logic would say, Thomas can’t afford another Lego set, Morality, he has to save for textbooks next semester. No, Thomas shouldn’t have extra dessert just because he did his laundry today; he just had cake yesterday and God knows why. Irresponsibility began to overwhelm Thomas as he indulged in his Feelings more. He daydreamed a more fulfilling life, as he’d have himself convinced, through Creativity’s delusions. Logic was never considered. In fact, Logic was bad for insinuating everyone else was wrong.

At fourteen, Logic had had enough. One morning he woke up and decided he didn’t belong with the others -- with Creativity and Morality. He belonged with Self Preservation and the other Creativity. The one that he liked and the older boy who had always listened to him. The thought of enduring another day of disagreements and neglect dried his throat, so as the sun rose, he sunk out.

The Dark Side was, well, dark. Logic didn’t know what he expected but couldn’t find it in him to be surprised. He went to turn on the living room light but curiously found the switch already flipped, the bulb already illuminated. He went to open the blinds and found them already drawn. Rather than foreboding, as Self Preservation found it upon his initial arrival all those years ago, Logic found it fascinating. Not fascinating enough to keep his stomach growling though. Were the others already awake? Did they not have breakfast over here? Perhaps he was just early.

Unceremoniously, Logic grabbed himself a bowl, a box of cereal, and milk from the fridge to construct his breakfast -- a task Morality had always insisted he do for Logic until recently, when he spitefully went a full month of refusing to eat anything Morality made him. He was old enough to make his own breakfasts and lunches, thank you very much. 

“You’re up early,” A voice followed the sound of footsteps down the stairs. “Are you making breakfast for once, Vir--” Janus’ words and feet came to an abrupt end when he reached the bottom landing and his eyes rested on Logan; the teen was small but bigger than Janus remembered, bigger than he was the last time they had spoken for sure. He did the mental math quickly -- it’d been six years since he left the Light Side, Logan had been about eight at the time and had always been six years Janus’ junior; so the boy was fourteen. Logan’s back was ramrod straight at their table as he mindlessly sucked Cheerios off a spoon. Across the room, the television droned the news, but Janus was unable to hear it due to the ringing that pierced his ears.

“Good morning, Self Preservation,” Logan greeted after he swallowed, as casually as anything despite his stare that lasted a second too long. He noted the shine on one half of Janus’ face; the way one pupil had slit and changed colors. Fascinating -- but was he okay? He seemed okay at least.

“Self Preservation?” Janus said with a mask of amused absurdity. “When I left I was Prezzi.” The conversation was good, distracting enough to quell his panic as he glanced up the stairs again. Logic’s room hadn’t appeared -- or perhaps he had missed it?

“Sorry, I didn’t know if you still liked being called that,” Logan explained down at his cereal and Janus felt his heart breaking.

“Of course I do,” His brows knitted earnestly at the boy, a hand clutching his collar as though it choked him. Again he glanced up the stairs. “If you’re alright,” Janus took a step back, “For just a moment. I’ve forgotten something, I’ll--”

“My room isn’t here,” Logan’s voice edged with annoyance as he clinked his spoon against the bowl. “I tried everything and it just wouldn’t move,” He mumbled as he aggressively stabbed a Cheerio.

“You tried to make it move?” Janus’ voice gained a shrillness. He couldn’t believe the boy’s audaciousness! “Logan,” He reprimanded sternly but to no avail. The boy continued to sluice quiet mayhem through his cereal and Janus was at a loss. 

He glanced up the stairs a final time. It was early, Virgil wouldn’t come out of his room for a couple hours at least, if he did at all that day. His mind quietly asked what Remus would be doing, forgetting for a moment in the emotional chaos that he had run away to the Imagination months ago. Janus sighed and crossed the room.

“So,” He said in a decidedly conversational tone as he sat down at the table. “Anything interesting happening today?” He gestured at the television and Logan shrugged. Janus frowned. The topic of why he was here would have to be breached eventually, but as long as the Subconscious was refusing to move Logan’s room, Janus didn’t think it was an emergency. What was an emergency, however, was the poor boy’s emotional state.

“Do you want more cereal?” Janus offered quietly as he eyed the nearly empty bowl. Surely the Cheerios that were left were too soggy to be enjoyed at this point.

“I can get it myself,” Logan nearly spat with a venom Janus hadn’t heard from him yet. His brows raised, both concerned and entertained. 

The Logic he knew would never use such a tone, the contrast was almost funny. Though Logan hadn’t changed completely he noticed; Janus had several memories of Logan insisting he could do something himself. From climbing on counters for scissors he definitely shouldn’t have been using, to pulling bookshelves down instead of asking one of the older Sides to get a book for him, to stubbornly using the side of his fork with both hands to cut a piece of chicken when he would refuse help with dinner. But it would all be done with apologies and explanations, assurances that he’d be safer next time, growing understanding that though his mind was large, he was still small.

“Logan,” Janus said patiently, the humor in his expression dissolving to reveal patience and worry. The boy grit his teeth and continued to glare narrow eyes down at his cereal bowl. “Why did you come here?” Janus asked softly, leaning forward to try and meet Logan’s eyes. 

Then Logan remembered that in the short time they had been on the same side of the Mindscape together, Self Preservation had always listened to him. He had always been there to turn to when the others ignored him. Remembering this made his anger ebb away, though with that, the sadness he had been trying to ignore washed ashore. The hardness in his expression softened, but he still refused to look up.

“Morality and Creativity don’t listen to me,” Logan admitted quietly and shame filled his stomach, colliding with his breakfast in a way that made him nauseous. “I’ve tried everything but Morality always says I’m too young to tell him what to do,” His brow twitched and Janus watched as his sad expression morphed back into something more callous. 

The sight hurt his heart, but mostly it made anger warm his chest. What on earth was Patton doing? The root of all their issues so far had been a distinct lack of listening. From fighting with Janus over developing moral stances, to stubbornly refusing to consider nuance in the pursuit of art and self expression, to the apathetic dismissal of welling fear and anxiety as adulthood approached -- was there anyone Patton listened to? 

“So you came here,” Janus sighed, attempting and somewhat failing to keep the rage out of his tone. “Because I had always listened to you,” He guessed but then Logan shrugged and shook his head.

“Sort of,” He replied and Janus blinked curiously. Had he missed something? “Mostly I just assumed this is where we came when Patton hated us.”

The straightforward words punched Janus in the gut, knocking the wind out of him like he had just unexpectedly stepped off a building and was now free falling with panicked arms that reached for anything to hold on to. As usual, Logic’s assessment wasn’t incorrect. In a way, this was where the Sides Morality didn’t like ended up; but it was deeper than that. At least Janus had to hope it was deeper than that, or else he’d never find it in himself to forgive his closest friend. Janus swallowed his hurt and sat up, shoving his shaking hands under the table. It wasn’t Logan’s fault and he wouldn’t hold the injury against him, though he did need a moment for a deep breath before he was able to find his voice again.

“Patton doesn’t hate you,” Janus reassured baselessly on reflex, but then he stopped. He couldn’t think of anything else to say that wasn’t just blatantly lying -- which, of course, he had no issues with, but it was a sad realization, nevertheless. 

“Then why doesn’t he listen to me?” Logan asked as Janus faltered. “Why did he send you and Anxiety and Remus away?” He looked around the shadowed room as he spoke before meeting Janus’ eyes again. “Creativity calls this the Dark Side which implies that he and Morality make up some sort of Lighter half,” Janus’ hands became unsteady once more as Logan continued asking questions he didn’t necessarily have answers to. At least no answers he wanted to admit. “But if they’re just going to keep dismissing me, then I don’t want any part in that,” He said decisively and pushed his cereal bowl away like it contained the subject matter. “If being a Dark Side means being listened to, then that’s what I’ll be.”

“No, you won’t,” Janus said much harder than he meant to, making Logan’s eyes shoot up. “You’re going back,” he said resolutely, leaving no room for misinterpretation in his tone. Logan opened his mouth but then Janus stood, the chair squeaking loudly against the floor. “If Patton did actually hate you as he does myself and the others, your room would be here,” Janus pointed out, flaring his own heartache with the presumed fact. Logan frowned angrily and balled a fist on the table.

“I’ll just sleep on the couch then.”

“No. You won’t.” 

“Fine, I’ll sleep in Remus’ room. He’s used to sharing.”

“This isn’t a debate, Logan, you’re going back.” Janus said evenly, without raising his voice, which somehow made the seriousness in his tone and the steel in his eyes even more intimidating.

In the glaring silence of Logan frantically trying to think of more argument points, Janus’ phone vibrated in his pocket. With a short and aggravated huff, he fished the object out and rolled his eyes at the displayed message.

[SMS From: Patton]

PLEASE tell me Logan isn’t with you

“Well,” Janus sighed, “It seems we’re both in trouble now.”

[SMS Re: Patton]

Oh no, not at all. Whyever would you think that

“That’s Morality, isn’t it,” Logan guessed, looking miserably down at the table. He didn’t want to think about what Morality was saying.

“Yes,” Janus confirmed as he ignored the message that popped up almost immediately. Shoving the phone into his pocket, he sat back down quietly.

Logan was smart, far too smart for his age which is why everything was very difficult for him. Morality was childish and couldn’t see past the fact that Logan was the youngest. Even so, it wasn’t as if he was an actual child. He was the manifestation of Thomas’ Logic; undeveloped, easily frustrated, overwhelmed by his Feelings and in desperate need of acknowledgement for simply trying his best. But even when Janus would convey it to Patton in that way, there was no getting to him. 

The fear that Logic would be cast aside and hidden away in this Darkness along with him was real, however. If that were to happen, Thomas would be in a very dangerous situation. It was terrifying enough that his natural Fight or Flight was already over here -- that his very will to live was as well. Janus didn’t want to think about what metamorphosis Logic would go through in that process. From Fear to Anxiety, now to Paranoia; watching Virgil suffer was already more than enough heartache for him, which wasn’t even to mention what was happening to Remus.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so angry at you, Logan,” Janus spoke softly, folding his hands on the table. He watched with a frown as Logan continued staring down. “But I really need you to understand that this is no place for you.” He leaned forward, trying to meet Logan’s eyes again, to no avail. “I know it’s hard, I know Patton doesn’t listen, but you have to keep trying,” Janus’ tone and expression were beseeching and genuine, his brow creased with a deep worry he didn’t have words for. “You have to promise me that you’ll keep trying,” Logan looked up, defiance and confusion hardening his eyes. He opened his mouth but Janus continued. “You have to. Even when you don’t want to. Even when the others don’t want you to. You have to, for Thomas.”

Logan stared at him, confusion slowly overtaking his rebellion. Janus looked…sincere and earnest, but he didn’t understand why. What was the point of arguing with Morality and Creativity if they would never listen? What was the point of going back when even Self Preservation knew he’d always be dismissed? It sounded exhausting. At fourteen, Logan was already so tired of it. But there was something in Janus’ eyes that convinced him to stop fighting; something that told him there was more he just didn’t understand yet. If that were true, if that were ever true, he’d believe it coming from the Side in front of him now and him, alone.

“Okay,” Logan sighed and Janus smiled in relief. 

“Good,” He nodded at the bowl as he sat back in his chair again. “You can finish up your breakfast but then--”

“There you are!” Patton’s voice, coming from behind Janus, stopped his words dead in their tracks. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, kiddo!” 

“Morality,” Logan said, the word easily mistaken for a greeting. The boy glanced between Patton and Janus, the latter having lined his lips in a pensive, unhumored smile. 

“Whatcha doin’ over here, bud?” Patton asked as he approached the table. Janus rolled his eyes and leaned as far away in his chair as he could manage. 

Watching Janus’ reactions to Morality, Logan felt equally annoyed; both at the fact that Morality came here to get him, and also for how interrupted their conversation had become.

“Eating,” Logan said curtly, reaching for his cereal bowl.

“Well you know we have plenty of cereal in our kitchen, so why don’t you come on back and I’ll pour you some!” 

Patton’s positivity grated Janus like sandpaper. Years of assumptions and miscommunications soured his stomach. His body reacted to Morality like something toxic.

“Maybe he prefers the cereal over here,” Janus mumbled sarcastically and Patton bristled as though he had honestly expected Janus to stay silent this entire exchange. 

Logan bit his tongue to keep the appeased smile off his lips but his interest bubbled over. No Side had gotten under Patton’s skin like that since Anxiety was sent away. It was almost a missed sight.

“He wouldn’t know what the cereal over here was like unless someone made him try it,” Patton not-so-subtly accused as he reached for Logan’s wrist.

Logan refused at first, pulling with half strength against Patton’s grip. “I’m perfectly capable of pouring cereal myself, Morality,” He mumbled as he met Janus’ eyes. His sardonic and cynical expression seemed to say, it’d be easier to just go along with him I guess, much to Logan’s dismay. “But fine,” He sighed and let himself be pulled to stand, though he immediately shook off Patton’s hand. 

“Thank you,” Patton gloated as he turned to leave and Janus all but groaned out loud. 

Logan paused. The moral superiority that rolled off Patton was familiar, but at the same time something new against the kindness Janus had shown him. He could easily see why they didn’t get along; their methods were very different. Morality was overbearing, insistent, stubborn, rigid, and often narrow minded. Having developed from Thomas’ Feelings, Patton was silly, immature, and hard to take seriously. Self Preservation was the opposite somehow; smart, clever, flexible, nuanced, and able to see the whole picture with ease. Janus was sarcastic, mature, and deathly serious when need be as a result. Comparing them, it was easy to see why Logic had an easier time getting along with Self Preservation, and why it was pointless to hope that would ever change.

“I’m not doing this because you convinced me to,” Logan told Patton as he trailed after.

Patton turned to blink at Logan, looking mostly confused with a hint of offense. “Of course not,” He saved face, “You’re coming back because over there is where you belong.”

“No,” Logan said slowly, glancing behind himself at Janus, who stayed sitting facing away from them. “I’m doing this because Thomas needs me,” He informed Patton as he began to sink out. “And because you and Creativity would be hopeless by yourselves.”

Janus snickered, covering the sound with a cough into his hand.

“My word, Logan sure has developed quite the backbone while I’ve been gone,” Janus snarked once he and Patton were alone.

“What did you say to him?” Patton accused, his tone somewhere between antagonistic and wounded. 

“Why, nothing of course,” Janus mocked and Patton’s eyes narrowed. “We just bonded over our mutual dismissal, is all.”

“I don’t dismiss him!” Patton sputtered and Janus snorted. A tense silence rose before Patton continued. “Anyway, you shouldn’t be talking to him.”

Janus stood finally and turned to face Patton, his brows raised. “And why’s that?” 

“Because you’re gonna i-influence him or something! Like you did with Remus and then Logan will be over here too!” Patton stuttered and Janus scowled.

“Oh please, you know I’m the only reason he went back so willingly,” Janus waved a limp hand. “Though I doubt he’ll try this again anytime soon, so you don’t have to worry your simple little head about it, darling.”

“Well, good.” Patton finished, glowering at Janus’ smirk. He hated that expression. Why was Janus happy about them fighting? It certainly didn’t make Patton happy. He was anything but having to face him like this. Without much more to say, he sank out as Janus offered a caustic wave of his fingers.

“Good riddance.”

Chapter Three || Chapter Five Part One / Part Two

[semper-legens]

78. The Capture, by K A Applegate

Owned: Yes Page count: 154 My summary: It seemed to be a normal mission for the Animorphs. Morph some flies, infiltrate a Yeerk base, and get out again. But an accident on the mission could have deadly consequences for one Animorph in particular. What happens when Jake becomes one of them? My rating: 5/5 My commentary:

Back into Animorphs, and another notorious one! I forgot how much of what I consider to be the core benchmarks of the Animorphs series appear this early. It really makes me wonder what happens exactly in the later books that I haven’t read, if all of this wild stuff is happening here at the start. Anyway, this one’s excellent, as ever.

Where before I’ve been talking about the narrator to open each of these, I’m not going to do that necessarily going forward, unless there’s something in particular about their growing characterisation that grabs me as something I want to talk about. There wasn’t anything in this one about Jake that makes me want to single him out like that, so I’m giving this section a skip here.

One thing I was grateful for in this book - finally, they’re trying out morphs before going on missions, instead of trying them for the first time in a time-critical setting and losing themselves to the morph! I’ve been internally screaming at these kids to get better at tactics for six books now, so that was nice to see. I mean, they’re kids, and I’ve said before that I am enjoying their slow progression into becoming better at strategy, it was just frustrating after the first few times that they didn’t think to try out new morphs first.

There’s some hinting towards Jake and Cassie being into each other in this one. The older I get, the weirder having romantic subplots between kids seems to me (I can’t articulate why, it just seems like forcing kids into more adult roles somehow? I mean, I know teens date each other, but we as a culture have this weird focus on the dating lives of minors in our media. Idk, it’s just weird to me) but this one is subtle and, for now, not acted on despite everyone seeing the tension, which is fair.

Ax is still very much the outsider in this book. I haven’t said a lot about him because I’m waiting for the book where he’s the narrator - two books away, as a matter of fact - but it’s interesting to me how the kids both recognise and accept him as part of their circle and are wary of him by equal measure. He’s not their friend, by necessity, but he’s their ally at the minute. He hasn’t earned their trust yet.

The kids’ dialogue in general is getting progressively looser and more like banter. It’s interesting to see, showing their gradual casualness on missions and while fighting. This is slowly becoming normal for them, which is sad and cool in equal measure.

Ok, ok, fine. This is the one where Jake gets Controlled by a Yeerk after slipping in a Yeerk pool. Not just any Yeerk! It was Tom’s Yeerk, the one controlling Jake’s brother. Actually, I was surprised by how late this plot point showed up, and how quickly it was resolved - the Yeerk goes into his brain only on page 95. There’s some tension, as the Yeerk tries to use Jake’s morph abilities to its advantage, but it can’t help but call Ax ‘Andalite filth’ and from that moment the game’s up for it. So the kids tie up Jake, and wait three days for the Yeerk to die of malnutrition. Which is a horrible thing for kids to have to do! This one gets dark, both with that and the horror of having your mind and body be controlled by an alien, and the Yeerk taunting Jake with memories of how terrified his brother really was in there. It’s a lot, but it’s handled really well and interestingly, and it makes this book really stand out in my opinion.

Phew. That’s all for this one, folks - join me tomorrow for Rachel, and a new kind of trouble for the Animorphs.

[hansolmates]

vernon; blossomed (m)

feat. tattoo artist!vern x flower shop fem!reader based on nonnie’s big brain

genre/warnings: flangst, lang, wild generalizations of how tattooing works, gratuitous love for side characters, mild drinking, phineas and ferb references, mild foreplay

word count: 12k

Vernon called you his Rose. 

Not exactly his Rose, because you were definitely not anyone’s property and he wanted to give you nothing but your full autonomy, but it’s because he’s never had the chance to ask for your real name. 

But when he first spotted you in the little lavender and honey colored flower shop across the street, you were tending to the rose bushes at the front entrance. You were cutting roses and you didn’t look utterly graceful, in fact you stabbed yourself more than once with the thorns. He couldn’t help but laugh when you laughed when your co-worker had to hand you a new bandage every minute. 

He decided then that he liked you, even if it’s not wholly sexual or romantic, he liked you. 

Or maybe he just liked the idea of you, the way you’d lounge around in the canopy swing with your boots tucked under the seat, fluffy yellow socks wiggling out in the sun. Sometimes you’d read a book, sometimes for well over an hour. He liked how you soaked up the heat and created your own little world, happily unproductive. 

It was only a seven meter walk from the flower shop to the tattoo parlor, but the view from his front window required zero walking distance and a sure-fire lack of ever bumping into you. 

“Vernie’s got a crush on the Flower Girl,” Yoongi sing-songed, chugging along a box full of random-ass materials that Vernon was supposed to clean in the morning. 

Vernon scowled, and swatted away the older one’s hand when it dived in front of his face. 

Yoongi whistled like he was an old-time animation, singing the day away. “Vernie’s stalking his crush.” 

“I’m not stalking,” Vernon snapped, swiveling around in his rolling chair. “that involves shit like literally following her around,  photography, I dunno, being a weirdo?” 

“You definitely qualify for one of those.” Yoongi replied tartly, and he fought the urge to grin when Vernon finally turned back to the window, only to narrowly miss your form. The swing was now unoccupied, the only thing remnant were your working boots lined up against the entrance. “It’s been what, two weeks? Just ask her out already.” 

“You think I would’ve done that by now if there wasn’t a reason why?“ 

Soooo you were dating someone. Some super tall, super handsome guy would stroll up to the flower shop every morning, coffee in hand. Before you’d take your proffered coffee, he’d pucker his lips for a good-morning kiss in repayment. Vernon looked back to Yoongi, who was staring right back at him and confirming his suspicions that yes he was being a fucking weirdo for paying attention to things like that. 

Yoongi pressed his lips together, puffing his cheeks out in slight irritation. “So you’re stalking a taken girl,” he whistled lowly, “should I regret hiring you?” 

“Not funny.” 

“As repayment for effectively creeping me out,” The older one slipped his hand into his electric yellow windbreaker to twirl Vernon a ring of keys. “You’re closin’ up for tonight.” 

The brunette’s jaw dropped to his lap, and he got up from his spot by the window. “What? What happened to Minghao?” 

“Sick,” Yoongi shrugged. 

Closing up meant that Vernon had to stay until 12AM, at the very least. The area was off a college town and that meant a lot of young lucrative artists would stop by pretty late, hence the closing time. Usually Yoongi and Minghao were the night owls, but tonight Minghao was supposed to fly solo because Yoongi landed a last-minute recording gig. “C’mon, can I at least close early?” Vernon whined, “it’s summer. No one’s here.” 

“What, ya gotta date or something?” Yoongi smirked, swinging the entrance open. Halfway out the door, he added loftily, “don’t forget to water Patricia. It’s been two weeks.” 

The door slammed and Vernon was left alone. He spared a glance at the window, only to see that your boots were now gone from the patio and only one light was on in the shop. Vernon turned to his company for the night, their jade succulent, aptly named Patricia Planty. 

With Patricia Planty watered and a stomach full of Wendy’s nuggets in his body, Vernon busied himself up for a grueling five hours. Thankfully he brought in his laptop, as if he were expecting Yoongi to pull a fast one on him tonight. He drew some random things on his tablet: rockets, stars, the occasional squirrel, and roses. When he was tired of drawing, he’d blast the speakers off the joint and mess around with some of his music programming. When he was tired of doing both, he’d vegetate on the couch and read Reddit articles. 

It was past eleven when the first customer of the night stumbled in. Vernon fought the urge to groan, putting down the pen of his tablet on a particularly intricate constellation. 

“We’re closed!” He yelled through the office door. A white lie, but who would know? 

“Google said you were open until 12!” A voice yelled back, sounding slightly strained. 

Crap. Vernon lowered the volume and pushed away the swivel chair, swinging the office door open. With a rough clear of his throat and hoping not to look like too much of a jerk, he faced his customer, “Welcome to Nu ABO—” 

It was you. Cheeks ruddied, and your eyes glassed with a fresh glaze of tears. Your lower lip worried into a wobbly frown. Vernon’s Reebok’s glued to the concrete of the parlor, effectively stopping him in his tracks. The smell of mulch and a mixture of flowers penetrated his nostrils, but it did nothing to distract the utter hurt etched on your face. 

“Um, hey,”  his voice was gentle, yet unsure. “What are you doing here?” 

You just looked at him, incredulous. Vernon could have sworn he saw your left eyebrow twitch. Of course, you’ve never met him in your entire life, yet Vernon felt like he knew you since the beginning of your summer work. “Gettin’ a tattoo.” You replied as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, rubbing away a stray tear. 

He didn’t want to say it, but Vernon sighed and reasoned, “But it’s just that, ya kinda look—” 

You brushed past him, going straight into the artist room and plopping on the worn leather chair meant for customers. It was still high up because Vernon was cleaning the underside of the metal, so you had to do a little hop to get on. “I don’t care what kind of design. I looked up your Yelp online and everything looked pretty good.” And you then proceeded to unbutton the top of your blouse. 

“Holy shit,” he bounded over to you, grappling his fingers between your shirt before you could undo the rest of it. His breath was probably hot and heavy, compared to yours which was fresh from the cool summer air. Your faces were so close, closer than he ever fathomed. He didn’t think you two would meet this early in the year, as he was emotionally preparing to visit your flower shop at the end of the month, making up some spiel on how he needed to purchase real roses to replicate a commission. Not now. Now was a spontaneous episode, where he was trying to refasten your shirt and ignore the petal pink lace of your bra baiting his eyes. 

When he sensed that you would in fact, stop taking your shirt off, he backed up. “It’s just that, after eleven we don’t really apply tattoos. We just take consultations.” He tried to sound defeated, rubbing the back of his neck. Again, another lie. But Vernon wasn’t about to ink you on the spot, especially when you looked like this. 

“Is it because I’m upset?” You cried, “because I assure you, I’m in the right mind!” 

He winced, lolling his head back and forth. “That’s debatable.” 

You frowned, “C’mon, I have money. Just do me this one solid.” 

“What? No, you don’t even know what you want!” Vernon was exasperated. Not that he imagined the first time meeting you would be a walk in the park, but at the same time he wasn’t expecting to argue with you. 

"Don’t you want to be part of my spontaneous young life? Give me a tattoo that I’ll think about with my children 30 years from now?” He would laugh if you didn’t look like you were crying a river ten minutes ago. “As long as it’s not a tramp stamp, because I don’t think I can pull that off—" 

"Did you break up with your boyfriend or something?” Vernon blurted out before he could regret it. 

Your face morphed into something Vernon couldn’t understand. Pain, for sure. But a sort of relief knowing that you didn’t have to hide it. “Damn,” you give him a tired smile, “does the whole town know or something?" 

You cried again. This time, Vernon reacted quicker. Pulling out a Wendy’s napkin from his flannel pocket, he proffered it to you. He was thankful you didn’t question whether it was clean or not (it was!) and you proceeded to cover your snot and tears all over it. 

"Do you wanna talk about it?" 

You sniffled and blew a particularly large chunk of snot before you shook your head. 

"Do you… want fries?” He gestured to the small table in the room, which had some leftover fries from his combo. “I can heat ‘em up in the microwave." 

Due to the fact that you ran out of tissue room, you rubbed your face with the entirety of your sleeve. You peeked out mid-rub, and replied with a soft, "hell yeah I do." 

His heart twitched. Even betwixt your teary expression, you were so freakin’ cute. He shuffled back to the office, nuking the leftovers in the microwave until they were piping hot. Vernon waited a bit for them to get cool, and fiddled with the music so a soft R&B playlist bounced off the walls. He couldn’t believe you were here. Scratch that, he could, because you were bound to run into him one day due to pure proximity. 

But he didn’t imagine you’d be plopped in his artist room at 11:32, bleary eyed and shoving potatoes in your mouth. 

Vernon busied himself with his phone, and typed a hasty you wouldn’t believe what just happened… to the employee group chat. 

[June 11, 11:33PM]

Bo$$ man: dont tell me u put aluminum in the microwave AGAIN

Hao hao: the chinese mafia came for me, didnt they? good thing I called out 

Jeonghan is a prick: use your resources! sharp items are everywhere :) emergency money is under Patricia’s table

Bernie: tf is wrong w all of you 

Bernie: SHES HEREEEEEE

"M'sorry,” you mumbled with a mouthful of fries, breaking Vernon from his mid-text crisis. He felt his phone buzzing like hell as he shoved it in his pocket, but ignored it for the sake of you. Your previous high of emotions has long worn off, and now you were looking a little embarrassed as you fixed your gaze on the empty container of fries. Your face is blotchy and red, and you’re especially puffy due to the salt you just consumed. “I should go home." 

He didn’t want to be intrusive, but the look on your face showed it was clear that you didn’t want to go home just yet. Drumming his fingers against the metal table, he casually suggested, "Why don’t I do your back?" 

You looked at him like he was crazy. "You still wanna tattoo me? After I cried like an idiot and ate your fries?" 

"You’re not an idiot for being upset. And I offered you my fries.” He pulled out an ink canister, and a thin needle. “This is temporary ink we use to practice, or for customers who wanna test out the look. Lasts one to two weeks. And y'know, it’s a nice distraction." 

You looked skeptical, unsure of his kindness. "Why my back?" 

He shrugged, "It’s the biggest canvas. And if you don’t like it, you don’t have to look at it." 

Still, you’re not convinced. There was something strange about him, something almost too sweet. While your schema may be marred by television and movies, the man in front of you didn’t seem like he quite fit into this little shack. He’s full of color, in his eyes and in his stature, his words clean and pure as he tries to soothe your aching heart. And as much as you tried not to check him out, you spotted no tattoos on any viewable part of his body. 

"And it’s kind of cathartic, really.” He watched your lips quirk up in a smile at the word usage. Not only sweet, but probably smart. Your first smile all night. Cheeks effortlessly heated, he continued, “you kinda just let go into the feeling. And it’s always fun to not know what’s been drawn until the very end." 

You’re curious. There’s excitement in your vision as he gestured to the available cot, inviting you. "Alright. Ink me up." 

Vernon grinned, and started preparing the workspace. Handing you a medical gown, he quickly shuffled away to prepare the ink and needles. He didn’t really work with the clients as deeply as this, he was really just a glorified secretary that took care of the consultation. While he washed his hands, he heard the faint rustle of fabric, definitely your shirt and bra. He turned up the temperature of the water, acutely aware of how hot his hands were getting. 

"Um,” your voice is muffled from being pressed up against the cot, your face presumably propped with pillows. “So are you Yoongi?" 

"Nah, I’m Vernon.” He wheeled over a cart full of supplies, the metal clanging against the concrete. “’M usually the guy who wipes the sweat off his brow." 

You hummed your own name in response, resting your cheek in the plushness of the cotton pillow. There’s a number of sounds paired with the R&B in the background. The smack of Vernon putting on gloves, the click of the needles and the slickness of the balm Vernon has applied on your back. His touch was warm, as his palm crescents across your back to soothe the balm into your skin. He then wiped it down with a paper towel until your skin was smooth and dry. 

"Any ideas yet?” He asked, and from the corner of your eye you see him switch out a needle for a new ink pen. 

“Maybe, stars?” Your voice is muffled against the cushions, as you’re hugging them close to your body. “And maybe something inspired by Spiderman? I liked that new one with Miles, he’s a cool one." 

You could hear the smile in his voice, "I liked that one, too." 

You stuff your own smile in your pillow, how embarrassing could it be that this stranger can make you feel better so fast? Mingyu would be groveling if he saw you now, topless, letting a man ink you up in however way he wished. "Will it hurt?" 

He chuckled at that, "Nah. The ink will sit on top and sink in, I barely have to apply any pressure. Just relax." 

Under the discretion of Vernon, who offered you fries and liked Spiderman, you relaxed. The first stroke of the needle and you were a goner. You closed your eyes and let him do his thing, You couldn’t tell what exactly was going on through his mind as he was painting your back, but you could tell his art was rather cacophonous: stiff pokes here and there, smooth strokes, and wide breaths of ink staining your back. The ink melted into your skin, bonding to your cells under Vernon’s careful control. 

It was almost 1AM when he finished. He tapped your back, urging you up. Tired, and slightly dazed, you sat up. You realized a little too late that you’re only wearing a thin hospital gown, the straps having fallen midway through the process. The air was cool against your skin. 

Vernon totally would’ve gotten a complete view of your sideboob if he wasn’t blushing like a maniac and looking away, and you respected that. His arm is punched out, fisting your button down. You hastily snatched it away, and turned around in order to look decent. 

“The ink won’t show up fully for another six hours, so until then let me know how you like it.” 

“Thank you so much,” you smiled gratefully as you do the last button of your blouse, and pulled out your phone. “Do you accept Venmo or Cashapp?” 

“Oh, yeah.” He accepted the proffered device, and put in the necessary charges. 

Once he gave back your phone, you added a sizable tip to the price he typed up. “The time really flew by,” you noted the time on the corner of your phone, 1:07. “It was really, an experience like you said.” 

He shrugged, and threw you an easy smile. “I try.” 

"Can I get a real tattoo from you someday? Y'know, when I’m ready?" 

"Ah, no. I’m not really under the apprenticeship.” He looked bashful when he said it, as if he were caught doing something wrong. “I just work here for the part time money. I do art on the side, though.” 

You had the urge to ask what he doesn’t do on the side, but it was late and you were probably holding up the poor guy for your trivial questions. “Regardless, I’m still thankful it was you that did this for me.” 

In three strides, he opened the small door for you. “My pleasure. Have a good night. Or, morning. Or if you’re one of those people who don’t consider it morning unless it’s light out, then good night?” 

“Good night,” you giggled, “get home safely.” 

“You too.” 

The screen door slammed shut behind you, along with the main door. Your car is parked in the grass patching of the flower shop. You jogged over, and the summer air made you shiver, your back still raw and warm under Vernon’s touch. 

You couldn’t wait until the flower shop closed. 

If Wonwoo noticed that you moved the porch swing relative to the placement of Nu ABO, he hasn’t brought it up. You weren’t spying on Vernon, no. But your skin was starting to itch with curiosity and in your haste to leave last night, you didn’t even ask what he designed on your back. 

“Are you stalking the tattoo guy?” 

Despite the voice being petal soft, you flinched. Assistant Manager Joshua Hong with a bouquet of boat lilies, was accusing you of stalking. His Converse tapped rhythmically against the wood paneling, looking down at you like a guilty child.  

“What?” you floundered, waving around the florist magazine in your hands. “Josh, I’m studying! And the sun was in my face so I moved the swing.” 

“You’re studying,” Joshua flickered his eyes to the run down shack across the road. “The tattoo guy?” 

“I already said I wasn’t!” 

“Then you’re telling me you spent all last night doing that,” he reached over to tug at your starched work collar, “all by yourself?” 

Your hand flew to your neck, as if you were trying to hide Vernon’s hard work. “I just wanna see what he did, all right? And I’m trying to be very patient until closing because if Wonwoo sees me going there,” you jerked a head none-too-gracefully at the direction of the parlor, “he’s gonna tell you-know-who.” 

Joshua frowned, because he already knew. After all, he stayed in the back room with you all last night, wiping away your tears. “Well, whoever did it is truly an artist,” he said genuinely, “it’s beautiful.” 

Joshua finally left you alone, and you suddenly felt emptier than before. Sure, the breakup with Mingyu was conventionally bad, but why were you so conflicted with your feelings? You didn’t want Mingyu to know you were hanging out with other guys, but you wanted to let go of him. Maybe you were trying too hard too fast. 

But Vernon made everything so, so easy. 

No, you are not letting him be a rebound. The inner conflict in your head was giving you a massive headache, you couldn’t tell if the vibes you were feeling last night were because of the recent breakup or just an authentic spark. 

The storm door shuttered boldly, and you jumped. Wonwoo stepped out, and gave you a weird look. “You alright?” 

“Me? Yeah, fine.” You gripped the collar of your shirt and pretended to fasten the buttons. 

He was unconvinced, either that or the pinched look he was sporting was an indicator of a bad day. “Listen, I know things are gonna be weird because my best friend is your, y’know,” he trailed off, painfully trudging through this conversation as easily as trudging through quicksand. “He’s gonna stop by a couple more times during the week, doing me a few errands. So if you wanna take the week off, recalibrate before the the month ends, just let me know. ” 

“Won, please,” you wanted this to end, “we don’t have to talk about this, alright?” 

He awkwardly twirled around his car keys. “Alright.” As simple as that, he threw himself in his sedan and drove off, dirt brushing the pavement. 

You glared at the dust cloud until his car was far from your sights, the mustard color blinding your vision. “Honestly,” you said to yourself, finally hopping off your swing into the direction of the shack, “he thinks I’m five and never experienced heartbreak.” 

“Welcome to Nu ABO!” this voice was different, and you slowed your steps. It doesn’t quite have the husk that Vernon’s voice held, but definitely matched the energy. The boy stepped out, and his eyes sparkled in recognition. “Flower Girll,” he said to himself, and you suddenly felt like you got caught, “I don’t think we’ve met before.” 

"We haven’t,” you replied warily at the pet name, “where’s Vernon?" 

"Oh, he’s around.” The guy waved noncommittally to the air in the room, crouching his head to look down at you. He stuffed his hands in his black overalls, which covered a painfully bright rainbow tye-dye tee. “Curious to see Vern’s ink though. He’s only ever done small stuff.” 

“I thought he wasn’t an apprentice.” 

 He flicked his wrist around to show you a beautiful line of Chinese calligraphy. "Keep the secret between us, ‘kay?” He winked. 

“Minghao, leave her alone.” Vernon stepped out of the small bathroom hidden in the artist room, a white towel behind his neck. You took in his disheveled appearance. His face was red from washing his face, and he wore the same clothes from yesterday. “Hey.” He said. 

“Hi,” you replied, “did you sleep here last night?" 

"Uh, yeah.” Vernon rubbed at his neck again, and stuffed the towel in his backpack. “I usually do the morning and afternoon shifts, I covered for this guy last night,” he jabbed his fist in Minghao’s shoulder, “but still had to do my day shift.” 

“So,” Minghao rocked back and forth in his boots, “why are you here?” 

You suddenly felt self-conscious, and gripped your phone between your two palms. A little part of you was disappointed that Vernon was not alone, but another part of you was relieved. It helped slow down the pace of your feelings (feelings?) that was heading in a direction you were not anticipating. “I wanted to say thank you again for last night.” You coughed, and Minghao grinned wider at your explanation. “And I was wondering if you could take a picture of my back? I haven’t had a chance to look at it.” 

He beamed, and you could tell he was happy that you wanted to document his work. “Oh, of course! I completely forgot last night.” 

Vernon moved to grab your phone, but Minghao swiped a hand in front of him. “Can I take your photo?” He asked you, although the look in his eyes said that you didn’t have much of a choice. 

Your cheeks burned at the sudden intrusion. “Huh?” 

“I mean, have you seen this guy’s Insta?” Minghao scoffed, albeit playfully as Vernon mirrored your flush. 

“What are you talking about?” Vernon exclaimed, thoroughly insulted, “my profile is tastefully abstract.” 

“It looks like it was tastefully done by a three year old.” Minghao pulled out his iPhone, and adjusted the filters. “I’m doing you a favor here, Flower Girl.” 

You looked warily at Vernon, who slumped in defeat, “If you’re going for that e-girl vibe, I guess Hao’s a better photographer.” 

“Better than your pictures coming out blurry.” Minghao shot back, holding the camera to your face. “There’s no light in here,” Minghao glared at the singular window in their tiny studio, the sill decorated with a single jade succulent. “Got any ideas?" 

Vernon shrugged, "You said I have the taste of a three year old, so." 

With Wonwoo gone for the day, you realized that you did have an idea of where you could take a tasteful picture. The thrill excited and terrified you. You only wanted a simple picture to see what it looked like, but Minghao looked as equally as excited to see your ink. Maybe it was the fact that the art was fleeting or that Vernon was really that talented, but it encouraged you to offer the setting up.

"I think our greenhouse has plenty of light,” you gestured out the studio’s only window, which was in perfect view of the flower shop. “We should be closing up soon, so it’s free." 

Minghao nodded approvingly, "We can try." 

And with a hasty "be back @ 4:20!” sign taped on the front door to Nu ABO, the three of them walked across the street to the greenhouse. 

You went in first, nearly bumping into Joshua who was bent over, pot in hand. 

“Hey Josh,” you grabbed the keys from the front desk, “borrowing the greenhouse." 

"Hey Josh,” Minghao and Vernon mimicked, who found it amusing that you just brushed by without an introduction. 

You rolled your eyes, hearing them exchange pleasantries and bro fists. The plexiglass doors to the greenhouse unlocked with a turn of your key, the smell of heat and grassy rain hitting your nostrils. Joshua placed the pot somewhere, following suit as the boys were right behind you. 

“Awesome,” Minghao exhaled, stepping further into the greenhouse. It was a small one, but comfortable enough for a couple patrons to browse around. “I’m gonna move around some plants if that’s okay, I gotta vision.” 

Joshua looked a little frazzled watching Minghao talk to himself and start moving the settings around (“The hydrangeas don’t go there, are you crazy?”) and started helping Minghao move the pots and placements around. You and Vernon hung around the entrance, giggling to yourselves. 

You tried to bump his shoulder, which didn’t even reach his. “So, what’s your Insta handle?” 

He quirked his brows at that, “Why, so you can judge my aesthetic too?” 

“No,” you replied, faking your shock. “I would never insult your taste!” 

With a roll of his eyes he said, “Speaking of taste, since your shift is over and my shift is over,” Vernon rocked back and forth on his feet. “Wanna grab a bite?” 

Something’s fluttering in your stomach, and you stomp it down. It’s an innocent invite, yes. Unfortunately it was not-so-innocent in your twisted mind knowing that you are still fresh from a breakup, yet your backed is marked with Vernon’s work. “You must be tired though,” you tried to reason, “you should get some rest, I don’t wanna bother you.” 

“Not a bother,” he said immediately, “besides, I wanna ask you something.” 

That got you curious. Before you had a chance to ask, Minghao was ushering you over, telling you to stand in front of a bundle of orchids. They’ve bloomed a Canary yellow, encasing you in a golden ring of flowers overlooking the terrace. The new friend has gestured for you to undo your shirt and he turned away in respect. It’s different with an audience and an expectation.  You made haste to undo the buttons of your blouse, then your bra, throwing it aside. You felt the warm, moist air kiss your back, and you heard a low whistle coming from Minghao. 

“Beautiful,” Minghao exhaled, “Vern, you’ve outdone yourself." 

Beautiful. Vernon made you beautiful.

Your body was simmering, and you could do nothing as you let Minghao photograph you. You focused your eyes on a puddle dripping from a faucet in front of you, counting the seconds between each droplet. 

“And, done.” 

You shoved on your clothes, and felt extra awkward as you fumbled to reach for the straps of your bra. You nearly slipped on the puddle as you walked back to the boys, who were busy over Minghao’s shoulder. 

“Super awesome,” Minghao handed you the phone brightly, “so much texture and feeling.” 

The screen showed a halo of foliage that surrounded your bare back, blush orchids kissing the frame with color. Your work shirt bundled under your hips, and fell under your elbows to reveal a city sky. You were breathless, zooming in to capture every detail of the ink. A navy sky, blanketing buildings across your back in a diagonal, splaying from the bottom right to the top left. On the bottom, skyscrapers reaching for the stars. 

If you zoomed in enough, you could tell that the stars were shaped like roses. 

“I don’t know how many times I’ve said thank you in the past two days,” you started, causing Vernon to grin widely. “But thank you, I’ve never felt so beautiful.” 

Vernon scoffed, “I didn’t do anything, I’ve only enhanced your beauty. That’s our shtick.” 

You handed Minghao back your phone and thanked him. He then rushed off, saying he had to stay at the parlor since Yoongi was coming soon. Immediately, Joshua began putting back the plants in their rightful places. You and Vernon followed suit, starting with the smaller ones. 

“So,” Vernon picked up a tray of succulents, “are we still on for dinner?” 

Wide-eyed Joshua crept in-between the foliage, laughably appearing under a series of hanging plants like a madman. “Dinner?” he asked, looking between you two. 

“Yeah man,” Vernon reached to pull Joshua away from the plants, “wanna come?” 

Simultaneously disappointed and relieved, you let out a subconscious exhale. Joshua was coming, which meant that there would be no possibility for feeling weird (or catching feels), being awkward or fighting any oncoming feelings with Vernon. 

"On Thursdays there’s this really good half-off sushi deal by my place. We can take out and eat at my apartment?” Joshua’s kindness was palpable at the offering of his home, and the both of you smiled gratefully.

Not more than two hours later, the three of you are bundled away in Joshua’s two-room, empty boxes of carryout stacked high. The television was playing reruns of Full House, the only source of light in the dim space. 

“Are you gonna go home soon?” Vernon asked, and turned his head to the corner of the room. Joshua is cuddled up in the single couch, tucked in a wearable blanket with the armholes. 

You shrugged, “I dunno. Usually I crash here for sushi nights,” you patted the couch lovingly, “This is my second bed.” 

Vernon chuckled, tucking his feet under his thighs. It made him look impossibly small in comparison to how tall and lanky he actually was.

“So, what did you want to ask me?” 

Vernon looked between his legs, as if he were trying to piece his words together. “Long story short, I got waitlisted at my top graduate school option,” he then pulled up his phone, revealing the picture of your back that was taken that afternoon, “but I was thinking that if I made a portfolio of this kind of art, it would really tip my application over the edge. Originally I was thinking of just sending my usual art, but it just popped in my head today while we were doing it.” He looked up through his eyelashes, wisps of copper looking expectantly at you. “If you’re comfortable with it, would you be my canvas?”  

“Live art,” you surmised, “honestly, I’m honored that you would want me to be a part of something so big. You think I’m that good?” 

No, you weren’t doubting Vernon’s art one bit. The fact that your back would be out on display for a bunch of strangers was unnerving, to say the least. 

“Are you kidding?” Vernon zoomed out of the image, revealing the curve of your back and the generation of life reflected in the greenhouse. “This is wicked. You’re stunning. We’d make a great team!” 

You felt your body heat at the statement. His presence was almost too refreshing, and you wanted to return the favor of helping you out last night. 

“Lucky for you,” you shot a quick text to Wonwoo, “I’ve planned to take this week off.” 

Over the course of the week Vernon wanted to do an artistic timeline of sorts, adding and retouching the already existing ink on your back until the canvas was full. It felt fulfilling, letting yourself become a vessel of success for someone. The following day, Vernon shot you a text revealing his portfolio, and said how excited he was to see you. 

You met in the shack after his shift, and Vernon let you into the office and locked the door. You can hear the rap being played in the artist room where Minghao and Yoongi were working with a client.

The artist was muttering to himself as he invited you to sit at the couch. Something about whether he wanted to start from the “top-down” or “bottom-up.” Instead of contributing to his madness, you turned away from him and started shedding your shirt. Today was a plain cotton shirt, and you shucked it off and balled it in your arms. 

No less than five seconds was Vernon’s hands on your back, and despite the warmth radiating from his fingertips, you couldn’t help but shiver. Vernon had explained that while he did a large portion of your back the first time, there was still room for growth and he wanted your back filled by the end of the week. 

“Do you mind if I,” his hand hovered over your bra. 

You shook your head, and with his thumb and forefinger he flicked off both your bra straps with ease. Your hands flooded themselves in the fabric of your t-shirt, which silently accepted your death grip. 

“Sorry, do you feel weird?” He definitely sensed your lack of vocality, and put one strap back in case. 

“I’m fine,” your voice is light, what else could you say? 

“Whatever you say,” he hummed, and resumed his work. 

You opt to take in the sounds. Minghao laughed about something in the other room, coupled with the zing of the needle. The music pulled to a stop and boomeranged back into a smoother arrangement. 

“I think we’ll start from the bottom-up and build from there,” he then placed his hands around your waist, poking at the dive between your waist and your bottom. 

There’s an unmistakable heat that pooled within you, which caused you to wring your shirt harder. It was going to be a long week. 

By Wednesday, he was in your apartment, working on the sides of your waist. The day after every session, Vernon would take a picture of yesterday’s work and show it to you. A gummy grin would always take over his face, either proud of himself or happy that you loved the new addition. 

Despite the fact that the only thing covering your body was a thin gown medical taken from the shop, every pore of your body felt unbelievably hot. You really shouldn’t be mixing alcohol on a Wednesday night, but Vernon was excited that he was halfway done with the project and it was time to be “poppin’ bottles.” 

You felt a little drowsy as a result of that, but nothing terrible. Like he said, the feeling was cathartic. 

“Aren’t you drunk too?” you murmured into your navy blue whale plush, “what if you accidentally stab me?” 

Vernon laughed, and it shook the couch. You couldn’t see his face as he sat on the floor, getting in the crevices of your skin. He poked at your skin a little harder than usual, as if he were testing the possibility. “That’d still take a lot of strength.” 

“You’d be surprised,” you sighed, “those little sticks florists use to keep the babies upright? Flat as a thumb and I still manage to impale tomatoes with them.” He doesn’t respond to that, and you’re left drowning in your own answer. You wondered if he truly thought you were a crazy tomato-killer, or was concentrated on detailing a particular patch of skin. “Can I tell you a secret?” you blurted, “honestly, I think flowers are beautiful, but I really hate working at the florist. The only reason I’m doing it is because Joshua really needed the help and he knew I wasn’t going to do shit until my city job starts in September.” 

“Huh,” Vernon stopped, resting the heel of his hand on your back. “That’s funny. Explains all the cursing when you’re cutting roses outside.” 

“You’ve watched me outside?” you grinned into your cushion, “creepy much?” 

“Do you wanna know a secret?” Vernon blurted, evading your question with one of his own, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since you came by in May.” 

You tensed, and if Vernon noticed, he didn’t react. He kept on doing his business, marking your back with baby’s breath. It had to be the alcohol talking. If he drank at all, you couldn’t even tell because you couldn’t get up and he was strikingly coherent. All this time, and you didn’t even notice? 

“You don’t have to answer,” he said, as if he knew you were strung speechless. “I just, wanted to say it. We’re cool.” 

And you agreed, pretending to fall asleep. 

Friday was around the corner before you knew it, and Vernon wanted to photograph the final piece where it all started. The greenhouse was devoid of human life at the crack of dawn, unless you counted Joshua who was asleep on the counter because he was the only one with a key that knew of your recent escapades with Vernon. 

Vernon was just as tired as you are, but he was adamant about having the photo taken at dawn, as the first picture was taken in the late day. There was some contrived symbolism attached to it that you didn’t really understand, but you trusted his vision. Besides, your panda eyes wouldn’t be revealed in the photo, so you could master the art of sleeping upright while he took photos. 

“Alright,” Vernon set up his camera. He was dressed in a university zip up and matching sweatpants, like he just rolled out of bed. “Everything’s set up, whenever you’re ready.” 

Likewise with you, and you pulled off your hoodie, not bothering with a bra. Despite the fact that the room was temperature controlled, the cold morning air still managed to worm its way to your bare top. You quickly rubbed down your gooseflesh with your palms.  

You two engaged in a comfortable silence as you tested out your poses and he adjusted his frame. After a couple of practice shots, the air seemed calmer.

“Cold?” Vernon asked casually.

“Anything that isn’t under the sheets of my bed is cold as hell,” you muttered, trailing your fingers delicately across your waist. 

“That’s a nice pose,” Vernon said to himself, “we’re almost done. Then you can go to bed for the rest of your day. Unless you’re down for breakfast?" 

You two still haven’t spoken about his little confession the other day, but in all honesty there was no reason to bring it up. Your lives were going in different directions, and you knew Vernon deserved more than a halfhearted summer fling. 

"I think I’m down for bed and breakfast,” you replied wryly. 

“Smart girl,” Vernon chuckled, “can you change your pose for me? Like, pretend that you’re stretching.” 

You didn’t understand what he meant by that, so you ended up flexing your arms in different directions. 

“No, we’re not doing yoga.” He let his camera swing around his neck as he rushed over to you. The sun was a soft white, the antithesis of golden hour as you two rushed to make the magic happen. He grabbed your arms from behind, twisting the left wris in an unusual angle. 

"Ah, Vernon!” You jerked around to face him, now fully awake. “I’m not a Barbie doll, you can’t just move me like that." 

Vernon doesn’t respond. He let go of you as soon as you screamed, eyes blown wide and pupils a thick black. His stare is frozen to yours, and his hand is in mid-air, a centimeter away from your bare breasts. 

"Oh,” you said, “did I whack you with my boob when I turned?" 

"Yeah, you boobed me.” Vernon looked afraid to stare anywhere but your face. “I’m so sorry." 

"It’s okay,” you bit the inside of your lip, “I don’t mind if you touch me there." 

Now, Vernon looked terrified. 

It’s been a long week. A long, surreal week. You wanted to tell Vernon about your conflicted feelings, you wanted to ask about his little crush, and what on earth did he find appealing about you. You wanted to tell him how much you trusted him with your body, and how you wanted him to do more to you than just ink. 

It’s then, the gaping boy shook himself together. His hands encircled your neck, haloing at the finishing piece of his work, an echelon moon. Vernon’s fingers trailed to cup your face, and you felt your whole body warm in anticipation. Patient, you waited for his carmine eyes to flutter shut, and you smiled, finally closing yours—

"The fuck is this?" 

In an instant, the air was sucked out of you like a blackhole, and Vernon immediately shielded you, throwing his jacket across you like a towel. 

"Mingyu,” you said shakily, clutching the cotton coat tighter around your form. 

It’s then that a no-longer bleary-eyed Joshua stumbled into the greenhouse, seconds too late. 

Mingyu threw down the sack of fertilizer he hauled on his back, black dirt smattering the floor.  “Its been barely a week and you’re fucking someone in the greenhouse, of all places?” Mingyu was angry, plain and simple. “I thought we agreed on a break." 

"You agreed on a break,” your thighs were numb from leaning on them, but Vernon’s hand on your back encouraged you to get on your feet. “I agreed that two years was too long to wait." 

"And who are you?” Mingyu squinted his eyes at Vernon.

“He’s none of your business,” you stepped in front of him, tugging his hoodie  closer around your frame. 

Mingyu’s face fell in realization, and he looked between you two with forlornness that made your stomach churn. “C’mon baby,” your nails embedded themselves in your palm at the jab, “can we go outside and talk about this?” 

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” your voice was paper thin, but loud enough for Mingyu to hear across the room, “I’d prefer you leave us alone, and do not talk to me ever again.” 

It took all your composure to turn around, and you glared a hole into Vernon’s chest. You felt your body bleed goosebumps around your arms and legs, not out of weather, but out of anxiety. You hugged yourself to shut the prickly feeling down. You heard Joshua do the only helpful thing this morning and it’s his soft utterances that finally pulled Mingyu out of the greenhouse. ,

What’s left is the drip of the hose, and the two of you, unmoved.

Thankful for the silence, you looked up at your companion, who was speechless. Vernon’s lower lip was puckered out slightly, face contorted as if to say I’m sorry, that kinda sucked. The tell-tale signs of emotional overload began to prick at your eyes. 

“I’m so sorry,” you wiped your face. Since when did you start crying? “I’m so sorry that I let all of this happen, and I let myself let this happen, and I’m such a mess and I’ve been trying to hide it all this time, but I’m selfish and I just wanted to see what would turn out of it.” 

“What are you apologizing for?” Vernon tried to lighten up the mood, and offered you an easy smile and reached for a hug.

“I’m sorry because I don’t know if I like you or not!” you outburst, and pushed him out of arm’s reach. “I feel so fucking guilty I just got out of a relationship and I can’t tell if I like you or I like your attention, honestly. And it isn’t fair because you’re just so sweet and kind and easy to love. Either way at the end of the summer I’m moving into the city for my full-time job. And I, I, I don’t know!” 

Vernon forced his way into your space, barely a foot apart. He didn’t touch you, but his warmth still emanated from the jacket you were wearing. He didn’t seem upset, then again you were probably upset enough for the both of you. 

“Hey, I offered to do your back because I knew you needed a distraction,” Vernon said softly, “no strings attached, ever. You do you, right? Focus on yourself.” 

You wished he was mean about this. It would’ve made it easier. “What if this is the last time we talk? What if I want to ignore you for the rest of the summer?” you murmured, already knowing you. should enjoy these final moments. 

“We’ll live,” he shrugged, and finally broke the space between you. His lips planted themselves between your forehead, melting away the lines that marred your brows apart, “and we’ll heal.”

The city was daring. The city was unforgiving. 

You tugged your scarf closer around your neck, which constricted your airflow but also prevented any possible windchill from slicing your neck. In your other hand you were hauling a week’s worth of work in a luggage that had once packed your things in August and sent you to this very career path. 

As much as you loved your new life, you wished things would be a little more boundless. The box of your workspace, the box of the elevator, and the box of your goshiwon apartment were starting to feel particularly stifling this weekend. 

It was Friday (or FriYay, as your co-workers dubbed) and that meant a weekend vegging out with a comfort meal and a new movie. There was a Burger King and a Gongcha under your apartment complex, both calling your name. 

Boba and burgers, the perfect way to end a week. 

You munched on your fries as you scanned the Gongcha menu, craving something sweet to contrast with your salty meal. 

It is then a low, sultry whisper sauntered in your direction (in a Gongcha, with children) and you almost choked on your fry. “I would know that back anywhere,” the offender drawled. 

What a strange pick-up line. The paper bag crinkled in your grip, and you turn around to see a familiar perky face in a scarlet Adidas tracksuit. Of all the places, he was here. 

“Hey, Flower Girl.” Minghao greeted, wiggling his fingers in a wave. He was on a tall stool, long legs splayed out and a cup of oolong milk tea hung lazily in his grip. His cup was at least 50% ice, and he was shaking the cup like a rattle every ten seconds.

“Normally, people would start with a simple hello,” you replied wryly, ushering him over to wait with you in line. 

“Normally,” Minghao shrugged, and slipped an arm around your shoulders as if you were long lost friends, “how have you been doing? Planting gardens for the spring?” 

“Please,” you scoffed. To Joshua and Wonwoo’s chagrin, you’ve forgotten a lot since the summer. “I can’t even make a corsage anymore, my brain’s on overload. What about you?” 

It looked like he was waiting for you to ask that. You barely got your order in before he started spitting out his story. “Didn’t you hear?” Obviously you didn’t, and he didn’t give you a chance to answer. “Two letters. RM.” Again, nothing. “The RM? The hottest rapper in Korea? Anyway, he was one of our clients in August—he got a sick design of a koala and an alpaca, cooler than you think—and gave us a massive tip on his Instagram story. We were famous overnight! We were getting crazy clients left and right—fuckin’ Sana wanted a little heart on her sternum, hottest thing.” 

“So you were able to relocate the parlor to the city?” 

“The big push was when Yoongi dropped RM his demo,” he shook his cup furiously, ice clanging, as if he never got tired of this story. “Like, I didn’t even know they were texting! I’ve been running the parlor mostly, I’ve always wanted to live in the city, but RM funded a lot of it and is helping Yoongi make his mix.”

In the back of your head, the question of an aspiring grad student was niggling in your brain, but you pushed it down. “So, if Yoongi’s working on his demo and you’re supposed to be running the parlor, why aren’t you there now?” you asked.

He stared at you as if it were the most obvious choice. “Because I’m here, drinking boba with you.” Minghao then grabbed your finished drink from the employee’s hand, ushering you out the door. “And now you’re going to follow me, because my break was over fifteen minutes ago.” 

“What?” 

“I have your boba,” he’s already out the door, waving your precious beverage like a fish to its line. “Hurry up, now I’m sixteen minutes late!” 

You groaned, lugging your suitcase full of work and now cold french fries back into the freezing weather. The wheels of your suitcase are cracking in exhaustion, mirroring yours. You just wanted your damn milk tea, hot fries, and a Netflix catch-up. What was the point of following Minghao to Nu ABO, when there was no reason to be there other than … 

“Oof!” your face slammed into Minghao’s back. The light was red. “Did Vernon move here too?” 

“Duh, who else would be covering for me?” 

“You’re trying to set me up!” You cried in betrayal, jabbing him in chest with your finger. “Y'know what, I’m just going to get another boba. You keep that.”

You two glared at each other. Minghao looked relentless, ignoring whoever was bumping into him on the streets. His eyes suddenly glinted to your rolling luggage, and he snatched it from your grip, running into the streets. 

“Can’t replace your work, right?” He laughed, forcing you to chase him down the block.

You felt sweat start to develop on your back, contrasting with the icy weather. Your work blazer and pinstripe loafers were not suited for vigorous activity. Minghao has an unfair advantage, being tall and athletic, and you had just finished half a bag of Burger King. Damn him. 

Minghao stopped in front of a sunken in building, with stairs leading downwards to a neon-lit parlor with the name glittering in electric periwinkle font. Flustered, you gasp at the cold air, finally able to stop. Despite having lost your breath ten meters ago, you managed to tell Minghao you’re proud that they have a real parlor. 

Your heart was beating in your ears, and you can’t tell whether it was because you haven’t worked out in months, or because Vernon was behind that door. 

Minghao dumped your luggage behind the reception area, and went straight into the artist room. This new parlor was much bigger, so when Minghao disappeared into a hallway he was out of your sight. You wait around, letting yourself sink into the familiar hip hop playlist. There are pictures littering the walls, all covered with a clean black frame. You see Yoongi and the supposed RM, sporting his koala and alpaca ink (which actually did look sick) and some photos of Minghao’s work, all of his designs being simultaneously colorful and graceful. 

It’s then in the epicenter of this wall is a long black frame that cut across the horizon, seven images of a woman with flowers and stars inking her back. 

Your back. 

“Beautiful, right? I’m sure it takes you back.” Minghao was over your shoulder, flicking his fingers between the photos. “Lots of customers have requested these designs. He never makes them the same way, though.”

Instead of answering, you followed Minghao down the hallway and into the artist room. Vernon had just finished with a client. Poking in head first, you saw him ticking off protocol off a printed list, speaking concisely. The client was listening intently, and you see he has an arm sleeve with peonies. It’s then he noticed Minghao intruding once more, and frowned. 

“Dude, you got milk tea without me?” Vernon said, affronted. 

“Ya didn’t ask.” Minghao vigorously shook the ice in your tea like a baby rattle. 

“You didn’t mention it, therefore I couldn’t have asked.” 

“You’re so smart, Hannie,” he beamed at him like a proud parent complimenting his son, “that’s why he’s going to grad school.” 

You let yourself in fully, and you felt shy as Vernon’s lips parted slightly upon realizing who his second guest was. 

“Hey,” Vernon exhaled, and gave you a small smile. He looked happy, content. As handsome as ever, he ran a gloved hand through his hair, soft curls bouncing as he shifted around the parting. “This is uh, a surprise.” his eyes flickered to Minghao, who held his arms out in a passive shrug. “A good one to end the week.” 

“Hi,” you bit your lip, feeling shy, “so, you decided to get certified and you’re going to grad school? I missed out on a lot.”

“That’s okay, we got time.” Vernon assured, “besides the fact that I got a project due tomorrow morning that I’ve barely started, and then I have a field trip I gotta go to on Sunday—”

Before it could drag on any longer, Minghao hacked out a very loud, and very fake cough. You broke out of the rêve, and muttered a “gimmie that” before snatching your precious bubble tea out of Minghao’s hand. 

Vernon mirrored the cough, more out of embarrassment than annoyance. “Lemme finish up with this client, yeah?” And he jerked his head back to the patient, going on about safety. 

Minghao led you out of the room, whispering a “you’re welcome” in your ear that taunted you for the rest of the night. 

Vernon finished at 5, just like he did back in the little shack at university square. He came out in a 2XL neon green hoodie, leading the client out the door and telling him to “take it easy”. As soon as the client’s gone, he comes over to you. You’re still staring at your pictures, as if you couldn’t believe that you were on display, looking like a tasteful nude model. 

“Hi again,” he said, dusting the imaginary dirt off his pants. 

“Hi,” you replied, feeling tingly at the sound of his voice. Did you really miss him that much? 

"Um, is it cool if I hug you?" 

It certainly has been awhile. You nodded, unsure if you could form a coherent response because you could tell Vernon was blushing and he was being too damn adorable for you to handle. 

Upon permission, he brightened. The warmth of his cotton hoodie enveloped you like the way hot chocolate feels after a cold day. You breathed in his scent, realizing how much you missed the scent of fresh laundry, especially on him. 

"How are you?” He asked casually.

“Uh, m'okay.” You answered softly, “a little cold nowadays." 

He hugged you tighter in response. With one more squeeze he let himself go, but kept you at an arm’s length. "Wanna get dinner?" 

You looked at him funny, "didn’t you say you had a project due tomorrow morning that you haven’t started?" 

Without missing a beat he altered, "Wanna get takeout? I’ll do work and eat while,” his eyes darted to your luggage, “you do work?" 

While you wanted to say that it was Friday (FriYay!) and you weren’t planning to open Pandora’s Box until Sunday night, you obliged and followed him to his place. 

On the way over, Vernon got his well-needed milk tea (and your second round) with two matching cartons of jajangmyeon. You trailed behind him rather than next to him, due to the fact that he was also lugging a Joshua-sized canvas on his back. In fear of being knocked out or ruining his work, you settled for walking a meter apart. 

Vernon lived on the second floor of his complex. You imagined a sizable one-room similar to your goshiwon, but you’re in awe when you see a fully furnished living room and kitchen. You smiled at the singular jade plant decorating the windowsill, one you remembered as Patricia Planty one session months ago. The hardwood was so shiny you could see your reflection in them. Kicking off your shoes, you stumbled over the kitchen countertop, reveling at the onyx granite. 

"I’ve never seen this much granite in my entire life!” You cried, spreading your hands over the cool rock. It was so well polished, you could see your reflection.  He was certainly living the high life this year. 

Vernon shook his head, setting the take out down and pulling out the containers. “It’s RM’s old place. I rent it out with the guys." 

"God, this is ten times better than my place! Your kitchen is bigger than my apartment!" 

He flicked your bowl of jajangmyeon over to your side of the countertop, the sauce and noodles premixed for you. "Eat up, babe.” He stuffed a radish in his mouth, now working to mix his own noodles, “we got a lotta catchin’ up to do." 

Whether it was your hunger or the casual use of the word "babe”, you abandoned the granite for now and did as told. 

An hour later, you’re flipping through their mounted TV, taking full advantage of their Disney+ subscription as Vernon is laying on the floor.  

“I thought you were working,” you chastised, letting yourself sink further into their couch. It was like resting on a big, fluffy marshmallow. You never wanted to leave. 

Vernon is splayed out like a starfish, papers and watercolors spread around him. His large body stood out against the white linoleum floor, his neon green hoodie reflecting on the shiny surface. “I am.” he replied blandly, “I’m waiting for lightning to hit me with a burst of inspiration." 

"Grad school’s biting you in the butt?" 

"Big time." 

Another bout of silence hit the two of you, and it was surprisingly nice. You finally started to notice that Vernon is picking up some art utensils and is doodling something. (He still is on the floor and hasn’t sat up properly, but progress is progress.) 

It felt oddly domestic, but you didn’t mind. There was no need to ask about the past, Kim Mingyu, or any other silly drama you two entrapped yourselves into last summer. What mattered now was the warmth of each other’s presence on this chilly night.

Your eyes are heavy and fighting against the long day, and before you know it, you’re asleep just as Rapunzel escapes Gothel’s tower. 

You haven’t awoken to the morning sun in a long, long time. While the notion sounded awfully depressing (because it was), you really didn’t have much of a choice because the goshiwon was closet sized, and closets had no windows. But today, the sun blasted you, forcing you up. This was accompanied by the the tell-tale sounds of breakfast, which was weird because you only ever ate cold food in your room, because there was zero ventilation. The scent of dark roast muddled your senses, forcing you awake. You twitched at the sudden stench, and snapped your back straight. Were your walls always this pristine white? 

"Didn’t know you were this early in the game, Flower Girl." 

You never went home. While Vernon was long gone and probably off presenting some haphazard art, Minghao and Yoongi (for the first time, in the flesh!) were watching you from their marbled island, while you rubbed the crusties out of your eyes. "Usually, encroaching on a significant other’s apartment is reserved for the 5th or 6th date.” Minghao teased, waving his Nutella toast in your face. 

“Oh, shut up,” you glared at Yoongi, who was slowly chewing on his own toast. There’s was black spark in his eyes, like he’s relishing on whatever has unfolded. “And you, you. I know this is the first time we’ve met and you haven’t said a word. But shut up too. Your thoughts are awfully loud.” 

You’re embarrassed, and you pull up your hands to mediate your fired cheeks. Instead of your palms, you feel worn cotton dabbing at your face. You wiggled your fingers under the neon green hoodie. Vernon put on his clothes for you to wear. You were in a very uncompromising position, and his roommates were reveling every second of it. 

Yoongi shrugged, throwing you a flippant grin. “Whatever you say, Flower Girl.” 

Contact emerged in the form of texts and images. You wondered how Vernon managed to keep things casual in light of how sudden your meeting was, but you relished in the way things fell naturally. 

[February 19, 2:10PM]

Vern: Is this still your number 

Vern: If so, here’s what i submitted for my project

Vern: IMG.934

Vern: if not, pls enjoy this picture of a pink platypus. the medium was watercolor nd if you’re curious, i got the idea from sunsets and phineas and ferb. Enjoy your day

You: hey look, there’s perry

Vern: nice

Vern: wait, this doesn’t confirm if ur u or a stranger

Vern: are u just a perry enthusiast 

Vern: evidence pls

[February 19th, 6:08PM]

You: IMG.48

[February 20th, 12:22AM]

Vern: ooh

Vern: look cute in my hoodie 

You’ve toggled with the idea of just cutting straight through the bush and asking him out the next time you see him in person. A little part of you liked the chase, however. That feeling where you’re tugging between friendship and something more, and you can’t help but feel like you’re fifteen everytime his name popped up in your messages. You self-dubbed it the-honeymoon-to-the-honeymoon phase. 

[February 27, 5:34PM]

Vern: what are you up to 

You: it’s hour 32. I’ve been under the covers and have survived solely on celery and honey-butter chips. currently binging all netflix comedies. debating on whether to send for help otherwise i may never get up

Vern: that’s the spirit 

By the time two weeks passed, you felt confident enough to ride off the mutually weird text messages and constant contact to meet with him. By then, you’re knees deep in the honeymoon-to-the-honeymoon phase. You’re languidly floating in that river, hoping you’re not rushing it by agitating the waters. 

[March 8th, 10:10PM]

You: hey

You: you up? 

Vern: nah. mastered the art of sleep textin

You: just wanted to ask if you could help me pick out a tatt that would fit me

You: if you were available. I’ve heard from the mullet-monster that you’re a hot commodity drowning in appts and deadlines

Vern: wait forreal? 

Vern: i can pencil u in. tomorrow night @11? 

You: so soon? What happened to being busy

Vern: not for u. Already have an idea in mind

By the time you arrived Saturday night, Minghao was slapping your back across the door, gabbing on about a “major banger” they were missing uptown. He looked the part, the only person you knew that could fill out an all-studded denim fit. Like a disco ball at a rodeo. He barely said good-bye before he hopped in a Lyft, cheering for freedom. 

You poked your head into the artist room, and saw Vernon playing on his phone. His fist dug into his cheek, carob pupils glazed over. You almost felt bad for wanting his attention this late.

“You usually do the day shift,” you commented quietly, holding up a bag with two milk teas in hand. 

Vernon looked up, illuminating in a half-smile. “Y’know me, always covering. Just for the hour though, this shouldn’t take long since we’re just looking at ideas.” 

He slapped a hand on the client chair. This one was much better than the cot they had in their shack. This one was pure leather and gleamed high quality. You placed your drinks on the countertop and eagerly bounced onto the seat. “Comfy,” you murmured, and wriggled your sneaker-clad feet.

“Good,” there’s a sharp snap from the plastic seal and Vernon is sipping into his milk tea seconds after you put it down. He’s chewing on a particularly large gulp, gnawing on pearls like no one’s business. With his rolling chair, he slid over to you, seamlessly reaching for your wrist. 

If he noticed that you’re wearing a particular neon item, he doesn’t comment. He turned on the overhead lamp, letting a soft white light bathe your form. When he finally spoke, he chanted your name in a sing-song, tapping your wrist in beat. It’s as if he  were envisioning the color blooming on your skin. 

You let him do his thing, and he pulled out his phone, scrolling through his gallery. You see pictures of his friends, some of his family, and digital art. He scrolled slower at the myriad of images: a colorful orca, lavender constellations, and budding roses. 

You were seeing a lot of flowers nowadays, with the burgeoning of spring and the recent ending of Valentine’s. It’s only now that you notice how apparent the theme is throughout the parlor, particularly in Vernon’s affinity. 

“Why don’t you call me it?” you asked softly, peering over his form to see him mulled over a picture of periwinkle lupines. 

“Huh,” he’s distracted, and has now swiped back to the colorful orca image. 

“Flower Girl,” you uttered, “they call me that, but you don’t.” 

Vernon clicked his phone down, the lupines flicked away. He peered at you through his lashes, the white overhead making his eyes appreciably bright. “Before I knew your name,” he started slow, making faces to himself as if he were debating on whether to tell you, “I’d call you Rose. You were always by the rose bush planted outside the shop.” 

“Avoiding work,” you crinkled your nose, however relished in the endearment, “being named after a rose is too big a compliment.” 

He snorted, “That’s what they said. Hence, Flower Girl was born,” he’s easy about it, but now he’s put his phone down and is rubbing circles in your wrist. You wonder if he felt how clammy your palms were getting from the minute intimacy. 

“You know what flower I’d compare to you?” you asked, “freesias.” 

“And what do those mean?” 

“Thoughtfulness,” the pad of his thumb still lingered on your skin, his grip painfully apparent. “And renewal.” 

“Why renewal?” 

“Because,” you swallowed, “you make me feel renewed. And this time I’m sure it’s because it’s you.” 

Vernon looked like he wanted to smile, trying so very hard not to embarass you whilst you poured your heart out with delicacy. His coral lips were tucked in a thin line, teeth biting at his lower lip. Drop by drop, he was going to accept that dew with as much care as possible. “Only me,” he inquired, pressing into your pulse. 

Your mouth was sand dry.  “Uh-huh.” You exhaled a breath long clutched in your throat, hot air fanning into Vernon’s face. He paid no mind, and (to no avail) was still trying to hold in his smile. “You’re dimples are showing,” you whined, poking the little dip in his cheeks with your free hand. “Use your words.” 

“Like?” he elongated, playing dumb. You supposed you earned his brand of torture, after all, seven months is a long time to make up for. 

“Like how we want the same thing?” you tried. 

“How do you know I want what you want?” he feigned, furrowing his thick brows. Acting could’ve been another career possibility for him, portrayed by the way his eyes were blown with confusion, his mouth parted like a kitten.  

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Forget words!” you broke, nearly shaking from the nerves. 

It’s then that Vernon finally gave you a concrete response. His grip on your wrist was near painful as he eagerly tugged you closer, kissing you. There’s enthusiasm in every action from the way he pulled you closer, large hands melding to cup your cheeks. A little part of you is both breathless and invigorated at the energy stinging the room, and you can barely keep up until Vernon spilled kisses down your neck. 

He threw up the armrest holding him back, tucking his knee between your legs as he lapped you up, kissing you fully. The chair was much too small for the both of you, his large body pressing you further into the cushions. 

He sat up a bit, bumping his head on the lamp. He paid no mind. “By the way, I like you, too.” Vernon puttered cheekily, rubbing his scalp. Just as swiftly, he latches onto your neck and sucks at a sensitive spot. You can feel his teeth showing from the smile in his kisses. His thumbs rubbed lazily over your jaw, enjoying the feel of your soft skin under his rough palms. 

“Really,” you exhaled, relaxing against the headrest as Vernon’s wandering hands traveled lower. “Had no idea.” 

“But I’m happy,” Vernon is fumbly and sweet, mumbling in the crook of your neck while his fingers toyed with the waistband of your sweatpants, “happy you’ve healed, and happy for us.” 

He’s excited, almost too excited. The space between you two was warm, the lamp beating under your skin, awakening something between you two that was left behind that summer. It’s as if winter left him dormant, and you were the fresh flower waiting to be bloomed under his touch.

“Are you always,” you gasped, two fingers already worming their way inside your panties, “talkative at this part?” 

“Not if you wanna talk,” and the ever-zealous Vernon Chwe gets to work, sticking out his tongue in surprise when he finds that you’re already drenched. “Shit, you’re so beautiful,” he holds onto that word dearly, and pressed his forehead against yours, “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to hold you like this,” he reached for your delicious bud, and you felt your senses flower into pleasure. 

He makes a noise, low in his throat as he watched you melt against the seat. “I like you like this,” he said thickly, his voice matching the slick sounds emitting from yourself. “Comfy, relaxed. You always looked so stuffy in those work suits,” you feel wholly undeserving of this worship, as he licked a long strip from your collarbone to your neck, “would love to help you chill out a lil’ more.” 

A whine bubbled from the back of your throat, your eyes rolling shamelessly as you feel the pads of his fingers working circles between your folds. “Ah, I’ve—I’ve fantasized about this,” you confessed, “every time you’d ink my back. At one point we just stopped covering myself with those stupidly thin gowns. All you had to do was turn around.” Vernon blinked rapidly, mental pictures ticked like film in his pupils. His hands stuttered across your slick, inserting two fingers between your folds as you continued. His pace was slow, yet purposeful as he made sure you felt him with every thrust. Rings adorned his fingers, and the cool sensation surprised you. You shivered in pleasure. “Mm, I’ve imagined us kinda like this in that little shack, hard against the cot overlooking the shop,” 

“Dirty,” he said, as if recalling the weather. 

“And ah—wondering what kind of tattoos you have,” and in your haze you reached for him, your hand gripping firm at his gunmetal belt buckle. You tucked your fingers between the button of his light wash jeans, palming the telltale signs of something hard, “please? You’ve done too much for me, lemme return the favor.” 

“Not now,” he pressed his forehead to yours, “you can guess my ink on our way home.”

“Wha?“ You’re dazed, feeling warm with affection and drowned in the moment. You feel his fingers, slowly pumping out of its rhythm and resting on your thigh. You groaned at the premature end, his shiny digits resting on your fleece sweats. 

“They’ll kill me, this is new leather,” Vernon said, “and now we can afford security cameras, which are so small even I can’t find them.” 

“Unbelievable,” you laughed. You’re not frustrated, only endeared. 

“Besides, I’d rather have our first time somewhere private. Undisturbed,” he pressed a kiss to your forehead, "somewhere where there’s lots of granite." 

You melted, pulling at his collar to pepper kisses on his nose. The mention of coming home to his pretty kitchen was icing on the cake. "You know how much I love your granite." 

(After your granite fantasy was fulfilled, you spent the rest of the weekend huddled in Vernon’s room. You’re living off take out and mutually satisfied with the unhealthy means. When you’re not eating or watching movies, the two of you are drafting your first piece. 

Freesias and pink roses.)

(His tattoo was also very cute.) 

[cheswirls]

you won't remember / i won't forget  [ 1/2 ]

[this ended up being my creative project october, wholly inspired by dakumes' old art. its 10k each half so be careful if you have a 'read more' extension. rip mobile users ig. thanks again @hoo-kie for letting me ramble abt this one !]

he brings daisies, today.

sabo takes them warily as they’re pushed into his arms, careful of the iv in his right hand. the bouquet is lovely, the white petals fresh, like they had just been picked, and the yellow centers seeming to stare up at him, warm color nice and inviting, bringing a hesitant smile to his face.

after a moment he bends down to sniff them, and closes his eyes at the smell, his mouth falling open to breathe it in. “they’re lovely,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the room’s other occupant to hear.

“they’re your favorite,” is his reply, and sabo’s shoulders tense at the information release.

“o-oh,” he stammers, holding the bouquet at a distance. he works to keep his face neutral, but it’s hard, his former wary smile quickly wanting to morph into a full-blown frown. it’s not that he doesn’t doubt that it’s true -they smell amazing, so it must be to some extent- but more that it was being handed to him as fact, presented as evidence of something he wasn’t ready to believe.

“here, let me take them,” his visitor says, reaching out to grab the flowers. his callused fingers brush against the backs of sabo’s hands and the blond bites down on his lower lip at the contact. “i should’ve brought a vase or somethin’, that was my bad.” he either doesn’t notice sabo’s obvious discomfort or is blatantly ignoring it -both options are equally possible- and he moves to set the bouquet on the windowsill, open now that the blinds had been drawn.

sabo folds his hands in his lap, having nothing better to do with them. he stares at the scars, at the bandaids covering fresh marks, and runs his thumb over one until the motion begins to irritate where his iv was stuck.

his visitor -ugh, he really should stop calling him that. he had a name, it’s just that sabo never bothered to remember it. but when he turns back to take a seat on the edge of sabo’s hospital bed, the early morning light reflects off his visitor nametag, and sabo reads the name again: ace.

“are you feeling any better today?” he asks, and sabo moves his gaze away once again.

“i guess,” he mutters. ace’s face falls at the dismissive attitude, but he doesn’t leave. it bothers sabo, but another, very small part of him feels warm. he does his best to tune it out.

he looks up again to find ace watching him, and lowers his eyes, examining his clothes instead. his window didn’t provide a great view, so this was his only real way to gauge the weather. 

if he had to guess, it was cold. ace was in a red coat, scuffed up here and there but otherwise looking rather nice. his boots were honey-tanned, the laces done up loosely so that the tops flopped open. they had more signs of wear than the coat, so if sabo had to guess, he’d probably had them for some time. 

sabo reaches a hand up and pushes his fringe out of his face, sighing. the movement causes ace to lean forward.

“have the nurses said anything new?”

what’s it to you? sabo wants to bite out, but he withholds his tongue. “they haven’t been by,” he mutters instead, which was partially true. they hadn’t been by, since ace was last here, that he could tell. but his bandages weren’t frayed anymore, from his constant picking, and his iv was near full. it was odd-colored, too, which would probably explain why he couldn’t feel anything apart from a low thrum from his head. his ankles felt freer, too, brushing against the low-grade cotton of the sheets, which probably meant the wrapping around them had been removed.

he hasn’t looked yet. he’s not sure he wants to.

a low knock on the open door gets his attention, and sabo looks up as one of the nurses wanders in, lowering her hand and raising a clipboard.

“mr. portgas? i’m here to take your vitals, if you’re ready.”

ace blinks, then stands. “do i need to-?”

the nurse glances to him as she takes a seat on a stool at sabo’s bedside. “you can stay,” she tells him, smiling. “as long as it’s okay with sabo.”

they both turn to stare and sabo drops his eyes to the mint green of his hospital shirt. “sure.”

this nurse looks familiar, but they had been rotating his room, so if he was told anything important about her, he’d already forgotten. she’s gentle as she takes his left arm to push on a bp cuff, but with a sort of carelessness that leaves her nails scraping on the bandages. he hardly notices, though, and that’s when he knows for sure he’s on some kind of morphine. 

she finishes after a few minutes and sabo leans his head back against the pillows as she scribbles down a set of numbers. he doesn’t care, but she tells him he was normal anyways. the news seems to satisfy ace, if anything.

he glances to the window as she leaves and accidentally meets his eyes. they’re dark when he’s turned away from the light like this, but sabo can still tell they’re grey. he turns away quickly. it really was too early for this.

as if agreeing with him, ace’s stomach grumbles and he places his arms over it in a hurry, cheeks colored. “uh, guess i forgot to eat before coming in,” he mumbles. he straightens after a moment, nodding to the door. “‘m gonna grab something real quick. you want anything?”

by ‘something’, he means whatever he can find from the vending machine at the end of the hall. at most it’ll give sabo a few minutes of respite. he purses his lips. “they have me on a regulated diet,” he reminds ace, like he didn’t already know.

ace grins, moving around the bed and throwing his hands into his coat. it spreads at the edges as he draws his arms taut, resting just below his hip. “you could sneak it. a little wouldn’t do you any harm.” but he shrugs, giving up before sabo could protest. “i’ll be right back.”

sabo grips the sheets hard as ace slides the door shut. a part of him never wants the other to come back; another part of him knows he always does.

-

sabo takes a risk and curls his legs under the thin sheets. he holds his breath as he slides the blanket down, removing them one by one. the pants he was given were the same bland mint as his shirt, and they cut off at the top of his calves, leaving most of his lower leg exposed. now that the bandages are gone, he can see the obvious rope marks at his ankles, skin still badly discolored but no longer open. he breathes deep at the sight, gasping before he remembers he’d been withheld air, and then closes his eyes and works to steady his breathing.

he folds his legs up more and reaches a hand down to brush against the gnarled skin. even as light as he is, it’s still very sensitive, and he ends up pulling away quicker than he’d like. he frowns at the sight, curving his legs the opposite way to view the other side. it’s the first injury he’s seen, the others always wrapped up. he’d been too anxious to remove the simple bandaids after their presence lingered for a few days, nervous of what he’d find. when he picks at the wrapping on his arms, it’s fixed before he can get anywhere, smoothed down like he hadn’t bothered in the first place.

a quick inhale gains his attention, and sabo looks up to see ace just inside the room, hand still on the doorknob. he pulls a long face and reaches out to drag the blanket over his feet, hiding the marks. then he moves his legs until they’re pressed against his chest. but the pressure ends up causing discomfort, and sabo wonders not for the first time just what his shirt was concealing. he huffs and ends up sliding his legs straight again. they catch the edge of the sheet and push it back, revealing the marks again as his legs lay bare.

ace comes closer, sliding into the chair at sabo’s left, and his eyes swivel from the injury to sabo’s face, watching him closely. “do they hurt?” he asks after a minute.

“no,” sabo answers, letting the air settle before replying. he wants to divulge more, say something about his light touch irritating them, but another part of him vehemently doesn’t, and he chooses to trust the logic of the latter.

ace sits quietly for a while, and sabo realizes it’s the first time he’s seen any of his injuries either. 

“how?” he speaks up, loud in the silence. he swallows, because that had been impulsive, but ace is looking at him, and he can’t take it back now. “how did i get them?”

ace’s expression becomes pained, and he turns away, looking to the wall. his hands, resting calmly on his thighs, move to entangle, and sabo watches as they restlessly fumble. his eyes narrow.

“do you . . really want to know?”

sabo blinks, caught off-guard by the question, by the hesitance in ace’s tone. after all this time, after revealing little random nothings about the blond, now he was stalling on something he actually-

“tell me,” sabo demands, teeth gritted.

ace’s grey eyes catch in the light as he turns back to look at sabo, alarmed. they grow lax after a moment, and he nods, sullenly glancing to the door before giving sabo his full attention. “restraints.”

sabo blinks at the concise reply, furrowing his brow in irritation. he’s quick to smooth it out, bringing a hand up as the pain hits. he doesn’t know what to think. it was vague, but ace spoke like it was supposed to be significant. “restraints,” he echoes, voice bland. 

ace’s hand is reached out, but he drops it as sabo glances back up. “yeah.”

sabo suppresses the shiver in his body. him being succinct suddenly scared sabo more than anything. if he was hesitant to disclose what all had happened, well . .

just how bad was it?

-

“mr portgas?”

sabo moves his book further down his face to see a nurse at the door. he lets it fall face-down into his lap, giving her his attention as she moves into the room. she looks familiar, with her straight black hair, but sabo can't place her.

“i’m here to take your vitals,” she says. sabo nods and she takes a seat at his bedside, setting a clipboard down on a small table she rolls closer. she picks up a pulse monitor first and places it on sabo’s index finger.

when she's all done she tells him he was normal today, then leaves him to his reading. sabo picks the book back up but his gaze is caught on the stack of progress sheets on his door, and he finds himself wondering what all they said, if they disclosed anything he wasn’t already aware of.

the book is good. he’d acquired it the other day, and after removing the bookmark someone had left in it, he’d worked on it for a long while. he was almost halfway through now. 

his mind wanders as he flips the page, wondering if he could ask the staff for another one. he’s not sure who this one belongs to, but he’ll have to return it. he wants to do that much.

“do you like it?”

sabo is startled as his visitor walks into the room. ace, he reads off the nametag. he frowns, realizing he hadn’t processed anything, and flips back a page. “it’s fine,” he mumbles, though he knows his progress spoke for itself. 

ace moves to occupy the rolling chair the nurse had just been in. “do you want me to get you another one?”

sabo frowns deeper at this, but doesn’t look up from the pages. “no, that’s okay.” he didn’t want ace to give him anything. though, he thinks, glancing to his right, the flowers were nice. they were in a real vase now, getting light from the open window. they made the room smell good. less like ointment and antiseptic, something that didn’t make his nose burn.

ace doesn’t say anything else. he’s content to sit beside sabo as he reads, as the sun tracks higher and then lower into the sky, and the daisies begin to wilt from lack of light.

-

ace is lounging on a chair near the window, hands steepled, eyes turned toward the skyline. his legs are extended on the floor, only the backs of his heels touching the tile. he’s wearing the boots again, and the color is faded today, like frost had covered the top and had yet to melt off. 

sabo observes him when he’s finished his book, last page still open to give the illusion he was reading. he drops the act when a nurse wanders in, holding up two cups of yogurt. sabo closes the book so it lies backwards on his thighs, then swings the overbed tabletop so it rested at an angle, closer but not exactly over him. 

her hair dips over her shoulder when she reaches forward to hand sabo his lunch. he deposits both cups onto the table, then reaches back to take the plastic spoon from her grip. her nails clip one of the bandaids along his finger, and sabo blinks, a stern sense of deja-vu washing over him.

“if you can’t finish both, you can put one in the fridge over there,” she says, pointing to a mini fridge in the corner of the room, squished between the wall and a table of basic medical supplies. 

sabo nods, wondering how he’s never noticed it before. she moves from the room after that, her long, dark hair fanning out over the back of her scrubs. the door shuts before sabo moves to open one of the tabs on the yogurt.

“you’re done with the book?” ace asks quietly, while sabo’s mouth is full. it’d been easier to ignore the eyes on his back when he wasn’t talking, but at least now, sabo doesn’t have to verbally respond, nodding instead.

sabo doesn’t trust ace, not yet, but the staff clearly seem to, so when he’s halfway through with the cup he puts it down in favor of the book, holding it out to him. “will you give this back?” he requests. 

he doesn’t miss the way ace’s face drops as he reaches out to take it. he’s not sure how to interpret it, so he chooses not to, moving to finish his yogurt. he starts feeling funny at the end, so he sets it aside with a couple bites left, rolling his tongue in his mouth to try and work the feeling away.

ace is still sitting there, neck almost level with the back of the chair. his legs are bent, now, and both feet are firmly on the ground to hold himself in place. sabo doesn’t feel bad. he tells himself this. but, ace had been there all day, refusing to leave for anything. his mood was starting to wear on the blond.

“here,” sabo says, holding the second yogurt cup towards him. “you can have this.”

ace blinks, but stretches out an arm. it lingers there, both of their hands on the cup. “you’re sure?”

sabo shrugs, withdrawing. “i don’t want it.”

ace must know something he doesn’t, because he smiles as he brings the yogurt close. “thanks,” he says, but his smile crooks as he pulls the tab. his eyes wander to sabo’s spoon and the blond follows his gaze there, jerking a hand out to shield it from view.

“no,” he stresses. “get your own.” he jerks his hand to the table against the wall. “use one of those.”

ace’s shoulders are shaking with contained laughter, and he gets up with a jerky bow, too-long arm folding behind his back. “as you wish,” he purrs, and sabo doesn’t know how to feel about that. ace moves over to the table, humming as he looks everything over. his smile hasn’t left his face, but his brows grow pinched as he wonders what to use.

sabo regrets giving him the book, if only because he misses having something to do with his hands. it was good, too. he’d read it again if it was his own, especially because he wasn’t able to pick up on the lead’s motives, for some reason. 

ace wanders back over to his chair with a tongue depressor, moving the seat close so that he can rest an elbow on sabo’s table. sabo glances at him again and then leans back into the pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

“i don’t even know you,” he mutters, one hand wandering up to clench his shirt, right where his heart is.

ace stills, food forgotten. “sabo . .” he tries.

“i don’t even know you!” his voice raises, but it’s not a yell, not yet. it’s enough to make ace go quiet, though, and he turns to face him. “why are you even here? why don’t you go somewhere else? i-” he cuts himself off as he feels his eyes water.

“my name is ace.” he sets the yogurt on the table, then pushes it aside to move closer to the bed. “i’ve been coming here every day for-”

“i know,” sabo interrupts. “i remember when you’re here.”

ace’s eyes widen. “that’s . . good. i’m glad.”

sabo fists the blanket tightly in both hands. “i’m not.” his eyes narrow. “you should go.”

ace looks pained, but he stands without argument. “if that’s what you want.”

sabo’s heart hurts as the door closes. he thinks it might hurt more than all his physical injuries, but he just can’t figure out why.

-

he’s propped up when he first wakes, not nearly as lucid as he should be. his eyes adjust to the room easily enough. it’s partially dark, the blinds half-open to let in the setting sun’s light. he puffs out a breath, face screwing up at the weight on his chest.

when he glances down, he finds himself bound in a blanket. stringy blond hair moves into the edge of his vision. he thinks, for how long it appears, it was weird how short it felt on the back. if he reached behind, he’d find a bald strip barely covered by the longer strands. but before he can, there’s a loud noise to his left, his earlier motion not going unnoticed.

“sabo!” a voice says, and he looks up to see someone in a hospital gown moving quickly to his bedside. “thank god you’re awake,” he says, looking close to tears, and he climbs up on the edge of the bed, one knee buried into the mattress. rough hands move up to cup his face, and he blinks, stunned by the emotion he’s greeted with. he inhales sharp, vision swimming, and leans out of the hold, bringing a hand to his forehead. his fingers bunch around tight bandages.

“sabo?” the voice comes again. “does it hurt? i can get the nurses. here, there should be a button-”

he reaches out and grips the other’s hand before he could press anything, one eye still screwed up. “i’m . . . overwhelmed,” he manages to say, slowly voicing his thoughts, sure he would be able to process them this way. the other settles down, nodding in understanding.

“you had surgery. they said you would-”

“no,” he grounds out. he drops the hand and gestures between them. “this.”

“what do you mean?”

“you know me,” he says, opening both eyes now to see the puzzlement cross the other’s face. “i can see that. but you aren’t-” he breaks off. “i mean i . . .” he trails off, shaking his head, eyes downcast.

“. . don’t.”

-

they tell him his name is sabo portgas. sabo doesn’t have anything to go off, so he takes what he’s given. he has a visitor, they say, from the room next door. his name is ace. he wanted to see sabo before he was discharged.

“it’s okay,” he hears ace tell the doctor, before he comes in. “i��m not worried. i’ll help him remember.”

“i admire you attitude, but it won’t be that easy,” the doctor warns. ace says something in a voice too low for sabo to hear. the doctor sighs. “remember to take care of yourself, too.”

“gotcha!” ace says, and then he’s pushing the door open. sabo watches him warily. 

ace smiles until he shows his teeth and moves until he’s sitting at sabo’s bedside. “hey! feel any better?”

sabo gestures to the morphine drip. “i don’t feel anything, i assure you.”

ace laughs, his lips barely parted. “sorry for scaring you last time. i-”

“last time?” sabo mumbles, face screwing up in concentration.

ace’s morphs into one of disbelief. “you don’t . . remember?”

“i was told ace was coming but.” he shakes his head. “i’ve never met you before.”

ace’s eyes dim. then they glimmer, and he moves closer, setting both hands gently on each of sabo’s shoulders. he thought he could take this slow, but if he was regressing, if would be better to go all out from the beginning. “hey, sabo,” he says, voice so assertive it has blue eyes locked onto his in an instant. “i love you.”

sabo sits there for a while, until the air stings at his wide eyes. he thinks he’s forgotten to breathe in his shock. “you -what?!” his lips purse, affronted by the casual intimacy. 

“i love you,” ace says again, leaning back. sabo is even more confused as he says it again. “i have for a long time, and i always will.” his grip tightens, crumpling the thin material of his hospital gown. “if you remember anything from today: remember that.”

and sabo does.

he remembers well into the night, long after ace has left, shooed out once visitor hours had ended. he falls asleep for a bit, and when he wakes, body sore, room dark, he still remembers ace’s determined look as he said that phrase sabo felt was misplaced.

he slams a hand on the call button before he can be sick. it’s a long night.

-

he shows up again first thing in the morning. sabo has to read the visitor tag for the name, but he remembers the face, and it makes him nervous, wary. ace is being far too assertive for someone in sabo’s position, and he’s unsure if he can trust him. he doesn’t know anything about him, so it’s hard to place his intentions. 

sabo supposes he could try and learn, but it’s far easier to close himself off instead, to put some distance between the two of them. he wanted to know more about himself before he got to know the person claiming to be in love with him.

-

“hey, this green doesn’t look bad on you!” ace says one day, making a frame with his fingers to capture sabo in. he blinks up, distracted, and ace’s grin morphs. “dark blue would look better, though,” he admits. “too bad they don’t have it.” he leans back. “i’d bring you some, but uh, i just can’t afford it right now.” he perks up. “one day, though! before you leave, i swear it.”

“right,” sabo says, frowning. ace catches on, sitting back up straight.

“you okay? head hurt?”

“i like blue?” sabo mumbles, ace straining to hear the words.

he blinks when he does, nodding. “yeah. it matches your eyes,” he admits.

sabo lifts a hand to his face, wincing at the strain it puts on the iv. “my eyes are blue?”

ace jumps to his feet, and sabo shifts, eyeing him oddly. he holds a finger up. “wait here.”

he’s gone before sabo can reply that he’s got nowhere to go.

one of the nurses comes in, ace trailing her. they’re both smiling. “i hadn’t realized you never saw,” she admits, words directed to sabo, though he doesn’t know what she means. she takes out a small pocket mirror and places it in front of sabo, until he’s reached out to hold it in his own hands.

his reflection stares back at him. when he blinks, cerulean eyes blink back. his face is pale, too pale. there’s a bandaid on his cheek. he moves the mirror higher and cards a hand through his hair. it’s definitely seen better days. 

he hands the mirror back. “thank you.”

she shakes her head. “thank ace. he’s the one who brought it up.” she waves. “let me know if you need anything else.”

ace waves back, settling again on the edge of the bed as she leaves. “they’re pretty,” he voices, and sabo looks up again. 

“my eyes?”

“your eyes,” ace clarifies. “they’ve always been pretty.”

sabo blinks, feeling drawn away from the conversation. he could’ve handled it, but the last part got him, the insinuation that he didn’t know if he could trust.

“you’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday,” he blurts out, because ace is still staring at him but he doesn’t want that conversation drawn out.

ace looks down at himself, then lets out a meek laugh. “it’s all i have right now,” he reveals. “but i’m working on it.”

sabo has no idea what he means, but he doesn’t move to question it. he doesn’t care enough yet.

-

the next time ace comes in, sabo’s bandages are unraveled from his arms. the edges are bloody, and there are red partial fingerprints staining his right arm. he’s still dragging his fingers down his left, unbothered as the stitches come open, blood seeping from the long cut running down his inner arm. 

ace drops his package, and it lands on the tile with a loud thunk. “sabo!” he frets, instantly by the blond’s side, forcing him to stop. “you can’t do that! you’re opening them! doesn’t it hurt?”

“i wanted to see,” he murmurs, focused on the feeling of ace’s hand wrapped around his bloody one. “they would never let me see. i’ve been trying, i think.” he shakes his head. “it doesn’t hurt.”

“that doesn’t matter!” ace snaps, and sabo blinks, ripped from his daze. “you can’t hurt yourself like this,” he tells sabo, using his free hand to hit the call button. “it won’t get better if you keep messing with it.”

“what’s-? oh. oh no, sabo.” a nurse comes in and hurries over, turning sabo’s left arm gently in her grasp. “you shouldn’t mess with these. you’ll only make them worse.”

sabo frowns, offended. “i only wanted to see what they looked like.”

“you can do that once they’re all better,” the nurse assures him. she looks across to his other arm, and her gaze softens. “let me get some water and i’ll help you clean up.” she glances to ace. “stay here?” watch him? she doesn’t say, but she doesn’t have to. ace nods, hand clasped tight around sabo’s. 

“it doesn’t hurt,” sabo mumbles, after she’s cleaned the blood off and prepped the needle with anesthetic. 

“just in case,” she tells him, inserting the needle. ace watches her work as she sews up sabo’s left arm, holding onto his right. they switch as she preps another needle with local anesthetic, and sabo looks very bored as the same process is repeated on his other arm.

ace doesn’t relax until both of sabo’s arms are bandaged back up. sabo is the opposite, growing more taut as his wounds are hidden from him. again. 

“where did i get these?” he holds out his arms for emphasis. ace purses his lips, and that drives sabo up the wall. “you know!” he accuses. “you know and you’re not saying anything! you have to know how frustrating that is. do-” he pauses, a thought dawning on him. “was it you?”

ace’s expression changes immediately. “no,” he breathes, and sabo almost feels bad for accusing him, but it makes sense, too.

“you were involved, then,” sabo surmises. “that’s why you’re here -you feel guilty.”

“sabo, listen to me.” ace moves closer, and sabo flinches, forcing him to stop short. “you have the wrong idea.” he leans back again, and his hands go to the hem of his shirt.

sabo watches as he raises it, revealing the bandages wrapped around his ribs. he can see the bruising peeking out from the edges of the white. or, grey, more like. sabo imagined it’s what his own would look like, if the hospital staff wasn’t so vigorous in changing them out. he mellows out, just a bit.

“i was there, but i didn’t -i would never hurt you,” ace stresses. “i was with you. you just ended up with more damage than me.” he bites his lip, hard, his eyes no longer on sabo. “i’m sorry, for that. if i could switch our places, i would, i’d do it in a heartbeat.”

sabo is silent for a long time, mulling this over. 

“maybe it’s a trauma bond,” he suggests, and ace blinks rapidly.

“sorry, what?”

“we went through the same experience, and now you’re attached to me.” sabo shrugs. “it happens.”

“wh- no.” ace shakes his head. “sabo, no, that’s not it. i’ve been with you long before that. what happened was unfortunate, but it-”

“then what is it?!” sabo yells. “what are we?” his lower lip trembles, and he forces himself to hold the tears back, even as he feels his eyes burn. “just tell me already,” he says hoarsely, barely containing himself.

ace comes close again, sitting on the bed, grasping for sabo’s hand. he nods, several times, like he’s working himself up. “my name is ace portgas,” he says slowly, voice breaking.

sabo’s world shatters.

-

ace is out getting food when sabo decides he’s had enough of this small room. he pulls the iv out and presses down on his bandaged wrist until the bleeding has stopped. then he swings both legs over the edge of the bed, back turned from the window. he plucks the handful of electrodes from his skin and gathers himself in the new quiet of the room. he could do this. he could stand-

the door bursts open right as sabo as settled his hands on the mattress to hoist himself up. he looks up, alarmed, as several people rush in and stop short.

“i- uh.” he blanks, caught off guard. “i just . . want to walk around. if that’s okay.” he mumbles the last part, right as he spies ace just inside the door, expression fading to something unreadable. 

“oh, sabo,” one of the staff says, voice hushed. they move forward to gather the disconnected electrodes from the ground. “you should ask about things like that. it should be fine . . ?” they turn to the others for confirmation.

another one steps up, nodding. “let me go get the doctor.”

they all slowly disperse until only ace is left, wandering in. ace portgas. 

“they’ll get worried if you’re unhooked from the machines,” he says, bending down in front of sabo. sabo searches his face, but he can’t find any resemblance to his own. they weren’t family. they weren’t blood, which meant . .

he tsks, turning his head away. “i wasn’t going to leave,” he mutters. “not like i have anywhere to go.”

ace’s eyes widen, and then relax, as he does his best to put on a brave face. “you will,” he promises. “i’m working on it.”

sabo isn’t sure what he means, but the doctor comes in before he can question.

“portgas!” he says, and the greeting is a sting in the already-burning cut. “heard you wanted to walk around. that should be fine, you’ll just have to take your iv with you. hm? ah, let me hook it back up.”

he’s very patient, not mentioning the earlier incident, or growing disgruntled at the fact his iv was leaking. sabo sits there silently as he places the needle back under his skin, nods in satisfaction, and leans back.

“don’t push yourself. you can use the iv stand as balance, but if you need a wheelchair, i’ll issue that, too.” his lips quirk up. “walking around will be good for you, though. it’s a little early, but i suppose you’ve been here long enough.” he stands back up. “i’ll get someone to bring in slippers. just sit tight until then.” he winks, and sabo nods, trying not to feel guilty.

the slippers are the same mint green as the rest of his hospital garb. sabo feels a stab of disappointment, but he’s not sure what color he wishes they were instead. they slide on easily enough, and after wheeling the iv stand around -and under surveillance- he grabs onto it to slowly come to a stand.

his legs shake. it’s not too bad, the nurse tells him. he takes a step forward, and another, the iv stand rolling along with him. she tells him he’s good enough to go, and sabo nods, concentrating, gaze trained on his feet.

“ace can take you around, make sure you’re doing okay,” she says, and sabo’s stomach drops. he suddenly doesn’t feel like going, but he forces himself to move anyway.

“fine,” he grunts, already at the door.

“if he can’t make it back, please don’t try to carry him,” the nurse tells ace quietly. “we don’t want to upset your ribs, and we have plenty of wheelchairs.”

ace frowns. “but that’s more romantic!”

“it’s not if you both end up collapsed,” she chides, and ace relents.

sabo’s not very far away from the room when ace catches up, hovering on his free side. “anywhere specific you wanna go?”

“take me to the vending machine you like so much,” is sabo’s reply.

ace looks taken aback. “well i’m not in love with it or anything.”

no, just me, he thinks, then slams down on that thought and stuffs it somewhere he doesn’t have to think about it. 

it’s at the end of the hall, illuminated in a dark corner. sabo looks at the rows, but nothing catches his eye.

“you want anything?” ace asks, leaning back against the wall.

sabo shrugs. “i don’t know what i would like.”

ace grins, fishing a dollar bill from his pocket. “i gotcha,” he says, head thrown over his shoulder as he steps forward to insert the money into the machine. he presses a couple buttons and sabo watches as a red package falls. 

ace pops it out and rips it open, gesturing for sabo to follow. they move until they’re sat on a bench, a large window covering most of the wall next to it. sabo sighs in relief as he releases his hands from their deathgrip on the cold steel. he would never admit it, but he was getting tired.

when he turns to glance at ace, smiling cheekily, he finds he doesn’t need to, which irritates him. ace resists laughing and nudges his shoulder, getting him to hold his hand out. he pours some of the candy into his palm, and sabo frowns down at it as the fruity smell assaults his nose.

“i probably can’t have this.”

“no one has to know,” ace says, shrugging. he pours some straight from the bag down into his mouth, and sabo shrugs, copying him, while he presses a purple one to his lips.

his eyes pop. it was startlingly good. he immediately throws another in, this time green. “these are good,” he voices, and ace laughs from beside him.

“too bad they don’t have the blue skittles.” ace grins when sabo stares up at him, questioning. “they’d match your eyes.”

sabo strangely feels like he’s heard something similar. he can’t place the conversation, though, and his interest dies. “these are good enough,” he insists, lifting his hand to pour them all into his mouth. he chews slowly, the fruit combination strange but not unpleasant. “thanks,” he mumbles, almost too low to hear, when he’s done.

unfortunately, ace’s hearing is extremely good, almost unreasonably so. “no problem,” he says, shoulders relaxing. 

they stay there until the sun starts sinking. ace has to ward sabo off from climbing the stairs to a new floor, convincing him to leave that for another day. they make it back to the room with little issue, though sabo is loath to admit he’s a little out of breath. 

“your blood pressure is a little high,” one of the nurses notes later on that night. “must’ve been a good walk.”

sabo bites down on his tongue, just hard enough to keep from saying anything. his mind wanders back to the candy he’d indulged in, and he resists rolling his eyes. he knew there would be consequences.

he strangely finds himself not caring as much as he should.

-

sabo’s attention, much to ace’s despair, is stolen by another book. he’d gotten this one from ace himself. reading it is good -it puts him at ease. even better now that he can read it over time, no longer forced to finish it in one sitting. it had been a shocking discovery, but a good one, when the nurse had wandered in to see sabo starting from where he’d placed the bookmark. he was beginning to retain things better, the doctor said. it was a sign of progress.

it was a welcome one.

ace is fiddling with his phone by the window. he’d started to come in with it more lately, no longer worried about having the blond’s sole attention. sabo could admit he was growing more comfortable in ace’s presence, though it had more to do with the way ace was acting around him, and less so with what he was supposed to be with sabo in the past.

ace’s phone rings and sabo glances up. ace frowns down at it, meets his eyes briefly, and then looks to the door. he sighs after a moment, accepting the call, and moves over to the far corner of the room, not quite leaving, but close. he talks low, and sabo turns his attention back to his book instead of struggling to overhear.

“i don’t sell anymore,” ace says, a little louder, and sabo blinks, finding he hadn’t processed any of what he’d read. he gives up, staring blankly at the pages, and drops the book entirely when ace ends the call.

“what was that about?”

ace has the decency to look contrite, slumping over as he takes a seat in the chair. he waves sabo off, though, not wanting to divulge this -especially with their location.

“you’ll remember eventually,” he mutters.

sabo crosses his arms. “i’d like to remember now.”

ace turns to look up at him, expression pleading. “sabo, you really don’t need to know right now,” he insists. “i’ll tell you some other time, okay?”

sabo huffs. he picks his book back up, and he doesn’t speak to ace for the rest of the night.

-

ace doesn’t come in one morning. 

sabo waits, then chides himself for thinking like that and spends the morning reading.

“no ace yet?” his nurse questions, as she takes his vitals. he shakes his head.

it’s not until sunlight is flooding into his room that sabo realizes he was still expecting the raven to waltz in. he was on the edge of his seat, literally, and he finds himself unable to concentrate on anything the longer he’s left alone.

he goes on a walk instead, pacing one side of the hall several times. he pauses near the middle as he catches wind of a conversation, pressing himself into the shadow of a doorway. 

“it’s a shame, really. he’s getting better, it’s obvious to see.”

“i know, right? even though he’s been here a while, it’s not like he’s fully recovered. such a shame they won’t cover the bills anymore.”

“gotta had some for other patients, i guess. the year’s not over yet. and accidents happen all the time in the snow.”

“did you hear what was happening next?”

“i think social services will pick it up, though i’m not sure. it’s complicated, since he’s not alone.”

“it’s not like he has a place to go, either. those two are so young. they’re not even twenty!”

“it really is awful. i just hope something changes for the better. they don’t deserve to end up back on the streets.”

sabo moves further down the hall, no longer willing to listen. he had a pretty good idea of who they were talking about. it stung, but he got it. he’d gathered enough hints over time, he just hadn’t wanted to form that particular conclusion.

he stands in front of the tall window at the end of the hall until his legs ache. then he trudges back to his room, not stopping for anything, even when one of the nurses calls out to him.

“oh, sabo, there you are! you have a visitor.”

he braces himself before entering the room. no doubt it was the social worker coming to take over his case. 

he’s only pleasantly surprised to find ace waiting for him. just ace.

“you came,” he says, slightly elated. 

ace turns on his rolling chair, smiling wide. “sabo! i was wondering where you were.”

“where i was?” sabo scoffs, though it’s mostly in jest. ace’s attitude is infectious, he finds, moving closer.

ace laughs. “right, sorry. i had some things to take care of today. but you’ll never believe it!” sabo’s close enough now that ace rolling to meet him catches him off-guard, which makes it easier to get knocked off his feet, landing on ace’s legs instead. he grips the pole of the iv stand tight.

his breath is caught as ace wraps his arms around his middle, pulling him closer. “the most amazing thing happened today,” he insists, either unaware of sabo’s growing flustered state or choosing to ignore it. “and i got us a place to stay after you get out!”

the words ground sabo, more than anything. he calms down enough to process it, but instead of being overjoyed, he grows somber. “so it’s true. w-” he bites his lip, unable to continue to speak, and switches words. “i was homeless.” he frowns. “am homeless.”

ace’s arms tense, then loosen, around him. he breathes soft, tickling sabo’s neck. “not exactly,” he murmurs.

“tell me,” sabo pleas.

and he does.

he tells sabo how they spent nights with friends, and then at shelters, when they moved. how ace picked up money here and there, and sabo found odd jobs he could get without a permanent address. how they moved around, until their car broke down here and they’d abandoned it. how things had been tough, but after a bit, they always managed to have a little cash to spare. how they had a place, a really small one, until they got caught up in the accident. and then after that, there hadn’t been anywhere to go back to.

“until now,” ace finishes, pulling sabo closer. “if you want to,” he adds, and this close sabo can detect the waver. 

“i have to get better first.”

“i know that. i meant, like . . after.” ace finishes in a mumble. sabo snorts, shoulders shaking from laughter, and he releases his hand from the pole to grab at ace.

“yeah. i would like that,” he admits.

ace looks up, stars in his eyes. “really?”

“you didn’t think i’d say yes?”

“i was worried you wouldn’t,” ace confesses. “i mean, you still don’t . . . remember everything. anything,” he amends. 

sabo thinks on that for a long time before answering. “i missed you, today,” he starts. “i tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, but it did. you’re right: i don’t remember anything. but i can tell i meant a lot to you. and, uh.” he ducks his head. “you mean a lot to me, now. and not because i knew you before. it’s because . . . well. because of all the things you’ve done for me, since i woke up.”

ace’s lips are clamped, his eyes glassy. it takes him a minute to regain the composure to speak. “even if you don’t remember-” he looks away, unable to hold sabo’s gaze, but he finds it again, before finishing. “it’ll be okay. promise.”

sabo blinks, finding he knew exactly how much that took ace to admit. he starts nodding his head, but finds he doesn’t like the mood, anymore. he smirks down at ace instead. “you sure? what if i end up-”

“nah.” ace shakes his head, laughing again. “you’re stuck with me, now.”

sabo finds, just a little bit unsurprisingly, that he’s okay with that.

-

“ace?”

sabo covers his mouth as he turns to see the nurse in the doorway. ace looks up with an easy grin, laughter dying down. “yeah?”

“the doctor is ready for you, if you’d like your checkup now.”

ace nods. “that would be great. just give me a minute and i’ll be right out.”

the nurse hums in response, sliding the door shut.

ace comes to a stand in a hurry, snaking a hand under sabo’s blanket to leave the half-empty skittles bag hidden there, top twisted shut. sabo snorts, dropping the hand from his mouth, and finally swallows the last of the blue ones. 

“i’ll come back when i’m done!” ace promises, moving to the door. sabo rolls his eyes.

“visitor hours will be over by then.”

“it’ll be quick! or i’ll sneak back in.” he winks. “but you didn’t hear the last part.”

“go,” sabo hums. ace waves on his way out, and sabo rolls his eyes again, but ends up doing the same.

he takes the skittles bag out and begins to unwrap the top, then decides against it and stuffs it under his pillows, instead. the sun is pretty low in the sky, now.

he hadn’t asked ace, he realizes. what the checkup was about. he could garner the basics, but it would be nice to know more.

he puts a hand to his chest, where he can feel the bandages through his shirt. they’d let him see it, the other day, while they were changing it out. even after all this time, it was still mottled with bruises, all in varying shades of colors. some had recurred, from what he’d gathered, but most of them were well on their way to healing.

he wonders if his injury is reflected on ace, or if it would be worse.

before he can vow to ask, he ends up falling asleep. he wakes up and the sun isn’t out, anymore. the light is dim, but it’s artificial. the lamp in the corner, he realizes.

there’s a hand carding through his hair. sabo makes a noise, turns his face up, and it stops.

“hey,” ace says, softly. “i didn’t mean to wake you.”

“you’re back,” sabo murmurs. 

“i told you i would be.”

“you did.” sabo blinks, trying to shake off sleep as he works to sit up, eventually settling on his elbows. “how did it go?”

“pretty good.” ace waves him off. “no issues.”

“what is it?”

ace wants to clam up, but he feigns ignorance instead, knowing sabo would catch it. “what’s what?”

sabo sits up further. “your injury. you said it was better than mine, but . .”

“oh. uh.” ace turns away, tilts his head back. “are you sure-”

“i’m sure,” sabo says, sat up all the way, now. he crosses his legs, leans closer. “if i can’t know about mine . . i’d like to know about yours.”

“yeah,” ace breathes. “okay.”

he shrugs his coat off, then tugs his shirt up, off, and over his shoulders. he no longer has the wrap on, so the damage is laid clear before sabo’s eyes. ace moves a hand over everything, explaining.

“i was stabbed in the lung.” he shrugs off sabo’s incredulous expression, pointing to a thick scar. “it wasn’t serious or anything. sounds a whole lot worse than it was. most of the damage came from a few ribs i cracked -that certainly made breathing a bitch. the rest is just bruising, though it’s mostly lower on my ribcage.”

sabo’s lips downturn. “how were you literally stabbed and i had it worse?”

ace reaches up to tap the side of his own head. sabo blinks.

“oh.”

“really, sab, i’m fine. i’m just glad you’re fine. i’m glad you’re alive.” he shrugs, working his shirt back on. “at least those guys aren’t.”

“they’re dead?” sabo utters, expression open. 

“yeah. some gang managed to break in, wanted revenge for something, i didn’t catch it all. anyway, we obviously weren’t with them, so we were left alone.” ace huffs out a hollow laugh. “though, that also meant they didn’t call for medical help. had to do that myself.” he drapes the coat over his back and tugs his arms through the sleeves. “anyway, it’s all over now. you don’t have to worry about any of it.”

sabo wonders, not for the first time, how ace manages to imply so much without actually revealing anything. he’s ripped from that thought as ace stands back up, eyeing the height of the moon through the window before moving to close the blinds.

“gotta go,” he says, waving to the door. “i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“yeah.” sabo leans back, only now aware of how tired he is. “see you.”

-

a man comes in with ace one day. he introduces himself, but sabo doesn’t bother to commit the name to memory. he’s a social worker, says he’s helping ace find a job. a real job, he specifies, and sabo isn’t sure if there’s an implication he’s supposed to get. ace looks disgruntled by the jab, but he doesn’t argue it.

“well, sabo, it appears you’ve entered a peculiar period in your recovery.” he folds his hands in his lap. “in short, the hospital is no longer willing to pay your expenses. they’ve passed the bill over to us.” he gestures to himself only as he says this, but sabo is still nervous. until his next words, that is. “you don’t need to worry about paying anything back. we’ll take it from here until you’ve recovered. all i ask is that you give your very best effort to the things i tell you to try. that sound good?”

“yeah. sounds good.” sabo hesitates for a moment, then adds on “thank you.”

“you’re welcome.” he smiles. “there’s no need to thank me, though. this is my job.”

sabo shrugs. “still.”

“well, i appreciate the sentiment. ace has told me about your amnesia. the surgery you underwent was a tricky one, it seems. according to the staff, you seem to have almost healed up, physically. you haven’t appeared to regress any, on that account. and your anterograde amnesia is pretty much nonexistent. if you’re willing to progress, there are some options for you.”

sabo isn’t sure how to reply. he must sense that, because he offers something else.

“on that note, have you thought about undergoing any exercises to help recall your memory?”

“i guess i hadn’t thought that was an option.”

“it most certainly is on the table, if you would like to try it,” he offers.

sabo doesn’t even have to think about it. “that sounds great.”

“glad to hear it.”

-

sabo gets the bandages around both arms removed early one week. it’s weird at first, having the skin so exposed to the air. the scars aren’t pretty, either, despite how well the tissue had healed in light of his constant picking at them. he grows self-conscious about it before too long, and takes to draping the loose blanket over his shoulders whenever he’s in the room, pulling it down so it hung over both arms and left his hands free to do tasks.

the first day ace writes it off, but the second he chalks it up to temperature and shrugs off his jacket to throw it around sabo’s shoulders instead, pulling the blanket down to his lap. 

sabo blinks a few times, startled into silence by the gesture. it’s not until ace moves back to his chair that he reaches up to pull the jacket closer, basking in the comfort it offered. 

“thank you,” he says, pulling his arms through the soft sleeves. the cuffs came down to his fingers, but they were stretchy, so he didn’t mind.

ace shrugs, glancing out the window. “it’s getting colder, now that the new year has passed,” he notes. “snowing more, too. if you get cold, you should tell someone. they’ll do something about it.”

“oh.” sabo bites down on his lip to keep from huffing out a laugh. “yeah, sure. i’ll remember that.” he tugs the cuffs further over his hands, then fusses with the blanket thrown over his legs. even if ace did misunderstand, the intention was nice.

he takes the jacket back before he leaves, ushered out by the staff after visitor hours had ended for the night. sabo wraps himself in the blanket and pulls the sheets over his legs. his fingers dig into his arms, press against the raised scar tissue.

ace comes back early the next morning and throws his jacket around sabo before doing anything else. he leans close to adjust it, and for once, sabo sits calmly and lets him do it. it’s not until he’s pulling on sabo’s arm, skin pressed into the space around his scar, that sabo reacts. it’s entirely unintentional, but his heart stutters and his chest stops moving and ace notices, of course he does, pausing to loosen his grip.

and then, as if it clicks, he slides his hand around until his thumb traces the scar line. sabo sucks in a breath and ace puts one leg on the bed to slide closer, grabbing both of sabo’s arms, now.

“you’re okay,” he murmurs, face close but eyes on sabo’s injuries. sabo lifts his own from where ace is smoothing his skin to gaze into clear grey. the nearness doesn’t escape him.

ace glances up, just an instant, just enough to catch sabo staring. he sucks in a deep breath, stills his hands to grip just a little harder, and leans forward to press his forehead to sabo’s. his eyes are trained on the blond’s mint gown. “you don’t like seeing them,” he voices.

“no,” sabo replies, after a moment. his pitch is unsteady. 

“i’m sorry i-”

“it’s okay,” sabo tells him, barely above a whisper. “you helped. thank you.”

ace pulls back, and then he’s slowly pulling sabo’s arms through the sleeves of his jacket, until the whole thing hung loose on his thin frame. ace bites on his lip, tries not to think about how much weight sabo had lost here, tries not to think about how he can’t solve the problem, because there’s no clear solution to scars, and no right answer to give to reminders of pain.

it’s snowing when ace has to leave. sabo tugs the jacket off and gives it back, unwilling to let him go without it on underneath his coat. he pulls the blanket around him and tries not to think about how nice it would be to hold onto it. 

ace doesn’t know what to think. sabo hadn’t shied away from the rope burns on his ankles, or the thick cuts on his hands, or the gash on his cheek from the last bandaid to have come off. he’d seen the bruising on his chest without giving rise to panic, and made peace with the welt above his collarbone. so what is it about this one that had him so worked up? 

ace stops short as the elevator dings and doesn’t move to exit when the doors open. was it that he was associating subconscious feelings with the scars? maybe he couldn’t recall the event, but were the emotions from that day slowly starting to come back?

the doors close and ace jerks a hand out to catch them, digging his phone out as he passes through. 

-

“here!”

sabo’s face scrunches as he inspects the simple package thrust at him. his forehead creases, and it’s visible, for once. it no longer hurts, either, which is why his headwrap was finally removed. 

“okay,” he mutters, letting the package fall into his hands. he flexes his fingers to push the jacket cuffs to his wrists, then pushes the box open. inside is a mass of dark blue fabric.

sabo blinks, the creases leaving his face, and looks up at ace. “what’s this for?” he reaches in to bury his fingers into the plush knit, pulling it out and unfurling it as ace replies.

“well, your head is better. at least, the front part is, so i thought we could celebrate.” ace chews on his lip as sabo lifts the scarf. “here, let me.” he climbs onto the edge of the bed and takes the scarf from sabo’s hands, not sure why he’s nervous but feeling this incredible need to do the task himself. he loops the scarf and moves it over sabo’s head, careful to avoid the back of his skull as he pulls it down, loops it again, and ties it at the back. he’d been half right: the front part of sabo’s skull, where his brain had impacted, was completely healed. but he’d suffered a major injury on the back, and it was still sensitive there, from what he’d gathered. ace is very careful as he ties the scarf off, then sinks back on his knees, stomach settling when he takes the view in.

sabo is looking down at the scarf, one hand reached up to rub the knit between his fingerpads. “that was quick notice,” he mutters.

“i told you i would bring you something blue before you left the hospital.”

“i’m not leaving toda-” sabo pauses, mouth open. “you did?”

“you probably don’t remember,” ace offers with a sigh.

sabo’s lips tremble. “i’m so-”

“no, please don’t!” ace insists. “it was- i mean, i told you while you still had short-term memory. it was my fault.” he shrugs. “it was more like a vow to myself, if anything.”

“okay,” sabo says, moving over the syllables slowly. “it’s nice.” he drops his hand. “thank you.”

“is the color okay? i tried to get one dark enough-”

“it’s fine,” sabo interrupts, eyes lidding. “seriously. thank you.”

ace opens his mouth again, but no words come out as he walks himself through the facts. sabo waits patiently, setting the empty box aside. he leans back against the pillows, tugging the knot to the side so that it didn’t rest right on his neck. ace works through everything and comes to a slow realization. 

“your favorite color was navy,” he says. “before . .” he doesn’t finish. “it’s not anymore.”

sabo turns his eyes away, down to his lap, where he’s unconsciously brushing a thumb over the jacket cuff. he moves away from the dark red to the bright, saturated ruddy of ace’s coat. “no, it’s not.”

ace really doesn’t know how to feel, and sabo interrupts his inner turmoil with a question before he can get sucked too far into it.

“is that okay?” he does his best to smile when ace’s eyes turn on him. “if i change . . will that be okay?”

ace snaps himself out of it the instant he realizes how fragile sabo’s expression has become. he doesn’t know what compels him to do it, but he’s suddenly leaning close to sabo, both hands gentle on the sides of his face. sabo’s eyes are wide, and then ace is kissing him.

he makes a noise and ace jerks back, hands falling away. “sorry!” he apologizes. “i- sorry, god, i’m sorry, i don’t know what-”

“it’s okay.” sabo’s voice is quiet. ace drops his arms from when he’d been scrubbing his face, hair now a mess. sabo isn’t looking at him. “it’s okay, really,” he says again, but the tension hasn’t left his shoulders, and ace needs a distraction before he screws up more.

he raises his fingers to form a frame, sabo’s head in the middle. “you still look the best in blue,” he says, willing to ignore the waver in his voice. “way better than the green they stuck you in.”

sabo snorts, and slowly, the earlier mood begins to unravel. he forces himself to relax. “i’ll take your word for it.”

“do. it’s fact.”

“because everything you say is always true.”

ace sobers at this. “it is.” he waits until sabo is focused on him. “with you. ever since you woke up.”

sabo has to swallow before he can answer. there’s still a bob in his throat, just like there’s still a phantom feeling of chapped lips on his own. he manages to speak through them. “i know. it’s why i decided to start trusting you.” he reaches forward and ace reads his intention, catches his hands in his own. “you’ve been here,” he almost breathes, voice very quiet. “even when i didn’t want you to be.” he pauses when his voice cracks, taking a moment to collect himself. “you never left, and you never lied, and you never let me forget you were supporting me.” he squeezes, and ace squeezes back. “and i’m sorry, that my memory went away. but i’m here, right here, and i care about you now. and i won’t let anything change that.” he smiles, his next inhale shaky. “and i know you won’t, either.”

ace can’t help when the tears run down his cheeks. he doesn’t move to stop them, only sniffling, and bringing their joined hands to his chest, and then bending forward again, gathering courage.

sabo moves his head off the pillows to meet him.

-

sabo’s assigned social worker interrupts ace’s excited rambling to politely ask him to leave the room. sabo’s smile falls when it becomes just the two of them. he’d never been able to read this one, though that might have more to do with him being the first outsider sabo had met. his social circle had been restricted to the hospital staff that attended to him, and ace. even if sabo had been proficient at reading people in the past, his limited interaction had taken some sort of toll.

“sorry, he didn’t do anything wrong,” his caseworker assures him, sensing the animosity. “he’s been very assertive, though, and i haven’t had the chance to ask your opinion.” he leans forward in his seat. “do you want to go with ace? there are other options, if you decide you’d be better off apart.”

sabo takes a minute to process this. he knows it’s only being asked out of concern, but his first intention is to take it the wrong way. he works to settle himself, and then figure out a rational response.

“i think,” he begins, “that. even if i can’t be sure ace isn’t fabricating the whole thing, it feels wrong to assume that, now. and it feels right to be with him. i only have his word to go off of, yes. but i can tell we’re meant to be together.” he shrugs. “i- i know that doesn’t sound very convincing, and maybe i’m not fully convinced myself, but i’ve been having these feelings, and the doctor said that even if the memory associated with it doesn’t return, the emotions that surface are still real.” sabo stops before he can ramble too much in that direction, looking back up. “i do want to go with him.”

“you’ve convinced me,” he hums. “even if you haven’t fully convinced yourself.” he leans back. “one more question.”

“okay?”

“are you sure you still want to remember?”

again, sabo takes some time to organize his thoughts. he comes to a conclusion that is startlingly succinct. “whatever happened before, i promised i wouldn’t stop caring about him. i’m not willing to hold myself back on that regard.”

his caseworker smiles. “works for me. how about we start psychotherapy monday?”

part 2 | notes

[etlunainmorte]

~ 1st May, 1884 ~

Sous le dome epais ou le blanc jasmin,

A la rose s'assemble,

Sur la rive en fleurs riant au matin,

Doucement glissons De son flot charmant,

Suivons le courant fuyant,

Dans l'onde fremissante,

D'une main nonchalante,

Viens, gagnons le bord,

Ou la source dort et,

L'oiseau, l'oiseau chante.

So, this was the song that everyone was talking about. The Flower Duet from Lakme. It does sound enchanting. It calmed your mind and filled your head with happy thoughts. And everyone seemed to think so, as well. You could clearly see the elated expressions on their faces from one of the upper boxes you and your companions were watching the play from. Act One in and you're fully taken in! The grandeur, the bright lights, and the flowers! Yes, the flowers! Everything was so enchantingly beautiful,...

Apparently, focusing hard on Lakme was the only thing you could do that one evening in May. Why?

You carefully peeled your (E/C) eyes off the flowery stage without putting down your Galilean binoculars and gave a sideways glance to the man sitting right next to you on your left. And, surely, for the third time that evening, you caught the man gazing at you, his cold eyes seemingly giving your senses the opposite effect and making your head spin.

You suppressed your little cough, shrugged your shoulders a bit, and pretended to sit up straight as you focused your sight back to the stage. And still, you could feel the man's gaze boring into you.

There was,... something truly different about the Duke and you noticed it the moment he arrived from London to visit you here in Paris. It's as if an intimidating kind of aura surrounded him with the way he carried himself. You swore you even felt smaller than ever before when you stood next to him to greet him. Or maybe it was just your imagination playing tricks on you? After all, you haven't seen the man in ten years. You remembered him telling you that he had some urgent matters to attend to with regards to the land ( far too massive ) and the titles ( far too great ) that his father has left him ( his younger brother inherited the lesser title of Earl from their late uncle, as customary ) and that he needed to go to London for them. 

Of course, your friendship thrived despite the long distance. The two of you continued to exchange letters, lengthy, in fact, about your daily lives, your etiquette lessons, his thriving businesses, your passion in the arts, the expansion of his father's land, your fondness of your family's little garden, and his hobby in music. And in these letters, he promised to bring you to London one day, to see his humble home, to attend both the Season and the Little Season with him, to bask in the rustic countryside, and to wander about the garden he claimed he has built just for you.

Oh, how your heart fluttered when you read those words from the man! And from that point onward, you waited for the day of his return. Everyday, you hoped to see him in your doorstep, smiling at you and sweetly calling your name,...

And after ten long years of waiting, he has finally arrived! But, there was something truly different about him. It seemed that London has morphed him into a different kind of person.

Gone was the boy who always skipped his Latin lessons just to play pirates with you. Gone was the little trouble maker who often has to dress up like his younger twin to escape his duties as the eldest son. Gone was the little man who always read William Blake's poems for you.

For, standing before you that one sunny morning, was none other than the man, himself. The intimidating, the tall one,...

... The Duke of Red Grave, himself.

Vergil Sparda.

As your sight jumped back and forth from Lakme to Millika, your mind went over everything that occurred the moment Vergil returned. During the last fortnight of his stay, he has graciously sent you gifts, taken you to Balls, has sent you flowers every morning, and has sent you poetry every evening.

However, despite all this attention you were receiving from him, you could not help but wonder why he still felt somehow absent. Yes, he has given you gifts. Yes, he has sent you letters. Yes, he has engaged with you but, somehow, it felt as if the Vergil you have known has disappeared. It's as if, suddenly, there was this man who barely actually spent time with you. To actually talk with you, to laugh with you, to exchange stories like how you used to. Simply put, he was always very busy. And now he seemed,... cold. Distant.

The Vergil you came to know,... was gone. That even though he was around, you felt empty.

You were still thinking deeply about it when you came out of the Grecian house of the theatre arts that you barely noticed it when the man took your hand and led you towards his own lacquered carriage bearing his symbol. And when you finally came to your senses, you found yourself sitting comfortably across the long - legged Duke, feeling your bottom sink deliciously amidst the deep blue velvet cushions of his luxurious vehicle.

"Y - your Grace?" You mumbled in confusion as you looked into his unfathomable eyes. "Where are the others?"

The Duke didn't even smile. Instead, he gave you a curt nod and gestured at the window to his left. "Dante and his lady are on their way to Morrison's. It's,... getting quite late. I must keep my word to your father that I would bring you home as early as I could."

"Oh."

Vergil didn't say anything else. Instead, he looked away from you and gazed at the streets of Paris outside the window as the carriage started to move.

As if those same, stoic eyes didn't stare at you for the whole duration of the play.

The thirty - minute ride back home was spent as unimaginably quiet as possible. Not that either of you don't want to speak to the other, no. It just felt like starting a conversation somehow felt awkward between the two of you. The silence even went so far that you could already feel your neck aching with the way you're forcefully focusing on the window to your left.

And, just then, when the carriage finally entered your family's estate, you heard the man clear his throat, making you turn towards him.

"Did you enjoy the play, my lady?" He asked all of a sudden.

Surprised at the question, you answered, "Why, yes! Yes, of course, Your Grace."

Vergil cleared his throat once more as he looked back outside. "Good."

When the Duke's vehicle came to a halt just in front of your house, the man swiftly opened the door, went outside, and opened the door for you. He took your hand and gently helped you step out of the carriage. By this time, the household has already settled down for the evening, with only the Head Butler left awake to open the door for you.

Then, as you were expecting him to lead you straight to the door, he turned to the right, forcing you to quicken your pace due to his wide strides.

Your dainty hand still on the crook of his left arm and the other lifting your long, (F/C) chiffon skirt to prevent yourself from tripping, you looked up at the man and saw,... something strange in his eyes.

Strange, and yet,...

... it felt really familiar, somehow. And exciting.

"Your Grace? I - is there something wrong?"

The man's eyes widened. He looked down at you and gave you a slightly awkward smile.

"Nothing! Nothing, dearest."

"Where are we - ?"

"Do you still remember? I used to escape my Latin tutor to spend time with you on your little garden."

Wha - ? "Y - your Grace?"

"Then we pretended we were pirates. I let you be the Captain for one day and we played and played, until the sun went down and my mother came looking for me."

"I,... ah,... well, yes! Of course. How could I forget?"

"Then, father gave me an earful. And Dante was so jealous when he found out I spent the whole day with you! I remember he sulked all day and didn't talk to me for a week. Did you know he has such a huge crush on you back then?"

You gave out a little laugh at the reminder. "Yes, I remember that huge crush but, I didn't know he ignored you like that for a week!"

Vergil chuckled. What's,... going on? "Then, when I heard you were sick, I borrowed Dante's clothes and knocked on your window."

"Yes, and nobody noticed it was you and not your brother. But, I did."

"My lady, how did you recognize me again?"

"You were carrying around your book of poems. Dante would never do that."

"Why, yes. Indeed, you are right." The man nodded.

"And I let you in because I was scared that someone would see you outside my window." You added. "It was,... such a huge breach of etiquette. Inviting a boy inside a girl’s room."

"It was such an experience."

"Yes. And it was,... actually quite nice. Being read poetry to you when you're sick."

"And I did that a couple of times. Even when you're not sick. The Garden Of Love was your most absolute favorite.”

“Why, yes, it still is.”

“Hmm.”

"You were such a naughty boy, Your Grace."

Vergil's eyes lit up, and when he looked at you, despite his facial features staying a little bit stoic and awkward, you felt something really warm within them.

Could it be,... ?

But, no. You decided to not let your hopes up.

Then again, the way he talked to you just now. It's as if the old Vergil you knew slipped through the very small kink of his intimidating armor and said hello to you once more.

It's as if somehow, deep within the shell of this cold man, lie still the soul of an old friend that you spent most of your childhood with.

And the way he looked at you,...

... it felt as if this old Vergil really wanted to be set free.

"Vergil."

Huh? "Your Grace?"

"I'm just Vergil." The man quietly said when you two finally arrived at the garden. "Please, call me Vergil." He spoke, not taking his eyes off you as he led you towards that old stone bench.

"Isn't it wrong to call you just by your name?" You asked him, the sweet scent of the white roses before you drifting to your nostrils.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"

"Yes,..." You answered uncertainly, helplessly watching as the man settled next to you and took both of your hands.

"Not in my book, my dearest." He said, raising both of your hands and giving each one a chaste peck.

Just now,...

Did you feel your heart skip a beat just now?

The way he's gazing at you, his eyes not leaving yours. The way he held your hands, his own, big ones gently rubbing them. The way he sat next to you, his closeness giving you more warmth than you could handle on a summer evening,...

What,... is going on?!

"Your Grace - "

"Vergil."

"Vergil." You repeated. "Is there something wrong? Something you wanted to say?"

"Is it wrong to stay like this for a while?"

God! This is getting really uncomfortable,... "W - what I mean is - "

"Come with me to London, (Y/N)."

All of a sudden, your tongue decided not to cooperate with you. Yes, you were excited when the man promised you in those long letters that he would bring you to London one day.

But, now that he's asking you, why did it feel so,... different?

"I'm sorry but - "

"So, you will not go with me?"

"I will! I mean,..."

"Yes, (Y/N)?" The Duke asked, not a hint of amusement in his tone. "I told you in my letters. I promised to take you there with me. You said, yes. And, here I' am, fulfilling that promise to you. So, I will ask once more: will you go to London with me?"

You felt your heart doing flips, and you even had an urge to pry your trembling hands from him but, his grasp was just too tight.

"Is it just - ?" You nervously asked, fearing you might be wrong in your assumption. "Just the two of us?"

"Yes."

Oh, my God,... "T - then, I should tell my parents that - "

"Let me make this clear for the both of us." The man interrupted you. "Marry me, (Y/N)."

Were your ears deceiving you,... ? Just now, did he just ask you,... ? "Y - yes? I mean - !"

"What is it? What's the matter, my dearest?" Vergil asked, closing the gap between the two of you and leaving you no choice but to face him head on. "I couldn't help it. I have loved you ever since I've known you. And my feelings for you only became deeper when I went to London. When I was separated from you. You don’t have a single idea how much I’ve dreamed of this very moment. I want to be with you. Always.”

"Your Grace, I - "

Were your senses deceiving you? Or did he just press his incredibly soft lips against yours? Did your eyeballs just roll up your eyelids at the incredible sensation of his mouth moving gently and yet firmly against yours, urging you to reciprocate? Did that same mouth, which rarely blessed anyone with a smile, render you totally useless right before him? Did those same hands, that held yours a moment ago, and which started to move up and down your back in a soothing rhythm, hypnotize you? Did that deep voice of his, which softly moaned your name, just make you forget everything else as you finally held onto him for dear life? Did the way he uttered those three words finally move you to the point of surrender?

You never knew, and you never wished to find out. For there was only one thing in your mind at that moment,...

You awfully missed this man. This fiercely loving, unbelievably caring, and absolutely adoring man, who was mysteriously hiding behind his cold, cynic, and intimidating shell for some reason you wish to find out. You missed him too much for your own good.

And now that he's holding you, and loving you, and caressing you this way, you wished this sweet moment would last longer. You fervently wished for this contact to not end. Your heart longed for this man to stay with you forevermore.

However, as the popular belief went, all good things must come to an end, for just when the rhythm of his caresses started to change, he decided to stop. And this earned him a little, almost unnoticeable whine from you.

The corner of the man's lips went up in an unmistakable smirk, and just when you felt the heat creep up to your ears, he tipped your chin up to make you look straight into his darkened eyes and said, "I'll take that as a yes."

Once again, your own words failed you as you tried to let out a comprehensible argument. After what happened, how could anyone just say no to this handsome devil, anyway?!

"And now, I must make my preparations." The man said as he gave you a chaste peck on the forehead. "I will go back to London this instant."

"Wait! I thought you said - ?"

"I know." The man interrupted as he cupped your cheeks. "And I will be back before you even know it. As a matter of fact, you will never notice me coming towards you."

You helplessly shook your head as laid your hands on his, feeling the joy and mirth go back to your system after such a long time of this man's absence. "That's so Vergil of you, I guess. You creeping up on me and surprising me like that."

"For your information, my dearest, I don't creep." The man answered, clearly frowning at what you just labeled him as, but still not letting you go. "You should leave the creeping up to Dante, for I would only sweep you off your feet. Ouch! That hurt!"

And how could you not pinch him?! How could any stoic man such as him stay calm and serious and collected as he tell jokes?! It was so,... Vergil of him!

Oh, God! How you missed this side of him!

"You're so unfair, Vergil." You told him as you shamelessly wrapped your arms around his neck. "Leaving me for ten years, then going back just to propose to me out of the blue like that? You know you could've done that before going to London in the first place, and I would say yes. I would always say yes to you, Vergil."

"Forgive this fool for not doing it earlier, then." He answered as he held you, wrapping you in his embrace and pressing your body closer to his.

You hummed in satisfaction as you basked in his embrace. Burying your face in his fragrant shirt, you said, "You're so unfair. And mesmerizing."

"Well! We'll see about that."

"About what?" You asked as you looked up at him. "About you being unfair, or you being mesmerizing?"

Vergil smirked and inched closer to your ear. And with a voice that sent your senses to oblivion, he whispered, "Both. But I'm afraid we'll both have to wait until our wedding night to find out."

Even before his meaning sank, the man swiftly stood up and offered you his hand. "It is really getting late. You must go to bed now, my dearest. I insist."

"And you, My Lord?" You asked in a playful voice, matching the same degree of mischief that he has a while ago.

Vergil gave out a theatrical sigh. A very rare sight, indeed. "I'm your Lord now?" He asked, his eyebrow raised skeptically once more. "Anyway, to answer your question, as I've said, I would immediately go back to London. Probably to wake up the whole household with the good news. And make my preparations."

The little walk back to your house was enjoyable but, the parting proved to be really difficult. The man bid you good night and sweet dreams, and you bade him farewell for now with a forlorn wave of the hand. You don't know how long you'd wait for him this time around, however, he has assured you that he would be back before you even know it. And you trusted him, for he never broke his promises.

Until then, you would eagerly wait for his return. But, right now, you must go to sleep,...

... and dream of this one evening in May,...

... when the man of your dreams, your childhood love, the man you adored and waited for for ten years,...

... has finally declared his love for you.

***

🌸 I hope you still remember this little prize of mine for you, @harlot-of-oblivion . Thank you so much for supporting my work! 🌸

***

🌸🌸🌸

***

[turtlepated]

The Handbook for the Recently Married (to the Deceased)

Chapter 7:

Tag list:

@sapphic-florals , @beetlejuicebeadoll , @do-ya-hear-that-sound , @imtherain , @imsuchahobbit , @pastelnacht , @tialanderrol , @sammyskip , @monsterlovinghours , @allmycrushesaredead , @missiheart23 

------

 It wasn’t the first time a Monday had seemed to stretch on forever. But this particular Monday, after the extremely unorthodox way I spent the weekend and the fact that there was a demon? man? something in my house while I was stuck at the office for the next… I paused halfway through the thought, checking the time again and utterly dismayed to see that it was still only mid-morning. Beetlejuice would have the house all to himself for the next 7 hours. It seemed like every time I looked at a clock, the hands stood still. Finally I pasted a sticky note over the bottom left corner of my computer monitor because I couldn’t stop glancing at it every few seconds.

I did my best not to dwell on it, since there was plenty of work to occupy my mind and my time, but I kept getting distracted by thoughts of Beetlejuice. He’d been docile enough this morning when I hurtled through the house getting ready to leave, but what might he be getting up to while I wasn’t there? I’d glimpsed the sort of mayhem he was capable of back in the Deetz house; morphing the Victorian home into a devilish fun house straight out of the seventh circle. 

Early on I planned to run home during my lunch hour, just to check on things, but that plan fell through when an overwhelmed coworker asked if I’d be willing to help them out instead. Which I wasn’t, but I agreed to help them anyway even while my own stress level continued to climb. By the time I left for the day I was wound tight as a bowstring, both gunning to get home and anxious about what I mind find when I arrived. But I’d also realized that if he was going to be living with me, Beetlejuice was going to need some things. So I forced myself to drive at a normal speed and to make a stop at the chain department store in town, consulting the list I’d put together as items occurred to me throughout the day. 

Once or twice I did think about the fact that I hadn’t told him when I would be back, but he hadn’t asked either. And I didn’t have any way of contacting him to let him know I’d be late. I could, perhaps, find the Deetz’s home number, but it might be…. awkward to ask them to drop in on the specter who had terrorized them. So I just did my shopping as quickly as I could, loaded it all back into my car, and booked it for home. 

At first blush the outside looked perfectly normal when I pulled into the driveway and I let out a sigh at the rush of relief. Leaving all the bags in the car for the time being I mounted the steps, rifling through my keyring to unlock the back door only to find it standing slightly ajar. Intrigued but not yet alarmed, I stepped inside and shut it behind me, my eyes roving every square inch of the room for anything out of place but finding nothing of note. The kitchen was still messy from where Beetlejuice had made pancakes: the island countertop cluttered with dried spots of dripped batter, bits of eggshell, dusted with flour with the bag left sitting open. The dirty griddle still sat on the stove where I’d put it for him, the sink full of used dishes. Overall, I’d been braced for worse, but it was nothing a wipe down with a hot dish cloth and a load in the dishwasher wouldn’t take care of. 

In the living room the coffee table had been shoved against the far wall and in the center of the room it looked as though he had gone through the whole house scrounging pillows and blankets which he had then constructed into some sort of enormous fort. The couch was bare of seat cushions, and I even recognized the pillows and blankets off my (our?) bed. At some point he must have gotten bored with it because the blankets and quilts and pillows were now strewn all over the room, as if he’d burst out from inside like some sort of larvae escaping its cocoon. 

The signs of his habitation and how he’d spent the day were in plain sight, but I’d seen neither hide nor hair of the man/ghost/demon himself. “Beej?” I called, belatedly realizing he might be lying in wait to scare me in some way like he had when we first met. Going a little more warily now, I proceeded into the bedroom only to freeze in the doorway, dumbstruck. 

It wasn’t quite pitch black in the room, but only because a ghastly greenish radiance seemed to be emanating out from under the bed, throwing long, twisting shadows over the floor and up the walls. The wallpaper had torn itself free, curling into ragged scrolls and exposing cracked drywall that looked like a stiff breeze would reduce it to dust. The skittering of many small things with many small legs made me flinch and recoil as I picked my way forward, unable to see the source of the skin-crawling sounds while I sidestepped puddles of viscous goo that seemed to be dripping from the ceiling in thick, foul-smelling ropes. Something dark was seeping down the full-length mirror by the closet door, and in the poor light I couldn’t tell if it was slime or paint or blood. 

More of the spectral light was leaking out from the cracks around and under the door, along with drifts of thick mist and shadows that curled along the floor toward my feet like tentacles reaching out to grab me. This was so similar and also somehow so much worse than what I’d encountered in the Deetz house. My heart was hammering in my throat, but I did my best to keep my breathing calm and slowly reached for the knob to the closet door.  

Steeling myself, I gave it a twist and pushed it carefully open. 

Inside was much the same as outside. All my hanging clothes were coated in the same sticky residue dripping from the ceiling, a veritable swarm of small shiny insects scattered to the shadowy corners of the small room as I opened the door, and huddled at the rear wall, crouched on the floor and curled into a surprisingly tight ball, facing away from the door was Beetlejuice. His broad back was rising and falling rapidly, his hands clasped around the back of his neck, his head ducked low and out of sight. I opened my mouth to speak but found that I couldn’t make a sound, snapping it shut and taking a moment to collect myself before stepping fully into the closet. 

“Beej?” I said tentatively, moving closer. He didn’t appear to hear me, utterly unresponsive except for his quick, shallow breathing. I took another step, reaching out a little apprehensively to give him a gentle prod in the back, softly repeating his name. At the touch, at my voice, slightly louder this time, he visibly flinched and gasped, uncurling with startling quickness and turning to look up at me. 

His eyes were red rimmed and puffy as though he’d been crying but his cheeks were dry. His chin, on the other hand, was slick and shiny with drool that had dripped down his neck and onto his shirt front. His messy hair, which I had come to understand possessed some sort of mood-ring quality with its shifting colors, was a deep, dull burgundy. I had jumped back, surprised by his quick motion when he spun around, but the state of him was so worrying that I forgot all about the mounting dread I’d felt when I saw the bedroom, the messes left in other rooms of the house. I moved closer, his eyes riveted to my hand as I reached out again and laid it on his shoulder. 

“Beetlejuice, are you okay? What’s wrong?” 

For a long moment he didn’t respond, blinking at me with a look of acute confusion. Then he made a sudden sound, a gasping sob that seemed torn from deep in his chest and scrambled up onto his knees in front of me, flinging his arms around my legs and clutching them against his body while he buried his face into my stomach. Thrown off balance by the grabbing, I staggered and braced my hand against the sticky wall while my other hand bemusedly settled in his unkempt reddish-purple locks. It took me a few seconds to realize that the vibrations against my middle where muffled words, rendered incomprehensible by Beetlejuice’s face pressed tightly to the fabric of my shirt. 

“Beej, I can’t understand you,” I said, chuckling as I brushed my hand through his tousled hair. “You wanna tell me what’s bothering you?” 

His arms tightened around my upper thighs, his head shaking back and forth as if he were trying to burrow in even deeper and I grimaced at the thought of the saliva that would now be soaked into my clothes. Sighing, I peeled my hand off the wall, regarding the thin strands of muck strung between my fingers before wiping them off on my pants, which I would now have to wash anyway. When most of the mess was gone I laid my hand on his shoulder again, squeezing softly, rubbing soothing circles into his upper back while my other hand remained tucked in his hair. 

“C’mon, Beej,” I coaxed gently. “Did something happen? I can’t help if you won’t tell me what’s the matter.” 

I felt him sigh harshly, a blast of warm breath against my stomach as he finally pulled back enough to look me full in the face. His eyes were still red and swollen, ringed with bruise-like dark shadows, though I realized now that it wasn’t just from inflammation, his irises had actually shifted to a deep and very inhuman bloody red. His face looked haggard and drawn, like he hadn’t slept in weeks even though when I’d left this morning he had looked perfectly – well, not normal, perhaps, but certainly normal for his circumstances. Beetlejuice stared at me hard for another long moment before answering. 

“You left,” he croaked, and my eyes darted from his to the roots of his hair where a fiercer scarlet color was bleeding slowly up the strands between my fingers, like spilled ink spreading over paper. I grew aware of his hands, gripping my hips, holding me against him, digging into the soft flesh through my pants in a way that was bordering on painful. “You left,” he repeated, his voice coming out stronger this time, gravelly as ever but with a much more bestial rumble than I’d heard before. Something primal in me tensed fearfully at that predatory growl, hair standing on end up my arms and at the nape of my neck. 

With a gracefulness I wouldn’t have thought to expect from him, Beetlejuice rose smoothly to his feet, never blinking or releasing me from his burning gaze or his tight grasp as his arms unwound from my hips and his hands moved to grip my elbows, dragging my hands from him. 

“You said you wanted me here but you still left!” Beetlejuice snarled between clenched teeth that were sharper than I remembered, flecks of spit flying from his lips. I couldn’t help flinching when some of the airborne saliva inevitably spattered my cheek, feeling the bite of his short nails gouging my arms. 

“Beej, you’re hurting me,” I said, fighting valiantly to keep my voice even, a tiny tremor escaping. 

“You left me!” he shouted, his voice harsh and accusatory in his anger but colored unmistakably with pain and despair. 

I struggled to understand why it should trouble him so much, why my absence for one single day would cause him this much panic and distress. Slowly, I brought my arms up to press against the underside of his forearms, my hands curling around his elbows. 

“I know,” I told him, not wanting to discredit his statement which was technically correct. “I went to work, Beej. We talked about it last night, remember?” I watched his brow furrow, could practically see him digging back through the recesses of his mind to recall our conversation.  

“You… you left,” he nearly whimpered, the anger literally draining out of his countenance as every spec of hair I could see on him shifted to a dark plum. 

Like a bolt from the blue, understanding struck me. In the house, when Lydia had gone upstairs to talk with the Maitlands, that was when Beetlejuice had apparently turned on her. He must have assumed that her departure meant she was choosing them over him, when all she had done was leave the room. I felt my fear evaporate, my chest aching at this realization, at the knowledge that he was so sure he would be abandoned and forgotten as soon as he was no longer in someone’s line of sight that it would reduce him to this. What sort of horrible experiences would instill such a fear in him? 

“Beej,” I began hesitantly. “Did you… did you think that I would leave and not come back?” 

A quiet, keening wail left him, involuntarily it seemed as he pressed his lips together to silence it and abruptly released me to sink his hands into his own hair, his eyes squeezing shut as he backed away. That seemed the closest I was going to get to an affirmative. It took everything in me not to rush right over and pull him into my arms, but I didn’t want to spook or stress him anymore than he already was so I went slowly, one step at a time.   

“Who would do that?” I asked, mostly speaking to myself. I hadn’t been expecting an answer, but Beetlejuice gave one anyway, seemingly unable to stop himself. 

“Everyone!” he burst out, his voice raw with hurt. “Friends, roommates, my dad, every girlfriend or boyfriend I ever had! When my mom wanted me to move out, she just stopped coming home!” With a small plaintive squeak he clapped a hand over his own mouth, his eyes wide and round and fearful as they searched my face. I sighed deeply and moved closer still, tugging his hand gently but insistently away from his face. It came away wet, strings of saliva trailing from his palm to his chin and bottom lip. I wondered if maybe Beetlejuice, as a ghost or demon or whatever he was, was incapable of producing tears even when he might want to and the excessive drooling was meant to be some sort of caricature of the very human act of crying. 

Pulling my sleeve down over the heel of my palm, I dabbed at his wet chin to give him a moment to calm down while I thought of how to respond. “I’m sorry, Beetlejuice,” I repeated softly, tracing my fingertips across his cheek before I lowered my hand from his face. “I’m sorry that happened. I’m sorry you were upset today, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when I’d be home. I didn’t even think about it, I’m not used to having someone waiting for me.” 

His eyes fluttered closed for a second when I touched him, and it didn’t escape my notice that he tilted his head to press his face into my hand, nor did I miss the oh-so-tiny mournful noise he made when I pulled away. I smiled warmly at him, though he didn’t see since he was avidly avoiding my gaze by staring at the floor, at his hands as they fidgeted with his clothes and with one another.  

“Would you like a hug?” I asked, spreading my arms in invitation, wondering if I was setting myself up for another awkward physical moment with him. But he just looked so forlorn and forsaken that I couldn’t stand it. Beetlejuice nodded adamantly and stepped into my embrace without a word, his face tucking into the curve of my shoulder, his arms lax at his sides as mine wrapped around him. He was tense, but after a beat I felt him sigh and relax against me while I stroked the back of his head and rubbed up and down between his shoulder blades.  

Gradually, tentatively, his arms came up as well and settled themselves around my waist. “It’ll be okay,” I assured him. “You’re going to be okay.” I said it that way very deliberately, since I was certain that at the moment he did not feel okay. His arms tightened around me, his fingers twitching against my back and fisting my shirt. I felt warm wetness against my collarbone, so he was probably drooling again but I muscled my way past the shudder that tried to crawl up my spine at the sensation. I noticed that, as Beetlejuice continued to calm down, the frightening transformation of my closet around us shimmered like a heat mirage and disappeared to reveal the small room exactly as I’d left it.  

Beetlejuice made no move to pull away or loosen his hold, and in all likelihood he would have happily stood there in my closet all night long as long as I kept hugging him. But when his stomach gave a long, loud growl powerful enough that I could feel his round midsection rumbling against mine, I broke away but made sure to keep in contact with him since he seemed to draw so much solace from it.  

“When’s the last time you ate anything?” I asked, and he have a lopsided shrug. 

“Dunno. Prob’ly the pancakes, I guess.”  

I shook my head and tutted at him with no real crossness. “Beej, you’re alive now. Not human, maybe, but alive. Which means your body needs things: like food, water, rest.” He shrugged again, rubbing his damp chin on the sleeve of his shirt. The violet tone had left his hair, which was green again but a pale, dull tone. I took that to mean he was feeling better, which was good.  

“Tell you what,” I said. “Let’s get some food in you, that should help you feel a little better, and then I’ll show you what I brought you.” At those words he perked up like a puppy hearing someone said ‘car ride’ or ‘treat’.  

“You brought me something?” he asked slowly, as if he was sure he’d misunderstood or heard wrong.  

I nodded, turning to exit the closet, tugging him by the hand after me and quietly relieved to see that the supernatural makeover in the bedroom had likewise disappeared like mist burned off by sunlight. “Sure did.”  

“Is it a bucket of spiders?” 

I laughed. “Not quite, but good guess.”  

“Two buckets of spiders?”  

I laughed again, clearing a space at the kitchen island to make him a sandwich while Beetlejuice settled on a bar stood. “Tell you what,” I said. “After you eat something, you can come out to the car with me and help bring it in.” 

-------

This was one of the very first parts I thought up when this story idea came to me and finally getting it out was so much fun! 

I am so soft for a soft garbage man. Hopefully you all are now too!

No ETA for chapter 8 but I’ll do my best!  Thanks for reading!!

Previous Chapters:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Newsletters' glorious history

It sure feels like we're living through an unprecedented boom in newsletters, but while email-based newsletters are experiencing a major surge, newsletters themselves have a long and honorable history.

https://www.wired.com/story/peak-newsletter-that-was-80-years-ago/

In Wired, Michael Waters describes the newsletter boom of the 1930s, starting with Claud Cockburn's "The Week," launched in 1933 out of disgust with his employer, The Telegraph, and its right-wing complacency (Cockburn went on to break the story of Franco's fascist coup).

The rise of cheap mimeographs - coupled with the USPS's subsidy for printed materials - created a boom in all kinds of niche and political publications, from sf fanzines to Allen Ginsburg's self-published chapbooks to The Ladder, a 1950s lesbian newsletter.

Left-populism had a major home in newsletters, providing an alternative to the pro-big-business/pro-monopoly/anti-labor/anti-New Deal bias of the newspaper industry.

I hadn't known about In Fact, the newsletter founded by the ex-Chicago Tribune muckraker George Seldes.

Seldes billed In Fact as "An Antidote for Falsehood in the Daily Press," reached 176,000 subscribers, and featured exposes on strike-breakers, tobacco industry/newspaper conspiracies to cover up smoking-related health risks, and FBI anti-union spying.

In Fact inspired IF Stone to start his legendary Weekly, a 20-year newsletter that Stone published to 70,000 subscribers from a hand-cranked mimeograph machine.

But this golden age of leftist newsletter publishing was crippled by the Red Scare, and the risks of appearing on a list of subscribers to a radical publication.

The right's newsletters - paranoid, proto-Bircher publications like Joseph P Kamp's Headlines, and What's Behind Them ("Are Communists Infiltrating the YMCA?") morphed into the powerful newsletters published by Ayn Rand and Phyllis Schlafly, buoyed by the direct mail boom.

Today, the legacy of the direct mail boom is a clutch of wealthy, ruthless grifters making enormous bank by terrorizing elderly Fox viewers into making donations they can't afford.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/20/no-mask-no-service/#dorr-brothers

But lefty, anti-monopoly newsletter publishing is also alive and well, as tech startups like Substack promise both revenue streams AND access to the last truly federated distribution system: email.

I really enjoy many of these new newsletters, though I worry that, on the one hand, they include a lot of invasive tracking, and on the other, that consolidation in email providers makes them incredibly dependent on Big Tech's forbearance.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/08/the-last-federated-platform/#postal-inspectors

I have my own (totally independent, tracker-free, zero analytics, ad-free) newsletter, the Plura-List.

https://mail.flarn.com/mailman/listinfo/plura-list/

I've discovered that if a bunch of my subscribers on, say, Apple Mail, don't open their daily newsletters, Apple's analytics classes the publication as spam for ALL subscribers on its platform.

The consolidated nature of email is also very apparent in the software I use for the Plura-list, the venerable Mailman tool, a creaking dinosaur that looks terrible and is difficult for both publishers and subscribers to use.

And yet, it's the best option if you want to host your own mailing lists (rather than exposing your subscribers to potential data-mining, etc).

Meanwhile, if this history of mailing lists has you intrigued, I strongly urge you to check out the anthologies of IF Stone's Weekly.

http://ifstone.org/collected_writings.php

I discovered these in the early 90s when I was working at Toronto's College Books, where the owner, Michael Jackel, had ordered them for our politics section. These anthologies absolutely blew my mind and transformed the way I thought about personal political writing.

Decades later, they still resonate.

[raendown]

My part of a trade with @rookie-d and boy was this fun to write! 

Pairing: MadaraTobirama Word count: 3477 Rated: T+ Summary: Madara hated the morning shift. It was always boring and getting up early sucked. Thankfully the one time he had to work it something interesting happened, at least.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

Zombies Before Noon

Their first meeting was one that Madara would remember for all the reasons Tobirama probably wished he would forget. Several hours in to a criminally early morning shift he was bored out of his skull and wondering why the hell a comic book shop needed to be open before any of the local nerds around here were even awake. He’d already tidied the shelves four times and dusted the entire premises twice when the cheery jingle of the bell over their door made him lift his head hopefully. That look quickly morphed in to horror as he took in the sight of what was clearly a zombie entering the store. 

Skin so pale it looked almost paper white, circles under his eyes so dark they looked drawn on with marker, and clothes rumpled like they hadn’t seen an ironing board in years, the man who stumbled in had his eyes completely closed and his arms hanging loose at both sides. Only three steps in he stopped dead and just stood there. Motionless. Possibly not breathing. Madara looked around for a hidden camera, wondering if his younger brother had set him up for some kind of weird prank. That was the sort of thing Izuna would do. Nothing new or suspicious stuck out to him, though, so he turned back to the stranger who was now slowly blinking his eyes open. Well, partially open. They remained squinted so tightly he probably couldn’t see any better still. 

“Coffee?” he rumbled in a deep slur. Madara looked around for cameras again. 

“Uh, we don’t serve that here.” 

“...black.” 

Furrowing his brows, Madara repeated himself. “We don’t serve coffee.”

The pale man blinked slowly with a gaze that didn’t seem to really be focused on anything. 

“Extra espresso…” his words trailed off like he meant to continue with something off and yet nothing came. After almost a full minute he managed to close his jaw again with a muted click. Then he merely stood and let his narrowed eyes bore directly in to Madara’s. 

It was the single creepiest thing this shop had ever seen. And considering the varying clientele that was saying something.

For a good hot second Madara contemplated reaching in to his pocket and calling the police. Or maybe the Disease Center. Either one of them would no doubt be very interested in this spontaneous zombie apocalypse. Then the moment passed and he realized this was probably the most interesting thing that was likely to happen to him until the early afternoon crowd began to show up near the very end of his shift. He might as well see how it played out. 

“Would an energy drink do you? We’ve got all sorts of those. Pretty cheap too.” 

“....mn.”

Since he wasn’t very sure what that meant Madara opted for believing he’d just made a sale. Trying to ask questions about flavor and the like would most likely get about as coherent an answer as the ones he’d already gotten so after a moment of going through their inventory in his mind he stepped over to the fridge behind the counter to pick out the highest concentration of caffeine they carried. It also happened to be one of their cheaper brands as well, which was great in case he ended up having to pay for this himself. Did zombies remember how to pick out money from their wallets?

Did zombies even carry their wallets?

“Here. These don’t really taste all that great but it’s got enough of a kick to revive you or whatever.” 

A few seconds after he handed it over he realized his mistake. The oddly still man blinked slowly when Madara cracked the can open for him but finally seemed to understand that there was a liquid in his hand he was meant to drink. His head tilted back to reveal a surprisingly shapely throat that bobbed up and down in a steady rhythm until the entire can was emptied, hung there unmoving for a few seconds more, then his head tilted back down with an honest to god pout on his face. Apparently he’d thought the can was bottomless.

“Right. Feel free to browse or whatever before you come settle up. Register’s over there.” Madara jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “If you pass out try to fall away from the merchandise.” 

“Nnmm.”

“Oookay.” 

Scurrying back to the register was more for the sake of anyone looking in through the windows on their way by than for his own sense of safety. He really didn’t need anyone to call his boss and say they spotted him stalking a customer in his own store. At least he had a comfortable perch from which he could survey the entire floor, set out in a semi circle as it was, giving him a perfect view down each of their short aisles. No matter where this one man circus drifted he would be within eyesight. Madara watched with undisguised fascination while the guy drifted down aisle three, staring hard at a display entirely covered with merchandise for a popular children’s show about brightly colored ponies. The empty drink can remained clutched tightly in one fist.

With drunken steps he wound his way out of that section and in to aisle five. Despite staring directly at their selection of comics for a particular super hero universe Madara got the impression he wasn’t actually seeing any of them. Either he was hopelessly lost inside his own head or he had astrally projected so hard he wouldn’t find himself for another week. Just as the man lifted his hand, perhaps at last to interact with the world around him, the door of the shop jingled violently open to admit a harried looking woman. 

“There you are!” she screeched. Without even sparing a look around the rest of the open space she marched around a display of new releases and clapped a hand down on the zombie man’s shoulder. “I have been looking for you for over an hour, you absolute dick! Do you know how worried we’ve been? Your brother would have taken my damn head off if anything happened to you on my watch!” 

“...nm?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, the woman shook her head and finally looked around. The fact that there weren’t any other customers seemed to console her a little bit, probably relieved there weren’t more witnesses to her bad skills at keeping track of one man. When her eyes looked on to Madara he refused to quail under the force of her glare. A part of him sort of wanted to. He spent as much time in the gym as the next self-conscious guy but the look she was giving him promised that she, in fact, was the one with an ability to rip heads. To his absolute shame, he looked away first. But only for long enough for the weight of her gaze to leave him so he could go back to watching this drama unfold in front of him. 

“Come on,” she growled, tugging at the man’s sleeve. “Next time this happens I am tying you to the bed until you fucking learn! Did you even pay for that drink? You are so paying me back for this, I don’t care if it’s only a couple bucks!”

It wasn’t all that surprising how little resistance the man offered to being pulled across the floor and back out on to the street, though Madara did give some thought to whether or not he should be calling the police. Should he be reporting assault over this? It was too bad the owners were too cheap to install any real security other than the one camera pointing straight at the door and the one directly over the till. Some proper footage of what happened probably would have made great evidence if someone came back to question him.  

For several minutes after he was left suddenly alone Madara stared towards the door and wondered if it was possible that he might have hallucinated everything that just happened. Maybe he’d been reading too many of the comics in here. His mother used to warn him when he was little that using his imagination too much would rot out his common sense - but, then again, she was a cantankerous old bitch who kicked him out as soon as he turned eighteen. He’d never put much stock in anything she had to say. And then there were the coins that crazy lady had tossed over the counter on their way by, that was pretty solid evidence that he wasn’t hallucinating. 

Without a live zombie show for entertainment the rest of his shift at the comic shop mostly passed in boredom. Usually he worked the afternoon shifts just for this very reason. The mornings were always dead but he’d had to reschedule an appointment with his doctor three times already and trading shifts today had been the only way he was getting in there without having to wait several more weeks for another open spot. Medical care in their city seriously needed a bigger budget. Desperate to pass the time without resorting to the merchandise he wasn’t supposed to fiddle with on shift, Madara ended up slumped over the front counter doodling on the back of some old receipt paper he found stuffed in to a random drawer. Nearly half the page disappeared under swirls of red ink before he realized that he was drawing a dead, moaning zombie. With a sheepish look around he set the red pen aside and reached for a black one instead. Hopefully that would inspire some less creepy doodles. 

As expected, a couple hours before the end of his shift he finally started seeing some customers, his fellow nerds flocking in to check for new issues of the latest detective comic or merchandise for their favorite anime characters. Madara kept a sharp eye on the ones he didn’t recognize and gave no more thought to the entertaining if odd start to his day. After work he scurried off to the bus stop and barely made it to his long overdue doctor’s appointment before stumbling back on to the bus an hour after that with a bandaid on his arm and several vials of blood less in his body. 

“M’ home,” he called weakly as he shuffled inside the apartment. Something clattered around the corner, followed quickly by the sound of Izuna swearing.

“Did the appointment go well?” His brother’s voice shouted after him on his way down the hall. 

Tossing his jacket through the door of his bedroom, he called back. “Went fine. Had to get some blood pulled. Dumb ass doctor doesn’t think I know my own body enough to tell when I’m having seasonal allergies. He wants to test me for heart disease!” 

“But...those aren’t...anki, that makes no sense!” 

“I know!” Madara rolled his eyes even though the other couldn’t see him. “Apparently being short of breath because of the all the ragweed means I must be on the verge of a heart attack.” 

“Probably got his medical degree out of a cereal box.” 

Tired, a little loopy from having too much blood drawn without eating anything, Madara’s thoughts for the rest of his evening were filled mostly with grumbles about incompetant medical staff and listening to Izuna go on about the latest drama from his apprenticeship. Work was so far from his mind he entirely forgot to mention the strange occurrence from that morning. He went to bed that night thinking only that he was grateful his shifts were back to their usual afternoon schedule tomorrow because he certainly didn’t want to wake up early again, his dreams filled with needles that laughed at him while he sneezed uncontrollably. 

Several days went by with the usual humdrum of the life Madara and his brother had fallen in to. As much as he despised the morning shift, he loved the afternoons with equal fervor. His job at the comic shop didn’t pay much more than a basic living wage but he loved the environment, loved his regular customers, and he especially loved the hefty discount it gave him on all the nerdy merchandise he couldn’t help filling their home with. Things went about as normally as they usually did in his life until the fourth day when Madara looked up from checking out a regular customer to find the next person in line was an actual walking snack. 

Wild hair artfully arranged to somehow look purposefully messy, skin so pale he could be mistaken for an albino, red eyes that Madara would swear could see right down in to his soul, he was already a dreamboat even without taking in the deliciously toned rest of his body. Something about him looked familiar but it was hard to concentrate past the broad shoulders standing straight and tall. 

“Can I - ahem - how can I help you?” Madara fought with his cheeks not to flush bright red and prayed that no one would comment on the massive crack his voice had just done. 

“You wouldn’t happen to be Madara, would you?” the man asked in a deep rumble. “Your coworkers described you to me when I came in here yesterday.”

“I am, yes. Uh...is there something wrong?” 

Shaking his head, the man coughed a little as though feeling uncomfortable. “No, no. I only wanted to come in and thank you for not kicking me out of your store the other day. I was, ah, fairly ill at the time and my behavior was not the best. Several shops had already sent me on my way but you allowed me to stay in one place long enough for my cousin to catch up so I wanted to say thank you for letting me stay somewhere safe. Anything could have happened to me in that state.” 

For a second Madara tried to subtly look the man up and down, trying to determine if he was lying or not. Surely this couldn’t be the same guy? It was only after he mentally added some black streaks under the eyes, hunched the shoulders, and squinted the eyes that he realized it was. This was his zombie customer. 

“You don’t look the same at all!” was the first thing his stupid mouth chose to blurt out. 

“Ah. Thank you, I think.” The man coughed awkwardly again. “I’m told I look fairly awful whenever I work myself in to sleep deprivation.” 

“Oh is that why you were acting so much like a zombie? Wait no! Shit! Sorry, that was rude! Um, shit- gah, I’m not supposed to swear, fuck. Damn it!” Exasperated with his own lack of self control, Madara smacked a hand over his face. Nearby one of his regulars could be heard snickering but glaring them in to silence would have meant removing his hand and facing the hot stranger who’d made him splutter. 

To his eternal relief, no comments were made about his verbal idiocy, although he could definitely hear traces of amusement in the man’s tone when he continued speaking. 

“Yes, unfortunately I have a habit of getting a little too involved in my studies. Exams are coming up so I’ve only been sleeping about two or three hours a night and it, ah, finally caught up to me apparently. I don’t remember much but my cousin tells me I wandered out of her house sometime around six in the morning and she didn’t find me until, er, whenever it was she found me in here.” After scratching at the back of his neck he seemed to jolt himself and then held out the same hand. “I’m Tobirama, by the way.” 

“Madara. But um, you apparently already knew that.” 

They shook hands, at which point Madara realized the other man’s incredible height also came with massive hands that practically engulfed his own. He really hoped he wasn’t blushing as brightly as it felt like he was. 

“So you live around here then?” he asked. Then he wanted to slap himself again because that was probably way too personal of a question. 

“Not really. Well, not yet. I’m staying with my cousin so I can take some courses at the university but my brother is thinking of moving back to town so I’ll probably move back in with him if he does.” 

“Back to town?” Madara perked up. “So you’re from around here originally?” 

Tobirama nodded. “We grew up in the west end.”

“No kidding? Me too.” Squinting, Madara tried to determine whether they might have crossed paths when they were younger. The man did sort of look familiar but age could change a lot about a person and it wasn’t like he’d kept contact with anyone from that end of town. Not after he’d been summarily tossed to the curb. 

His closer interest did not go unnoticed. For a moment he flushed even deeper than he already was, thinking Tobirama might have been offended by his scrutiny. Then his ears were flaming for another reason entirely and he couldn’t even bring himself to be upset about the misunderstanding when the other leaned in just a bit closer with a slow smile. 

“I don’t suppose you’d like to go for coffee sometime?” he asked. “As a thank you, of course.” 

“On one condition,” Madara told him, feeling suddenly bold.

“Do tell.” Tobirama looked even more amused by his request. He leaned farther down to rest his weight on both elbows to patiently await the condition he would supposedly need to meet. 

“If you can describe the premise behind any of the comics in this store then you’ve got yourself a date. I’ve had too many people try and steer me away from ‘childish interests’ and think they can ‘help me grow up’.” 

After breaking up with the fourth person in a row who mocked him for his interests Madara had made a pact with himself to never again date anyone who didn’t accept him for who he was and what he loved. He might be a massive nerd but he’d learned the lesson of self value a long time ago and he wasn’t about to let himself be blinded by a pretty face again. 

To his utter delight, he needn't have worried this time. With a competitive sort of light in his eye Tobirama pointed out half a dozen different comics within eyesight and not only named the main characters but also the basis of the main plot for each of them. What made it all the more impressive was that he mostly chose rather obscure franchises that couldn’t be considered mainstream. Madara was half in love before he was finished describing the third one. Handsome, intelligent enough for university, and apparently in to the same geeky stuff as him? Sign him up. Immediately. 

“Okay, okay, point made!” Throwing up his hands in surrender made Tobirama smile. “You mentioned your exams are coming up so I’m guessing you’ll be busy for the next little while. Why don’t I give you my number and we can go out for coffee to celebrate after you don’t need to study so much?” 

“I would appreciate that a lot,” Tobirama murmured earnestly. 

“School’s obviously important to you if you’ll work yourself in to a zombie state over it,” Madara pointed out. 

He got a grateful look that made his stomach flip flop. Rather than make a fool of himself again he printed off a bit of blank receipt paper and wrote his number down, sliding it across the counter. He expected Tobirama to slip the paper in to his pocket but instead he pulled out a beaten up cell phone and entered the number right there, smiling to himself like he'd won an unexpected treat. 

“I’m sure Hashirama will be thrilled to know I’m finally being more social.”

Madara nearly stopped breathing. All the triumph of having secured a very promising date suddenly drained right out of him as he stared at the man across the counter in horror, several little clues falling in to place at once. Finally he’d figured out why Tobirama looked familiar and it wasn’t because he’d seen him in zombie form. Images of his childhood best friend danced across his memories.

“You’re...you’re Hashirama’s little brother,” he whimpered. “Oh god. Oh god! He’s going to kill me! He’s going to come back to Konoha just to cut all my hair off in a bowl cut to match his!” 

While Tobirama stared at him with a mixture of horror and amusement Madara decided that as long as he got that date first he didn’t much care how he died. One conversation - and one look at those well defined biceps - was all he’d needed to know that Tobirama would be well worth it.

[universallywriting]

Drive Home

Steven's breath puffed in the air as he came to sit beside her, feet crunching in the frost and pine needles. He was glad they'd planned it the way they did, just cold enough so the Rocky Mountains were dusted with snow. Specks of brown and green covered the mounds that swallowed up the horizon, towering and beautiful, almost touchably close and endlessly far at the same time. Pine trees circled close around them, boulders jutting up from the earth, and he came to sit down on one beside Connie with a smile.

It was odd up in the mountains. Occasionally hikers would pass them by, or a family of tourists, but off the more well-worn trails that was rare. It was still odd for Steven, who so rarely traveled, to see so many people pass him by that he didn’t know the names of. So often he felt like he should see Buck’s familiar deadpan face, or hear Jenny’s laugh from one of the people that passed him by.

But the only familiar face was Connie’s. The thermos of tea he had brought her was hot in the metal flask. When they drove lower, he would switch back to her favorite black teas, carefully measured with swirls of honey and just the right kind of milk to make her smile. But high up in the mountains, the water didn’t boil hot enough.

Just thinking of her face the first morning she’d tried to make them both tea at 10,000 feet was enough to make him smile. The weak brew had made her nose wrinkle up in confusion, baffled at her perfectly measured cup failing, before she burst into giggles and explained the correlation between how water boiled and the altitude.

She was so brilliant. He handed it to her, enjoying the feel of being stupidly in love and out in the world alone with her before murmuring, “How do you feel?”

"Small. But in a good way. You?" She took a deep breath of mountain air, looking over the landscape. He wondered if she felt the same as him, or if we-moved-a-lot Connie never felt that same warm loneliness.

"Same." He smiled and looked back out. Questions about wanting to see familiar faces could be saved for the road home when they were barefoot and bored. “Wish I had come to places like this more often. Oceans are beautiful but... Nothing makes you feel more like a speck than a mountain. It's comforting."

"Just another little person, running across a big marble." She nudged him softly with her free hand. "Gets a little too much when you really see the marble though. I think going out in space can make Earth feel a little too small."

Steven nodded. "Yeah. This is a good middle ground. Earth feels big. I feel small. I like it this way.”

“Why don’t we stay?” Connie asked lightly. “Drive around forever.”

“I could be happy getting lost in these woods,” he agreed, but there was no weight to it. There was no weight to her words either. They swept away in the breeze, tumbling down stone and needles and babbling brooks to the world beneath.

"Me too." Her fingers wrapped tight around the sketchbook in her lap, the cover digging into her skin just at the brink of hurting. "I'm, um... I'm done with it, by the way. With my portfolio. I’ll submit it in the morning."

"That's great!" Steven said, throwing his arm around her shoulders with an eager squeeze. His lips found her temple in a reassuring kiss, seeing the nerves in the stiff lines of her body. "I'm so proud of you. Did the landscapes turn out the way you wanted?"

She opened her sketchbook and Steven eagerly looked over her shoulder, never tiring of the contents. It started with the temple. The morning they left Steven had found her on the beach, wrapped up in a hoodie in the early dawn chill, sketching his home and occasionally sipping at a coffee that had gone cold, and though she had insisted it wasn’t important, he had happily delayed their start until she finished.

Connie flipped to fields of grain. Traveling the midwest had been much less exciting than he expected. Keystone had rolled by and their eyes had glazed over as everything seemed to be the same three trees and two rocks. They had burst into Buckeye and passed through Kansas and had mumbled incoherently about corn while the radio tried to keep them alive and driving. That night they had stared at Connie’s grain drawing with a ghostly horror, neither of them remembering when she had drawn the stuff.

She moved past a drawing of rolling grassy hills. In Nebraska, he had floated to the top of the RV with her. While she drew, he had read about the Great Plains on his phone. They had taken a moment, in warm breeze and isolation, to let tears hit their eyes and cries choke their lungs as they read about what happened to buffalo who had roamed there once. They had whispered about colonies of all kinds, and there was no one around to reassure them, so they took the time to mourn things that might have been.

They had done the same in sand dunes, or close to it. The sketch she passed held more memory than a picture, the grays of her pencil capturing more than just the desert, but him breaking down over Kindergartens sucking life from the earth. Another sketch just after, with a lovely pink flower blossoming on top of a cactus, and he could hear her voice reassuring, “Nothing’s as lifeless as you’d think.”

Connie paused on his favorite, the polar bear she had sketched from the San Diego Zoo. They had spent such a long day there, but when they got to the polar bears she had stopped and gushed about them. The Spirit Morph saga had inspired her to do research, and she rambled facts. Polar bears had terrible success rates, with only two percent of their hunts being successful, did he know? 

He really liked that idea. The largest bear of all, living in such a harsh environment, failed almost all the time. It fumbled and watched as victory slipped away, but it came back to try another day. It survived.

She finished on a sweeping mountain landscape, not too different from the one they sat in now. Connie set her phone next to it, a copy of her finished project next to the rougher draft. "That's the last one," she said quietly, pointing to the screen. "I think it turned out okay."

"It makes Earth look beautiful. I’d put it in a gem brochure," he reassured. “You chose a lot of amazing stuff.”

She bit her lower lip. “I hope so. I tried to choose what a school would think is best, not just the stuff I think is great. The stuff that shows skill, you know?

He kissed her cheek this time, saying, "Any school is going to be lucky to have you. You're amazing, Connie."

"I'm okay," she said, voice very practical about her own skills. Connie looked at him with a little laugh. "I don't know what's scarier - getting rejected or getting in. Mom was mad enough about the world US road trip gap year."

"She got over it! You know, after the meltdown." Steven said, wincing a little at the memory. He had sat behind her, trying to support her as quietly as possible while Priyanka and Connie growled and snapped at one another, each insisting on how the next year should be spent. And, at the end, the tearful apologies, the confessions of fear over the future… He had to admit that it was a relatable feeling, even if no one had fought with him.

"She'll get over this too. Come on. This is what you've always wanted. You're going to be an animator, Connie,” he said, and just saying the word made her eyes go a little wide with hope. 

He remembered her earliest drawings with him, rougher but already so much nicer than his own. He remembered her working through how to draw anime books, silly cat-eared characters with huge eyes. Steven remembered her fumbling beyond that, hours of Tubetube tutorials, crying at the tablet he got her for her birthday, the countless gifts of fanart for his favorite shows. He remembered trembling hands the first time she showed him a comic, with characters he had never seen, because she had snatched them from the air the way he grabbed music.

Steven knew he was tearing up again like he did every time he told her, but he could never hold it back. “It’s what you live for, Connie. It’s what makes you happy. You're going to tell stories."

Connie breathed again, taking in pine and chill and rocks older than even the Crystal Gems by orders of magnitude. The world was big and wide and old, the universe even more so, and usually that made her problems feel small. But nothing could swallow up the fear and doubt today. She took his hand tight in her own.

"This has been amazing. Driving across the country, seeing all these different parts of the world, pitstops to warps so we can see everything Earth has to offer. Steven, I..."  She looked up at him, shaking her head in disbelief. "These past ten months have been the best months of my life. Everyone said we were going to get sick of each other. Your dad gave us that speech about how it was okay to bail. Everyone thought we were going to mess this up but... I'd do this for another year if it wasn't for college."

He was careful not to jostle her phone or sketchbook from her lap as he lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. "I loved this. I love you. No expectations. No scary future. No responsibilities. Just a big journey together.”

“I’m glad you loved it as much as I did,” she said with a smile.

“More than that. I needed it.” He laughed and shook his head. “Connie, I never could have asked for anything better than this. Everything at home was a mess. I’m so tired of all the work and responsibility and wondering what I’m going to do with my life. But this past year I just got to be with you and not be afraid."

"But now we have to go home," she whispered looking at the RV parked behind them. The place where they slept and ate. The place where they made stupid jokes and listened to terrible radio and podcasts. The place where they’d cried and kissed and worked through things they never thought they’d work through. But that was over now, and it loomed like a hearse. “We have to get in there and drive all the way back to Beach City. And then I... I have to wait to see if I get accepted.”

She laughed, cold and bitter, and took a hand to wipe at her eyes. He couldn’t see any tears falling, but Connie felt them stinging. “I’ve messed up on a lot of stuff, Steven. I know I seem smart, but most of it is from studying so hard. I’m not… special. I’m not talented. The odds are good they’re not gonna want me. And if they don't, I guess I'll go be a doctor or something. And, if they do, I..."

I’m screwed either way.

Steven shook his head hard. "You'll be an animator," he insisted. He took the thermos and set it aside, untouched, just so he could take both her hands in his. "You'll do exactly what you've been doing ever since I met you - telling stories. You'll finally get to be who you've always wanted to be."

She winced. "But my mom-"

"Who cares?" Steven said, barely holding back his temper. "We spent a year, just the two of us! You don’t need her to agree."

"Ten months," she corrected softly. "But, you're right. We did."

Steven didn’t like his temper. He didn’t like how angry he got. He didn’t like how easily he could drag Connie into it, drown her in it when they fused. He felt guilty about that. He worried about that a lot, that maybe his anger meant he wasn’t as good of a person as he liked to try to be. He loved Dr. and Mr. Maheswaran, didn’t he? His anger shouldn’t be so burning and flaring when all they wanted was for Connie to be safe.

But his feelings for her parents got tangled in his own, and when he started down that path he felt that little voice hissing that they should leave them alone, and that they could do things on their own, and for once they wanted to live their own lives and forge their own paths, and was it really so much to ask for unconditional support in that?

Steven took a steady breath to calm himself. "She should be in your life. The gems should be in my life. But nobody... Nobody gets to tell you what to do with it. It took me so long to figure that out. I didn't get that making other people happy and hurting yourself to meet their expectations aren't the same thing. I spent my whole life trying to be my mom. I didn't know what to do when I wasn't."

Connie nodded weakly. "I know."

He took her face in his hands, pressing her forehead to hers. "You're not your mom. You never have been. You don’t love rules and coloring inside the lines. You sneak candy into movies and find loopholes in the law and climb giant robots and... And you love books. And comics. And television. You love survival." 

Steven flipped back to the polar bear, gently tapping the page. "You drew this because of the warrior bears in the Spirit Morph Saga, because those books meant everything to you, and you want to make something like that for other people. That’s who you are. You want to inspire people like people who have inspired you."

She closed her eyes, trying not to cry. “I know. But I’m… I don’t know if I…”

“I’ve seen you capture Pearl on a page, and I can see all her determination and all her fear at the same time,” he whispered. “I’ve seen you draw your dad as a superhero, with a goofy flashlight and a big smile, because that’s who he was when you were small. You… You drew me, Connie.”

His thumbs smoothed over her cheeks as he took a shuddering breath. “You drew me the way you love me. It was just me, sleepy in our RV, and I looked peaceful and happy and I was looking outside and… and I could feel the way I love our stupid little rock. I was human and not human and I loved it, Connie. You made me feel so much.”

“I know, Steven. I know you feel the things I make but…” She whimpered, the tears he hadn’t seen before finally rolling. “What if I'm not good enough? What if I reach for Kansas and burn out halfway there?"

Steven hugged her tight, and let her bury her face in his shoulder. They were all alone up there, softly rustling trees holing them up from the terrifying landscape ahead. But there were such beautiful things below, pressed into the pages of Connie’s sketchbook, and it was time to face them all.

“I’ll pick you up.” His face buried in her hair, thoughts of their families fresh in his mind, and there was only one thing to promise, "I'll drive you home. And we'll all love you anyway."

[companionjones]

A Date?

Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club

Pairing: Kyoya Ootori x Rich!Student!Reader

Summary: Reader stays away from the usual activities of the Host Club. This peaks Kyoya Ootori’s interest.

Warnings: ANGST, heavy depiction making out :))))))

*Italicized words in asterisks are thoughts.*

*******

    Daylight seeped graciously through the music room’s window as you got some work done. The view from the Host Club room was one of your favorites, both outside and in. You weren’t blind, you were aware that the boys in the Host Club were very attractive, you just couldn’t bring yourself to approach any of the boys. Almost all of them had come up to you, of course. Even Mori accompanied Honey when the smaller boy tried his luck with you. You were never mean, you just kindly explained that you wouldn’t like to be flirted with, and you were content to sit alone in the corner you found.

    It had been some months since the boys had given up on you. Since then, a girl (yes, you knew right away that she was a girl) named Haruhi came wandering in, and she became a host herself. You didn’t have any problems with her lifestyle; however, you did have problems with how some of the boys would sometimes handle her and talk about her. Haruhi didn’t seem uncomfortable with it, so you kept it to yourself.

    Usually, nobody would enter the corner you used. That day was different. Kyoya approached, “Y/n, may I ask you a question?”

    Having the cool type talk to you caught you very much off guard, but you still managed to normally reply, “Of course, go ahead.”

    Kyoya adjusted his glasses. “You come here everyday, yet you have no desire for any host. Why is that?”

    “Well, honestly it’s because I like to watch the boys. Sorry, but most of the time they act really silly. I just find it funny to watch.” A realization hit you. “That’s probably against the rules, isn’t it? I’d be happy to make donations to the club, since I’m not putting my money towards merchandise and such--”

    The boy interrupted you, “No, you’re fine. I was just curious, is all.” He then began to walk away, but turned to watch the other boys for one last remark, “You are right. They can be ridiculous at times.”

    From that day on, Kyoya came to talk to you almost daily. He never asked for money for the club, which you thought was odd. Kyoya never did anything that he didn’t have something to gain from it. That was one of Kyoya’s traits that you’d noticed, anyway. You’d discovered all the boys’ secrets and true selves just from watching them. You had a good idea that Kyoya knew the rest of the group’s secrets as well.

    One day, as Kyoya completed his daily tradition of conversing with you, he asked something that you certainly had not been expecting. “Uh...”

    *He’s nervous. That’s new.* You observed.

    Kyoya continued, “Y/n. I was wondering if you would like to accompany me to dinner tonight. I have reservations for 7 at Yukimura.”

    “I...I would love to.”

    “Wonderful. I’ll pick you up at 6:30,” he smiled. With that, he left.

    You noticed it wasn’t a real smile, it was his host smile. That didn’t matter to you, however. You understood he had certain walls up, and it wasn’t like he was being mean to you. In fact, he had just asked you to dinner.

    Kyoya had just asked you out to dinner. It was hard not to get up and find an empty room where you could freak out privately. Of course, you had been a fan of Kyoya’s looks since the beginning, but in the days that the two of you had been talking, you had started to develop a real crush on the host. Actually, once you thought about it, you realized that your romantic feelings had started early. Kyoya was the only one of the original hosts that did not approach you for meaningless flirting. It seemed he could read you as easily as you could read him. And he had just asked you out to dinner.

    That night, you spent about two hours worrying about what to wear. You were barely ready by the time your servants announced that a limo had arrived for you.

    Nearly running down the stairs, you went straight for the door. You would’ve said goodbye to your parents, but they were both off on a business trip.

    You stopped short when you saw Kyoya. It was the first time you observed him not in his uniform. He wore a sweater with gray dress pants and black shoes. You took a moment to look him over.

    For a moment, you could’ve sworn he was just as awed at your appearance as you were his.

    The night was better than you could’ve imagined. Kyoya broke the ice early in the car with a joke about both of your wealth that both surprised you and caused you to break out in a fit of laughter.

    Once you got to the restaurant, things weren’t much different.

    “No, no. I’m serious!” you tried to continue while also keeping your giggles at bay. “I was totally stranded up there! The only thing that saved me was security coming up to the roof after I screamed at a security camera for a half hour.”

    Kyoya threw his head back as he laughed. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him like that before that night. It made your grin even wider.

    Before you wanted to be, you and Kyoya were back in Kyoya’s limo, and you were pulling up to your family home.

    “I had a lot of fun tonight,” you admitted as a smile crept back onto your features.

    The host was silent for a moment. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was lost in your eyes. Then, his smile matched your own. “I had a lovely time as well.”

    Your gaze fell downward, and you watched your own hand seek out his. “When would you like to go on another date?”

    Suddenly, you lost all contact with Kyoya. Your eyes snapped up to meet with his. You could tell by his eyes that, for some reason, his walls were back up.

    “I...This wasn’t a date.”

    And just like that, the world crumbled around you. “I’m sorry for thinking otherwise,” you rushed out, and moved to open the limo door.

    “Y/n--”

    “Goodnight, Kyoya.” You were already halfway up the stairs to your front door.

    “Y/n, wait--”

    You slammed the door shut, startling your servants. “Don’t let him in,” you ordered. Then, remembering your overprotective guards, you added, “He didn’t hurt me. Just don’t let him in.” You ran to your room and only cried when your bedroom door was shut and locked behind you.

    Three days went by without you seeing Kyoya. You stopped going to the Host Club to avoid doing just that. However, it turns out Kyoya had other plans.

    “Y/n,” he called into the otherwise empty classroom.

    Immediately wishing you had been faster to gather your things, you turned to meet the boy’s gaze.

    He looked slightly disheveled. It wasn’t enough for other people to notice, but you could tell he hadn’t slept since the last time you saw him. *Heh. Just like me.* you bitterly thought to yourself.

    “I apologize.” Kyoya entered the classroom. “I should’ve been more clear about my intentions the other night.”

    Sighing as you finally gathered your books together, you spat, “It’s fine. Your intentions became very clear after the fact.”

    He stepped forward. “Y/n, please--”

    “It’s fine, Kyoya. You don’t have to say anything else.”

    “Y/n, I am so sorry--”

    “There’s nothing else to say,” you pushed past him, making your way to the door.

    “I love you.”

    You stopped dead in your tracks.

    Silence filled the room.

    Bit by bit, you turned yourself around. “...What?”

    He tried to repeat himself, “I lov--”

    “That ‘wasn’t a date,’ yet you ‘love’ me? What are you playing at, Ootori?”

    Kyoya grew quiet.

    You turned to leave.

    Finally, he found words. “If it were up to me, I would’ve asked you out the day we met. Every time we talked, I fell in love with you more, Y/n. Eventually, it just got too much. I wanted to know what it would feel like if you could be mine, even if it was just for one night. I...I guess I purposely never addressed if it was a date or not.”

    “You keep talking about this as if it’d be a forbidden thing if we got together.” You furrowed your brow. “Why?”

    His reply caused a tear to roll down his cheek and you nearly dropped every resolve you had to go comfort him. “My father,” Kyoya answered, “He has some sort of made-up, one-sided rivalry with your family, Y/n. If we were together, he’d kill me.”

    You had never seen Kyoya like he was in that moment. He was a broken man in front of you. All of his walls were down, and right then all you saw was a young boy with a broken heart.

    “Well, what if he didn’t know?” you asked. You hated it, but you felt hope bubble up inside you.

    Kyoya was confused. “What do you mean?”

    “Since your father seems to be your only hang up about this, what if we just didn’t tell him?” You tried to swallow, but your throat was suddenly dry.

    His voice almost morphed back into his business persona as he clarified, “It would mean an awful lot of sneaking around. Your parents couldn’t know either. You would do that?”

    “For you, I would do that,” you promised.

    The host seemed like he could barely believe your words. He took steps toward you. “For you, I would do anything,” Kyoya breathed. He stopped only about two inches from you. “Y/n, may I...May I kiss you?”

    Out of any response you could give, all you could manage was a nod.

    Kyoya leaned in, and captured your lips with his. As soon as the contact was made, his hands landed on your neck and on your waist, and Kyoya pulled you as close as he could. He licked across your bottom lip, and you knew he was asking for entrance. You granted it, and Kyoya held you impossibly closer as his tongue danced with yours.

    “I love you,” he confessed once more before driving back in to consume you again.

    For that fleeting moment, it was easy to believe that everything would turn out just as you and Kyoya wanted it to. His dad would never find out, and the two of you could continue finding blissful encounter like that moment until the end of time.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it! If you would like to read more, I have more fics over on my page. You should go check it out. Also, REQUESTS ARE OPEN. I take requests for one-shots, multi-chapters, headcannons, and preferences. No smut, please. I write for a variety of fandoms. If you’re wondering if I write for a specific fandom, please ask me. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you.<3

[avis-writeshq]

Crush x Oblivious!Reader: Through the Years

Requested: Nope

Pairing: Male!Crush x Fem!Oblivious!Reader

Summary: A friendship that began when you were only kids can turn into so much more if you give it time, love and a lotta joy.

Warnings: Swearing, very much fluff, and trash writing

Other: There is a gay couple in here because PRIDE, so if you are not comfortable with that, you can either read with an open mind or read something else. If you do not agree with my choice, please do not DM me or hate on me. Thank you very much xoxo

Word count: 3,116                                                                                            

 Things you probably wanna know, for all you ‘x reader’ illiterates:

(Y/N): Your Name

(H/C): Hair Colour / Color

(E/C): Eye Colour / Color

(N/N): Nickname

(C/N): Crush’s Name

(C/H/C): Crush’s Hair Colour

(C/E/C): Crush’s Eye Colour

(B/F/N): Best Friend’s Name

 ***

[Age 5]

You pouted from behind your mother’s legs, clinging onto her skirt for dear life. You didn’t want to meet your new neighbours. You didn’t want to meet their son. You didn’t want to be outside. You wanted to be inside, helping your dad make cookies. You should be inside, adding extra chocolate chips to the cookies. Not talking to a bunch of strangers.

 “This is my daughter, (Y/N).” Your mother said, and you scrunched up your face in distaste. “Come on, hun, don’t be shy…”

 You shook your head, holding onto her legs tighter. And that’s when you saw him. A boy your age with sparkling (C/E/C) eyes and a bright grin on his face. “I’m (C/N)!” He says immediately, holding a hand out for you. “Are you (Y/N)?”

 You nodded, taking a step backwards. No, no, no, you didn’t want to make friends! Making friends was… scary! But you didn’t want to be rude. That’s what your mother taught you, isn’t it? “Hi…”

 You awkwardly shook his hand and his smile widened. It stretched across his face and you felt as if his face was going to split in 2. “Do you wanna be my friend?”

 What was the worst that could happen? “Okay.”

 Ever since that day, (C/N) came over to your house to play with you. The both of you were outside in your garden, playing in your garden when he wandered up to you, his usual smile on his face. You blinked at him, confused when he took you by the shoulders.

 “You’re pretty.”

 Pretty? No one has ever called you that before. Well, other than your parents, but they don’t count. “Huh?”

 “Well, my daddy tells that to my mommy all the time, and he said that you tell girls you love that they look pretty.” He grinned at you. “And you’re a girl I love.”

 [Age 10, in 5th Grade]

“Hey, (Y/N), over here!”

 You blinked, hearing your name. You had been sitting on a bench, alone, as per usual, as you drew. Your little scrapbook was almost out of pages, meaning you had to get another one. You snapped the book closed, turning to the direction of the voice. It was (C/N), your best friend since you were a little girl. Well, your only friend.

 Packing up your stuff, you went over to where he was. “Hi, (C/N).”

 “(Y/N), this is Alphie, he’s in my class!” He smiled at you with the same eyes that looked into yours all those years ago; glistening with excitement as he met another person.

 “Hiya,” the boy said, effortlessly brushing his blonde hair out of his eyes.

 You raised an eyebrow at him but smiled nonetheless. “Hello.”

 (C/N) quickly spoke for you. “(Y/N) is a little shy… but don’t worry! She’s a good friend of mine. We’re neighbours.”

 “It’s nice to meet you,” you said, trying your best to be friendly. From what the girls in your class had said, you were apparently ‘intimidating’ because of your quietness.

 “You as well,” he said, smirking.

 You didn’t say anything after that because of the lack of conversation starters. You didn’t really want to be the first to ask a question about him, either. What if (C/N) and Alphie thought you were annoying? You didn’t want either of them to leave you. (C/N) must have sensed your unease and bumped his knee with yours.

 “You okay?” He asked, smiling his usual charming smile.

 Nodding, you tried your best to reassure him. “I’m okay. I stayed up all night trying to finish my maths homework.”

 He snickered, “why do you have to be so bad at maths?”

 Rolling your eyes, you stuck your tongue out at him. “Hey, I’m not the one who got a C on his Science Assignment.”

 (C/N) pouted at you, “Biology is hard, okay? Not my fault. Maths is just adding numbers together.”

 “And times tables, and division, and we still have to learn about brackets!” You let out a groan, clapping the palm of your hand with your forehead.

 From across from you, Alphie scoffed. “You think that’s hard? English is the absolute worst.”

 “English is easy!” You and (C/N) exclaimed at the same time. The three of you burst into giggles.

 “Hey, (C/N), you’re right. She is really pretty,” Alphie remarked, thinking.

 “See, I told you!” He said, pointing a finger at him. “You didn’t believe the fact that I know a girl.”

 Alphie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m not the one who tried to impress everyone by balancing a pencil on his nose.”

 “I balanced it for 5 seconds!”

 You watched as the two boys laughed together and you couldn’t help but smile. (C/N) talks about you? Is that what friends do when they care about each other? Questions whirled in your head but you decided to ignore them. You might as well cherish the time right now. Pretty… were you really pretty to him?

 [13 years old, 8th Grade]

You had been lucky enough to be in the same class as Alphie and (C/N). The three of you were glued together ever since 5th grade, and you were known as the Silver Trio, mainly because all of you claimed that there was no better trio than the Golden Trio of Harry Potter. Of course, now you weren’t as shy, and after talking to a few more people, you seemed to be much more comfortable at school.

 “Hey, (Y/N)!” You looked up from your book to be met with a brunette, her bright blue eyes staring at you.

 You smiled, “Good morning, (B/F/N).”

 “Isn’t today wonderful?” She asked, smiling at you. “The cherry blossoms are in full bloom, too! Do you think sensei would let us out early for lunch?”

 “I doubt it. We have a maths test, remember?”

 Her once happy-go-lucky smile morphed into a horrified one. “Ah, damn it! I completely forgot that! I thought it was next week!”

 “Sensei said it was this Wednesday, ergo, today is the day of the test.”

 She pouted at you, “Can you at least lend me your notes?”

 You nodded, fishing for your notes when you felt two hands wrap around your eyes. “Guess who!”

 You tapped your chin, grinning at his childishness. “It’s (C/N), isn’t it?”

 “Right you are, (Y/N)! Ready for that maths test this afternoon?”

 “I was just getting my notes to help (B/F/N) study.” You offer him a cheery smile. “Your notes helped me a lot. Thanks for letting me study at your house yesterday.”

 “No problem! You can let me know if there is anything else you need help with, okay? I’m gonna go find Alphie. Bye!”

 You waved him goodbye and turned to look at (B/F/N), who was smirking at you cheekily. “Is something wrong?” You ask her, slightly confused.

 “You cannot be serious.” She let out a huff, frustrated at your obliviousness. “When are you and (C/N) gonna date?!”

 “Yell it out to the world, why don’t you?” You roll your eyes, teasing her. “And what are you even talking about? (C/N) and I are best friends; we’re not dating.”

 “But don’t you think he’s cute?”

 “I never really thought about it…” you thought for a minute before shaking your head. You can’t like him. “The worst thing you could ever do is date a neighbour. What if we break up? We’re going to have to see each other every day. And he’s my best friend. I don’t anything to change.”

 (B/F/N) shook her head, “there you go being all-wise and stuff. This is life, (Y/N). Live in it!”

 You blinked. “Live in it?”

 ***

The maths test came and went, and you found yourself feeling particularly confident. Maybe you didn’t do so badly this time. It was a nice thought to have. You were sitting on one of the benches underneath a bright cherry blossom, waiting for (C/N) and Alphie. They both wanted to get lunch from the canteen (or cafeteria) today, so you decided to save a table for them. Then you felt someone slide into the seat beside you.

 You looked up at this mystery person. You recognised him to be one of the boys in your grade. From what you remember, he was one of the more… mischievous boys and he tended to be quite irritating to be around.

 “You’re (Y/N) right?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

 You nodded, “yeah, that’s me. Is there something you need?”

 He smirked, shaking his head. “(C/N) talked about you today in art. Wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Ya know, if you took a little more time to get your hair done and nice and splash on a little makeup, you could get into the popular group.”

 Ah, yes, the popular group. It contained not only the richest people but the best looking. They all had something to offer. Most of the time they only talked about fashion ideas and what you should wear regarding the latest trends. You, however, didn’t really care about fashion. Yes, you took pride in what you looked like and had a lot of self-care regimes, but you weren’t really one to follow trends. Not only that but what was the point of getting new clothes every month when you could wear the same clothes from the month before? And besides, nowadays the trends were things that you weren’t comfortable wearing, such as crop tops and miniskirts.

  You were just about to answer when you heard a familiar voice come from around the corner. “Hey, (Y/N)! This is Kaden; he’s in my art class. Dude, what’s up?” (C/N) high-fived Kaden, who smirked and clapped him on the back.

 Kaden looked at Alphie who grinned and ruffled his hair. “Hey, man, wish you were back in our class. Damn, teachers love to torment kids, huh?”

 Alphie rolled his eyes but nodded. “Hey, (Y/N), how did you go on your maths test? All good?”

 You shrug, smiling still. “It was fine. I think I did alright. Thanks, (C/N) for helping me out yesterday. Algebra is trash.”

 “Oh, guys, guess what I heard?” Kaden leaned in to whisper his little secret. “I was walking around the popular table, and guess who was talking about (C/N)?”

 You raised an eyebrow. You were never really one for gossip, but this piqued your interest. “Who?”

 “Gertrude! You know, the leader of the populars? Dude, she’s totally into you!” Kaden sAlphieered, shoving (C/N)’s head fondly.

 You leaned back, suddenly feeling a little disappointed. Was (C/N) going to leave you for them? The bratty and the idiotic? You swallowed thickly looking at your sandwich. He wouldn’t… right?

 ***

You and (C/N) walked home together, as per usual. It was a nice day today; the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. But even while you felt the sunlight on your face, you couldn’t help but feel a little down.

 “Hey,” you felt (C/N)’s shoulder bump with yours, “you okay?”

 You offered a smile, trying your best to reassure him. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

 “That might have fooled me before, but I’m not a kid, ya know. I know when you’re lying.” He sighed, stopping you from walking by standing in front of you, looking at you in the eye. “Is this about what Kaden said at lunch today?”

 You couldn’t help but nod. “I don’t want you to go with them. You can’t just leave!”

 “Hey, you’ve been my best friend for 8 years. I’m not gonna leave you. I care about you too much to do that,” he placed a hand on your hand, smiling at you. “Remember when we were little and we played in your garden?”

 You nodded, “We played there every day.”

 “Well, one time, I told you something. You remember, right?”

 You did remember. But you wanted to hear it from him. With a cheeky smile, you looked up at him. “What did you say? I need reminding.”

 He laughed taking your hair out of your ponytail. “You had your hair out, I remember. It was a little shorter than what it is now, but it was kind of flowing in the wind. I was supposed to be looking for a stick to pick up the ladybug you found. Then I told you that you looked pretty.”

 He grinned at you as you looked at him curiously, continuing to speak. “You had the same expression of your face. You remember what I said afterwards? I told you I loved you. You got mad at me, though, because the ladybug flew away. But we don’t abandon people we love, right? So I’m not going to abandon you.”

 [15 years old, 10th Grade]

True to his word, (C/N) didn’t leave to go with the populars; no matter how much they begged and pressured him to be. Since that day in 8th Grade, he stood out to you in a completely different light. You didn’t know how to explain it but he was more… attractive? He stood by your side through thick and thin, so you were glad to know that he was there. Of course, you had Kaden, Alphie, and (B/F/N), but you always had a connection with (C/N).

 You were definitely a lot closer to him now than you were before. A lot of people mistook you as a couple, even when you made it blatantly clear that you weren’t, no matter how much you wanted to be. However, you and (C/N) did the most platonic things known to man. This included hugs from behind, forehead kisses, late-night calls… but you were not dating. At least, that’s what you told everyone.

 You didn’t want to be needy, of course, so if (C/N) didn’t want to hang out with you, you would never pressure him to. And he never pressured you into anything, either. It was all strictly platonic.

 “Hey, (Y/N)!” You heard him say from behind you, wrapping his arms loosely around your neck.

 It was the school holidays, thank god, and you were waiting for the group to wander into the café. You were always early to meet-ups because you had the irrational fear that they were going to leave you behind if you were the slightest bit late.

 You smile upon hearing his voice. “Hi, (C/N). Why are you early? You’re almost never on time.”

 You heard him chuckle, kissing your hair. “I knew you’d be here at least half-an-hour early, and I didn’t want to leave you alone all by yourself. There are terrible things happening, you know?”

 With a small scoff, you pulled him down to sit at the table. “You act as if you weren’t there for my karate lessons.”

 “Actually, that was impressive.” He grinned at you. “You flipped 3 guys in 5 minutes and they were both 2 years older than you?”

 You smirked proudly, nodded. “Yes, I did. I was awesome back then, huh?”

 “You’re still awesome now,” he smiled at you, lifting your knuckles to his lips.

 At that moment, a face gag was heard from behind you. “You guys are disgusting!” Alphie exclaimed an arm around (B/F/N) waist.

 At the sight, you couldn’t help but smirk. (B/F/N)’s cheeks were dusted pink and she caught your gaze. “Alphie, (Y/N) is bullying me.”

 You giggled, shaking your head. “I didn’t do anything. Besides, what could your man do to hurt me?”

 “Are you calling me weak?” Alphie demanded, faking a gasp at the insult. “Hey, I’m not the one who still hasn’t confessed to the girl that he likes, (C/N).”

 The said boy rolled his eyes, but a blush was still painted on his cheeks. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said as (B/F/N) and Alphie took their seats.

 “Sure you don’t,” he smirked, “go on, why don’t you tell her now?”

 You cocked your head to the side, oblivious as always. “(C/N) likes someone.”

 Alphie gaped at you, stammering over his words. “You don’t… you don’t fucking know?!”

 “He may be my best friend, but he doesn’t have to tell me everything…” you shrugged, grinning at the (C/H/C) boy. “We don’t really talk about that stuff.”

 “Please tell me she’s joking,” you heard (B/F/N) mumble to her boyfriend, who nodded in agreement.

 “Joking about what?”

 “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!” Alphie exclaimed, slapping his palm to his forehead. “I can’t… this – I can’t even.”

 Before he could get up to leave, another voice sounded from behind you. “Hey guys, you’re all early, huh?”

 “Hey, Kaden!” You smiled, “You even brought your boyfriend! I’m (Y/N).”

 “I’m Danny,” the boy greeted, a small smile on his face.

 “We’ve heard a lot about you, Danny. I’m (C/N), and this beetroot-” he gestured to Alphie, “is Alphie, and this is his girlfriend, (B/F/N). Great to finally meet you.”

 “Oh, so you’re (C/N). From what I’ve heard, you’re not man enough to tell the girl you like that you likeher, even when there is so much sexual tension around you.”

 “Why does everyone keep saying that?” (C/N) muttered, rolling his eyes, “and it is strictly platonic. We’re not like that. Besides, she’s an oblivious piece of work, so no matter what I do, she never sees it.”

 “Ey, (C/N), you should tell me!” You frowned, feeling suddenly deflated. “Everyone else knows but me…”

 “Well, that’s because,” Danny began, but Kaden quickly slapped a hand over his boyfriend’s mouth.

 “We are going to order, right love? We’ll be right back…”

 At that, Alphie and (B/F/N) nodded as well. “Yep, we’re going to order something too. Gotta go!”

 You blinked, watching the 4 of them leave before turning back to (C/N). “Come on, who is it? I won’t tease you, I promise.”

 “You really are a dummy,” he rolled his eyes before tapping your nose. “Why do you think I give you hugs from behind? And why do you think I kiss your forehead every time I see you in the morning on our way to school? (Y/N), why do I tell you that I love you every night before you go to sleep?”

 “…because you’re a friendly person who doesn’t want me to feel alone with (B/F/N) and Alphie’s, as well as Danny and Kaden?” You ask innocently.

 (C/N) sighed, shaking his head. “No, it’s because I like you. More than a best friend.”

 “Oh.” You grin up at him. “I know.”

 “You what?!”

 “Well, if I said that I knew, I never would have heard it from you, right? And the others already make it stupidly obvious, but I want you to say it to me when you’re ready.” You smile, kissing his cheek. “I already knew, (C/N). And by the way,” you take his hands in yours, “I love you, too.”

~

If you like my work, please like and reblog! xoxo

[southdownsraphael]

Nightmares and Revelations

Hey! This is my first posted fic attempt with Good Omens (Raphael hc) and it's mostly angst with some graphic injury. At the moment all I really have is a taster, I'm on vacation in America so my time is pretty limited until next week as well as only having my phone to work on.

However, I am still working hard on this and I'm going to post more soon...

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Crowley was dreaming.

This wasn't a particularly odd occurrence, Aziraphale would be the first to admit, but something didn't feel right.

Aziraphale was sitting beside his demon in bed, a book open on the bedside table and one of Crowley's hands resting on Aziraphale's thigh, his face inches from the angel's hip. He had been trying to hug Aziraphale's leg before he'd finally given in to exhaustion, his body having been denied the regular sleep it was used to for almost a week.

Crowley's wings were out, one spread across the angel's lap where Aziraphale had been grooming it carefully, reverentially fixing each feather while Crowley slept.

Now though, the tender peace of the small room had been disturbed, and Aziraphale paused, his fingertips still buried in the beautiful softness of Crowley's glossy black feathers as he listened.

"No...I didn't.." Crowley muttered again, his voice small and shaky, his fingers twitching against Aziraphale's leg. "Please.."

Aziraphale's heart felt like it had dropped into his stomach at the broken tone of Crowley's voice, the soft, sincere begging driven by intense fear. He hadn't heard anything like it from his demon, not even at the end of the world, not from Anthony J. 'forever the optimist' Crowley.

"It's alright, darling," Aziraphale murmured, slipping one hand off the delicate wing and into Crowley's messy red curls, his thumb stroking over the demon's cheek. "I'm here, my dear."

Crowley shifted again, his brow furrowing as this dream resisted the comforting gesture, usually enough to soothe the demon down from any nightmare. "No.."

Aziraphale sighed and ran his hand over Crowley's bare spine, feeling his cool skin and silently debating what to do next. Crowley had gone through a period after they'd pulled off the switch during which he'd had horrible nightmares every night, and once Aziraphale had gotten used to recognising them early, he'd always been able to calm the demon without waking him. This seemed to be different, and much worse somehow.

Considering the gruesome and horrifying content of Crowley's previous nightmares, Aziraphale wasn't sure he wanted to know what much worse would look like.

But Aziraphale had always been curious, possibly to a fault, and he knew he had another option, an option that could possibly make Crowley quite angry, but at least he wouldn't have to rely on the demon's rather variable ability to talk to him about his dreams.

Aziraphale stroked Crowley's wing once more, then brushed his knuckles down the demon's cheekbone before pressing two fingers against his temple lightly.

The room was small, dark, and made completely out of concrete. A light flickered somewhere near the high ceiling, a grubby yellow light that cast odd shadows in the box-like room.

Aziraphale had found himself in the corner of this room, an unheard and unseen watcher squinting at a slumped figure in the middle of the floor, an indistinct shape in the dim light.

The shape shifted slightly, the light catching glistening, bloodied skin, and the stark white of exposed bone. What had once been wings were now mostly gone, a few feathers clinging to charred bones and mutilated skin, the white feathers stained red.

As the figure moved, tried to push itself up on its hands, Aziraphale saw a flash of red curls dread settled deep in the pit of his stomach as he slowly moved closer, close enough to see the blistered, burned skin, the countless cuts and lacerations, the pool of blood sticky beneath the angel's torso. There wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't smeared with red or dirt or both.

The angel fell back with a soft sound of pain and the iron door in the far wall slammed open, revealing Gabriel standing in the doorway. He strode in and over to the angel, who tried to push himself up again, to face up to the archangel in front of him.

Aziraphale slowly circled around in fascinated horror, dreading what he was going to see, but painfully aware he simply had to know.

"Archangel Raphael. Pathetic," Gabriel began, his voice booming in the small room as the door slammed shut behind him. "You've disappointed all of us."

Aziraphale relaxed slightly at the sound of the unfamiliar name, making his way around to the corner next to Gabriel, so he could see the slumped angel, whose head was down, one cheek against the concrete floor.

From this angle, Aziraphale could hear the rasping, rattling breaths Raphael was taking, his body very clearly only just clinging to the edge of life.

Gabriel took a step forward and crouched down, heaving a deep sigh. "You were a favourite, Raphael. The Almighty was quite impressed with you, in fact. And yet, here we are."

Raphael lifted his head slowly, every tiny movement betraying pure agony, and as the broken angel finally locked eyes with Gabriel, Aziraphale's heart stopped.

He knew that face, he knew it like the back of his hand, it was a face he'd been studying for six thousand years. The eyes were wrong, a soft, beautiful blue, the kind of pale blue that made the watcher feel that if the owner began to cry, all the color would just wash away with the tears.

Crowley was crying, in fact, the tears streaming down his cheeks, leaving little clean tracks in the dirt and blood and grime on his face, and Aziraphale remembered to breathe again.

"Please, Gabriel," Crowley begged, blood spilling from his lower lip as he talked, his voice hoarse and broken, despairing. "I've seen the Great Plan, and it has to stop! The Almighty can't just play games with living, breathing creatures, it's cruel!"

Gabriel just shrugged, tilting his head to the side. "You're not supposed to ask questions, Raphael, you can't go around asking the Almighty why she chose her path, and then criticising her on it. It's not what we do, we do what we're told."

Crowley's head dropped back to the stone, his eyes displaying nothing but agony and a terrible, heart-wrenching resignation. "She's going to kill sentient beings," he insisted quietly as Gabriel stood up, straightening his jacket stiffly. "Children, animals, everything."

"We don't question the Great Plan," Gabriel answered simply and firmly, giving the fallen angel a sad look. "They'll find a place for you here in Hell, Raphael. It's where you belong, you don't fit in with us anymore."

The door shut behind Gabriel with a loud clang and the angel on the floor let out a slow sigh, going completely limp and just staring at nothing. Aziraphale didn't think, his brain just shoved him forward as soon as Gabriel had gone, driving him to the body on the floor.

Raphael looked up dreamily when a pair of shoes stopped in front of his eyes, then dropped his head back again just as Aziraphale fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he reached out slowly.

As soon as his fingertips brushed the angel's skin, he was gathering Crowley up in his arms, gasping and trembling and stifling little sobs as he pulled the demon into his lap.  

Crowley cried out in pain, his whole being radiating hurt, but Aziraphale needed to hold his demon, he needed to hold Crowley and cradle him and tend to him. He slid one hand onto the back of Crowley's head, fingers spread, and held him with the other arm tucked around, under his waist. Crowley let out a long breath and drooped over his lap, his eyes slowly opening to stare up at Aziraphale's face.

Before, they had been such a soft, perfect blue, but now they were slowly changing, morphing into the much more familiar gold that Aziraphale had only ever known.

"Aziraphale.." Crowley gasped, his hands gently scrabbling on the angel's now blood-smeared coat. "Please. Wake me up.."

(To be continued....)