#and no one else in the reblog chain blinked

[hopepetal]

Chapter One | Chapter Two

Boatem Knights AU fic masterlist

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@applestruda

“Impulse!”

“Scar!”

Cub scrambled forward, falling to his knees next to Scar's limp form. He wrapped his arms around Scar and pulled the other close. He carefully brushed a hand over Scar's face. “Scar? Scar, man, can you hear me? Scar?” His movements became more frantic with each passing moment, and he gently shook his friend. “Scar, c'mon. C'mon. Wake up.”

Pearl, still in her Watcher form, knelt by Impulse. Her hands ghosted over his body, finding his neck (he had a pulse, good), his forehead (no fever, though she wasn't sure what she was expecting), before she finally searched for magic. 

There was so much. 

It surrounded his body and wrapped around like chains. It stretched up toward his neck and wrapped around him like a collar, with another strand of magic connecting him to Grian. A quick glance told her Scar had similar magical bonds. If she looked more closely, she could see several more magic strands connecting to Grian, stretching out into the distance before fading away. 

Oh, void. 

Stay calm. Don't panic. Breathe in. Out. In. Out. In, out, in, out inoutinoutinoutin–

“Pearl? Pearl? Oh goodness, oh, I don't– Cub–!”

Warm hands took her own, Cub shifting out of his vex form as he knelt in front of her. “Hey, Pearl. Can you look at me?” Void black eyes met his. Cub smiled softly, giving her hands a gentle squeeze. “Okay, good. Can we match our breathing? In… and out. In… and out. You're doing so well, Pearl. You're doing so well.”

Pearl slowly got her breathing under control. She felt her watcher form fall away, tears making tracks down her cheeks as she gazed at Cub. He was crying, too, though he made an effort to smile. “...I'm so sorry,” she sniffled, “I couldn't– I tried, I couldn't protect them…”

Cub nodded. His hands trembled slightly as he glanced over at Scar. “They're alive,” he whispered, as though speaking too loud would cause their sleeping friends to shatter. “They're alive.” It was a desperate mantra, a chant, a reminder to keep calm, don't break down, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay. 

Pearl swallowed thickly, blinking away tears that clumped her eyelashes together. “I know. I– I saw magic. It was like chains and they all connected to Grian. I…” 

Cub’s eyes widened. Pearl paused, leaning forward slightly. “Do you know what's happening?” she asked. 

Cub pressed his mouth into a thin line, nodding. “I think so. One moment…” He shifted into his vex form. His eyes glowed softly as he scanned Impulse and Scar's bodies. “...oh, no. Ohhhh, no.” He pushed his glasses up, sighing heavily. “I was right. They're in a shared dreamscape.”

Mumbo paled. “A what?” he asked, wringing his hands together. “Are they okay?”

Cub gave a helpless shrug. “I don't know, man. I don't know. But shared dreamscapes– basically, Grian's magic pulled them into his own dreams. Judging by the violent nature and everything that's been happening, I doubt it was his doing.”

Pearl nodded, trying to think. “Could I override Grian's magic with my own, then?” she suggested, wings fluttering softly behind her. “Do you think that would work?”

Cub shook his head. “Dreamscapes are tied to the soul, something we don’t really want to damage. It’s probably best not to attempt that.”

“Then what do we do?” Mumbo asked. “Just wait for them to wake up? It can't be that simple. Can it?” 

Cub shook his head. “Unfortunately, unless we find another way to wake them up, they'll remain in the dreamscape until…” He trailed off. The implication was clear. 

“We can't let that happen,” Pearl decided, the others nodding. “Cub, do you know anything else about the dreamscapes? Anything at all?”

Cub hummed thoughtfully, shifting back into his mortal form. “Long ago, there was a civilization that boasted superior knowledge of the dreamscapes and souls. It's where I've gotten all my information from– but given how remote and run down their temples are, not many people have tried to venture in.” 

Mumbo tilted his head. “I think I’ve heard of those before. Aren’t they… well, cursed?”

Cub sighed. “There are quite a few rumors of a curse surrounding these places. I’ve never been to one myself, but I have reason to believe these rumors are due to the incredible amount of ambient magic there. Stay in the area for too long and you’ll probably start hallucinating.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “The connection to the void in these places is strong. We don’t know enough about this civilization to be certain, but I have a few theories that the civilization worshiped the void.”

Mumbo frowned. “So this is the best shot we have for finding something to help our friends wake up?”

Cub nodded. “Like I said earlier, the amount of information we’ve retrieved from these places is minimal. There’s a good chance that you’ll be able to find something in one of these temples– anything would help. From there, we can try our best to work out a solution, but if we’re lucky we might just find one.”

“So we find one of these temples and look for answers, then. Do we know where they are?” Pearl asked. 

Cub chewed on his lower lip, thinking for a moment. “If I had a map of the realm, I could probably give you a rough estimate of where one is. They were pretty secretive about where their temples were, but I got my hands on some books that helped me piece together where the main ones were. I believe the closest one would be about a week's journey from here.” 

“That’s wonderful and all, but, uh, we should probably–” Mumbo gestured at their fallen friends– “probably get them somewhere more… comfortable? Before we continue, I mean. It can't be too nice sleeping on the ground. Or healthy. I mean… yeah,” he finished awkwardly. 

Pearl and Cub stood, the former nodding along to Mumbo's words. “Good idea. Should we move them all into Grian's tent, do you think? It has the most space.” She turned to Cub, wordlessly asking for his opinion. 

Cub nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. We'll move some bedding in there first, and from what I've seen there will still be enough room for us to sorta move around, y'know?” 

Mumbo and Pearl nodded in sync, and the three began to move. It was a quiet task as they worked through the numbness that had settled within them as the panic slowly left. Every now and again, Pearl would sniffle softly, Cub would choke back tears, and Mumbo would mumble something under his breath. They felt hollow. Just this morning, things had been fine– as fine as they could've been, at least– and now they were down three knights, and void knows who else was affected by Grian's magic. 

Once they finished setting up the bedding, it was time to move Impulse and Scar. “I got him,” was all Cub said before he went vex and hoisted Scar up in a bridal carry. 

Mumbo glanced up at Pearl from where he stood next to Impulse. “I, uh– I don't. Got him, that is. If you couldn't tell.”

Pearl gave him a weary smile. “You got his legs, then?” She knelt by Impulse, sliding her arms under his back and shoulders. It was nice to see how much he had improved since the incident several months ago– when they'd first rescued him and brought him back, he'd been starved and fatigued, and had lost quite a bit of weight. He'd slowly regained his strength as he healed, and trained himself back up to where he'd been before. Pearl was proud of him for this. Even if it meant he was a little more difficult to pick up and maneuver. 

“Alright.” Mumbo got himself situated. “We lift on three. One, two, three!” With a soft grunt, he carefully helped Pearl lift up Impulse. Slowly, they brought him into Grian's tent and lowered him down onto the bedding they'd placed.

Cub looked up from where he had knelt by Scar, brushing the other's hair out of his face with a gentle hand. “All good?” he asked, humming softly when he received confirmation. “Okay. Do you have a map of the realm?” 

Pearl thought for a moment. “Mm, I think I should have one in my tent. I'll be right back.” She ducked out of Grian's tent, jogging over to her own and quickly digging through her storage. She easily found what she was looking for– pros of an organized storage system– and hurried back to Grian's tent with the map in hand. “Here.” She handed it to Cub, who unfurled it on the ground. 

“Oh! And!” Mumbo handed him a pen. “So you can mark it down,” he explained. 

Cub tapped the pen twice against a point on the map. “This is where we are right now, you see?” He traced the pen over the map. “And this is where I live. So you're going to start your journey as if you're heading to my place, and then…” He carefully drew the pen across the paper. “You'll be traveling through a forest, then a plains area, before running into a village. I recommend leaving your horses there– you'll be heading almost immediately into a thick jungle. I imagine it'll be about a day's travel before you reach the temple, but it could be more if you get caught up in something.”

Pearl exchanged glances with Mumbo. She reached up to nervously fiddle with the red crystal that hung on a string around her neck– it had become a bit of a nervous fidget for her over the past few months. “And this is the only lead we have. To fixing this whole thing,” she confirmed, frowning slightly at Cub's nod. “I hate to put all our diamonds in one chest, but if it's all we have, then we have to try.”

Mumbo nodded as well. “Yeah. I don't– we can't just sit around and do nothing. That would be absolutely bonkers.”

Cub nodded. “I feel like it could go unsaid, but I'll be staying here to watch over these three. If anything happens, I'll do what I can to help. And of course, I'll be protecting them and keeping them as physically healthy as I can.”

Pearl let out a shaky sigh. Her shoulders relaxed slightly. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. Cub, mate, I don't know what we'd do without you.”

“Scar's my friend too, Pearl,” Cub gently reminded her. “I know him better than anyone else. I have to look out for him.”

“Of course,” Pearl quickly responded, “I just– still. Thank you.”

Mumbo nodded. “Yeah, mate. You've really done so much, without you we wouldn't have our only lead.”

Cub frowned, anxiety shining in his eyes. “It may not lead you to anything of value,” he admitted, “but it's the only thing I know of that could possibly be of help. Other than traveling into the dreamscape itself, which would be a last resort if anything. Outside interference tends to change the dreamscape, and that could end up damaging not only their souls, but yours as well.”

Pearl hummed softly. “It makes me feel a little better, knowing we have a last resort at all. Two options are better than one.”

“Right on,” Mumbo agreed. “Though, it's still quite nerve-wracking, isn't it?”

Pearl let out a breathy laugh. “Just a bit.”

Cub smiled gently. “It's going to be alright, you two. Now…” He turned back to the map. “Where was I… the jungle. I've traveled this far, went right up to the village. The only reason I'm really giving any credit to this option at all is because I sensed a strong source of magic in the jungle. I wasn't able to make it there, but I know…” He tapped the pen against the map before circling an area. “The temple should be around here. Pearl, you'll be able to see the magic as a Watcher, I'd imagine, so I'm not too worried about you two getting lost. It'll still be quite the long journey, and you may run into danger along the way.” Mercenaries went unsaid. 

“I won't let anyone hurt you,” Pearl promised Mumbo. “We'll be alright. Even if we're down three knights, we're still strong. We're still– we're still knights.”

Cub handed the map to Pearl, giving her a weary smile. “I recommend you start packing for the journey. It's going to be a long one, and you'll need to be well prepared.”

Pearl and Mumbo nodded, both standing up. Pearl carefully pocketed the map as Mumbo ducked out of the tent. She glanced back at their sleeping friends before exiting the tent. 

It was quiet in camp, quieter than it had been in quite some time. As the adrenaline from earlier began to wear off, the weight of their situation truly began to settle on the three still awake. 

Pearl's hands shook as she carefully packed medical supplies. What if they never wake up? 

Cub hesitated as he carefully wrote notes about the sleeping knights' health. What if he made a mistake that he couldn't fix?

Mumbo tried to stay calm as he worked on sorting items to take for the journey. What if his lack of strength caused them to fail?

It took the two knights about an hour to finish gathering everything they'd need for the journey, and by then the sun was beginning to set. Mumbo took Pearl's hand and led her to where they always sat and watched the day give way to night. The two stood, silent and grieving, and Pearl wished she could wrap a wing around Mumbo and hold him close. She settled for giving his hand a slight squeeze, returning the teary-eyed smile he gave with one of her own. 

“It'll be okay,” she whispered. “It has to be, eventually.”

Mumbo nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I certainly hope so.”

The two slept in Pearl's tent that night, desperate for the comfort of each other's presence, clinging to the familiarity that they had come so close to losing altogether. Their sleep was dreamless, and they woke up with the sun the next day. 

“Good luck,” Cub wished them, pressing a potion of health into Pearl's hands and one of regeneration into Mumbo's. “Be safe.”

“You, too,” they responded in sync, unable to hold back smiles at that. 

Pearl quickly ducked into Grian's tent to check on her brother (his fever had gone down, at least) and say goodbye. Then it was time to leave, and the two knights mounted up. 

“I don't know if it's just me,” Mumbo pointed out as they rode out from their home, “but we seem to be a magnet for trouble.”

Pearl let out a weary chuckle. “Nah, it's not just you. Never a dull moment around here, is there?”

“You could say that again,” Mumbo muttered. 

Silence fell over the two, the only sound being the horses' hooves against the ground and the soft chirping of the early morning birds. Pearl couldn't help but be reminded of Grian, with how he would sometimes instinctively respond to the birds with little chirps and trills. 

Mumbo seemed to notice how the mood sombered. He delicately cleared his throat. “Weather's been nice, lately,” he said quite awkwardly, and Pearl started giggling. “What? I was just– I was trying to lighten the mood, is all! It's good to try and keep our spirits up!” 

Pearl shook her head, blinking away tears as she laughed. “No, no, thank you, I just wasn't expecting that. Consider the mood successfully lightened.” 

Refusing to just wait around and hope for the best, the two knights began their journey. 

“The king has collapsed!” 

Doc strode through the palace halls, following the harried footsteps of the servant. “Tell me more,” he instructed briskly. “What happened?”

“The king, his advisor, and the head of the royal guard have all collapsed after an extreme magic surge that broke past all warding sigils. The royal medic and magical specialist are on their way,” the servant explained quickly, panting slightly. 

“And who else is aware of this?” Doc pressed, rounding the corner with the servant. Up ahead was the door that led to the main meeting room, and the servant paused before entering. 

“Only those I listed, sir. As well as you and I.” Their eyes flicked nervously up to Doc's before they quickly looked away. “I'm magically sensitive, sir. I was nearby when I felt the surge.” 

Doc nodded curtly. “Listen here. You will tell no one about this,” he instructed. “If word got out that three high ranking officials– including the king himself– had collapsed after a possible terrorist attack, there would be chaos. You will be compensated as necessary.”

The servant's eyes widened as they shook their head. “Oh, no sir. I don't need compensation. Just… is his majesty… will he be alright?”

“Only one way to find out.” Doc pushed the door to the meeting room open. 

Just as the servant had told him, the three had collapsed. Martyn's nose was bleeding slightly, likely from the extreme amount of magic that had been involved in the attack. Ren had slumped over in his chair, and BigB had fallen to the floor beside Ren's chair. 

Doc strode over to Ren. He gripped the king’s shoulder, giving him a light shake. “Hey. Hey, man. Wake up.” He heard a soft, shocked inhale come from the servant, likely at the casual form of address he used with Ren. They had dropped the formalities with each other a long time ago, becoming close friends as Doc advised him and helped work on inventions together. 

“Sir, I don't think…” the servant began hesitantly, “I don't think they're going to wake up. Whatever magic that caused this is strong. I can't tell any more than that.”

Just in time, the magic specialist burst in through the door, followed closely by the royal medic. From there on out things became a blur. Ren, Martyn, and BigB were moved to the private infirmary, and Doc eventually found himself standing in front of the council. 

“As of right now, the king is incapacitated. As your acting regent, I will take his majesty's place.” Murmurs of assent and concern rose from the council, but Doc quieted them with a raised hand. “All you need to know is that the king is alive and healthy. I’m sure you’re all aware that the public must not know of this. There would be chaos, and we cannot afford for the kingdom to be in disarray at a time like this.”

The meeting concluded shortly after, and Doc left to go check in with the royal medic and magic specialist. “How are they?” he asked quietly, glancing over at his friends' sleeping forms. 

The magic specialist pursed their lips, before sighing. “I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. The magic used is more powerful than anything I've ever seen. As of right now, they are unharmed, but have effectively been put into eternal slumber.”

Doc frowned. “And is there anything we can do to help them?”

“Keep them under close watch. I'll continue to carefully study the magic affecting them, and call in those from the guild who specialize in these kinds of spells. Other than that…” The magic specialist shook their head, shrugging slightly. “All we can do is wait.”

The forest was unusually quiet as the queen of the fae stepped out from the shadows. She had been drawn to her husband by a sudden surge of foreign magic. Looking around, Lizzie was quick to find Joel. He lay on the ground, limp, surrounded by his dogs. 

Geraldine, who was pressed up against Joel's side whimpering and nudging him gently with her nose, looked up at Lizzie. She wagged her tail once, twice, before nuzzling against Joel's side with a whine. 

Lizzie quickly made her way to Geraldine, flowers blooming at her feet as she walked. “Oh, Joel…” She knelt by him and gently felt his forehead, then glanced over at Geraldine. “What happened?” she asked, and brought her hands up to rest against Geraldine's soft fur. “Tell me, my darling.”

Geraldine closed her eyes, and Lizzie saw. 

She saw Joel walking through the forest. She saw magic, surrounding him and binding him, pulling him to the ground. Her heart ached at his fear, at the expression of terror on his face right before he collapsed. “I'm so sorry,” she whispered. Tears made warm tracks down her face as she pulled herself from the memory, “I couldn't protect you.”

Geraldine whimpered, placing her head in Lizzie's lap. Lizzie gently stroked her soft fur as she took deep breaths. “Good girl,” she murmured. “Thank you for staying by him.” She carefully picked her husband up, closing her eyes and bowing her head. 

In a flash of light and shower of flower petals, Lizzie and Joel, as well as his animals, disappeared. Whisked away to the fae realm, where Lizzie could keep them safe, and wait out whatever curse had taken her beloved. 

Iskall had been cleaning the counters when three of his patrons– one of his best friends included– collapsed after a rather terrifying explosion of magic. Dropping the rag they had been using, Iskall ran to where they had fallen. “Etho!” He grabbed his friend's shoulder and roughly shook him. “Etho, are you–?” They cut themselves off. Carefully, they turned Etho over and checked for a pulse. 

Okay, good. He had one. Now for the other two– Cleo and Bdubs, Etho had introduced them to him earlier. They had pulses too. That… was good. Okay. 

What now?

“I should move them somewhere more private,” Iskall muttered to themselves. “Yeah. Good idea.” 

It certainly took more than a little effort to move all three to a room– thankfully, there was an open one on the first floor, and Iskall heaved a sigh of relief when they had gotten everyone settled in a bed. “Now… what do I do?” they asked no one in particular, before sighing. “Probably call a doctor. I'm not qualified for this.” 

In the end, all Iskall could do was wait. 

Zedaph was having… a day.

He would've called it a good day on any other occasion. Skizz had found him! Somehow, the mountain guide had managed to track him down and bust into his super secret science spot, which Zed swore he'd hidden quite well. No matter. Skizz was a friend!

A very angry friend, who, given what he was ranting about, had a very good cause to be upset. 

Something had happened with Impulse– a demon had possessed him, apparently, and had come very close to dying. When Pearl (one of Impulse's new friends, Skizz had explained) sent out letters contacting the rest of Team Z.I.T.S, Zedaph had never gotten his. Most likely because he practically lived in a cave, hidden away from the world. 

(Tango had lived in a cave, too, but he had recently moved in with a friend after a creeper incident.)

“And look, man,” Skizz was saying, talking more with his hands than anything, “I'm all for living out in nature. But c'mon. We needed you!”

“I'm sorry,” Zedaph apologized, “but everything's fine now, right? Impulse is alive and safe?”

Skizz hesitated. “Yeah, he is. But I'm still mad at you, because that was a real jerk move of you. Y'know, the rest of us kept in contact! Somewhat! You just dropped off the map to do your crazy… experiments!”

“It's not crazy, it's science.”

“Oh, you–”

And then there was magic, purple and screaming and swirling around Skizz. Zedaph felt something tug at his core, but it slipped away before it took hold. Skizz wasn't as lucky, and collapsed. 

Then there was silence.

Zedaph blinked. “Oh, that's fascinating.” And slightly concerning. Actually, mostly concerning, if he thought about it.

He should get Skizz some blankets. He didn’t want one of his friends sleeping on the floor, after all!

“Alright, you two, follow me…”

Jimmy and Tango did as Scott instructed, walking down a carefully manicured path to the large structure in Scott's yard. They'd come to buy flowers for their place in the city– it would liven the place up, Jimmy had promised, so Tango had reluctantly agreed to come along. Scott grew flowers as a hobby, so they'd made the trip to his cottage. 

They stepped into the greenhouse, Scott closing the door behind them. “Come right this way. Did you have any preference on the type of flower, colour, size…?” 

Jimmy shook his head. “Probably shouldn't be too big, though. I'm not trying to grow a whole tree here.”

Scott laughed. “Shame. Trees are quite lovely this time of year.”

“With how often Sparky over here starts, well, sparking, I don't think trees would be a good idea.” Jimmy nudged Tango, who groaned. 

“I don't spark that much! And things don't catch fire, Jimmy!” he protested. 

Jimmy was about to respond when he felt a sudden surge of… was that Grian's magic? “Hold on, what–”

Pain flared in his head, and Jimmy cried out. Tango called his name, but Jimmy couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears. He felt blood trickle from his nose, and then…

Magic.

He barely had time to cry out Tango's name before something tugged on his core, and Jimmy collapsed. The other two soon followed. 

Three fell asleep in a flowerbed, untouched and unseen, with only the flowers as witness.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Machinist 3

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible bullying, misogyny, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your new boss sets his sights on you. (short!reader)

Characters: August Walker

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

You sit out on your front porch watching the lazy sun. It’s one of the rare days off where you’re not bogged down in chores. Just you and swing and a cup of coffee. After the week you had, you need the moment to just not think. 

You close your eyes and lean your head back. It’s the simple things. All you ever wanted was a place to call your own. You got a job that pays for all that. A job you’re good at but one you enjoy less by the day. 

A honk startles you from your serenity. You open one eye and slowly put your chin straight. The shiny black jaguar is out of place on the sleepy street. A few of the kids playing ball in the neighbours driveway stop to point and stare. Your curiosity hardly awakens as you guess at its driver before he appears. 

August steps out, almost comically big for the sleek sportscar. You sip your coffee and sway on the chains. He tilts his head in challenge as he comes around the hood. 

“Didn’t forget about little old me, did you?” He asks. 

“Just having a coffee,” you answer bluntly. You didn’t forget but hoped he did. 

“You’ll need the energy, I’m sure,” he comes down the walk, almost strutting.  

He doesn’t have his usual cap and flannel. His hair is combed neatly and he wears a navy tee so tight, you can see his muscles. You’re not sure they make any clothing that would fit him appropriately. You continue to drink and stare past him. 

“I’m sure google would be more helpful. That car has bluetooth, doesn’t it?” 

“Not as entertaining he insists, “you’re hardly dressed for a day out.” 

You hum and look down at yourself. You wear a pair of grey-green jogging pants and a loose tee; your usually affair for the week. Alone. You sigh and drain the last of the dark roast. 

“Go get changed,” he orders. 

You look at him but don’t move. His entitlement tweaks your eye brow. You take a breath and let it go slowly. 

“Now don’t go getting uppity,” he warns with a wag of his finger, “we might not be at work, but I’m still the boss,” he climbs the porch steps one at a time and stops, leaning on the post beside him, “aren’t I, princess?” 

You stand with the cup in hand, “sir. I’ll go throw on some jeans.” 

“Skirt,” he corrects you. 

“Don’t have any.” 

“Dress, then. I wanna see your legs.” 

You nearly crumple up in disgust. You repress a snarl and swallow, “none of those either.” 

“If it wasn’t indecent, I’d say naked,” he retorts, “since you only dress like some teen boy. Shorts, then, I’m sure you can find something.” 

You blink dully, “I’ll have to look around. Might take a while.” 

“If I have to come in there,” he warns. 

“Five minutes,” you relent and spin on your heel. 

Despite your promise, you are anything but expedient. You rinse out the mug and leave it in the rack. You make your way upstairs and open your dresser, not paying much mind to any of it. You really don’t have what he’s looking for. You aren’t what he’s looking for. You’re sure he could hit the bar downtown and find a pretty bimbo. 

You pull on a plain burgundy tee and the black jean shorts with a run in one leg. You check your reflection but don’t put much into fixing it. You look fine. Teeth brushed, moisturized, what else can you do? 

As you come downstairs, you’re annoyed to find him in your entryway. He has no shame. He shuffles through the mail on the corner table. You reach for your blue sneakers. He coughs and turns to watch you. 

“Definitely not the heel type, are ya?” He remarks. 

You shrug and tie the laces. You stand straight and grab your denim jacket and keys. He reaches to stop you, grabbing the other sleeve. 

“Whatcha covering up for?” 

You nearly roll your eyes. You won’t give him the fodder. You let go and tuck the keys into the small pocket of the short. You grab your wallet and put it on the other side of your hips. 

“We’ll fix this,” he flicks his finger up and down. “I know you think you can run with the big boys but you’re a woman underneath it all. No point tryna hide.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“I didn’t ask,” he growls, “that’s a problem too. You talk when I want you to.” 

You should tell him to fuck himself. You should spit in his face. By the smug smirk dimpling in his cheek, that’s exactly what he wants. No. You’ll let him get bored. You wipe your expression and blink. 

“Well?” He huffs. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl,” he reaches to pat your head like a dog. You try not to wince away, repulsion roiling from his touch. You lift your chin instinctively and he narrows his eyes, stepping closer as he does. He snickers as sets his jaw square, “don’t worry, I know how to break a stubborn bitch like you. Make her into a loyal little hound slobbering for my attention.” 

You look back at him blankly. He waits. You let him. No reaction. Frustration tics in his cheek and his lips straighten. 

“First thing,” he grabs your arm as he turns for the door, “we find something to dislodged the rod from your ass.” 

He drags you outside and keeps hold of you as you turn to lock the door with your other hand. He tugs you so your wrist twists as you struggle to slide the keys free. They jangle with you as he hauls you forward, your feet clattering down the steps. 

“Keep up, princess, your carriage awaits.” 

[teecupangel]

So this idea has been bouncing in my head like an excited rabbit on caffeine. (I also don't know if anyone else thought of this but I thought it would be cool) so you remember the reblog chain where the players are all in Desmond head talking like a twitch chat, and the other reblog chain of Desmond's ancestor data gaining sentience because isu bstm, right? Well I had a thought, what if we combined the two, like maybe something like the part of the main group + Desmond are trying to get to the others who are in another part of Abstergo or the assassin's network and Desmond, let's say that while he was split he couldn't hear us until they passed through this really corrupted part of an ocean map (let's say it's in Edward's time) then all of a sudden Desmond hears one of us. (Sorry if this doesn't make sense. I hope you have a heath day/night)

I think this is the AC characters data in Abstergo’s database regaining sentience AU reblog chain with @piratekenway you’re talking about?

The Ratatouille AU where the ancestors can hear Desmond while ‘playing’, its more unhinged cousin, the Ratatouille AU where Desmond can hear us and the outside POV of Al Mualim thinking the Apple broke Altaïr and the sidestory of Altaïr accidentally connecting with Ezio while looking for Desmond (I hope I didn’t forget anything else)

Okay, so the idea is that we’re using the setup for the character data gaining sentience and we’re setting this as sorta like the ‘epilogue’ to the Ratatouille AU.

Instead of letting the world burn (“As a treat!” one of the voices chirped), he sacrifices himself. When he wakes up, he’s in Abstergo’s database, chained as a digital copy of Sample 17.

He can’t hear any voices anymore.

Are they disappointed with him?

Did they think they wasted their time trying to help him?

Did he… make the right choice?

He doesn’t know how much time has passed… when the virus started taking over the database and servers.

.

In this one, the virus isn’t made by Erudito + Assassins. It’s of ‘unknown origin’.

All they know is the name of the virus is “for desmond!” and it is targeting Desmond. Of course, Sample 17 is in one of the more secured encrypted ‘part’ of the database so it mutated to wake other data up.

Data that has connection with Desmond.

Along the way, the virus inside them starts waking up other data nearby, creating a strange team to rescue Desmond.

We can sorta play with this a bit and make Arno, Evie and Jacob become part of Abstergo’s database because they do have data of Arno’s descendants and it makes sense that the reason why the Templars knew where the Shroud is because they can access the twins’ memories as well and the Assassins just stole their DNA for their own Animus instead.

So they get to Desmond who is staying in the Grand Temple, just sitting there, staring at the devices, doubting and double-doubting himself if he should have activated the device when the people who care for him the most asked him not to.

Of course, Abstergo’s anti-virus and probably the entire security system is chasing after them so they don’t have time to actually talk.

They just run.

Well, they sailed using a fusion of the Jackdaw and Aquila…

… into a corrupted part of the West Indies.

The idea was… the virus didn’t harm them but it definitely fucks with Abstergo’s anti-virus and security system.

At the very least, they were hoping it would slow them down.

What they did not expect was for the entire thing to collapse under them…

And drop their modified ship into a different unfamiliar ocean.

“Holy shit!”

Desmond blinked.

“That scared the crap out of me. Goddamn it, Ubisoft. I know this is still being betatesting but Jesus Christ, loading the entire ship and dropping it from above??? What kind of programming does this game have???”

“Lollol. Dude, chill.”

“Is it an enemy ship? Like… can you shoot it?”

“Should you shoot it? Check its level first.”

They were all familiar voices.

“You don’t want a repeat of-”

“Guys?” Desmond asked, his voice a bit too quiet.

Hesitant.

He didn’t dare hope that it was them.

Not all of them.

But some of the ones he was most familiar with.

The ones who stayed with him the most.

“Holy shit.”

“Oh my god, Desmond?!”

“What’s Desmond doing in this game?!”

“Is it our Desmond???”

Desmond’s lips curved into a smile and his voice croaked as he said, “Yeah, I’m your Desmond.”

“Oh my god.”

“Desmond!!! You’re okay!!! We were sooo worried!”

“You think this is [Bored Anonymous]’s work??? Did their plan to use all our computers to try and connect with Desmond’s world and send our gift work?”

“Gift?” Desmond tilted his head.

Did they mean the virus?

He felt someone nudged his arm and he turned to look at Ezio. Everyone else seemed confused but Altaïr, Ezio and Ratonhnhaké:ton seemed to have an idea on who he was talking to.

Wait.

They can hear them!

Before Desmond could tell the voices that everyone could hear them now, one of them said hurriedly, “Oh fuck! Someone get [Bored Anonymous] quickly!”

“Why?”

“I only have 1 more hour to play this beta! What happens to Desmond if he stays in this beta server after the time is up?!! We can’t lose him!”

“Ohshitohshitohshit!”

“I’ll alert the discord server!”

“I’ll try to message them in Tumblr! They’re always online there!”

“Pretty sure that’s their queue…”

“We can still try!”

Desmond simply laughed.

Sure, the time limit they’re talking about was worrying but hearing all of them worrying about him…

It felt like he was finally home.

[whipitgod]

Thinking About Birds

Hannibal lecter x Will Graham

oneshot - wc: 2.7k

summary: post fall hannigram, will wishes he had thought about all of the little things that come with living with hannibal, and hannibal tap dances on wills last nerve!

warnings: language, mentions of canon typical murder stuff, somewhat crack-ish while also being serious at parts, tooth rotting domestic sweetness

a/n: Thank you for the continued support you are all so amazing!!! per usual this was supposed to be shorter than it turned out but i just can’t help my self apparently lol. If you like this remember to leave a like/reblog! maybe even follow me :D! Happy reading!!

Will blinked awake slowly, shifting slightly to glance at the small digital clock on the nightstand; the numbers on the display reading 4:30. The red glow of the numbers feels almost taunting as he pauses to wonder what had even woken him up, he hasn't had a nightmare in months, at least not a real one. A thought crosses his mind that leaves a taste of bitter irony in his mouth, he hadn’t had a real nightmare since he had begun sharing a bed with Hannibal.

Will quells a laugh that bubbles up inside him and threatens to escape at the thought; the very cause of the nightmares that had plagued him for years, now being the thing that keeps them at bay. Will turns to look at where Hannibal sleeps, finding his side of the bed empty; Will can hear Hannibal clattering around in the bathroom in a failed attempt to be quiet so as to not wake the ex-profiler.

Will lets out a harsh breath through his nose in irritation as he hears what he believes to be, based on the sound of the bottle hitting the vanity in their shared bathroom, step 9 of Hannibal's outrageously long skincare routine. He reaches blindly for the lamp on the nightstand, making note of the fact that the sun has yet to even begin to rise. The lamp turns on with a soft click as he finally grabs ahold of the chain he had been reaching for, the room flooding with a warm yellow light that still manages to grate on Will's nerves.

He pushes himself up so he's sitting with his back against the ornately carved wooden headboard Hannibal had insisted on purchasing for their new shared bedroom, grumbling quietly to himself as he does, “Who the hell wakes up this early,” he swats at the nightstand in an attempt to find his phone, “and who needs a 15 step skincare routine,” finally managing to grasp his phone, but only after knocking a few of the random things he keeps piled on his nightstand, much to Hannibal's dismay, to the ground, “I mean jesus christ Hannibal, just get some damn botox.”

Almost as if summoned by Will’s quiet words of discontent, the door to the bathroom opens and Hannibal steps back out into the room, seeming shocked to have woken Will when he spots the younger man awake and reading something on his phone. The shock on the cannibal’s face stirs up another bout of irritation inside Will; why is he acting surprised? Hannibal's morning routine has woken Will more times than he can count in the few months that they had been living together in the small home. Hannibal makes slow strides over to the bed where Will is now looking at him with poorly masked annoyance, “I’m sorry if I woke you,” the man says, entirely too chipper and awake sounding for Will’s taste, “I was trying to be quiet.”

Will lets out a displeased huff at this, choosing to forgo a response. He spares Hannibal a short glance before focusing back on the article he had been reading on his phone, the older man sighs at this before moving to the closet to retrieve his clothes for the day. Will was glad the man’s fashion taste had become significantly more tame since they had settled into the home in argentina, he supposes it's probably due in part to Hannibal not having anywhere to get the clothes near where they’re staying, but Will wouldn’t put it past the man to have the clothes shipped in from somewhere else, and if anyone could find a tailor near where they reside it would be Hannibal.

Honestly Will isn’t a hundred percent sure why the change in Hannibal's choice in garment had occurred, Will is almost certain that he hadn't seen the cannibal wear a tie in the entire time they've been living together, let alone his previous daily attire of carefully tailored three piece suits. Hannibal now opting to wear a wardrobe of mostly linen, the flowy material good for staying cool in the warm environment they now reside in; Will supposes the temperature of the country they've been staying in might have something to do with the change, he would imagine that the humidity might make a polyester blend a bit impractical.

He watches the man dress as his thoughts unfold, he had never anticipated his life turning out this way, but he isn’t upset about it, even though sometimes he feels like he should be. The guilt that used to haunt his every waking moment now only graces him on rare occasions. He’s always able to stamp the guilt down as quickly as it arrives now with a silent acknowledgement that his guilt will not purify him; guilt does not make you innocent. Is the man that sobs out apologies at his trial any less of a murderer than the man that doesnt?

He’s broken from his thoughts by the sound of Hannibal shutting the closet door with a gentle thud, the man pausing to look in the floor length mirror he had insisted on having in the room momentarily, the same mirror that Will had only agreed to have in the room so long as it was not facing the bed in any way. Seemingly satisfied with his appearance he turns and faces the bed where Will sits watching him.

When he spots the look Will is giving him his features soften slightly, “I’m going to make some coffee dear,” the pet names were also a new addition that had seemed to come with the shared house, “I will start on a light breakfast in an hour or so.”

Will meets his eyes then, offering a small smile despite the irritation of being woken up this early that still simmered gently within him, “I’ll be out in a bit.”

the response seems to satisfy the older man because he nods at this before leaving the room to begin making what is no doubt a very overly complicated pot of coffee. Will misses shitty coffee every once in a while, don't get him wrong the stuff Hannibal makes is amazing, but Will still occasionally craves the bitter watered down coffee that you’d find in small diners and gas stations. Hannibal would probably have an aneurysm if he were to catch Will drinking the stuff now, he muses silently, the thought causing a small huff of laughter to escape him before he can stop it.

There were a lot of things that Will hadn't considered when he had thrown them over the cliff. He wasn't trying to kill them, at least he doesn't think he was, he honestly still wasn’t quite sure what his plan was when he had pulled Hannibal into the water with him. He doesn't dwell on this line of thinking for long, choosing not to rehash an internal conversation that he’s had on many occasions in the months they had been living in the home together.

Will hadn't really considered what it would be like to live with the cannibal before he had plunged them into that freezing water; he finds himself wishing that he had quite frequently though, especially when Hannibal wakes him up with the noise of his excessive morning routine.

Will had never really given much thought of what living with the cannibal would be like prior to their dive, at least not in any practical way. He had imagined what it would be like to wake up next to Hannibal, he’d found himself fantasizing frequently about drifting to sleep tangled with the man.

Funnily enough, his fantasies never included the way the cannibal lived his day to day life when Will wasn't present, they never included how Hannibal would go about mundane everyday tasks. He really wishes he had; he’s always known, at least on some level, that the man was eccentric and particular, he just hadn’t anticipated all of his quirks.

He regrets not considering all of the little things, like the man's obsession with his morning and night routines, or the way he mutters quietly to himself when he reads at night next to Will in bed, that one Will finds particularly frustrating; he remembers confronting Hannibal about it one night as they lied in bed one evening about a month into their stay. He lets out a soft puff of air as he recalls the memory.

-——————————

Will had been growing increasingly more and more frustrated with the sounds of Hannibal reading; prior to living with the man, he had considered reading to be an almost silent activity, yet here Hannibal was disproving that notion in a way that made Will want to tear the book from his hands.

Hannibal let out a please hum at what he was reading, drumming his fingers against the back cover of the book, “How interesting,” the sound of a page turning grated against Will's nerves and added to the growing irritation he had been feeling; Hannibal made a noise that sounded curious, continuing to drum his fingers against the back. Will wanted to stab him with one of the pens that sat on his cluttered nightstand. Hannibal let out another pleased noise, this one sounding satisfied like he satiated the momentary curiosity that had occurred from the last page before muttering a soft, “Very interesting.”

Will was gonna strangle him. He had never been able to find the strength to go through with it but he reasons he had never had to sit and listen to Hannibal read while he was trying to fall asleep next to him. The sound of another page turning doing nothing to calm the frustration bubbling up inside him; he doesn’t often allow himself to indulge in the fantasies of killing the irritating man but every once in a while Hannibal will do something that annoys Will to the point where he no longer feels any guilt about picturing the man's demise. Hannibal lets out another inquisitive noise and Will fights the urge to reach over and punch him, he’s too angry to even want to kill him at this point, he just wants to get one good lick in.

Hannibal breaths out a contented noise before muttering again, “Very, very interesting.” Will sits up with a speed he didn't know he was capable of, Hannibal jumping slightly as he had assumed the younger man was asleep. Hannibal had never been a very expressive man but in that moment as he stares at a borderline manic looking Will, his expression is that of a deer in headlights.

“Reading is a silent activity!” It comes out as more of a yell than he had intended but Will finds it hard to care, all of the anger that has been steadily building for the last hour reaching a boiling point, “How interesting can a book about-” Will stops quickly, eyes scanning over the cover of the book in Hannibal's hands before letting out a laugh that bordered on hysterical. Will finally noticing that the other man had been reading a book about the migration patterns of different birds in the region; not even attempting to finish the sentence he had started he plows on, “are you fucking kidding me?!”

Hannibal chose not to say anything, his expression now contrite as he closes the book with a soft thud, setting it gently down onto his lap not breaking eye contact with Will, a little afraid that the man might lunge at him if he looks away.

The fight leaves Will almost immediately, huffing out an exacerbated, “un-fucking-believable.” before laying back down with more aggression than Hannibal had thought possible. It’s quiet for a couple minutes, save for the sound of Will’s agitated breathing and the occasional disgruntled mutters emanating from where Will lays facing away from Hannibal. The cannibal can’t pick up on everything that Will is grumbling, the quiet words of anger somewhat muffled against his pillow but he picks up on some of it; a quiet disbelieving, “fucking birds.” Hannibal misses the rest of what he says but the cannibal understands the message, finally moving to set the book on the nightstand. The older man sits motionless for a few moments after setting the book down until Will snaps out an angered, “Go the hell to bed Hannibal.”

Normally Hannibal would push back, abhorring the rudeness of Will’s statement but in that moment he decides not to argue with the empath; He decides to simply flick off the lamp and lay down against his pillow. He reaches out to pull Will to his chest but as soon as Will feels the man's hand touching his arm he lets out a harsh, “Don’t.”

Hannibal feeling properly scolded in a way that he had rarely felt before decides not to make things worse by pushing, he rolls onto his back and drifts off to the sound of Will’s breath evening out as he finally falls asleep.

————————————

Will is pulled out of the memory by the sound of hannibal calling his name announcing that the coffee was done; He isn't quite sure how long he had been sat there thinking about that night but given how long it takes Hannibal to make coffee with the ridiculous contraption he insists on using Will would wager that its been at least twenty minutes; Will had suggested buying a keurig one morning and he swears to this day that the cannibals eye had started twitching, Will had conceding quickly, worried that the knife Hannibal was using to make breakfast might find its way into his stomach.

Standing up from the bed with a sigh as he stretches his sore muscles; He’s had a back ache since they had taken their tumble, having been on the bottom when they hit the water his back had taken a majority of the damage, the raging water unforgiving as they crashed into it.

Stretching his back one more time with a pained groan, he strides leisurely out of the bedroom and into the kitchen where Hannibal was sat reading something on his tablet, the older man looking up to greet him as he crosses the threshold into the room, “Good morning dear,” Hannibal gestures to the second mug sitting on the table, “I already poured you a cup.” Will offers him a soft smile in return, pulling out the chair closest to the other man before sitting down and pulling the mug towards him.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a bit, the only sounds between them being the gentle clank of mugs being picked up and sat down as they drink their coffee, the domesticity of the act never failing to stir up complicated emotions in will; the empath had never considered how much hannibal would behave like a housewife once they had began living together.

He stares at the Hannibal while he gets lost in thought, his mind filled with memories of multiple events that had taken place in the last couple weeks alone; Some of Hannibal’s behavior and habits seemed more fitting for a forty year old suburban housewife, not a serial killer with a penchant for cannibalism. This thought makes him let out a small chuckle, Hannibal's head snapping towards him at the sound. Hannibal gives an inquisitive hum, his gaze expectant as he locks eyes with Will; Will simply waves a hand at the man's curiosity, deciding to take another sip of his coffee instead of responding.

Will startles at the realization of how domestic they've become, from their frequent bickering to their habit of sitting in comfortable silences simply enjoying the others presence. This realization doesn't scare him the way he thinks it should; something about it feels right, like this is just what was supposed to happen. Will can't help but let out another laugh at the thought, the idea of this outcome being fated is humorous to him in ways he can't quite pinpoint.

At the noise Hannibal looks at him again, watching him for a moment before asking a gentle, “Is something funny?” In response to the question Will gives a gentle shake of his head, a small smile playing on his lips. Hannibal quirks a brow at his reaction, before speaking again, “It sure seems like something is funny,” he sets his tablet down, giving his full attention to Will, “Care to share?”

the empath huffs out another gentle laugh, he shakes his head softly once more before answering, “I’ve just been thinking about birds.”

[factorialsfandoms]

Hi! If you're taking prompts for the sickness starters you recently reblogged, how about snoozville with Warriors?

He doesn't seem like a napping kind of guy to me, so one of the Chain finding him asleep like that would show just how exhausted he really is.

Recent is no longer the case oopsie, but hopefully this satified. My brain hasn't been super cooperative since the end of whumptober >.<

Is mostly just a little snippet. Hope it is okay.

"Time?"

The addressed hero looked up to see Wind standing in the doorway, fingers twisting about themselves as he waited. He had thought everyone else downstairs already, either eating breakfast or getting ready for the morning. Wind had certainly been at breakfast earlier, and had claimed his bag entirely packed.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, heart already sinking.

"It's the Captain," Wind replied. "I thought he was just ignoring me, you know, after last night?"

Time did, indeed, know what had happened last night; he nodded, already getting up and directing Wind towards the room he and Warriors had been sharing for the night.

"Right!" Wind perked up a little, and then the anxiety was back. "So I thought he was ignoring me. But I wanted my Picto Box. When I came up he was still asleep, though. Didn't even stir when I knocked his bag over."

Suspicion about how on purpose the bag knocking over was cast aside, Time still frowned; it was very unlike the Captain to sleep late, and he was always a light sleeper too.

"I'll check on him," Time promised. "Could you go pay the innkeeper for another night? Then go back to the others. Money is on my dresser."

Wind did as he was told, though the boy nervously glanced back at time after a few steps. Time gently shooed him off downstairs, then opened the door.

Curtains open, mid-morning light bright. And, sure enough, Warriors was still laid out on his bed.

"Captain?" he called. "It's just me."

No response.

Frown deepening - not just an especially bad grudge, but Time had doubted that from the moment he realised that Wind was genuinely scared - he stepped closer.

And closer.

Warriors was huddled under the blankets, ear heavily pressed against the pillows. The way he curled implied pain, which only worried more.

"Captain?" he called again, reaching out.

His forehead was warm, and unpleasantly damp with sweat. Up this close Time could see that he was trembling, too.

A fever.

Still, the hand on his forehead seemed to finally rouse Warriors. Two bleary eyes blinked up at him. After a moment their owner shifted, moving a hand to rub at his eyes.

"S'rry," he slurred. "Be wi'ya minit."

"It's alright," Time made sure to speak slowly. "Was just checking on you; go back to sleep."

"'S mornin'," the Captain continued to object.

"Wild thinks he needs another grocery run," an easy enough excuse to make fly. "So we're staying another night. Get some rest."

How easily Warriors agreed was just another mark of how sick he must be. Time pulled the blankets from Wind's bed, tucking them about the Captain in the hopes of stopping the shivering.

Then he paused, checking him over. He could not see any obvious symptoms but for the fever and sleepiness, but... None of them were much trained in illnesses.

What Time did know, however, was that impromptu fully clothes dips in ice ponds could be a cause, and that for people with fevers you should put cold, damp towels on their face. Mentally he counted up their money again; accounting for a couple of days extra at the inn, they still had just enough for a doctor.

It would leave them very tight, however... If Warriors got worse, or did not improve by the next day, then.

So. Move Wind into a room where nobody was sick, but not with any of those more prone to illness just in case. Make sure Wind understood the dangers of swimming in strange ponds - like having a brother dragged in to join you by a lake monster. Make sure everyone did, just to be safe. Get a cloth and water. And let the other's know.

That was all easy enough; the innkeeper seemingly immediately working out why and wishing his brother to get well soon. Prizes is hand and everyone informed, he headed back upstairs.

Warriors had moved while he had been gone, but still looked desperately uncomfortable. With a sigh Time cleared off the bedside table, and sat himself on it. He placed the bowl on the bed that had been Wind's, dipping the towel in it and squeezing the water out. Once he was sure it wouldn't drip, he bought it over and placed it on Warriors' forehead.

Realising the hair was trapped a moment later, Time leant over and brushed most of it up and out of the way. Damp, but the sweat had already done enough to it.

Fever-bright eyes were watching him again.

"Just me," Time promised. "Go back to sleep."

Warriors seemed less inclined to this time, twisting uncomfortably. Time let him find a new position, then adjusted the cloth to match.

"Better?"

He received no response; Warriors already asleep once more.

With a sigh, Time settled himself in for a long few days. So much for making it to the Ranch by evening.

Ah well. His boys' safety were and always would come first. If Malon was with them, he was sure she would understand.

[nymphadorathetemplar]

TOP FIVE FIC CHAIN

Rules:

Link your top 5 fics you've read.

They don't have to be for any particular fandom.

Ping at least 3 other people to give their recs.

if you get pinged again, just link the next five favorite you have.

Include title/link/fandom/rating(if available).

Tagged by @kiwinwriting here (apparently people usually reblog making a real chain but, one i rarely follow tag game rules and two i don't like long posts as much )

as kiwili said in the tags of their post, it's really hard to choose faves, so why'd you have to pick me next lol~ jk jk thank you for thinking of me kiwili <3 not really a top 5 so much as 5 of many fics that i enjoy re-reading from time to time

Myosotis by War_of_the_Words (Detective Conan & Magic Kaito | Kudou Shinichi/Edogawa Conan x Kuroba Kaito/Kaitou KID | Gen)

KID is a mysterious artist known for his mystifying paintings and their refusal to make a public appearance. Who are they? What is their purpose? People want answers, but before they can get any, KID produces one final piece of art before vanishing completely. Private Investigator Kudou Shinichi doesn't care about art, and has only heard a little about the case of the Phantom Artist KID from his friends. He is forced to take interest, however, when he comes to find out that KID's final painting bares a striking resemblance to himself. Now what would an artist like KID have to do with a detective?

How we begin by OrphanText (Magic Kaito | Hakuba Saguru x Kuroba Kaito/Kaitou KID | Teen+)

Hakuba calls in his favour from KID. It's not what KID thinks it is.

Pining by CynicalMistrust (Fukigen na Mononokean | Ashiya Hanae x Abeno Haruitsuki | Mature: violence & blood)

"Blink, dumbass." Hanae almost blinked, but he stopped himself, unable to pass up the chance to antagonize Abeno. Instead, he blinked twice and was rewarded with a sour look. Luckily for him, he was pretty sure Abeno wouldn't hit an injured and paralyzed patient in a hospital bed. Unfortunately, Abeno wasn't above picking up a pillow and smacking Hanae in the face with it, but it was a small price to pay.

Only A Boy by RiddellLee (Harry Potter & BBC Merlin (TV) | Teen+)

Merlin had fulfilled his destiny. Albion was alive and beautiful, and magic was no longer feared in the land. But nothing ever lasts, does it? Memories gone, and in his ten-year-old form once more, he's traveled over a thousand years in the future. Now, he has a new destiny: He has to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, hide the fact that he's Merlin, and defeat a Dark Lord that's messing with magic he knows nothing about.

hello my old heart by taizi (Natsume Yuujinchou | Gen)

Takashi thinks of the half-empty book upstairs, guarded by a ward strong enough to make the chuukyuu’s eyes water from the backyard. The secret that only half the people in the room are aware of. The wall between himself and everyone else that he built stone by stone by stone, to keep them— and himself— safe from inevitable hurt. “You don’t even know me,” Takashi blurts. Nishimura sits up. Kitamoto makes a grumbly noise and starts extracting himself from blankets. Shibata says “No no I finally got comfortable, Tanuma, come on,” but Tanuma is moving, too. Ogata says, in a kind, careful voice, “Natsume, of course we know you.” “Not everything,” Takashi insists, feeling his heart start to move a little faster. “You don’t— you don’t know everything.”

tagging @hiromiikunn @bakathief @thiective @kfrnkm @spicyfloof

[lockejhaven]

↪ 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚐 {𝟶𝟼} thanks to @fearofahumanplanet for the tag!

»»—————————-　𓆩❤︎𓆪　—————————-««

My words are: VOICE, FINAL, FRIEND, WEAPON, & IMAGINE

Tagging @365runesofwriting, @writingpotato07, @orphicpoieses, and anyone else who wants to join! Your words are: RUB, RIGHT, THEFT, CHAIN, & SINGLE

No pressure to those I’ve tagged, especially if I’ve already done so recently. You’re welcome to reblog instead if you’d rather ❤︎

Snippets after the cut, of course!

VOICE Wane of the Lunar Human • To Kneel • Ch ?

“Reveal yourself, Krellan,” Bane’s authoritative voice radiated from their chest; almost a dull roar although they spoke calmly. Esail let out a curse as his hold on The Shroud faltered and he was revealed to them in an instant.

FINAL Arcane • Reunited • Ch ?

“You will never do it. You are still too soft, still in love with me.” Auris grit their teeth. She is right, I will not kill her. They pulled the trigger, eliciting a scream to erupt from Juniera’s mouth. They lowered their pistol. “I do not care enough to kill you. I do not forgive you, nor will I ever, but you still do not deserve to die.” Auris whispered those final words as blood flowed from Juniera’s right ear. They turned their back on her, moving with deliberate steps to meet Colxian.

FRIEND Snippet • Hundreds of Years

There were others that loved her, almost as much as Farheis did. It seemed that during her time away from home she had made quite a few friends and allies. It wasn’t at all surprising; she had always had a way with words. It wasn’t that she twisted them to manipulate, she simply knew exactly what to say and how to say it in order to do what she believed was right. Farheis had watched her recruit many to their cause, digging deep to find what would entice them. Physical strength was not what had drawn Farheis to her. 

WEAPON Alchemist • My Sibling Tries to Kill Me • Ch 1

“My Sibling Tries to Kill Me.” As all siblings do. That is what you are thinking, right? One trying to choke the Eros out of the other; not uncommon for two people raised side by side. Especially not uncommon for siblings raised to protect the kingdom, trained as living weapons. After all, what could have possibly gone wrong with that idea?

IMAGINE Snippet • Knight

Solace places his hands over theirs to steady them, only for a blinding flash of light to shock them both. Blinking spots from their hazy vision, Auris struggles to focus on what they imagine to be Solace. He must have been thrown to the ground just as they had; his form lies motionless, smaller than Auris remembers. Their vision clears as they squint, and they catch sight of wildly curly hair. Wildly curly hair that is, most assuredly, not Solace's. Auris shifts onto their hands and knees and crawls a bit closer, wincing slightly as their stiff body protests. Their arms tremble. Hesitant, they bring their gaze to study the being they have created. To his face, achingly familiar. Breath catching, Auris jumps when Solace crouches next to them. Next to the man neither of them had expected to see.

»»—————————-　𓆩❤︎𓆪　—————————-««

~ Of Fables & Feathers,

🕊️ Locke J. Haven

locket’s tags: ╔═════════════════════╗

@365runesofwriting @enchanted-lightning-aes @thepixiediaries @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @perasperaadastrawriting @fearofahumanplanet @orphicpoieses @writingpotato07 @andromedatalksaboutstuff @writeblrsupport [ your tag could be here… ]

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[suspicious-whumping-egg]

I posted 15,547 times in 2022

That's 14,912 more posts than 2021!

609 posts created (4%)

14,938 posts reblogged (96%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@killorbekillian

@that-gay-jedi

@incoherent-introspection

@wizard-email

@wolfeyedwitch

I tagged 5,269 of my posts in 2022

#important - 625 posts

#obikin - 270 posts

#yep - 213 posts

#the sandman - 157 posts

#save - 140 posts

#whump art - 136 posts

#kenobi spoilers - 135 posts

#pride - 120 posts

#fave - 114 posts

#goncharov - 114 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#his whole thing it’s just a thing abt him and it impacts him but his arc isn’t focused on the “tragedy of disability” or anything like that

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

As per @painsandconfusion's suggestion im starting a picrew chain with this picrew! (Shea consider urself already tagged for the chain)

(they/them)

Tagging: @spookyboywhump @loki-the-mad @brutal-nemesis @b0amagination @galaxywhump

151 notes - Posted December 31, 2021

#4

Betrayed, Part 2

If people rly like this I’ll make it a series! Continued from here!!

Supervillain frowned, shifting a hand to the holster at their waist. “As easy as that, hm? I don’t buy it. If those heroes put up with you for that long, you must have some kind of a backbone. You’re planning to betray me, aren’t you? No one likes a turncoat, little hero. You’ve already been double crossed once, there’ll be no one to look out for you if you turn on me.”

Before Hero could interject the stammering explanation that they simply just didn’t want to be hurt, Supervillain struck them hard across the face with their gun in a sharp burst of pain across their cheek.

“No one agrees that quickly if they’re not up to something,” they snapped. “We both know I have my methods to keep you in line— I could have you constantly chained up or strapped down, order Healer to keep you paralyzed until we build a bit of trust between us, break your legs so we have six  uninterrupted weeks to see where your loyalty lies—  I’d rather cut to the chase. You’re one to do so, I’ve noticed. Not like Superhero with their useless monologues.”

Hero shook their head weakly, trembling against the chains that bound them. It was too late to beg now, and they knew it. There was nothing else to do but hope the villain would make it quick.

“So I’m assuming a show of power might be best, nothing more,” Supervillain continued. “You’ve never been up against me alone, little Hero. I won’t hurt you if you become my protege, but you must understand my hesitance. For all I know, you could be a spy. Hell, they could have left you as bait, meant to be snatched up by my henchmen and planted right where you could get all the information you need.”

They paced the room, plucking a weighted baton from a rack of weapons against the wall. “Don’t try to tell me you’re innocent, that’s for me to decide,” they added coldly. They tossed the baton from one hand to another, testing its weight, before swinging it hard at Hero. It cracked hard against their side, right over the scar left by the healed stab wound, and Hero hissed in pain.

They soon lost count of the blows, as Supervillain rained a volley of hits over them, one after another. The pain was sharp and stinging with every strike, and they were blinking back tears after mere minutes.

At long last, the villain paused and stepped back to take a look at them. Other than the defeated look on their face and the fresh blood streaking their bare torso, they were the same— no signs of a cracking facade.

Supervillain nodded, content of Hero’s loyalty for the time being. They reached down to unlock the wrist cuffs, keeping Hero’s legs secured to those of the chair, and strode from the cell.

They let themself break down as soon as they were alone, burying their face in their hands and allowing their tears to fall in broken sobs until they gasped for breath. So it was quite a surprise when Supervilain tapped them on the shoulder, alerting them to their presence. The villain wore the twisted little grin that was only brought about by watching others suffer.

“Stop crying, you have work to do,” they snapped. “I want you to write down everything about those traitors that might help me— base locations, personal connections between team members, powers, weaknesses. You don’t know what I already know, so I can guarantee I’ll catch you on something if you lie. Give me enough information and I’ll consider your innocence.” They shoved a paper and pen at Hero’s face, then stormed from the room.

Hero’s unsaid words stuck in their throat, and they heard Supervillain bolt the door behind them with a heavy click. I won’t lie to you, I want them dead as much as you do. But they’d have to convince Supervillain with more than empty words. With no other choice, they began scribbling down every detail on their betrayers that they could remember.

~~~

Part 3 is out now! Link here

181 notes - Posted March 25, 2022

#3

A not-so-gentle reminder:

If you are a TERF, support TERFS, or platform TERFS, get the fuck off my blog. Platforming TERFS (yes, including JKR) sends the message that you do NOT support trans people. You don’t get to pick both sides. Trans women are women. Trans men are men. Nonbinary people ARE nonbinary, they don’t just identify as such. Transmeds can fuck themselves, and neopronouns are essential for all people to express themselves. Gender binaries are a social construct and true feminism, true EQUALITY; includes all sexes, gender identities, orientations, races, beliefs, and levels of ability. True equality doesn’t EXCLUDE.

212 notes - Posted April 20, 2022

#2

Trope Talks: Forced Affection

Tw: intimate whumpers

Whumpers who force their whumpees to play along with their convoluted games of obsessive love. Whumpees who hate that they find it easier to act like they love their whumpers.

Whumpees who who kiss back. Whumpees who lean into whumper’s hand when their hair is stroked. Whumpees who return an embrace from their whumper because they’d rather have twisted comfort than none at all. Whumpees who picture their lover touching them instead of whumper, because otherwise the unwanted intimacy is unbearable.

Maybe they hate it, maybe they shove down the urge to fight every time they’re touched. Every time whumper whispers another sweet, possessive thing in their ear. It’s better than being hurt, so they force themself to endure. Maybe one day they do fight, and they’re punished so horribly for their defiance that they go back to silently upholding the facade of love. Or maybe they decide that the pain is better than the sickly sweet imitation of kindness. They‘ll take a dozen lashes, a hundred cuts, before they’ll accept whumper’s touches without fight.

Maybe whumpee can’t help but enjoy it. Whumper is despicable and they know it, but when they’re picked up bridal style and held to whumper’s chest, they’re too touch starved to care. They melt into every touch, silently pleading for affection because they’re so desperate to be loved that they can’t be bothered to be picky. Whumper’s twisted praise is a relief to them, they want to please whumper if it means being loved. They’ll be hurt either way, at least this way they can be comforted after the fact— even if by the same person who did the damage.

250 notes - Posted January 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Writing Characters with Chronic Pain and Disabilities

PSA: Writing characters with disabilities and chronic pain is great for representation, but I’m seeing harmful tropes and portrayals perpetuated in the way chronic pain and disability is treated in parts of the whump community. Abled people need to stop using chronic pain and/or disabilities purely for “fun and whumpy” purposes. To help address the (hopefully not ill intended) ignorance that likely causes perpetuation of hurtful tropes and harmful portrayals of disabled characters, I’m sorta writing a guide on what to do and not to do when you write a character who is disabled or has chronic pain. I am disabled myself (connective tissue disorder that causes chronic pain among other debilitating symptoms) but obviously all disabled experiences differ so take this all with a grain of salt.

What to do/what is okay to do: An injury causing chronic pain and that being just a part of a character, or a character who becomes disabled (or has been from birth). Their struggle is/can be obviously present and a significant part of their life BUT they must still be a rounded/whole character (background, personality, relationships, etc) if the narrative surrounding their disability was omitted. Writing characters with disabilities and chronic pain is good for representation! I’m not saying it’s bad to have chronic pain be caused by injuries for a character, including whump sustained injuries. A good example of a disabled character done right is Kaz from Six of Crows (Leigh Bardugo is disabled herself tho which obviously plays into why he’s done so well). Kaz uses a cane and has chronic pain caused by a wrongly healed broken leg. His pain and his cane are mentioned often throughout the novel and influence his life experience and perspective. However, his narrative doesn’t focus on his chronic pain: he’s not looking desperately for a cure, his goal is not to someday stop using his cane, etc. (These things are harmful tropes because they portray disability as something completely and totally bad, to be avoided at all costs). Kaz is a badass and competent character, as developed as the other (able bodied) main characters of the story, and his disability is one of many trait about him. If you wanna write a disabled character as an abled person, try to keep those kinds of things in mind (make them developed, make sure their narrative doesn’t focus fully around their disability even tho their disability can/could be a large part of their life, don’t use the “looking for a cure” trope as their whole motive, don’t present disability as a fate worse than death or similar.)

What not to do: What I’m sorta mad about is when someone writes a character who’s constantly suffering from chronic pain/disability and is written in a way where they’re constantly miserable from it and can never feel anything other than the constant sadness/pain their disability causes them. (Perpetuates the trope that disability is constantly horrible and sometimes creates the idea that a life with disability isn’t worth living- which is harmful because it creates the idea that people with disabilities can’t be happy/successful/etc unless they’re faking their disability). It is harmful when their pain or disability is their only trait and/or is only used to make them suffer for “fun” or whump (perpetuates harmful stereotypes around disability- gives the idea that it’s impossible to be happy/a successful person/etc while disabled or having chronic pain, makes light of disability.), Do not write a disability unrealistically and do your research to prevent from ignorance turning into harm. When a character is written disabled/in pain purely for whump, harmful tropes usually end up being perpetuated (the search for a cure trope, the idea that a disability is a tragedy and must be avoided at all costs, etc). Chronic pain is not fun, disability is not whumpy. If you want to write it, do it respectfully. Putting it as the focus of a whump story or as the only trait of a character, especially if you’re an able bodied person and just want to write suffering is not okay. Doing so mitigates and makes light of the real shit people with chronic pain and disabilities live through every day.

Abed people don’t clown on this post. Do not start discourse on this post.

564 notes - Posted January 2, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[the-silver-peahen-residence]

I know you didn't reblog the kids meme but I'm going to send you one too. :3

((Child meme))

"Your a big b..bully, leave our mommy alone! Or else our dad will get you for it!" A mad Hiroki said standing in front of his mother Hanoka who was trying to calm her babies down. Even Keita, Keiko, and Sukimi was hugging her while scared seeing someone. However, the other tries to attack the kids to make them tense.

@kaito-akimoto

Before the other got near the kids, something traps them in a water bubble as the other got scared. He saw a very angry Hanoka while her chakra was around her but she looks quiet.

"Hey, let me-"

"Quiet." she warns seeing the bubble pop but she looks to him while having her arms crossed. "I'll give you this one warning; don't you EVER threaten to harm my babies again or you won't like it." she said but the guy was seeing the four kids hiding behind their mom while Hanoka looks at the other with a cold expression. Yeah, she was scary.

"F..fine, I'll leave the kiddies alone." he said only for Hanoka to release him but when she did, he tries to attack her.

"Mom!"

Right away, Hanoka grabs his wrist to quickly kick him back right into the ground but did some hand signs to trap him in water chains then knocked him out. She sighs but looks to her kids.

"Are you four alright?" she asked worried only for the four to quickly hug her worried more about her. She only blinks but gently hugs the four to assure she was alright while being more happy her babies were safe.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Break-In 4

Character: God the Bounty Hunter

Warnings: this drabble includes elements which may be dark. Please mind these warnings and take care.

Explicit, 18+. Please reblog and leave some feedback.

The man’s presence is enough to drive you away. You’re better for it as you’ve been procrastinating on your errands for far too long. Groceries, bills, all that sort of living business. When you get back to your apartment, he’s gone. The only trace left of him is a neatly folded cluster of bills. Your home is starting to feel like a hotel. 

Like the shadow he drifts in and out like, the man fades into the background of your life. Your day off shoots by too quickly and you’re back at work. You slog through the days and each night come home to an empty apartment. Your life rolls back into the usual pattern. 

The only blip on your radar is a work party. Nothing big, a small get together to send off Kendra to her new job. You go down to a bar just around the corner from the office and have a round of beer and well wishes. You’ll miss the bubbly new graduate but you’re happy for her nonetheless. Better than staying six years, working and living the same day in and out. 

Randy and Darren leave first, they have families. You stay behind with Morgan, Kendra, Aaron, and Jill. It’s easier to limit yourself when you’re the one paying but your coworkers are far too generous and you won’t refuse a free drink. It’s been so long since you let yourself indulge. 

After you polish off a shared plate of greasy nachos, you disperse. It’s late. After eleven. This is going to do you now favours tomorrow. You foresee a painful morning beneath fluorescent lights and the glare of a spreadsheet. 

As you turn onto your street, the soft haze of your drunkenness recedes. You’re suddenly very aware of your surroundings. A woman, drunk, walking home in the dark. You should have had some water. You can’t tell if the echo of your steps is in your head or a drunken illusion. 

You turn your head and check your peripheral. You are not alone. Your heart beats picks up. You’re paranoid. Other people can be out on the street. Even so, you hurry to get to your building. 

The second pair of steps don’t follow you inside. You get past the interior door and the heavy clunk of the lock comforts you. You head upstairs and drag your feet down the hallways. You shuffle inside and slide the chain into place. 

You drop your purse and your keys and yawn. You don’t make it to the bedroom. You fall onto the couch, ready to pass out. You’re saved from falling asleep with your shoes on by a clatter. Your head pops up in the lull that follows and you listen.  

The balcony door clicks and grinds. You sit up, bobbling, as it opens from the other side. A screen claws in your chest but you can’t get it out. That man enters. He doesn’t look happy. 

You blink and stare. He slams the door and you wince. He looks around the apartment without expression. 

“Hi?” You blabber. 

He looks at you. He doesn’t say a word as he comes forward. He passes behind the couch as he unzips his jacket. To your surprise, he hangs it over yours by the door. He picks up your purse and keys and puts them on the square table. 

He unties his boots and leaves them on the mat. He turns and nears the other side of the low coffee table. He stands across from you as his hand goes to the knife sheathed from his harness. You gulp. 

“You’re drunk,” he accuses. 

Your eyes round and you nod. 

“And late.” 

You nod again. 

He doesn’t say anything else. He disappears into the kitchen and you watch him over the counter. You shake your head and giggle. This isn’t real. You’re that drunk. You’re probably still face down and dreaming. 

He comes out of the kitchen but turns down the hall instead. Your bedroom door opens on its squeaky hinges and you hear a heavy clink. When he returns, he nears you. You have no time to react before he scoops you up. 

“Woah! Hey!” You can’t help but giggle again, this time nervously. “What are you doing?” 

He doesn’t answer you. He carries you to your room and puts you on the bed. He grabs the glass of water beneath the glow of the bedside lamp. “Drink.” 

“I’m fine.” 

He moves the glass closer, hovering it in front of your face. You relent and take it. He's right. You drink, still convinced it’s some twisted dream. 

He backs up and goes to your tall dresser. He opens a drawer and you choke. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” 

He ignores you again. When he approaches the bed, he tosses down a pile of fabric. You glance down at the plain white tee shirt and checkered pajama shorts. You grimace, “thank you?” 

He taps the side of the glass. You sigh and finish the rest of it. He retreats to the door and stops in the frame. His broad shoulders fill it easily. 

“Sleep on your stomach.” 

He leaves you with those words and an open door. You set the empty glass down. It’s helping dilute the alcohol but being sober means being aware. This is strange. It’s like he’s mad at you for not being there. He said you were late? For what? 

You shake your head and grab the tee shirt. You can’t sleep in your work clothes. 

[spookysmujer]

Piensa En Mi, O. Diaz

Summary: The relationship with you and Oscars suddenly ends after he gets locked up. Now it’s 4 years later..

warnings: HELLA angst, heartbreak 

word count: 1.9K

a/n: I had an itch to write today, thank you for requesting babes! Sorry it took this long to get done. I hope everyone is doing okay these days. PSA: Stop the hate against Asians! Speak up for our brothers and sisters, please. I love you all! Please consider: following, heart/comment/reblog my content! Thank you <)

Requested by @boujee-bitches!

(gif belongs to @merakiaes)

You can remember the day you realized just how much you were in love with Oscar Diaz. It was a few months into dating, he had been in and out of town on Santo business, and yet still was able to check in with you. He even sent you doordash multiple times. And in that one moment, as the doordash driver stood at your door, carrying a bag of your favorite pastrami sub, you truly felt your heart bleed for Oscar. The feelings entirely mutual with him. You can remember that exact moment you felt it, just as you remember the moment your heart had been ripped away. 

The consequence of having such a pristine memory is the ability to remember not only the good days but the hurtful ones as well. Now, after years of being with Oscar, he’s gone. Things had been going so well with the Santos and moving up in the ranks for him. Then in a matter of seconds, all that changed. The moment those handcuffs linked his wrists together behind his back as he was  whisked away in the back of the patrol car was the day everything changed.

Change. 

They always say that change is a good thing. But whoever they are, they were wrong. Change is malicious, it’s life-consuming and does nothing but harm. In the beginning you were confident everything would be okay. Nothing could break this man, he has been through the highest highs and the lowest lows. He has endured things as a young child that no child should. Even when the judge has sentenced him to 8 years, the look he gave you said: It’ll be okay, mamas.

For the first few months, things were good. The money he would send to you, you’d put on his books regardless of his wishes for you not to do so. The phone calls that didn’t last nearly as long as you wanted it to. And the letters, even if you talked on the phone and visited him often, Oscar still wrote you letters, and he always drew something for you. 

But it began to get difficult. When school started up in the fall, your full-time job and now taking care of his younger brother, you started to miss calls, needed to reschedule visits. And when you would answer, Oscar would give you the cold shoulder. He realized that you were beating yourself up for trying to juggle everything. He hated himself for making you so stressed just to make it to him. So on a surprise call that you weren’t expecting, he broke it to you that dating while he is incarcerated is foolish of you. It’s a waste of your time. Please take care of yourself and Cesar, we’ll see where we are when I’m out. But for now, it’ll be just me.

That day replays in your mind. No more calls, rejected visits, ghost letters. It felt like he died, though you would have been notified of it if that was the case. But that was 4 years ago, everything had changed and according to Cesar, it’s about to change again.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” You ask, after holding your breath. Spooky gets out tomorrow. 

Cesar shovels the rest of his cereal in his mouth and gulps down the remaining milk, rushing around the kitchen and gathering his school things, “Oscar. He gets out tomorrow. His sentence reduced to half the time, remember the hearing they had last week?”

Whenever Cesar would talk about his older brother, you would tune it out. Oscar breaking up with you over the phone without a thorough reason, then dropping you as a person all together really broke you beyond repair. But you had no choice but dust off your shoulders and keep going. 

You hum and nod, packing your lunch.Without saying anything else, you head back to your room to get your things ready for work. As you pass by the room that Cesar had taken residency in, you notice the packed bags. “Cesar!” 

But by the time you make it back to the kitchen, he has already left out the door. Was he about to leave? Did he want out now that Oscar will be out? Though the idea was to care for Cesar while his brother was locked up, to know he is already ready to up and leave, hurts you. But you shake it off, Oscar is coming home, shit. 

Your day goes by painstakingly slow. All you could think about is how it would go when you’d see him again, how will you feel? What about him, what will he feel?

“Y/N, did you hear me?” Cesars voice sounds from across the table, the two of you enjoying some take-out. The day has gone from slower than a sloth to as quick as sonic the hedgehog.

He stares at you, waiting for you to respond. “Now that Oscar is getting out, it’s time for you to head on back home. Yeah, I heard you. Just sucks is all, I feel like my daily routine will be all messed up.” You joke to which he grins at. 

The next day comes by in a blink of an eye. Here you are leaning against your car that is parked in front of Oscars house. You can’t bring yourself to walk up those stairs and face him. But he hasn’t exited the house yet, you wonder if he even will. After Cesar gets the last bag is when you hear the front door. He makes his way towards you, your breath getting stuck in your airways. 

Cesar hugs you and thanks you again, you squeeze him and ask that he doesn’t be a stranger. Then there stood, you and Oscar. He stares at you for a long moment, studying you. It’s been nearly 4 years since he’s seen you. You are the same with little differences here and there, “You finally pierced your nose.” He points out. 

You purse your lips and nod, scoffing and looking him in the eyes, “Almost 1,300 days of not talking to me and seeing me…. And my nose ring is the first thing you say to me?” 

It wasn’t the plan to argue, you wanted to ask him to be kind to Cesar and take care of him then be on your merry way. But being in his physical presence now, it’s made your blood boil. How could he stand there like nothing had happened between you? The history you two have was an epic love and heartbreak but by the look on his face, it’s as if you are a stranger in passing. 

He licks his bottom lip and digs his hands into his shorts pockets, “What you want me to say? I said all I needed to that day on the phone.”

Your arms uncross from over your chest and your mouth falls slightly open. But before you can let out the rage that’s been building up continuously over the years, “I miss you, querida.” He watches your face contort to confusion then back to anger. He nearly smiles to see that you are still the hot head you’ve always been.

The words weren’t coming out as you wanted them to. All you could do was stomp past him to leave but he grabs your upper arm to stop you. You look down to where his hand wraps around your arm then up to his eyes, the look you give him is loud enough for him to let go.

“Can you just listen to me? You think I wanted to break things off? That it didn’t hurt me just as much as it hurt you?” Oscar begins, standing directly in front of you and slightly craning his head down. “I fucking hated that I did that to you, mami. The last thing I want in this world is not being with you, to cause you pain and to have done that when I was locked up? I hated it. Every single day. But I needed to do it because all I was doing was holding you back. I couldn’t bare knowing that I was making your life hard.”

An eruption of laughter sounds from you, you hold your stomach and one hand clamped over your mouth, hunching over from how hilarious you find his last sentence. Though anyone else hearing it wouldn’t really laugh, seeing as it wasn’t a funny statement. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. But do you hear yourself? You thought breaking up would be better. I don’t know if there was ever a time during our relationship prior that I made you feel I couldn’t handle something like you being locked up, I am terribly sorry if I had but I thought I proved to you that I was more than in love with you, I was hopelessly devoted to you, I was willing to endure it all, every call or visit. I was ready to work hard to make sure you could make tienda… but what did I do or what did I say to make you think otherwise?”

Oscar feels the chains on his heart tighten with every word you say. He doesn’t know what hurts him more, the break-up or now knowing how worthless it made you feel. He knows you are an understanding person, but his intentions didn’t settle as he hoped it would. 

It takes all his might to resist pulling you into a hug, With how you reacted to his touch just moments ago, he knows a hug would only result in profanities being spewed out. As if a hug could magically glue the pieces back together and fix it all. “You didn’t do shit wrong, Y/N. You were the epitome of a down ass girl. But all I could see was the tiredness in your face when you would visit me because you were playing mother to Cesar meanwhile trying to juggle everything else. Trying to make sure you would always come to see me… so I thought ending everything would be better, I thought you would be better off.”

The rage and ache in your heart fights against each other. He is saying one thing but to you its processing as nothing but an excuse. You want to yell and thrash your fists against his chest so he can feel just a sliver of what you went through. 

“I was better off with you. It didn’t matter to me what we were going through Oscar… If it was something joyous or something scrutinizing, as long it was with you and we were together, I wanted it all with you. I was ready to go through this journey with you. But you just gave up on us like that.” You snap your fingers and blink away the tears that had begun pooling for sometime now. His shoulders cave in and he dips his head down, unable to keep his eyes locked onto yours. 

“Give me a chance to prove that I haven’t given up on you or us.”

You wanted to laugh again. To point and scream how silly he sounds and to catch the circus act before they leave town but the way he says it is the reason you didn’t. How low his voice is, how soft his eyes are and his walls had dropped to below sea level is what made you stand so incredibly still.

Do you take the chance? Should push aside all the vines and roots that have grown over the chest labeled: Oscar, to let him in again? 

taglist: @clemmingstylins0n @fairygardenss @princesstiffxoxo @firebenderwolf @mbaku-babygirl​ @chellybear98 @multiyfandomgirl40 @i-just-wanna-live-gc @roury66 @lillict @tinylumpiaa @prettymya3 @starrynite7114 @aneitii @b3mybunnybaby  @angelxfics  @spookysbabymama @kkim120 @ladylj @vayagrxce @irenne-stans @boujee-bitches @blessedboo @lidumiw @morenokatt @gltrpzy (please let me know if you want to be added or removed!)

[wonderful-prompts]

Hi, I'm new to Tumblr, can u please tell me how exactly a writing prompt works?

I think i get the basic idea, but like how much do u need to add? Can u also leave it incomplete and wait for others to continue?

Sorry in advance if this is annoying 🙈

You are not being annoying. My askbox is open for a reason.

A writing prompt isn’t a concept unique to tumblr. Writing prompts can be used in creative writing classes and be a part of books meant to help you write better.

These are usually an idea or tiny snippet that could be part of a story (if something is labeled microfiction it’s probably its own thing) that prompts you to write. It gets the creative juices flowing so you don’t stare at a blinking cursor on a screen or a blank piece of paper for too long.

If you’re going to use a prompt, write however much you feel like! I’d suggest looking for Tumblr users who write original stories based on prompts if you’d like an idea of how to tag your prompt responses.

There are various users that either write short stories in response to writing prompts or may even write multi-part stories based off of a prompt. Typically, stories tend to be one and done (even if they’re only a couple paragraphs long).

I would say that I haven’t seen anyone leave a story off for someone else to continue after they’ve written for a prompt, but I’ve been here for almost 6 years and something like that could have slipped my notice. If you do want to do that, I’d say remember to tag your stuff with writing tags for both organization and visibility. (But that even applies to the things you do finish so other people can see them!)

It’ll be easier to get someone to start a chain if you have at least one interested party involved who can then reblog your post/reblog with their own addition and keep it going.

Like a good chunk of writing prompt blogs on Tumblr, I reblog stories made from my prompts. (But not fanfiction because it requires a level of familiarity with the source material that I usually don’t have.) If you ever make a story from one of my prompts or want to start a chain, I’ll reblog!

EDIT: Usually you’re supposed to reblog the prompt with your story attached. You could make a new post but it is easier to attribute credit to the prompt maker (and which prompt it was) by reblogging. It works either way but I’m only saying one way is easier due to personal experience and the one time I knew someone was crediting me for a prompt but I had no clue what it was.

[liz-allyn]

shudder; part 2/6 [agent mobius x gn!reader]

Mobius heads back to his apartment to find you in the midst of a nightmare.

Part 1

Summary: Pre-Loki series. You are one of the most dangerous variants the TVA has ever recovered, but Mobius knows what makes you tick. Five times he made you shudder, and the one time you returned the favor.

Words: 930

Tags/warnings: Referenced canon-typical violence. Brief reference to past child abuse, strong language. Hurt/comfort; soft!mobius; protective!mobius; power dynamic; reader has a morally questionable background

II.

The next time he noticed the shudder, it was right after you took a swing at him. He barely dodged your feral punch as he reached out to grasp your arms.

“Easy, easy!” you could hear his voice say, but you couldn’t tell where you were. “Hey, easy! I gotcha. You’re okay.”

You quit thrashing, but your body trembled and you were gasping for air.

It was the damn drowning nightmare again, a relic from a repressed memory of your mother trying to drown you in a bathtub when you were little.

You blinked and observed your surroundings, realizing you weren’t lost at sea. You were at TVA headquarters, in Mobius’ modest studio apartment. You were afloat in the darkness sitting up on his standard-issue mattress. You nearly tore the sheets apart during the nightmare.

As he tended to you, he at the edge of his bed, still wearing his work tie. It was late - or early? - but he was just returning to his apartment from an all-nighter of paperwork when he found you screaming in his - or what used to be his - bed.

It was a contentious agreement - you taking his bed while he slept uncomfortably in the sitting area on a small leather couch. But he had vouched for you as a TVA asset, therefore you were his responsibility. Ravonna pointed that out when he’d petitioned on your behalf for proper sleeping quarters.

For weeks prior, you had demonstrated trustworthiness under his leadership, but some Minutemen still held a grudge with what you did to their partners. After you had been jumped and beaten while in your “temporary” holding cell, Mobius had had enough. (You we’re outnumbered, for the record, and you only lost because you didn’t fight back. Whatever. Not your first rodeo. B-15 pressed you for names, but you stubbornly stayed silent. You were many things, but you weren’t a snitch.)

But in this moment in the dark of his apartment, you were weak, crumbling in the older man’s arms. You hated it. Wet streaks of tears rolled down your cheeks. Beads of sweat dripped down your skin, binding your cotton tank to your back. Pathetic.

“It’s okay,” Mobius repeated placatingly. His large hands were fixed to your shoulders, holding you up above the dark water of your fears. Those warm brown eyes held steady on you. You found yourself searching for them in the dark.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “I gotcha. It’s okay.”

You tried to slow your heart rate as more tears threatened to gush from your eyes. He was staring again, you noted, intently studying your features. He watched you with the familiar look of sincerity and wonder he gave you each time you saved the day and stopped the bad guy. It wasn’t a look you were used to. It made you feel… special, even if you were supposedly a mistake.

But there was something else in his eyes. Gentle. Mourning. Pity.

He knew.

You clenched your jaw and tore away your gaze. How did he find out? Were you talking in your sleep? Not only were you crying like a bitch but you were babbling all of your traumatic baggage for the world to hear. Fuck. Now he knew. Now they could use it to their advantage. Just one more page out of your horror story that they could use to manipulate you.

Your heart was racing again, but this time you were enraged.

Fuck this fucking time-tax collector and his smug smile.

He loved reading you, didn’t he? Like a book.

He was invading you with that look. The way he gaped at you, like the words were printed on your skin. Now you were sitting there in front of him - open wide, falling apart at the spine.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

Why was he whispering? It’s not like they were in a play? Did he think this was some kind of movie?

Your breath hitched as the realization hit you.

The film. Your life saga and all your sins preserved in celluloid. He showed you brief glimpses of it in the beginning of your relationship, shortly after he talked you down from certain deletion after you had managed to wrap your chains around his neck in an intense standoff with six angry Minutemen.

He was calm. Compassionate. He treated you like a human, even as you were learning that you were a pawn. That every scar, every pang, every bruise, every atrocity that had been done to you and by you were all part of The Plan™. And the one time you detoured away from your dark path, you in fact, had made a mistake.

He showed you the highlights of the film, but you got the picture. However, at the time you didn’t quite understand that he’d seen it all. Every graphic detail. This unassuming, mild-mannered, steely-eyed man knew you more than anyone ever had. Maybe even more than you knew yourself.

Here he was now, eyes fixed on you, patiently waiting. Nothing other than your cooperation in hunting variants had been asked for or expected. And if he was going to force you to comply by waterboarding you, or trapping you in a time theater where you could relieve your greatest (horror) hits, why hadn’t he done that already?

He gently spoke, releasing you, “Can I get you anything—?”

“I’m fine,” you bit off, steeling your soul.

He paused and considered you. Watched you. His gaze softened with a gentle nod. “Okay.” He stood from the bed without another word and left you alone.

Where you wanted to be.

Part 3

A/N: Like this story? Reblog!

[stuff-from-the-void-matron]

Laurel Wreaths & Animal Teeth (3)

(c!technoblade x fem!reader)

(some people liked chapter 2 so here’s chapter 3. whether or not there’s a chapter 4 is dependent on if this one gets any comments/reblogs.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re not exactly sure when your plans for a house shifted from ‘maybe a two story house’ into ‘some kinda roman temple/shrine type building’ instead. 

Probably after the third time you had to tear down what you were building because it just didn’t look right. You’d initially not been able to go anywhere with the white quartz (you’d made a base but it looked stupid so you’d tossed it) so you’d switched it with a birch wood. That was where the problems started. First you’d tried your hand at making a cute little cottagecore house, but it just didn’t look cute to you and instead came out kinda frumpy? So you scrapped it, even though it pained you. 

“Hours wasted.”

Then you tried making another house, this one taller and with dark wood. But it ended up looking like some kind of Viking home, no matter how much you tweaked it, which totally clashed with the vibrant floral scenery around you. It would work better in a snowy biome. So you’d scrapped that one too, none too happy either.

“Why do I suck?”

Then you’d tried your hand at making a cute mushroom house! But…. it was awful. No matter what you did it just didn’t look right?? You tried making the stem ‘natural’ like it would look in minecraft but then it looked too artificial to you. Then you tried making it look more normal but then it just ended up looking wonky. Long story short.. you hated it. You scrapped it, maybe a little more angry than the previous two times. That was when you’d gone back to the white quartz blocks.

And you started with a huge square, then that sorta morphed into a circle. Or as ‘circular’ as this world’s building blocks could get. Then it just sorta.. went from there? Before you knew it you had a circular white temple/shrine with a domed and tiered ceiling and four tall stained glass windows with star and sky designs. You’d gotten into the construction as it had begun to be more fun. You’d even hung lanterns by chains from the ceiling in symmetrical points and it gave the whole place a nice vibe you think. Especially when it started raining outside.

Once it was all done to your satisfaction you just sat in the middle of the quartz floor and gazed up at the gently swaying lanterns. You’re glad you’d ended up with this place, it looks pretty and has a calm vibe you can resonate with. 

It would be dawn soon so you decided since you were done you’d go to bed since you had nothing else to do at the moment. Or well that had been the plan until you placed down your bed and couldn’t help but notice how utterly ridiculous a single bed in the corner of this huge temple looked. It actually made you snort before deciding then and there you needed a bed that somewhat matched the temple aesthetic you guessed you were going for now.

-0-

You ended up making this huge canopy bed with curtains and a platform you had to walk up a step to get to the three beds you’d put on it to look right. Under normal circumstances you’d not like such an overly lavish bed but it certainly fit the almost regal aesthetic your new temple home had. Which was just fine you supposed, it’s not like you were opposed to it. Just not what you’d planned to do from the get go.

Only problem now was.. the place still looked weirdly empty of life. Like one of those barren ‘minimalism’ nightmare homes rich people get off to. So you went through the inventory and started looking for stuff to decorate with. On the wall to the left of the entrance you set up an area for a brewing stand and cauldron as well as an ender chest, mostly just because it looked cool with the purple particles. You also hung up some item frames on the wall by the quartz counters you set up and picked out a bunch of pretty colored potions to hang in them.

Then on the opposite wall you made a little library with an alcove in the middle for an enchantment table. With a lantern on top of the bookshelf next to the crafting table and clay pots of flowers on the uppermost bookshelves to give the area a nicer look. You even added some fluffy carpet in front of the area to enhance the comfiness. And when you went over to the front door and then turned to look at the whole space you smiled because it really did look good. Larger than you’d intended, sure, but also very comfy now too.

You think you’re done with the inside until you look up at the bare walls between the stained glass windows. They were a little… naked. So you tried hanging up some paintings but… they looked terrible. The ‘round’ angle of the windows kept the options for what paintings you could put up pretty narrow. So you forgot that idea and instead tried putting up item frames! But you put some up and disliked it almost immediately. It felt way too busy so you got rid of those too. 

You were getting tired of decorating so you just grabbed a random banner (purple because why not?) and then you grabbed a handful of different colored dyes before pulling out a loom. You tried a bunch of different designs, threw out most of them because they either ended up with ugly clashing colors or looking way too busy. But you finally settled on one that was a purple banner with an orange gradient coming up from the bottom and finally a gold sun right in the middle. It looked very pretty, like a sunset!

Once you were happy you hung a couple inside then on a whim you even hung a couple outside your door on either side. It made the outside look prettier in your opinion so once you were done (for real this time) you went and just flopped into bed, not feeling more than a touch tired but with nothing else to do at the moment. So you snuggled into your big cozy bed and drifted off to sleep~

-0-

Days passed since you built your home and you kept up work around the village, planting bamboo and berry bushes in a wall around it in a circle as a form of defense against the Illagers. They were kinda jerks and seemed to only want to kill villagers. Which wasn’t cool. And yeah you could have dug a moat or pit around it instead you guessed but you didn’t want any of the villagers falling in and you felt like they would… 

So a wall of bamboo and prickly berry bushes it was. And it works! And looks dope. So win/win.

And it was as you were on your way to put some lights at the bottoms of the ponds and rivers that you noticed it from the corner of your eye. One of your sunset banners! But it was hanging up outside of the weaponsmith’s place instead of on your temple home where you knew you left it. But then you noticed another one hanging up outside the stonemason’s workshop…

You look over at your home up on the hill and see your banners still in place. And you know none of them trudged all the way up there just to steal one from the inside so you decide to investigate more in the village. And the further you walk in the more banners with your pattern on them you see. Actually every building you pass has at least one hung up somewhere near the door. You blinked before chuckling a little and thinking to yourself,

‘Oh! They all must have seen the banner I made and liked it! So they made their own to hang up. That’s actually pretty cute. I’m glad they like it.’

You were blissfully ignorant to the fact that the villagers have started to see you as their saint of sorts. Their goddess of prosperity and kindness. Without whom they would still be lost and living in pathetic huts and with no drive to acquire a skill and better themselves. They honestly look back on those times as such a dark period of their lives. When they were ignorant of their own abilities without your blessing to guide them. They owed you their lives and they wanted to show their thanks to you.

So when they saw you put up your sunset banners on your temple they quickly went to the shepherd and asked him to make them some just like it! And the shepherd, with his skill being a master thanks to your wonderful trading help, was easily able to craft such banners. Every villager had at least one by the time the sun was going down, all of them proudly being hung on the outsides of their homes and work buildings to show their allegiance to you!

But it wouldn’t stop there. The villagers wanted to give back even a fraction of what you have given to them.

-0-

In the following weeks you definitely noticed the villagers acting… odd. It started small at first, with them each coming to you and giving you gifts. The shepherd gave you a pair of blankets that were beautifully crocheted with this fluffy wool yarn, one that’d been dyed a soft baby pink while the other was a soothing sea foam color. You thanked him with a smile three times over and he seemed endlessly happy you liked them. You took them home and laid them across your bed and liked the pop of color they provided your space.

Though after that the farmer and leatherworker both met you at the entrance to your temple and each gifted you some things they thought you’d like. The farmer happily handed over a full basket of freshly baked bread along with another basket containing a bushel of golden carrots and almost a full melon’s worth of glistering melon slices. While the leatherworker offered up a pair of dainty leather sandals that looked like they would lace up your legs to just below your knees. And also what looked like a prettily crafted leather utility belt! It had lotus details and golden studs and buckles on the front and back. And one large pocket, one medium zipper pocket, and two smaller pockets. You loved all of their gifts and thanked them both over and over while safely putting the food away (and maybe eating some bread right then) and putting the slippers and belt on. 

You were beyond grateful and thought that was the end of that.

You… were wrong.

-0-

As the days turned into weeks you were lavished with more and more offerings. It took you a while to realize that’s what they were; offerings. You got a little uncomfortable with all the gifts after a bit but when you started to refuse them the villagers looked so sad so you began to accept them again. Especially after they tried to make ‘better’ stuff for you after your initial refusal, under the impression the last ones weren’t good enough for you or something. It started to get hard to take in all the gifts, because sometimes you weren’t available in the village (you still liked to explore) or because you were working on something and they couldn’t reach you. So as a solution you set up a double chest outside your temple for them to put the gifts in. 

They eagerly adapted to that and each night you’d clean out the chest, putting away practical gifts and discreetly getting rid of ones you had WAY too many of. Like the food. You had a full double chest of food and you didn’t need anymore, but saying so would probably hurt their feelings. So this was the easiest way. Plus a lot of the gifts you actually DID like. Like the sandals, hip pocket belt, and the pretty white dress you were currently wearing. The under part of it was just a simple white sleeveless mini dress that went above your knees (you’re not sure it was that shirt when you first tried it on..) and the over part of the dress was a sheer white maxi dress with loose ruffled sleeved that hung off your shoulders, and a slit on each side that helped with ease of movement.

You’d taken to wearing the dress, the hip pocket belt, and sandals every day. They were all comfortable and looked pretty good on you now that you think about it. Not to mention the fabric was light and breathable too, which helped keep you from getting too hot. You’re not sure what kind of fabric it’s made of, but whatever it is it’s light enough to not make you sweat but it’s also heavy enough to keep you from getting cold when it’s windy. Regardless, it’s your go-to outfit these days.

But aside from the offerings and stuff, you had to sit down and really examine your current position. You really took the time to pay attention to how the villagers were treating you. And you eventually came to the conclusion that they were treating you like some kind of saint or deity. They gave you the best of their wares as offerings, they took on your banner as their own (presumably as a show of loyalty), and they almost seemed to worship the ground you walked on. This isn’t even mentioning the statues that they’d put up of you… Like, they were good! Very well done and made of polished white quartz but.. it was still strange. Though like everything else you can’t say you weren’t getting used to it all.

You sighed and rolled with it. 

-0-

You realized one day you’d never been to the Nether. And you wondered if the rules here (like mobs not bothering you) was also true there? You couldn’t deny you were sorta excited to go see, but also scared. You HATED the freaking Hoglins when you played Minecraft before this place. They were always so aggressive and you can’t count how many times they’d killed you, the bastards. But your curiosity won out over your anxiety so you grabbed the enchanted diamond pickaxe you’d been given and then paused while grabbing a stack of gold bars.

“Wait I need to wear gold right? Or the Piglins will be all mad,” you said as you grabbed a gold helmet from your inventory.

You thoughtlessly went to put it on but jerked the helmet back when it clanged against something hard. Something hard that made you wince as a small shock of pain went through your skull. A curse left your lips as you asked out loud what the fuck THAT was about. You were in the middle of trying to come up with an explanation when you reached up with your free hand and flinched when it came into contact with something on your head. Something that 200% was NOT your hair or skull. Panic bubbled inside you and your stomach sank into your feet as you whipped the gold helmet up to look into its polished surface to see yourself.

Horns? Little blunt horns… On your head. 

With a shaky hand you reached up, sort of hoping this was just a dream. But when your fingertips brushed against the soft velvety texture of the horns your breathing grew faster and you pulled your hand away like you’d been burned. You dropped the helmet, not even hearing it clatter against the floor as you stumbled back, nearly tripping over the step that led up to the platform your bed was on, but you somehow managed to get to the bed and sit down.

Before you knew it you’d burst into tears and buried your face into your hands, sobbing and unable to cope with this new fuckery. 

You’ve had to deal with so much weird insane shit since ending up here, wherever the fuck HERE was. You were honestly so tired. You’ve done your best to stay calm, stay sane, and just keep going. And for the most part you have! You focused on surviving, building, and dealing with the villagers. You’d probably feel silly for breaking down over some dumb horns later, especially after you’d barely batted an eye over your weird ears, teeth, and EYES. But the breakdown was probably more to do with life deciding to give you another slice of bullshit despite your overflowing plate. At least that’s what the logical part of your mind was thinking.

But the illogical part, the emotional part, was just so done. So you cried and cried and cried your very soul out until no sound was leaving you anymore. And then, once you were cried out and exhausted you weakly crawled onto the pillows and just passed out. 

You’d deal with this new shit later.

-0-

Far on the outskirts of the opposite side of the village from your temple a young boy with golden hair stumbled across the entrance to said village. 

He’d never seen this village before and was curious. He’d have gladly stormed in and started going through villager chests for loot but it was getting close to dusk and his older brother said he needed to get back asap. Now usually he’d shrug off his brother’s bossy nature but he’d sounded worried so he decided to hurry and get back before it got too late.

But before he turned and left he marked down this village’s coordinates so he could get back to it later..

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[aquaticstyles]

to do list

hi everyone! i know it’s early, but i stayed up all night writing and simply couldn’t wait to post. 4.8k of some bf!harry ahead (including my first attempt at smut... pls feel free to tell me if it sucks). of course, reblogs + feedback make my heart soar 💓💕💖💘💗💞

You think the scene before you cannot be real. Without a doubt, you must be dreaming, sleepwalking, eyes still seeing through a rose-colored, innocent hue that can only belong to your imagination.

Dew drops cling onto freshly cut blades of emerald grass, spray-painting the ground in a silver cast, sparkling, glistening. Birds sing a perfectly pitched hymn, their orchestra being the gentle whistle of the wind that rustles the branches of the trees in your backyard, new with springtime buds the bees generously catered to. There are the roses, sitting pretty in their beds, still slightly drooping from their abandonment of the glowing mass in the atmosphere, pouting in velvet pink. A dragonfly brushes past the French doors in front of you, and you swear you notice it's hesitation, almost tempted by the glass, almost fooled by the facade, almost daring to dart into the comfort of your home, blocked off by the rest of the outside world. Then there's a lone butterfly, fluttering, strikingly contrasting against the green with its pompous red wings outlined intricately in black ink. The sun rises slowly over her horizon, sluggishly being pulled on a string by an invisible hand buried beneath bundles of clouds pocketed throughout the sky turning more blue as each second ticks by. Watercolor, drops of salmon and peach twirling about one another, accidentally on purpose creating an orange hue to the world below, that is now waking again, a fresh start, a new day.

You simply must be dreaming.

Picking apart the clementine you had selected as your sunrise viewing snack, you watch the scene before you unfold, a rubix cube solving itself before your very own eyes. Sweet and sour juices cascade down your throat, and you notice the uncanny resemblance the fruit in your palm mirrors to the morning. You know the picturesque serenity will soon fade away, turning sour as children awake from their slumbers and car engines are started back up again, but you enjoy the sweet while it remains.

Startling you from your daze, you feel a warm body suddenly press up against your backside, arms encircling your waist, cold palms resting against your exposed stomach, creating a valley of goosebumps in their wake. You relax immediately into his touch, snuggling into him and sighing as he rests his chin on your shoulder.

"Your hands are freezing," you whisper to him, careful not to disturb nature.

Without a word, he smooths his palms up and down the skin of your tummy in a fast pace in hopes of warming them. After doing so for a couple seconds, now satisfied with the new temperature, he sinks his hands cheekily beneath the band of your underwear, fingertips resting on each hip, using your cotton panties as a blanket.

You almost snicker at his antics, but choose instead to offer him the last piece of your fruit, hovering it over where you imagine his mouth to be near your shoulder. He happily accepts your donation, chapped lips wrapping around your two fingers, a tongue darting out momentarily, teasingly. Out of the corner of your eye you see a smirk fall upon his face as he munches on the fruit, the deep crevice of a dimple forming for only a second. You focus your gaze back on the sun, who has already risen significantly higher in the few minutes Harry had stolen your attention.

As if to thank you for orange, Harry presses a kiss to your skin, then decides after five seconds that one was not enough, for you feel his lips drag across the expanse of your bare shoulder, making their way to the base of your neck. A sticky residue of juice is left behind as his tongue licks your skin, sucking, nipping, biting, causing your eyes to flutter shut and an appreciative hum to rise from the back of your throat. Your head tilts back, allowing the man showing you his love more access. His palms move from their previous shelter underneath your panties, a single finger ghosting up your skin, poking your bellybutton, until it moves beneath the thin tank top you're sporting, tracing the valley of your chest. Two palms encase your breasts, massaging slowly, and your nipples pebble beneath the all-too-familiar touch. Humming again, you get lost in the way Harry has encased you in your third dream of the day.

"You're bein' nice. Should give you a piece of my orange more often," you snicker as Harry flicks your nipple once before encircling his arms around your waist again, hugging you, sinking into your quicksand. He gently sways the two of you, molten together like two pieces of chocolate underneath a beachy sun, one silhouette.

"Mmm..." he hums, and you know he's about to say something else as he presses one final peck beneath your ear, resting his chin back on your shoulder.

A few minutes pass by in silence, and you patiently await the first mumblings of your boyfriend, expecting the special, raspy voice that belongs to early Harry. Unlike the rasp that occurs after a show, or the rasp after a bitter fight, this one is your favorite, because you're the only one who gets to hear it. You're the only one that gets his mornings.

"Wanna have sex?"

You blink at the sudden abrupt and blunt statement interrupting your sentimental thinking. Chuckling softly at your two contrasting mindsets, you tease him, "Bored already? It's not even 7 yet."

"Not bored," Harry lifts his head, pretending to be shocked at your accusation as he spins your body around in his arms so he can finally get a good look at you. He notices the smile already plastered on your face as you turn into view, and he thinks that he would do anything to capture you in this moment and keep it locked away in his chest forever. "Jus' wanna have sex with you. Love havin' sex with you."

You run your hands up Harry's bare chest and begin to fiddle with the chain hanging around his neck, thumbing over the plated cross that has ironically swung over you countless times, "Gotta check this off the to do list?"

You're only joking, but the sudden frown that washes over Harry's face makes you think he didn't pick up on that. Suddenly ever-so-serious, creases form between his brow, "Sex with you is never something to just mark off my to do list."

"No?" you raise your eyebrows and fold your hands behind his neck, tugging gently at the curls there, twirling them around your pointer finger.

With a quick and firm shake of his head to confirm his sentiment, he places a loving kiss on your cheek, then the other one, then on the center of your pout, lingering there for a moment before sneakily slipping his tongue into your mouth and massaging it languidly against yours, the tangy bitterness of the orange encircling the two of you, making your toes curl and your hands slide into the curled mess sitting atop your lover's head, knots from a deep slumber, a rats nest begging for a comb, but your fingers will simply have to suffice.

"Love you," he mumbles as he pulls away, speaking his mind yet directly from his heart all at once.

You can't help but grin at him, the sunlight from the view you were ogling over mere seconds ago casting a perfect golden hue onto his tanned skin. You're so close you can see every pore, every beauty mark, every scar. If you closed your eyes you would be able to trace his skin with ease, knowing every landmark on his road map, knowing every bit and piece of Harry that makes him Harry. He's so familiar to you, a body you know sometimes better than your own, a body you're always longing for, regardless of the countless of times you've made love by now. There's something so innocently intimate about this moment, something so casual and domestic.

You wish to capture him right now, in this very instant, with curls that have definitely looked worse but definitely looked better, glistening pink lips that are still slightly chapped from their lack of use through the night, a slight stubble around his jaw and below his nose, eyebrows crisscrossed in a chevron pattern that is entirely unnoticeable unless you're peering directly into his sleepy eyes (paired with faint purple circles underneath), in nothing but a pair of briefs, one leg hiked up significantly higher than the other (most likely due to the starfish position he chose to undertake in sleep last night), and lock it away in a special place in your mind forever.

This is Harry. Your Harry. The version of him reserved just for you.

And how could you say no?

"Okay," you smile as you watch his eyes light up like a school boy sneaking his first kiss against the tree on the playground, a million fireworks exploding in a forest.

In one sudden, swift movement, Harry swings your body over his shoulder with ease, as if you weigh nothing more than a sheet of paper. Now seeing the world upside down, you erupt into a burst of giggles, your hair swinging below you as your boyfriend begins to maneuver around your home. The sunrise slowly defocuses, shifting out of your view as the replacement sunshine carries you towards your bedroom.

"I'm perfectly capable of walking you know," you manage to speak out between laughs, and you imagine there's undoubtedly a bulging vein at the center of your forehead from your current position.

"Hush," is all he says in response, paired with a couple pats on your bum that is so conveniently placed on his shoulder. "Bed or shower?"

"Uhhhh," you begin, now having a perfect view of your living room as Harry now stands in the doorway of your bedroom. Drumming your hands on the backs of his thighs in contemplation, you weigh your options, "Last time we did it in the shower you almost slipped and broke your neck so-"

"Your fault for using so much bloody conditioner-"

"Thought you liked my conditioner, said it smelled like roses-"

And then he's throwing you on top of the mattress, your back colliding with the plush duvet, and head sinking into the array of pillows Harry simply has to have (the first night he spent at your place, you only had two. the next time he came over, a dozen new pillows sat crammed in his backseat, claiming it was good for "neck and back support"). You barely have a second to think before he's crawling over you, palms placed on each side of your head, his knees trapping you against your hips. Fanning out, your hair creates a halo around you, making you look even more of an angel the man hovering above you sees you as. Out of the corner of your eye you see one of his rings twinkle in the singular beam of sunlight peaking through your curtains, and you can't help the smile that warms your face.

"What are yeh smilin' at?" Harry grins, peering down at you below him. He looks ethereal, tattoos contrasting and standing out even in the darkness masking the room, thick biceps flexing as they hold his body up above yours, smiling in that way he does only when he's around his other half. He belongs in a gallery, framed in gold trim, available to be studied and fawned over. Yet here you are, selfishly adoring what the masses wish they could view, an unbothered bliss.

"Nothin," you respond, locking your arms behind his neck, scratching his scalp lightly, it feels like the first ten chews of bubble gum, squishing a marshmallow between your fingertips, a fruity piña colada on a hot summer's day, and he hasn't even touched you yet. "just love you."

And you do. So much it consumes you. So much it hurts. So much you'd dive head first into shark infested waters if it meant feeling his palm against your cheek.

And if you thought that smile of his couldn't possible grow any bigger, you're proven wrong yet again. He catches your lips between his, suckling on your bottom lip before slipping his tongue in your mouth, licking into you as if you're the last bucket of water on earth and he's parched, shriveling at the seams. It's like his one mission in life was to move his tongue against yours, and he's perfected his craft flawlessly. His body presses down against yours, needing contact, gently grinding his bulge that is growing with each rotation of his hips against your clothed core.

"Love you so much," he mumbles in between sloppy kisses, noses bumping every so often, causing a few giggles to interrupt the sweet silence.

After removing your shirt in one swift movement, desperate to reveal the miles upon miles of skin he never tires of studying, his lips soon travel south, leaving a piece of his heart in their tracks from the corner of your mouth, to beneath your ear, to your jaw, to your breasts, to your tummy, to your hip bone.

"Can I have a taste darlin'? Please? M'achin' for it," ringed hands run up and down the sides of your abdomen before they encircle your thighs, spreading them apart so a mess of caramel curls can settle between them, nails creating half-moons onto your skin.

A breathy exhale releases from you as he brushes his nose exactly against where he knows your clit is, ghosting the pad of his thumb against it once teasingly. Hooded green eyes peer into yours from their position between you, and you think you'd like to have this photograph etched into your brain for eternity. Your lover, in between your legs, begging to lick you until your thighs shake.

"Can smell yeh angel, makin' my mouth water. Gonna let me taste yeh fo' a bit?" His accent is huskier, low and raspy, shavings of dark chocolate sprinkled on a bitter raspberry tart.

And again, how on earth could you say no?

"Please H," you grasp onto the cusp of a chestnut curl, gripping onto it as your life depends on it as Harry quite literally dives into you.

Your underwear is thrown and forgotten across the room as his lips attack your folds, tongue licking into you and spreading you apart in a way that only Harry can do. You're a watermelon cracked open on the deck of a yacht, juice dribbling onto to sugar-high-chasing chins. Prickles of his facial hair rub against you in the most agonizingly amazing way, and you yelp when he delivers a harsh suck to your clit right off the bat, moaning and whining underneath his touch.

His tongue doesn't miss a single spot, devouring you and causing your heart to thump harshly against your chest. Suddenly and abruptly, Harry inserts a finger into your entrance, curling it inside you and pumping it in and out a couple times before adding another. His fingers and tongue simultaneously work you, and if your brain hadn't turned to jelly, you'd be delivering a speech consisting of his name and various other praises.

"Gimme a good one, lover," he demands, his lips vibrating against you. When his lips move to suck harshly on your clit yet again as his fingers repeatedly hit that one cushiony spot inside you, you're sent over the edge, curling your toes, moaning relentlessly, and jerking your hips abruptly, causing harry's large palms to trap them back down against the mattress.

He's a professional, an artist, painting you with each lick of his tongue against your nerves, each curl of his fingers inside of you, making a masterpiece out of you as you ride out your wave of pleasure, coasting it until it crashes against the shore. His starry night.

And when you finally chase down your high, and Harry's still licking your folds, you tug his roots away from you, wiggling from overstimulation. A whine leaves Harry's cherry lips as he's tugged back to you. A smirk warms his face, a dimple reappearing, and his thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, catching some of your arousal, before it sinks between his glistening lips. Sucking the remnants of you from his finger, he hums, "tastes like clementines."

His words send you into a frenzy, a vampire flung into a blood drive, and you grasp onto his shoulders and flip him roughly onto his back, straddling him and trapping his lips in a kiss before any objections can leave them. His hands encase your back, scratching here and rubbing there. You can still taste you on his tongue as it swirls against your own, and when you take his lower lip between your teeth, he lets out a throaty groan, lifting his hips to rut against your sensitive core to relieve himself for just a moment.

"Achin' aren't you baby?" You ask, tracing your fingers over the butterfly stamped on his chest, to the ferns above his v-line, to the sparse patch of coarse hair right above his underwear that sits low on his waist. Palming over the fabric, you feel how hard and thick he's gotten, and you can only imagine how frustrated he must be.

"Fuck, yeah. Fuck me angel, please. Always achin' for yeh," Harry whimpers, green eyes nearly bulging out of his skull as he watches you teasingly toy with the band of his underwear, tracing the skin right above where he needs you most.

You tap his hip bone twice, and he obliges by lifting his hips, allowing you to drag his underwear to his feet and fling them across the room, undoubtedly joining yours somewhere. He loves when you take charge, loves when you tell him what to do without even verbally saying anything. You could do anything to him, and he'd love it. He's so caught up in your orbit he'd completely miss the asteroid hurtling towards him at a thousand miles per hour.

And when his cock springs up against his stomach, tip red and glistening with precum, your mouth literally waters.

How the fuck can a dick be that pretty?

Crawling back over to him, you gently twist your fingers around his member, giving him a few pumps that causes his head to roll back against the pillow, veins bulging in his neck as a loud groan leaves his open lips. His eyes flutter shut as you stroke him, and you're nearly about to go down on him when he interrupts your thoughts.

"Put me in darlin', won't last if yeh keep doin' that. Wanna feel your pretty cunt wrapped around me, yeah?"

And you don't have to be told twice.

Lining him up with your entrance, you slowly sink down onto him inch by inch, hissing at the faint burn that always comes with him stretching you out like this, especially after his tongue already worked wonderful magic on you mere minutes ago. Harry moans, praising and chanting your name in whispers. His face is pulled in pleasure, eyebrows furrowing, lips open as heavy pants leave them.

As soon as you get to the base of him, you take a moment to adjust before slowly working up a rotation of your hips, circling around him and rubbing your clit on his pelvic bone in the process, sending an overwhelming wave of goosebumps down your spine. Harry's hands move up and down your back, to your ass, to your pebbled nipples, massaging and coasting over every single centimeter of skin he can reach.

Creating a rhythm, you begin to sink up and down on his cock, causing your tits to bounce as you pick up the pace. He's filling you up in the best way imaginable, hitting every spot, encompassing every inch. You can't tell where he stops and you begin, waterfalls inter-joining and cascading down together, intertwined in harmony and mind-numbing pleasure. The sound of your skin slapping together is music to your ears, a sweet symphony of your bodies exuding love.

"Harry god," you moan when his tip reaches that one spot inside you, eyes rolling back, tilting your head in a way that broadcasts the expanse of your neck dotted with purple bruises from Harry's lips, and your chest, breasts glistening with beads of sweat.

"Like that angel? Like when yeh ride me like this?" Harry groans at the sight of you, a masterpiece fucking him so well he nearly forgets his name. You're glowing, a shining mass far too bright for him, and he almost debates jetting off for his sunglasses. "Know yeh do. Fuckin' perfect. Ridin' me so well angel, tha's it."  

It's paradise, toes sinking into beds of sand, observing the sun as it sinks into the ocean, leaving an array of creamsicle in its path, a massage from warm palms after a hard week hunched over a computer, finally finishing the book you've started three times, dog-earing the pages with passages that jump out to you, a cold shower when the air-con is out, sweaty bodies lost under the brief escape of the chilling water. It's perfect. It's you and Harry.

He can't take his eyes off you, not wanting to miss a single second of this, barely blinking so he can come back to each frame and rewatch this film over and over and over again. Moving his palms against your sides, he watches as your breasts move up and down, and he can't help the next words that tumble out of his mouth, ""Your tits are fuckin' dynamite have I ever told you that?"

Locking eyes with your lover, you smile widely, pearly whites broadcasted in an ear-to-ear grin at his ability to say something so completely Harry in this intimate moment. You let one giggle escape your lips, briefly shaking your head at the man, causing a lock of your hair to fall out of place and over your eyes.

His knuckles brush the stray away so it doesn't block your view of him beneath you, and then he cups your cheek and grins, an eternal sunshine radiating his heat onto you, "Wha'? It's true. Your tits are fuckin' incredible. Can't believe I get to see 'em."

Feeling nothing but pure adoration, you observe the same look in his eye, his smile sparkling beneath you, eyes twinkling into yours as if a projector is relaying the words "I love you" in a cursive script across his irises. Blinking once, taking a snapshot of his face right now, you lean into his touch and place a kiss to his palm, "Thanks lover."

Clenching your walls around him, Harry loses his train of thought and releases an ear-splitting moan, one that nearly makes you cum in that very instant. His hand moves from your cheek to your side again, both palms squeezing your hips. He bites his lip so hard it almost draws blood, his cock twitching as it buries inside you, skin on skin, absolutely no barriers. "My lover," he mumbles, eyes darting off to where your bodies are connecting, watching your pussy slide up and down his cock.

Your thighs begin to burn, and you feel that all too familiar feeling bubble in your abdomen, foam overflowing a cappuccino. Placing your palms on his chest, you hover over him, grinding your hips repeatedly, "Your lover. The only one."

He wraps his hands around your wrists, bringing them to his lips to kiss the back of your hands, then pecking each one of your fingers, mumbling in between each token of his affection, "Only one that can fuck me like this angel, only one."

Once he releases his hold on your hands, he moves one of his fingers down to your clit, flicking the bundle of nerves in a way that causes you to cry out, "Fuck, Harry, I'm gonna-,"

"There we are," he smirks, watching you lose it before his very eyes, and he knows when your brow begins to furrow that you're close to unraveling again, "go ahead darlin' come on your cock. It's yours."

Your movements become sloppy, no longer fluid and concentrated like before as you run after your orgasm. Still desperate to prolong this feeling as longer as possible, you pick up the pace even more, riding him faster despite your body's oncoming exhaustion. His finger continues to linger where you need it, playing with you and sending wave after wave of pleasure through you.

"Fuck, that's it," Harry's raspy praises causes a flush to rise to your chest and cheeks, "Not far behind yeh lover keep goin'."

He loves the way you look when you come, the way your face twists and your mouth drops in the shape of an O, strawberry lips glistening in ecstasy, begging for a taste. Sweat running down your chest and lingering on your temples, messy hair frizzy from the pillow and his fingertips, golden skin shining in the low-light. But he particularly loves the way you never ever shut your eyes, even though sometimes the waves are so euphorically catastrophic you're tempted to let your eyes rest to absorb the moment fully. Yet here you are right now, candle wax melting above him into a sea of warm rose water, peering directly into his eyes, revealing every word you wish you could say. A whimper, Right there. A moan, I love you.

And once he's viewed the sight beautiful enough to blind him, he's coming as well, his cock twitching as he releases warm spurts of him inside of you. As soon as you feel him soften, you lift up off of him and collapse on top of his sweaty chest, limbs exhausted and body spent from your two orgasms. You rest your head on a swallow, the steady heartbeat of your lover echoing softly into your eardrum, gooey caramel summersaulting over cotton candy skies, a chilling ice cube plummeting and disappearing into a hot tub, steaming, steady, Styles.

Harry presses a kiss to your forehead, lips lingering for a moment, I. two, Love, three, You. One hand rests on your piping back, scratching lightly up and down, while the other strokes your hair away from your face, a touch so soft and delicate as if he'd break you into a million pieces if he's not too fragile. Precious cargo.

"Love you," you mumble, nearly half asleep as his touch sends another wave of soothing calmness through your nerves, unaware that the exact same words were repeating over and over through his brain in this moment.

Harry smiles, a wide, bunny-tooth grin, and even though you can't see it, you know it's there, for his heartbeat quickens ever-so-slightly.

"Love you, angel. So much."

It's laying here, post-sex, in the comforting silence of your home, that you think you quite like these moments more than any others. The ones that are so simple and habitual one would deem them unimportant, a cup of tea gone cold, last Sunday's paper. These moments are what make you feel the closest to Harry, behind closed doors, just you and him, in your own bulletproof bubble, making love, starting and ending each day, together. And you think you quite like the idea of spending forever in that bubble, watching the sunrise, sharing your clementine, and spending the day tangled in sheets with the man that has irreversibly stolen your heart.

Theirs was a brief beauty, autumn leaves before they fall to the ground, trampled on, forgotten. Yours was forever, an easy love, one that didn't have to try, one that flourished, even when the odds were pent against you. An easy love, a flourishing love, a habit you never wish to break. As simple as a well-known recipe, caramel-colored pages wilting from being passed by generations. As complex as learning the avenues and allies, hiding spots and hidden treasures of a new city. He was everything, the light, the dark, the beginning, the end.

And when you wake up the next morning, peering over your shoulder in the doorway of your shared bedroom to see that all too familiar starfish spread out and suctioned to the sheets, you smile, knowing that in only a couple of minutes he'd notice the left side of the bed had gone cold, springing up out of bed in search of his personal radiator, his lover. You trot to the kitchen, and right as you reach to grab a clementine, you notice a note that had not been there the night prior, stuck to the thick peel of the fruit.  

"To Do List:

   - Go on a run.    - Propose to girlfriend.    - Have sex with girlfriend fiancé.    - Call Mum.    - Buy more clementines."

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Take My Hand (Part Four)

Summary: doing what you think is best for another person never ends well (four of ??? parts - more parts to come!) 

Pairings: Sonny Carisi x Reader, Rafael Barba x Reader 

Word Count: 7,579

Song: I don't like slow motion, double vision in rose blush / I don't like that falling feels like flying 'til the bone crush (gold rush by taylor swift) 

Warnings: T, lots of angst, but a happy ending? 

A/N: thank you to all of you for reading, your comments and reblogs have kept me going! thank you to @laneygthememequeen​ and @bucky-of-the-opera​ for being the best beta readers!! 

“Rafael, you don’t have to leave—” Sonny crossed his arms, as Rafael raised an eyebrow at him over his drink, sipping at his scotch mournfully, “McCoy said you could still work—” 

“You know a lawyer’s reputation is everything, Carisi,” he swirled what remained of his drink in his glass, “it’s our main commodity, and mine has been taken out back and shot — by my own hand,” he downs the rest of the drink, “besides,” he sighs, “there’s nothing left for me here.” 

Sonny frowns, sipping at his own drink, “What’re gonna do next?” Rafael shrugs, “I think I’ll broaden my horizons— this is the first time since before law school that I haven’t had a plan for my life — it’s just wide open.” 

“And that’s?” 

“Terrifying, surprising — I never thought I’d have to start over at this point in my career, but,” he leans against the counter, “it’s a change,” and then he looks over at Sonny, “and what about you?” 

He furrows his brow, “What about me?” 

“Are you going to apply for the opening in the D.A.’s office?” Sonny nearly chokes on his drink, “come on, Carisi, you’re more than qualified.” 

He shakes his head, “I don’t know — I’m not sure if I’m ready for that change quite yet, besides,” he shifts in his seat, “I heard from Liv that McCoy has someone else in mind for the job.” 

“Stone?” Rafael asks, and Sonny tilts his head, “I may not be in that office, but it doesn’t change the fact that it leaks like a rusty faucet.” 

“If you know that—” 

“Sonny, a piece of advice,” Rafael turns to face him, one elbow on the counter, “no one job is forever — Stone may last a while, he may not — but get your name in the ring at least because the next time the position is open, they’ll look to you—” 

“But—” 

“You have been part of the squad, you’ve seen these cases for years, you’re an officer and you have the education to back it up,” he pulls his wallet out, waving off Carisi, and placing a few bills on the counter, “Look, you went to law school for a reason right? If you keep making excuses, you won’t be able to do the good you could do.” 

Sonny knew, he knew that he should but— “I’m just afraid that I won’t be able to handle it,” 

Rafael raises an eyebrow, “You are a detective in one of the toughest units in the NYPD and you went to law school at the same time — I think you’ll be fine.” 

Sonny blinks, trying to hide his smile, “Thank you — for everything. I’ve appreciated you mentoring me these past years.” 

Rafael gives a small chuckle at that, “You shouldn’t be thanking me,” 

Sonny tilts his head, “Then who should I be thanking?” 

Your name leaves his lips, and Sonny frowns, “I didn’t really want to mentor you, but with some encouragement, well—” he shrugs, “my point is there’s no need to thanks, at least not me.” 

A sentence burns on his tongue, hot as the anger sitting on his chest, and I should thank the person who cut me out of their life without any to-do? But Sonny doesn’t say that, he only smiles — as always. 

He didn’t want to admit how much it hurt when you left. When you didn’t say goodbye. When you quit without warning. When you left him with nothing but a note and no explanation, only the feeling of your lips on his. 

But it did hurt.

Especially because he didn’t know if it was because of him. He didn’t presume himself to be that important in your life — and maybe he wasn’t with how easily you had removed yourself from his life — but what other explanation was there really? 

“I should go,” Rafael slips off the stool, pulling his coat on, and he holds out his hand to Sonny, “I hope to see you again sometime, Detective,” 

Sonny offers a smile, shaking his hand, “Counselor, I expect to hear things about what you do next.” 

“Same to you — your name is associated with me, I can't have you sullying it, now can I?” but then he grimaces, shrugging, “well, at least the bar is low.” 

“Bye, Rafael,” and he nods, disappearing out the door, and Sonny straightens his coat, walking towards the door, before glancing at the bar stool you had sat at the night he picked you up — so much had changed and in so little time. 

“How long has it been, Jack?” you skip the handshake for a hug, sliding into the booth across from him. 

“Far too long,” he sighs, already had ordered his own food, “I heard about the stir you’re making in the Bronx,” he splits his chopsticks, dousing in his food in a very modest amount of sriracha, as you raise a questioning eyebrow at his remark, “The Brown case — I heard an earful from the Bronx D.A. about that case.” 

You shake your head, ordering yourself a soda, “It was his fault that he didn’t have proper chain of custody on that evidence—” 

“I know,” Jack nods, “it was a good catch.” 

“Thank you,” you smile, pleased with yourself, “although I suspect this isn’t just for you to compliment me on my exceptional work.” 

“Developed an ego at No-Go?” you roll your eyes at his “loving” nickname for your firm, Noble-Gordon LLP, before shrugging, “you know you could start your own practice and make more money.” 

“I could, but I also wouldn’t get some control over where their pro bono hours go,” you order your food, stirring your drink with a straw, “now what do you want McCoy? And then I can bore you with the details of my life plan.” 

Jack smiles, “Always straight to the point, huh, counselor?” he leans back, “what do you think of Detective Carisi?” 

You furrow your brow, “Sonny? Is something—” 

“Nothing is wrong,” Jack waved you off, “but what was your opinion of him?” 

You tilt your head, “As what? Detective, a barred attorney, or person?” 

Jack raises an eyebrow, “Let’s start with detective, and then we’ll get to the other two,” 

You pause — how could you describe Sonny? “When he first started, I didn’t know what to think of Sonny — he was eager to learn, but green,” you suppress a snort at the thought of him the unfortunate incidents of him pestering victims and suspects alike, “but despite that, he was always willing to learn, quick on his feet. He was good with the victims, maybe not at first, but he’s a seasoned detective now, and I have confidence in his skills.” 

“And as an attorney?” 

“Well, I never was around to see him get barred,” and you feel a twinge of guilt crawl up your throat — you had promised to help him study, promised to help him celebrate — you didn’t do either, “but when he applied his legal knowledge to cases we worked on together and while shadowing at the Manhattan office, he showed aptitude, skill, and passion.” 

“And as a person?” 

You smile softly, “Sonny is kind, to a fault, but he’s practical, he knows there are grays to S.V.U. cases — he’s seen them firsthand. He knows how to handle tough cases, while having the empathy to handle victims,” Jack nods, sipping at his drink, “now I assume you’re asking for a reason?” 

“Stone resigned,” Jack sighs, “effective immediately — and we’re looking for someone to get their foot in the door — quick.” 

“Peter? What—” 

“It wasn’t the right fit,” he shook his head, “he’s landing on his feet — don’t worry.” 

You frowned, you didn’t know Peter personally, but you had heard stories of him and his father — both were legendary, “I’m sorry to hear that, but,” you tilt your head, “you’re considering Sonny for the position?” 

“Yes, and now hearing what you had to say, I think I will," and you smile, "after an interview, of course." 

"Of course," you shake your head, "I remember interviewing with you."

He raises an eyebrow, "And?" 

"I think I convinced myself you thought I was a moron, until you gave me the offer after a week," he shrugs. 

"Had to make you sweat," he purses his lips, "do you regret saying yes?" 

You glance at the bar, a frown pressing onto your lips, "I regret a lot of things," and your food arrives at the table, and you break your chopsticks, smiling, "but never that." 

You were not happy. 

You hurried up the steps of the Manhattan courthouse — steps you had hoped you wouldn’t have had to hurry up ever again — not only had this case been unceremoniously dumped on the firm with a notice of one whole day, but it had been shafted to you with a whole two hours notice after one of your junior associates called out sick. 

Sick or hungover? You couldn’t tell over from the 4:00 AM message left on your voicemail, but by the sounds of the clinking glasses in the background — they certainly didn’t have the flu.

This was not only the son of one of your firm’s biggest clients — the firm practicing not only criminal defense but also some business law matters. It was a simple case — a white first time offender on a petty marijuana possession — he would likely get no jail time, and get time served at most — with an expungement in the near future. 

But that wasn’t the problem. 

The crime was committed and the son charged in the jurisdiction of Manhattan, so that meant this was in a Manhattan courtroom, one that you hadn’t stepped into in what — two, nearly three years? 

And on top of it all, there was the matter of who the prosecutor was. A silent curse muttered under your breath as you rushed to the courtroom — and it was someone you hadn’t seen in about the same amount of time. 

Why a sex crimes prosecutor was covering for a narcotics case — you didn’t know, but you figured it was either a chance to learn the ropes in different departments or the D.A. needed someone to cover, and the new guy drew the short straw. 

Just your luck.

You stood outside the courtroom, catching your breath, your heart thumping against your ribs — and you didn’t know whether it was from the running or from the fact you were about to see Sonny again for the first time in three years after you kissed him. 

And he didn’t know you were coming. 

Fuck it, you pulled open the door, stepping inside. 

And you saw him— standing where Rafael and you once stood, his eyes first lying on his notes, but drawn to the noise of the creaking door and your footsteps against the marble floor. 

You try not to look at him. You can’t help it, as you pass him by you catch a glimmer of his reaction — shock scrawled plainly across his face, eyes widened and nearly slack jawed. 

“Your Honor, I apologize to you and to my client, ” you spare a small smile to the privileged 18-year-old, Jason Baker, beside you, before your eyes flicker over to Sonny — dress in a pressed suit, his hair slicked back, lips no longer curled in the smile he once had for you, but instead, in a thin line, “ as well as A.D.A. Carisi. I was only informed of this case this morning and I rushed here as soon as I could—” 

“Yes, I understand,” Judge Lopez nods — Lopez being a judge you had dealt with many a time on cases — tough, but always fair, a definite leftist progressive (even by New York standards),  “Do you need a moment to confer with your client?” 

“Just a moment,” you confirmed the details of the case with Jason, before nodding, “I think we’re ready to proceed.” 

The hearing went without much to-do, both of you agreeing to meet about a plea agreement to settle this case out of court. You promised your client you would meet with him after, as Sonny began to make a beeline out of the courtroom. 

You barely caught up to him, on the heels of him striding toward the elevators, jaw set, “Sonny—” 

“Counselor,” he replied coolly, and you frowned, “do you want to set a time for your client’s plea agreement?” 

“Yes, but—” the elevator dings and he steps in without another word. 

“I’ll send you and your office an email,” his smile is curt and cordial, but his words have an edge to them, “nice to see you again.” 

And the doors shut. 

So, you stare at the closed elevator doors, he was mad. 

"Can you believe—" 

Rollins sighs, leaning back against her sofa, head resting against the top, "No I can't, Carisi, just like I couldn't the first twenty times," she murmurs under her breath. 

He pauses, his jaw tight, “Am I annoying you?” 

“No, Sonny, but—” she gestures for him to sit, “you’re stressing me out with all that pacing, can you sit down?” 

Sonny collapsed into a chair, arms crossed and leg still bobbing up and down, “I always thought about what I would say when I saw—” he cuts off, “it was like no time had passed, acting like nothing had happened—” 

Amanda raises an eyebrow, “What did happen between you two?” Sonny falls silent, his eyes falling to the carpeted floor, “this is what I mean, you’re telling me half of the story and expecting me to have a reaction,” she pushes his knee, “what happened?” 

He said nothing, and Amanda sighs, “When I gave you the sweatshirt, you barely said anything, and now you’re not saying anything when you saw—” a cry breaks her sentence off, and they listen as the baby settles back down, “You know I always knew you had a thing for—” 

“I didn’t have a thing—” he cuts off when he sees her raise an eyebrow, “okay maybe I did, but it has nothing to do with this—” 

“If it doesn’t, then why are you mad?” 

“I’m mad,” his voice raises, before she shushes him, and he sighs, apologizing, “I’m angry because I didn’t get a goodbye.”  

You were gone. 

You were gone before he woke up. You were gone from S.V.U. before he came in. You were gone from your apartment when he came knocking — moved out. 

And he was only left with a note and a sweatshirt.

He continues, “I didn’t get a goodbye, but guess who recommended me for the A.D.A. position?” 

It hadn’t been long enough since the last time he had thought about you. And the last time was his interview for the A.D.A. position. 

“I’ll cut to the chase, son,” Jack said, making Sonny sit up straighter in his chair — he had spent the last forty-five minutes trying to impress Jack McCoy only for him to cut the chase now, “You know I’m not the type to mince my words, so I’ll ask you the question that really matters — why should we hire you over other candidates with more experience?” 

This was the question he was dreading — he fought the urge to tug at his collar or wipe the palms down the front of his pants. 

“Honestly, sir, I’ve thought about this question a lot, and yes, I don’t have the legal experience of some of the other candidates,” he didn’t — he had shadowing, he had done clinics, but he hadn’t practiced since being barred, “but I know S.V.U. — more than any of your candidates because I’ve seen these cases firsthand. Not only have I seen the cases, the victims, but I’ve worked with the team — I know the ins and the outs, and I’ve worked with A.D.A.s before—” he nearly flinched at the thought of you, “I know what I’m getting into — I know a lot of cases aren’t a win and I know we have to push sometimes, and I’m not afraid to do that,” he swallows, his throat dry — unable to discern the expression on Jack’s face, “You’ll have to train any candidate you have — whether they have practiced or not, especially when it comes to S.V.U., but you will have to teach one less thing, and it’s the most important one.” 

And after the longest moment, he smiles, and Sonny can barely hear what he says over his blood roaring in his ears, “I think you’re right,” 

“You do?” 

Jack laughs, “Don’t sound so surprised, Dominick,” he tilts his head, “after hearing you talk about your work in and out of the department, I thought you would have more faith in yourself.” 

And you would think that but— 

“I’ll work on that,” 

Jack smiles, clearing his throat, “Based on that and the recommendation I received from who you shadowed—” 

He frowns, “You talked to someone I shadowed?” 

When your name leaves his lips, he blinks, “Haven’t you spoken—” 

Not since leaving my apartment and disappearing, “Not in a long time,” he gives a tight smile, “How are—” 

“Doing great at Noble-Gordon as a defense attorney in the Bronx — giving the Bronx D.A. hell,” he smiles with pride, and he remembers how you had told him that McCoy had been one of your mentors, the man who had helped you become the attorney you are today — and now he was Sonny’s boss, “Better them than us, right?” 

“Sonny—” Amanda’s voice cuts through his thoughts. 

He gets to his feet again, walking towards the window, “Leaves, and then thinks to interfere in my life, doesn’t even bother to reach out, I haven’t heard a thing in years — years — but still gives me a recommendation,” he gives a bitter chuckle, “apparently our friendship meant that little.” 

Apparently he had meant that little. 

“I’m sorry, Sonny,” 

He shakes his head, “What are you sorry for?” he asks, getting to his feet — I got kissed. I got cut out. And I didn’t even get an explanation — “Nothing happened.” 

“I want jail time,” your head snaps up at the sound of Sonny’s voice, closing the door behind him, as you sat waiting in his office — the one that was next door to your old one, “at least six months.” 

“What?” No greeting, no handshake, no smile — that much you half-expected, but jail time— “it’s a first time offense, and it’s not 1980, we’re not in the war on drugs—” 

Sonny slides into his chair across from you his hands folded, “Counselor, your client isn’t an innocent school boy — he is an adult—” 

“Barely, he just turned 18—” 

“Exactly my point, he’s an adult, and—” 

“And no competent attorney would ever take that deal—” 

Sonny leans back in his seat, “Well a competent attorney would consider any deal in front of them, wouldn’t they?” 

And your eyes narrow, “My client will not accept anything more than probation with no jail time, and hell, maybe we'll even throw in drug tests in, but anything more is a disgrace to the legal system,” 

“Then I guess a jury can decide,” his jaw is set, and you see the quiet anger in his eyes — frigid as an icy lake, one that you were currently drowning in. His chair screeches as he moves to rise, and you stop him. 

“We both know this isn’t about the case, Sonny,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “Are you questioning my prosecutorial authority?” 

“Are you trying to send a barely adult first time offender to jail when it makes absolutely no sense?” he grits his teeth, “is that justice? Is that what you’ve learned in S.V.U.?” 

“I’m sorry that I’m not playing soft ball with you, counselor—” 

“I’m sorry that you’re trying to take your anger at me out on my client,” you snap, rising from the table. And it snaps him into silence, his eyes falling to his notes, brow furrowed, mouth a thin line. Your anger simmers slowly, but as you speak again, your voice is even, but tempered, “The way I see it — we have three options — one, get over yourself and let us make a reasonable plea agreement; two, I get someone else from my office to handle this; or three, we work out our issues like fucking adults and move on with this agreement,” 

His voice is quiet when he speaks, “So are we finally going to act like adults now?” 

You waver, “Sonny—” 

“After you cut me out with no explanation and left, I didn’t realize now we could act like adults,” he flips shut his leather folder, “I apologize for my behavior — maybe you’re right, someone else from your office should handle—” 

“I’m sorry,” you cut him off, and he doesn’t look up, “I’m so sorry, Sonny, I didn’t mean to—” you swallow, fuck, “I thought — I thought it would be easier after—” 

“Easier? For you or for me?” 

The truth cut deep, especially when you know it was true, “You’re right — I know, what I did,” you sigh, “It was awful — I was so embarrassed after how I treated you, after I kiss—” you break off, “I know I have a lot of things to make up for, but I want you to know that I didn’t cut you off because of anything you did — even if you know that already — it was me, I didn’t want to burden you—” 

“How did you think cutting me off wasn’t going to burden me?” his words are softer, but sharper, digging into your chest with the guilt you knew was yours only to bear, “how did you think losing one of my friends wasn’t going to— you kissed me after I picked you up, and then nothing for three years. Nothing.” 

“I wanted to call, I wanted to text—” 

“Then why didn’t you?” and you wonder if this is how a suspect felt when they were being interrogated by him, but surely his eyes weren’t nearly this glassy with emotions then, “You promised me — you promised me you would be there for me—” 

Your voice breaks, “Sonny—” 

“Do you know the hell I’ve gone through?” His voice is quiet, “do you know?” 

And you didn’t, “I don’t,” your words are quiet. “Because you’re right — it was easier, after what happened — not with you — with everything else, it was easier to cut ties and move on. It was easier to pretend none of it happened,” you admit, “but it wasn’t right — and I can’t change that. But I’m sorry,” you add, “and I know I have a lot of making up to do, if we ever can get to that point again, I would like to try.” 

His expression is inscrutable — and you know Sonny has changed, you could read him so easily before — an open book who’s pages that you had familiarized yourself with, his emotions scrawled clearly across his brow, nose, lips, and eyes. And now you could barely make out a single word. 

“Try?” 

“Try to be your friend,” you bite your lip, wringing your hands in your lap, “I missed you, Sonny, and I know I don’t have a right to say that, but I did. And seeing you has only made me realize how shitty I’ve been — please?” 

A frown pulls at his lips, and he wavers, before rising, tucking his folder into his briefcase, “Probation with weekly drug tests, and I want him do some community service—” 

“But—” 

“He’s spent years with a silver spoon in his mouth — let’s try to fix that,” and you tilt your head, hiding a smile. 

“I’ll talk to him about it,” you get up too, beginning to pack up your things even as you watch him turn to the door, “Can we discuss it over lunch? My treat.” 

He pauses, his back turned,  “I’m a little busy these next few weeks,” 

You wave him off, feeling your chest squeeze, rejection stinging — as it should, as you deserve — “Of course," nothing was that simple — trust was easy to lose, hard to get back. 

“But how about I call you?” you blink, as he looks over his shoulder, there’s a hint of a sigh in his throat, a certain sort of begrudged reluctance, but still an almost undetectable smile ghosts his lips — and you’ll take it. 

“You got it,” But it wasn’t impossible to earn trust back. Your heart swells with hope, your hand brushing as your hand moves to hold the door open — and you would get it back, one way or another. 

“Penny for your thought, counselor?” Sonny’s head snaps up, finding you standing, suit jacket slung over your arm, a smile on your lips, “I would say a dollar, but I know you took quite a pay cut compared to your old job.” 

“But I could make a buck prosecuting you for stalking,” and you scoff, looking at the table strewn with pages of briefs and yellow legal pads marked in reds, blacks and blues. It had been your fifth time running into him the last few weeks — and you had weaseled your way into conversations, though not a lunch. You were trying to earn his trust back, and you had gotten a little closer each time, but it didn’t mean it was all over and done with. 

The distrust still sat squarely in his expression — but this time it was being overwritten by something else — stress. 

You gape at him, affronted, “Forlini’s was mine before it was yours, thank you very much,” you gesture to the seat across from him, he grunts, nodding and you slide in, “I think I can settle for joint custody if you can.” 

“I’d fight ya on it, but,” he sighs, eyes flickering back to his notes, “I got my hands full already.” 

You purse your lips when you see the heaviness in his brow, “What’s wrong?” 

He gives a grim smile, “You already know what’s wrong,” 

Yes, you knew it well — your first tough case had the ability to unravel you to pieces, especially one from S.V.U., “Well, the facts aren’t any different when you’re the prosecutor versus the detective,” 

“But the job is completely different,” he shakes his head, covering his face, before wiping his palm down it, “and I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

You frown, “Have you eaten?” 

“Eating isn’t the problem,” he shoves his papers aside, a few wrinkling and falling under the booth, the legal pad slamming against the end of the booth. He squeezes his eyes shut, before relaxing, “sorry, I—” 

“No, trust me,” you catch a glimpse of the photos of one of the victims — a bruised and battered girl no older than fifteen, “I get the frustration, but you know there’s only so much you can do in these cases.” 

“I’m not doing enough,” he leans on his elbow, his fist pressed to his mouth, before resting it against his forehead, “I don’t know what I’m doing. I have my first grand jury tomorrow and I don’t even know what I’m doing.”  

“Sonny,” you resist the urge to reach out to him, “you can do this.” 

“You would say that,” he mutters, and you tilt your head,  “you recommended me for the job, McCoy told me.” 

“I didn’t recommend you — Jack was already looking at you, he asked for my opinion and I gave it,” you raise an eyebrow, “do I need to tell you now?” 

He shakes his head, “I—” 

“Sonny,” he looks up at you, “I have not an inch of doubt in your abilities — I’ve seen you grow as a detective and as a law student, and now,” you smile softly, “I’ve seen you grow as an attorney the last few weeks. You are ready — you know why?” 

He sighs, his hands folded on the table, “Because of my training?” 

“No,” you say, and he frowns, “because you are sensitive and kind, but you are also tough — tough enough to make the hard calls,” your hand brushes his tentatively, hovering before settling, “weren’t you nervous before becoming a detective? When you were a cop?” 

“I was, but I was confident, bordering on arrogant — I always went in, guns blazing, so to speak,” he adds, shaking his head at the implication, “now, I’m—” 

“Now you’re cautious — it comes with experience, that’s normal and good — overconfidence bites you in the ass, every time,” you squeeze his hand, “you will do great — and more importantly,” he raises his gaze to meet yours, “you will do your job and do it well — and that’s all you can do.” 

He purses his lips, “You really believe in me?” 

You scoff at his disbelief, “Sonny, I’ll always bet on you — every single time,” his gaze softens, a smile gracing his lips and your stomach flips when he squeezes your hand back. 

“Thank you,” his words are as soft as his touch, his fingers intertwined with yours for a moment, and your eyes flicker across his face — how was it you never realized just how beautiful he was? 

And the moment is broken when he pulls his hand away, gathering all his materials and slipping them into his bag, “If you need any help—” 

He frowns, “Y’know as well as I do that these cases are—” 

“I meant with your self-esteem or advice about how to phrase questions — no specifics and no actual questions,” you cross your arms, “I know about confidentiality and professional responsibility, counselor — I have been at this longer than you have. You could afford to take my advice.” 

He raises an eyebrow, teasing, “Pulling seniority? You’re not at the D.A.’s office anymore,” 

“But I know your boss,” you tease right back, and he rolls his eyes, as you lean forward, “and it’s ‘counselor’ to you,” 

He dares forward, “Well, counselor,” he replies, lips curled in a smile, “I’ll take it under advisement, and I’ll give my boss your best,” And he slips from the booth, pausing only to add, “do this again?” 

And you can’t hide your smile, “Next week?” 

He nods, slipping out of the doors from Forlini’s and you watch him, your eyes falling across the bar — and the two seats where you had sat, now reupholstered and refurbished — and then back again to the door he left from, before turning back to your booth. As you sat, his smile and the faint fluttering left in your chest, a smile you couldn’t stave off 

Things really did change, didn’t they? 

“Trial’s in a few weeks?” and Sonny nods, Rollins sips at her drink, “you have to testify, Amanda?” 

“Unfortunately,” she jerks a thumb towards Sonny, setting her drink down on the counter of the bar, “he’s been prepping me and it’s somehow worse than Barba.” 

The sting of his name hurt less, your easy smile not wavering, “I find that hard to believe,” 

“Oh believe me,” Amanda turns to Sonny, who sips at his drink sheepishly, “how long did we practice yesterday?” 

“Not important,” he brushes her remark off, as you and Amanda share a look and chuckle, “I just want to be ready — Hadid has been all over me about this trial. If she’s been looking for an excuse to fire me, this would be the perfect one.” 

“Hey,” your hand finds his, “you’re going to do great. You have practiced your closing a thousand times — I’ve heard it half a million times — you know what the points you have to make are. I know you’re ready.” 

He squeezes your hand back, smiling softly, “Thank you,” and butterflies bloom under his steady gaze, before he slips from the stool, “I’m going to use the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” his hand grazes your back before he finds his way to the restroom. 

You sip at your drink, before you find Amanda staring at you. You frown, placing the drink down, “What?” 

“What’s going on between you two?” 

You wrinkle your brow, as Amanda scratches her brow, her lips pursed.“What do you mean?” 

“I don’t want to get involved, but,” she craned her neck to check if Sonny was gone, “I know something happened between you two before you left,” Your head snaps to your drink, biting your lip, “I may be a detective, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that you two, whatever this is,” she gestures, “it’s not just a friendship,” 

You blink — but wasn’t it? “But—” 

“I don’t know how you feel, but I’m not blind,” she tilts her head, trying to catch your gaze, “just don’t hurt him okay?” 

“Amanda—” 

“I don’t need to hear specifics about what happened,” she shrugs, “I just want him to be okay ‘cause he may not be my partner now, but he is my best friend.” 

You nod, “Of course, I won’t, Amanda — I care about him too.”

But it was complicated. 

It was simple before — but it was different — you were in love with someone else — blinded. Sonny was your friend, one of your closest, but a friend nonetheless. Your stomach didn’t flip when you saw him, you didn’t text him so often, there weren't brief touches that you wished would last forever — like there was now. 

And you couldn’t deny it forever. 

Amanda chuckles, shaking her head, “I can’t believe I just said Carisi is my best friend,” 

You smile, “Guess he really grew on you after he shaved the ‘stache,” 

Amanda raised her eyebrows, snorting, “Like an infection,” 

You grinned, sipping at your drink, “What are you two laughing at?” and both of you share a smile, “what?” 

“Nothing, Sonny,” Amanda waves him off, “I gotta go — babysitter’s time is almost up, and I have to check on the girls,” Amanda nods at you, “It was nice to see you again, counselor.” 

“Same here, Amanda,” and she nods at Sonny, slipping from the bar, as he takes her seat, leaning against the counter, his knee brushing yours. The low light of the bar catches in his eyes, a dark blue that makes your heart stutter a moment as his lips curl into a smile. And you remember the moment you kissed him. 

“Now what?” you blink, biting your lip. 

Would it be so bad to fall in love with him?

To fall in love with an A.D.A. again? Falling into old habits?

“Walk me home?”  

And fall you would. 

~~~

It wasn’t a walk so much as it was a subway ride away and a walk to your apartment, “Do you ever miss the D.A.’s office?” and you spare a glance at Sonny. 

“Why? Want another person bossing you around the office?” he chuckles, licking his lips.

“When you put it like that,” and you laugh, “no, I just mean—” 

“You mean if I ever miss being on the right side of justice?” and he opens his mouth to retort, “I’m joking, Sonny — I mean criminal defense is a different way I can do justice — I get to take on a lot of the firm’s pro bono work and I get to help people who are at the lowest points of their lives put it back together.” 

“Even murderers?” he frowns. 

You bite your lip, “You saw the Ortiz case on the news didn’t you?” Ortiz, a husband who murdered his wife in cold blood — or that was the story the media and prosecutors’ were selling, “Did you read his interview?” 

He raises an eyebrow, “No?” 

“It turns out his wife had been abusive for years — verbally, emotionally, and physically—” your shoes scrape against the pavement, “he snapped when she turned it on their son.” 

“Is that an excuse—” 

“Yes, by law it is — it isn’t premeditated murder, it’s manslaughter,” you slip your hands into your pockets, “but even then, do people get any better locked up in cages?” 

“Do you think they should be—” 

“Walking free and clear? No,” you look up at the sky, “but you know in Sweden — they have one of, if not the, lowest recidivism rates? They have less than 4,000 prisoners, compared to America’s millions. It’s because they focus on rehabilitation, not punishment. Instead of locking up people in tiny cells and inhumane conditions, they give them care in all aspects of their lives — education, psychological help, medical — everything,” Sonny opens his mouth to interject, and you hold your hands up, “I’m not saying all people are capable of reform — but a lot of them are, and don’t we owe people that chance?” 

“But with S.V.U.—”

“With S.V.U., it’s more complicated — I won’t deny that, rapists are more likely to victimize again compared to other crimes,” you shake your head, “I don’t have all the answers, but I know locking people up and having them be victimized in prison isn’t the answer,” you offer a small smile, “but to answer your question, I miss the people, but I’m happy where I landed. I think it’s the right place for me.” 

“How do you know? I mean, how do you know it’s the right place?” 

You shrug, “You just feel it after some time—” you tilt your head, “where’s this coming from?” 

Sonny sighs, “I got a big case coming up in a week,” his hands slipped into his pockets, “My first trial.” 

“Hadid letting you off the leash?” he barks out a laugh. 

“Barely,” he shakes his head, “not that I blame her — this job, I swear I come home more tired than I did chasing down perps.” 

“That seems like a stretch, and hindsight bias,” you add, elbowing him before rubbing your shoulders, biting back a shiver — wearing only a suit coat out was a mistake, “besides I know you can handle it.” 

He unwraps his scarf, as you open your mouth to protest, but the scarf is already around your neck, and you can’t help but smile — it smells like him — “Sometimes I think you have more faith in me than I do,” 

“I have enough faith in you for the both of us,” you pull the scarf  snug around yourself, resisting the urge to bury your nose in it. You bite your lip, “is the gallery open to the public?” 

“Think so,” he nods. 

“Do you want me to be there in court?” the words come out carefully — afraid to cross a line you weren’t sure was there. 

“Watching the case?” 

“Just the verdict,” you say, “I didn’t get to be there for you when you passed the bar or when you got hired at the D.A.’s office — we could get dinner after — guilty verdict or not.” 

“Not gonna disappear on me for three years, are you?” you flinch, and he sighs, “sorry that came out wrong—” 

“It’s okay,” you smile ruefully, “I kind of deserved it, but,” you add, “I’m not going anywhere — and this time I mean it.” 

The quiet settled over you both for a moment, and you knew he was going to ask — you knew he was working up the courage to do so, “Why did you leave?” you cross your arms, “you don’t—” 

“I want to,” you shake your head — and you could see Rafael’s smile, feel his touch, and see his heart break — “It’s just complicated.” 

“So complicated that you had to leave?” he pressed, and you nodded. 

“I didn’t want to — but I had to,” you glance at him, see his brows knit together, “but the one thing I regretted and I will always regret is leaving you too, and I promise, I won’t do it again,” you reach for his hand, your fingers intertwining, just as you reach the doorstep of your apartment, “you can hold me to that.” 

He stares down at you, the flickering light of your apartment barely illuminating his face, but a soft smile on his lips, “I will, sweetheart,” and warmth bloomed in your stomach — no, you really couldn’t deny it anymore could you? But he squeezes your hand, stepping back, “See you in a week?” 

You lick your lips, heart thumping in your ears — you nod, “Yeah,” you feel his coat around your shoulders, “oh your scar—” 

He waves you off, “Keep it,” he walks down your steps, turning around, pointing a finger at you, grinning, “But make sure Rollins isn’t the one bringing it by.” 

You hear the humor in his voice and smile, “No promises.” 

And you spare one more glance at his returning back, before slipping inside your apartment building and into your apartment. Your fingers fisted in the soft red cotton of his scarf — your cheeks and heart warm.  

Oh, what were you getting yourself into? 

Sonny tried not to glance behind him — you still hadn’t arrived. His nerves were shot after this week — everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong. 

Of course it did — it did little to inspire faith in himself, or in Hadid for that matter. 

“All rise,” Judge Abbas said, and Sonny had to stop himself from jumping to his feet — he knew, he knew in his gut that he had given his best case, though this case was sticky to begin with, “Foreperson of the jury, what say you on the charge of rape in the second degree?” 

Sonny’s heart jumped into his throat, blood roaring in his ears, and he barely caught the verdict, mouth dry — the feeling of the victims’ gazes boring into the back of his head. 

“We find the defendant guilty,” and he nearly couldn’t believe it — he had done it, they had done it. The judge announces they will reconvene for sentencing in two weeks. He turns around, shaking the hands of the victims, thanking them for their testimony, sparing one glance at the defendant. 

Adneradline and relief is pumping through him, his chest lighter — he had done it, he had gotten justice. 

And then he sees you — through the crowd, you’re standing by the door, smiling brightly at him, mouthing congratulations, jerking your head and slipping from the courtroom. He nearly trips over himself to get to you, trying to maintain decorum as he leaves through the double doors. He slips by people he knows and those he doesn’t until finally he finds you in a discrete corner of the courthouse, away from prying eyes and reporters. 

“Sonny, I’m so proud of you,” you say, your hands on his shoulders, your lips curled in a smile he hoped that was just for him, “I knew you could do it,” 

And you did — you had told him he could do it time and time again when he didn’t believe in himself, you had been there for him, as you promised to be. 

Everything slows for a moment. 

And he couldn’t help think you were the only one he needed to believe in him, to be by his side, the one he wanted to tell good news first, the one he wanted to wake up beside in the morning. He’s breathless as he looks at you, and you seem to realize — the air between you two becoming thick, as he looms closer, a bag on your arm, slipping to your fingers now.  

“Sonny,” you breathe, as you tilt your head upwards to look into his eyes.

And he knows this may be a mistake — the last time he kissed you, you disappeared, and every relationship he’s had has ended in disaster, but he can’t bring himself to care — not when he could kiss you again. 

“Can I kiss you?” the words slip past his lips without much to-do, and he has to stop himself from biting his tongue or stumbling back, especially when you nod, and his lips crash to yours. 

His kiss is still hesitant, and so are you, your lips parting and meeting again and again — chaste, but he tasted you — and he swore he never tasted anything like you before, nothing so sweet. And he pulls away a moment, eyes fluttering and he sees your eyes do the same. And his heart is in his throat again — what if you thought it was a mistake? 

But you only smile, your warm hand cupping his cheek, the bag slipping from your fingers, as the other intertwines with his fingers, “Where do you think you’re going?” 

And you kiss him again, and he doesn’t hold back this time, his arms wrapping around you, tugging you impossibly closer, smiling against your lips. And he couldn’t help but think — as warmth bloomed in his stomach, your fingers curling in his hair — how did he ever get so lucky?