#gives a rousing speech about them needing all the help and drawings they can get to fight Mist or whatever his name was when he made a whol

[chocolatespyro]

sorry our drawings princess movie posting right now this movie is so bad and wonderful at the same time and i love it for that

[beastsars]

some cute morning sexy time with legoshi

at the first hint of sunlight, legoshi finds himself stirring. he never understood the newest trend of his body's desire to rouse earlier in the day. during his tenure at cherryton, he used to have a hard time motivating himself to traverse through enough mundane takes just to make it to his drama duties. now without that fixture in his life, he can recall a specific reason as to why he feels so inclined to wake before the sun properly can. 

cracking open his eyes, he notes that the room hasn’t completely lost its dim glow. splashes of calm blue still overcoming the encroaching warmth of yellows. huffing under his breath, he turns to bury his nose against the fur of your neck, hoping to drift back off for a few more hours. 

yet he finds the soft sighs that leave your lips with each exhale more distracting than the sun at his back. unable to resist peeking at the peaceful visage of your comfortable slumber. you fortunately, have no trouble missing the transition from night to day. the rhythm of your chest rising and falling not even hitching in the slightest until mid morning if you could help it. his borrowed shirt is still wrinkled from whatever restless bout that had overtaken you in the hours prior, the aftermath exposing the softness of your vulnerable belly. 

it surprises him how much effort it takes to resist disrupting the flow of hair there, knowing your sensitivity would react to the ticklish touch. a faint smile curls at the ends of his lips as he dares to drag a claw to a safer spot just above the curve of your hip. 

despite it being the first night together after a few days of separation, the two of you hadn’t fallen in bed together with the motivations of passion. he honestly couldn’t recall anything other than the warmth of you settling into the curve of his body and drifting off to the quiet rumble of your heartbeat. 

closing his eyes, he can’t help but imagine how it could have gone differently had the two of you had more energy to reserve. there had certainly been enough talk about it traded in the darkest hours of the night when it was impossible to resist the deepest thralls of imagination. the scenarios were plentiful and bookmarked with promises that he knew would be made good on. 

he comes to terms with his mistake too late as he finds his arousal trapped between the honey taste og you on his tongue and tightness of your aperture squeezing at his sex. his cock had already joined him this morning at half mast and was well on its way to fullness with each dip into the lucid fantasy. with a huff of his own he snuffless against the tuft of your ears. only to freeze at his flounder when it flickers in protest. 

“hmm, legoshi?”

his ears flatten in apology and he licks a firm stripe against the exposure of your neck as you roll over to face him. your eyes are still blurry and unfocused, teetering between consciousness as your body goes taut in a reflexive stretch. 

“wah time is it?” you slur and despite his faults, legoshi can’t help but chuckle at the cuteness. 

“early. sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” he shifts gingerly, giving you more room to tuck into him. he completely forgets about kindling fire until the breach of your leg between his nudges against the tent. caught, he sheepishly tries to draw away.

“i ah- wasn’t being a pervert. just woke up like this.”

“so you aren’t happy to see me?”

the joke is fluid transition for you as more clarity filters into your voice. you have to press your lips together in a thin line to keep from laughing at the way he balks. in his lapse, you drag your hand through the covers to the sprawl of his fingers to thread them together. using the grip as an anchor, you fill the gap he tried to place with an eager roll of your hips, hoping to get your consent across without too much skepticism. 

unable to resist, your lover drops his head to the curve of your shoulder to hide his groan- or was that a moan? the task of trying to decipher the muffled words is lost to the distraction of the trail of open-mouthed kisses back up the length of your neck to the structure of your jaw. he ends with a chaste peck to the corner of your lips.

“i’m always happy to see you, i just didn’t want you to-y’know assume anything.’’

when he’s this relaxed and pliant to your will, it doesn’t take much to encourage the wolf to move to his back as you crawl over him. most of your weight is on his thighs, purposefully directed away from where he craves it the most. 

“what? that you want me? did you think i forgot about all the pretty scenarios you put in my head?”

‘pretty’ what the impression he had in mind when he’d conjured them up. but your receptiveness was more important at the time. none of it having any place in his swarm of thoughts as he watched your fingers walk over the flat of his stomach down to the hem of his pants. it's a relief when you don’t utilize the opportunity to tease and he’s more than eager to lift his hips to help you draw the fabric down to his thighs. 

the sight of him standing tall is less embarrassing when it’s under the hungry heat of your gaze. in one of those stories, you had woken him up with the circle of your lips catching on the ridge at the head of his cock. but he wasn’t picky when you hand wrapped around the base of him. 

there's a throaty sound to his voice as his legs flex underneath you. “i had a lot of time to think about you.”

truly. every waking moment and opportunity was a welcomed one to tune out the roar of your absence. 

“ah shit.” with a grueling amount of effort, he was able to pry away your hand, silencing your complaint with a chaste kiss to your lips. “we can run down the list later. just let me have you like this first.”

curling his finger into his palm, he uses the bend of his second knuckle to draw your garments to the side and rub small circles against your apex. no matter how short he cuts his nails, he can’t dull them enough to angle them too deep. relying more on your wetness to ease the way. it’s the burden of a carnivore lover- or perhaps just the trials of being with him, but he does hit best to make up for what he feels are his thoughts.

legoshi is mindful of his teeth as he draws you into the first proper kiss of the day, tongue flickering out to tease the warmth of your orifice. the combination of the heat and taste of him help to kindle your fire as you rub needfully into the pressure of his digits. the absence of his touch evoking a a heightened sense of fondness that you grapple on to firmly. your vision goes hazy, different than the thick cloud of sleep as he hangs by a thread within the smog of the combined lust. 

his hands skim the curve of your waist, latching just above your hip bone to draw you close for his favorite parts. he eagerly swallows your soft exhale as he nudges the head between your folds, intoxicated by the stretch of your cunt. it's an archaic sense of relief that draws all tension from his muscles as he slides his cock further to the hilt. 

the passion of lovers is a tender moment, but the desperate unbridled needs for raw fucking crashes through the setting, shattering your resolve like glass. coaxed by your whimpered assent, he doubts a raw pace as he fucks into you fervently. the friction of and slick slide of overheated bodies muddling slurred speech and broken ‘i love yous’. 

the force of his snapping hips is more than enough to shake the frame of the bed, a full unleash of the beast that inherits every fiber of his being. the sun is more prompting now, bleeding through the blinds to light the place where he enters you. 

it’s too fast to promise anything too long, a blessing as you find yourself straddling the edge of your completion already. there’s a halting moment where his rhythm goes inconsistent as he resists the grip on your hips to encourage you to adopt his pace. it's a sloppy rendition and most of your efforts are focused on the down shift as you grind into his lap. 

when you meet him at the climax you both seem to cling to each other before toppling over the edge. the whirlwind of the descent of your capitulation drawing a shudder from your head to your toes. you melt into his chest, heart thumping at sporadic staccato against the answering beat of his. 

the harsh mixture of your pants doesn't seem like they will ever find an evening pace as it only seems to feed into the humidity of the room. legoshi’s muzzle nuzzles the side of your head as he settles into bone-deep satisfaction, the heavy aftertaste of sexual gratification filling the void of speech. 

sort of.

“so are we starting at the top of the list or the bottom?”

[tuagonia]

mistletoe - adam du mortain x f! detective

Pairing: Adam du Mortain x f!detective Summary: The detective catches an unsuspecting Adam under the mistletoe during the division’s holiday party.  Rating: G/T (to be sure).Pretty tame, just fluff. Warning: alcohol mention. Word Count: 2.3k  Note: I just really really wanted to write this scene that cropped up in my head during a  f u n  bout of insomnia. I’d like to think this takes place teetering on the edge right before the deep romance sweeps these two fools away. Anyway i used this fic as a way to get over my fear of writing for twc and to get to know my detective... before i launch into the other ideas i have.

—

It’s not that she’s drunk.

No. Not drunk. 

Happy, most definitely, and loquacious. More than the usual amount of conversation that he’s used to. And more laughter. 

Definitely more laughter. 

It’s an unrefined, rough, pitched-at-the-end sound he’s grown used to (fond of?) over the last year. 

Where the more uncouth the subject... the more untamed it becomes, and fighting the stiff edges of his mouth to remain in place becomes an active task.

There’s something so unsuspecting about it too, like how everything concerning her has been up to now. 

Olivia dances with Felix and Nate, and his oldest friend attempts to teach her how to move with the steps that feel like a lifetime ago. Where her shoulders, ankles, hips twist and she turns on the spot.

She sways with the motions of days gone past, as if she’s caught time in her hands — the elixir to it in her mug of wine clasped firmly in her grip — and Nate praises her. 

Adam didn’t catch the name, he didn’t care for it six decades ago and he doesn’t think he’ll bother remembering it now. But he’s certain it’s something as ridiculous sounding as it looks... if she weren’t doing it surprising justice.

When she spins in Felix’s arms, the silver, sparkling discs of her dress catch in the station’s white light and he’s dazzled...more than he usually already is.

No. Not drunk.

Just happy.

In the handful of instances she stops by him during her social rounds, she asks if he wants anything -- a refill of the uninspiring wine? -- and his responses are short. Yes. No. Good. Hmm. And when he doesn’t have the words he manages a slight shake of his head or a passive shrug.

Too distracted by the smile on her face, the mischief he can see twinkling behind her eyes. Sometimes, he can believe it. That she was a troublemaker, up to no good with too much time on her hands, and not this...woman...this decorous facade of pencil skirts, unscuffed heels, and neatly ironed blouses.

He can hear it in the deep, unearthed tone she takes when she lands a passing, unassuming, coquettish comment.

The reason he keeps his answers mono-syllabic.

He watches as she hovers over the snack table, where the food has undoubtedly gone cold, compiling a paper plate of random assortments and grabbing a tin of soda. And when he can no longer see her, he follows the sound of her heels out of the main floor towards the entrance -- barely visible from the wall he’s been hugging all night.

Olivia places the plate on the officer’s desk currently on graveyard duty. He's been longingly listening to and watching the party taking place just a few steps away. But he thanks the detective kindly, playfully clinks tin against mug of wine. 

She meets his eye on the way back -- brief, ever so brief -- before turning her gaze downward.

“You should come,” she said, directing her attention to the rest of the group. She avoided his stare, almost always avoiding his stare when it came to matters of bypassing his jurisdiction. But flitted reflexively to him, and then swivelled back to Nate and Felix (briefly over Mason), and she repeated. “All of you. You’re practically honourary members of the division.”

And although she didn’t say it to him, Adam knows (hopes?) she expected him to answer the invitation. 

Earlier in the evening (much earlier because how long is this going to go on for?), Nate asks him if he’s enjoying himself and Adam muddles together a gruff answer.

His response, with the words “work commitment” hardly audible, prompts bark-like laughter from the second-in-command and claps him on the shoulder before heading back towards the crowd. 

At the end of the night, which finally arrives right when Adam decides he can’t take another rendition of the tracklist that’s been on loop for the past four hours, he stays behind to help the detective clean up.

He sends the rest of the unit home, much to Mason’s relief and much to Felix’s displeasure, and volunteers to make sure the detective catches her cab and gets home safely. 

Or, at least, that’s what he tells himself after Felix winks at him, corralled out of the station by Nate.

And then they’re alone... save for the officer who’s gone on his break. 

She moves about space, clearing paper cups and forgotten plates of food in a large garbage bag. And she talks, and talks, and talks. 

Adam loses track of what exactly, he’s just too busy listening to the quality of her voice. A little hoarse after all the chatting over the music and enthusiastic laughter. It gives it a new edge, one he could grow to like -- the sudden deep, tender quality of it. 

Definitely not drunk as she launches into a spiel about something or other Nate taught her last week.

She tends to do this, jabber on about absolutely nothing in particular when it’s just the two of them. And although he prefers silence, he welcomes it. Because sometimes she’s not actually talking to him, instead using the stoic agent’s still presence to bounce ideas off of. 

Not like he minds. 

He’ll be whatever she needs him to be.

Adam tenses, unaware of where the thought could have surfaced out of so easily. He shocks himself out of his trance, out of following the detective around the room with soft, measured steps. Out of the unconscious non-committal noises he punctuates breaks in her speech with. 

He stops just short of the doorway of the kitchenette. 

Olivia turns to face him after dumping a number of coffee cups in the sink. She quirks an eyebrow, wiping her hands in a tea towel before casting it aside. Her mouth opens, but whatever witty remark she has ready dies in her throat.

Adam can’t decipher the zoetrope of emotions that flicker then disappear, hiding and lurking behind a wily smile. Her mouth is the colour of wild berries, purples and reds, and the crisp jasmine notes in her perfume remind him of a frosty mid-afternoon -- low winter sun in his eyes as he wades through a forest.

He can’t look right at her.

Gleaming winks of silver, a peek of white teeth, and a twinkle behind a dark curtain of hair.

“What?” 

He can scarcely recognise his voice, mostly a husky and unexpected croak. 

A full view of pearly teeth and the stretch of Mondeuse Blanche shiraz-coloured lips.

Adam almost misses the throw-away manner she points a finger up in the space in between them. For a fraction of a second, he’s distracted from the sudden kick of her heart and flickers his gaze to where she’s directing him.

Obnoxious oval-shaped gold leaves, thickly crowded plastic branches, and pearly-coloured fake berries hover in the space he’s decidedly placed between them. His stomach lurches in immediate recognition of the artificial plant.

“Mistletoe,” she chuckles an airy sort of sound. Different from all the crass, rough gleeful noises she made all night. 

A sound, maybe, she might wield against his sanity?

Adam’s gone rigid, the heat he’s been staving off all night makes a mockery of him, only egged on by the tugging of her lips when he glances back down at her. 

She steps closer and he can’t react fast enough, genetic mutations damned under her vexatious gaze. Her heart thumps a little heavier, a chaotically determined sound he can’t fend off. 

His own heart starts up that racket he’s grown to call reckless. 

“I heard,” she begins, so close now he can see the little scar on her nose from an old piercing. Tannin, oak, and jasmines -- the sparkling and sweet scent of violet from her lipstick, “that it’s bad luck...to refuse a kiss under the mistletoe.”

The click of the ‘k’ and the hiss of the ‘s’ in that word hanging so heavy in the air, the breath of its remnants brush his cheek. Faintly, his mind wanders between two realms. One of old wives tales and superstitions where a kiss is required for every berry in the bunch and, the second, how, if it weren’t for those heels, where would that breath have landed instead?

Her sly grin is tickled by his lack of response, the stiffness creeping into his muscles and his conflicted expression.

“Commanding Agent, do you -- maybe -- want to help me…” she begins, another step closer and this time he doesn't think he wants to move, “fight off any unnecessary misfortunes?”

Adam doesn’t recognise himself. He doesn’t know where it comes from, or how he’s sanctioned the movement of his body. It’s minimal, but to Olivia, who has spent the last year fighting off the hunger from the nearly nonexistent mementoes, it’s colossal. 

The smug smile on her face nearly slips.

It’s the tiniest, faintest, barely discernible half-nod as his gaze refuses to leave the curve of her lower lip. Fuller, rounder... he’s thought of the seam of her mouth longer than he’d like to dwell on.

She moves forward and there are no thoughts just the drumming in his chest that pounds a deafening beat. Her hand finds his first, a comfort from the heat roaring inside him, and he responds by tracing the lines of her palms with jittery fingertips. 

Olivia shivers and why does that thrill him? He wonders how long until she decides to put him out of his misery.

Please. Please. Please. The thumping against his ribcage wants to meet the erratic pulse of hers.

Roused by his response, her other hand so warm and soft draws a curious path up his arm, over the swell of his bicep and past his shoulder before it hesitates to fully press at the back of his neck where he knows she can feel fevered skin. 

It takes her an eternity, staring up at him with hooded eyes, dark fluttering eyelashes almost touching the tops of her cheeks. And he’d wait until whatever comes after that eternity.

This is the closest she’s ever been to him and he can’t help but revere the details he once took for granted. 

Olivia rises and the hand behind his neck cautiously coaxes him to meet her. 

And then, right as he thinks the world beneath his feet as he knows it will be thrown off its axis, she tilts her head a fraction and the hot press of her mouth meets his blushing cheek instead.

She lingers and everything amplifies. 

She is a dizzying bottle of Chianti, left out in the sun too long, and warming him all the way down with each indulgent sip.

A field of blooming shrubs of jasmines.

Warm, brisk, spring morning sun.

He hears her deeply inhale, and does he have the same effect on her like she does on him?

His heightened senses register the moment she parts and moves away, suddenly cold and left with the weight of the cream of her lipstick.

Her touch is deliberate, soaking up the feel of his skin, the fine hairs at his nape, under her gliding palms -- and she settles back on her heels.

The imprint of her lips remains on his cheek, willing it to singe him -- mark him -- so he never has to forget what they feel like. The pressure of her mouth, the moment her breath shuddered. 

Olivia makes to touch his cheek, to wipe away all evidence with the sweep of her thumb, but Adam stops her. He catches her wrist with reflexes she’ll never get used to.

He closes his eyes and he tunes in to the demanding call of his heart, thundering, thundering, thundering. And it won’t still. 

Just a moment longer. 

Is what it would ask.

Just a moment longer, so he can memorise the feel of her mark on his skin -- of the instance she cherished him, made room for him, during a fleeting blip that will be her life. 

Olivia moves again, fighting against the gentle strength of his hand, and she rubs the pad of her thumb once, twice, three times. Until the smudge of her affection is reduced to a memory.

She smiles, unlike the smiles she shared earlier. There is no arrogance, no teasing, no playful ridicule. 

She smiles -- with those lips that have touched him.

A sharp ringing echoes in the tiny kitchenette and, like he’s waking from a deep sleep, he blinks away the haze of their bewitchment. 

As if nothing happened, Olivia digs into her purse, sources her mobile and answers. The conversation is brief, he doesn’t follow any of it, still reeling from her magnetism.

“My cab’s outside,” she says when she hangs up. 

Still paralyzed, Olivia meets his eye and grins, before she drops her gaze to the floor.

She shakes her head and releases a small, anxious laugh. She touches his arm when she moves past him, out of the kitchenette, and heads for the exit.

He watches her leave, listening to the light click-clack of heels, still shaking her head and-- he practically hears the smile in her voice when she calls out behind her. 

“Happy holidays, Commanding Agent du Mortain.”

--

Note II: Yeah, it’s The Twist. Nate was teaching Felix and Olivia the twist....because I said so and because i hc N being really into the 60s/70s music scene....long legs.....in....flared....jeans. So many typos. But if I didn’t post it when I did I was never going to post it.

[shenanigans-and-imagines]

For the NSFW alphabet, Obi-Wan Kenobi?

A/N: A quick reminder to COMMENT AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKE THIS!!! The tags hate me personally and these take just as much effort as drabbles or one-shots.  Help a girl out.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He’s so attentive to your needs. You could ask him for a specific type of soup made in an obscure restaurant somewhere in the depths of Coruscant and he’d find a way to get it to you.  Most of the time though, he’ll run a bath or hold you close and overall make you feel comfortable and loved.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He loves your lips.  He loves the way they feel on his.  He loves the words that spring from them.  The mind that gives them motion.  The way they curve into a smile or poke into a pout he just wants to kiss away. 

For himself, Obi Wan is very proud of his hair; both the kind of his head and his beard.  He takes the time to care for it and absolutely loves the feeling of your fingers running through it.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Obi-Wan rarely cums inside you unless you specifically ask him to, even with a condom.  Maybe it’s paranoia, but he even if he’s enjoying himself in the moment, some part of him starts to panic the second he comes down from his high.  Rather than go through all of that, he ends up cumming on your stomach more times than not.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Not long after meeting you, Obi Wan had his first wet dream he had since he was a teenager.  Usually he’s able to control such urges, but something about seeing you in that outfit, speaking with Senators and holding the confidence of a queen did things to him.  It took him almost a week of meditation and serious concentration to be able to even look you in the eye.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Extremely limited.  Like one person limited.  Like Satine and only once limited. He only starts doing his research under a deep layer of encryption code when you get together.  Even then, he prefers to learn through trial and error.  There are some awkward nights, but you know he’s trying.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Call him basic, but missionary.  He likes being able to see your face.  He loves having full access to your mouth while pulling you close to him.  Not to mention it’s easier for him to pull out when the time comes. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He switches back and forth between studious observation on what you do and don’t like, and being a sassy little bitch. He knows there are going to be moments when he’s still figuring out exactly what he’s doing and so has to make a joke to ease the tension.  Also, he likes to tease you.  It’s his thing.  Almost a reflex at this point.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He hasn’t really been paying attention besides keeping it all clean, but once you get together he takes the time to trim it back at least.  He takes pride in his hair, no matter where it grows.  And there is quite a bit down there.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Obi Wan can be such a romantic and nobody can convince me otherwise. There have been times he just comes to your room with absolutely nothing smart to say and just kiss you like you’re the most precious thing in the universe before you even start undressing.  You guys don’t get a lot of time together and Obi Wan want to make the most of it while you can.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Obi Wan has some Catholic level guilt when it comes to masturbating. He hasn’t really done it since he was a much younger Padawan and when he’s with you, he’s had enough training to wait until he can see you again. It’s when he’s on Coruscant with you and can’t touch you that’s the real kicker. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Major praise kink, both giving and receiving.  He loves nothing more than worshiping your body, whispering soft insistent praises in your ear.  And when you turn the tables? When you tell him how good he makes your feel, how perfect he is, how precise and attentive; he loses it.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

You’re either at your place outside the walls of the Senate or the Jedi Temple OR you’re in some rented room far away from where anyone else can find you.  It’s not ideal, but Obi Wan doesn’t want to risk people finding out about the two of you.  It bothers you sometimes, but that’s the deal you made to be with him.  When you’re in your home, you can relax and actually be together like a real couple.  It’s nice, to pretend for a little while.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Competency.  Seriously, the moment you give a rousing speech to the Senate or rescue him from an attack or even just hold your own in a fight, he’s practically vibrating as he waits for a moment alone with you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Age play or just a big age difference period.  Padawan/Master relationships are going be thrown right out the window.  He sees it in the same light as a parent and child and any reference to it genuinely turns his stomach.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He gives and receives with equal enthusiasm.  The sight of your lips wrapped around his cock is mesmerizing with the added bonus of him feeling free to cum inside you at he wishes.  Seeing you lick cum off your lips sends him.

At the same time, hearing the noises that spill from those lips as he goes down on you can be just as enticing.  He loves the way you yank at his hair when he does something truly magic with his tongue.  He loves your taste and takes a kind of pride at the bread burn on the inside of your thighs, even if you don’t always appreciate it.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Slow and sensual is the way of the game more times than not. Like I said before, you don’t have as much time together as other couples and so Obi Wan wants to take his time with you, drawing out the pleasure for as long as he can.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

That’s going to be a negative.  Quickies imply you can’t take your time because one of you has to be somewhere which means someone will come looking if you’re not there on time.  Quickies can easily be lead to being caught and Obi Wan cannot relax long enough to have one.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Obi Wan really is willing to try most anything with you so long as you discuss it before hand; just so long as it’s no where near the Jedi Temple. Have a mentioned he’s completely paranoid about being caught?

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

It takes him a little while to build his stamina, given his lack of experience, but he can go for a while now.  He usually is good after one round, but he makes it last as long as possible, making you cum at least twice, if not more before he does.  That being said, if it’s been a really long while since you’ve seen each other, he can go for two or three.  Jedi recoup powers are a very real thing.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn’t have any himself, but like I said he’s willing to try anything with his partner so long as they discuss it before hand.

There is something to be said for him being able to hold you down while he teases you with a vibrator and making you cum over and over again.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Once he figures out how; he’s the biggest fucking tease in the galaxy.  He’ll let you linger on the edge for well over an hour before he lets you cum. And for all his talk about not getting caught, damn does he like to get you hot and bothered in public.  If it wasn’t for his reputation of flirting with everyone then you’d be in much bigger trouble.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He usually a bit more quiet almost out of habit.  His words never rise beyond a whisper in your ear and his muffles in moans by burying them in your skin.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He is terrified at the idea of you being pregnant; not because he doesn’t want to be a father, but because he knows he would. 

When you’re together in secret, he can pretend like he can have both; being a Jedi and being with you.  But, if you became pregnant? He knows he would leave the Jedi Order in a second, no questions asked.  You could ask him tomorrow and he would probably say yes.  The only reason why you don’t is because you know how important being a Jedi is to him.  And knowing deep down inside you have that kind of power over his future terrifies him, but he loves you too much to let it scare him away.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He’s hung and he doesn’t even know it. It takes everything in you not to drool when you first see it; long and thick, but not so much for it to hurt.  He actually ask you how he compares and you have to lie; you can’t have his ego boosted anymore or his head will explode.  (He finds out later, but details)

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Not extremely high, but just high enough that as soon as he’s given his report to the Council after a mission he’s at your door and kissing your senseless.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Once he knows you’re comfortable, he’s out like a light.  You feel a kind of pride in that, knowing that he trusts you enough to relax and actually let sleep take him. 

[redbirdbella]

@clintasha-week  Advent calendar Day 9 - Emotions 

Very angsty. CW - guns, illusions to suicide, Avengers Assemble canon character death, drug use, talk of mind control. (If there's any more please tell me but those are the ones i can see.)

It takes Natasha 45 minutes to decide Clint's been alone long enough.

It takes two weeks for her to find him.

Phil's funeral had been tough on everyone, her archer especially. He'd been a broken man, tears staining his cheeks as he carried the casket. Natasha to his left, holding his hand as she helps bear the weight.

Barton, Romanoff, Rogers, Hill, Fury and May carrying the weight of a brother, a comrade and a true patriot July 1964 til May 2012 (or at least that's what the grave will say).

She gives him space, room to grieve, to bury his head into his hands and weep until shes worried he'll shrivel up. Like he'll faint from dehydration like when he was hungover that one time in Vegas. Happier times. Hill supplies the tissues and Steve the rousing speech. It's tasteful, Phil would appreciate it. But there's no flowers to hide the casket, just his stupid Captain America trading cards on, the ones that make Natasha's heartbreak.

Clint asks for space. After it's all over, once the coffins gone behind the red velvet curtains and the music plays. She agrees, resigned to him running. She can play the game. Follow where he leads.

Two weeks. Two damn weeks it takes. Europe, the Americas, Africa. She even checks in with Barney. The infamous Hawkeye is gone with the wind.

She goes on a whim. On a shadow of a memory of Tokyo. Of him stitching her up. Of safety and warm alcohol. A disconnected safehouse. Off the grid. Shelter, nothing more.

It's not there, replaced by a luxury high-rise. Last few units remaining the realtor declares. Great, he'll be near the top then.

She hacks the database. It's easy enough. Flat 804.

It's quiet. Eerily so, and she prays to whatever deity will listen to not have another funeral so soon.

She knocks hard, demanding a reply, but she's no surprised when no one answers.

Simple locks make simple work, the door creaking open in spite of her pleas for quiet.

He's up and in the doorway. He's armed, fingers gripping to his old Glock. Simple, effective but not if he looks so indecisive. Like its somehow difficult choosing between the intruder and himself.

"Clint" She whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of his mouth letting his stubble scratch against her, "It's ok. Just me."

"Tasha" he breathes, taking her head into his hands. She holds them, noticing the way they shake, the way it makes it easy to dispossess him. Too easy. She notices the razor burn on his cheeks like he'd tried, tried to find himself amongst the rubble, "He's- I'm- I've fought so hard Tasha"

"I know, you've been so brave, but you don't have to be. I'm here, together yeah?"

He nods, letting her push her way into the apartment. The way she moves past the bottle piles and cracked walls with an effortless grace ignoring the smell of BO and alcohol. The lingering stench of rock bottom.

"Let's get you clean huh?"

He nods leading her to the bathroom. The flat has a bath graciously untouched and running hot water that leaves Natasha whispering a silent thank you to the powers that be.

She's well packed, well versed in Clint and all his emergencies. Magnesium enriched Epsom salts with lavender and chamomile, to soothe his sores and the anxious energy in his muscles. Clint recognises the box and nods reluctantly.

"Want to put some in?"

He doesn't, but he doesn't stop her adding a healthy amount. He strips down without her request, he isn't scared of being naked. Not with her. She's seen worse. She's seen the bodies on the floor, even helped organise the men that had taken Phil away, leaving the red smudge that seemed to imprint into his mind.

"Hey" She whispers kindly as if the past didn't hang so heavy between them "the water should be warm enough now. Go on, it won't bite"

He nods and steps in, if only to see her smile his last connection to humanity reflected back to him.

"Should we lay down?" She asks but she's already slowly lowering herself letting her arm dangle into the water.

He follows her. A little less steady but it's a start. She kisses his head, "Whatever you're on its strong"

Clint shrugs. Not strong enough.

"How long?"

"How long?" Natasha echos "long enough that I've missed you"

"No, how long in here?"

"Until I say so"

There's no quip just a nod and Natasha's heart breaks just a little more. She clings to the outside of the bath under his watchful gaze, humming songs she remembers from better times. Before gods and monsters and mayhem.

It takes a while for the salts to work their magic, making his limbs grow heavier, back to his control. The bath should be cool, if Natasha hadn't constantly refilled bringing it back to a good temperature. The one that melts the trickster god's ice.

"There, I've got something to get you dry" She whispers when he stands, requesting to be let out. She'd got it at the airport, so it's still fluffy with its new novel smell. He wraps it around his waist and she throws his clothes into the water left in the tub. Cleaning the air of the smell and giving him no choice but to choose the fresh clothes she's brought. He agrees to the pants, black with a purple stripe out the outside leg, the pair he always wore for long nights in.

"That's better" Natasha praises, directing him to the toilet, seat down, "you tried to shave-"

"I look like him" oh the original him. Barton Snr. The only man she hated more than Loki.

"I only see my partner" she whispers pressing another kiss to his cheek, "let me show you-"

She brings out a kit. A long-forgotten kit, one that only comes out for him. Her Barbers kit from her time attending to the soldiers. It's not the same, her tools had been blunted through use but the idea is still there. Buried deep through countless repetition.

Clints not like the soldiers. Even now he fidgets putting himself at her mercy. It's a long process, a Turkish shave, but each time it's worth it for the way he smiles, blushing under her tender touches. It's different this time, there's no more smiles but he shuts his eyes letting himself be pampered.

"There." She whispers placing a mirror into his hands once the act is done "There you are. Back again"

He nods, avoiding the man that glances back at him and she places her hands against the back of his neck.

"You cant ever ask for space again"

He nods.

"Not until I say so"

He nods. He's taken something, something strong. Detoxing will be a bitch but that was tomorrows battle.

"Bed?"

He doesn't nod, but he doesn't object either just leads her there as if she just wanted to see it. To check for proof of its existence.

There's no more fresh sheets, but the spare bedrooms untouched. Natasha's doubt's he'd left the living room much, not in this state.

He lays on the bed and waits for her to follow. Then he surrounds her, hands desperate to touch, to reassure his trembling grip on reality.

"I'm here. I'm here" she soothes

"You've been here before" he counters.

"Not like tonight"

He's quiet until he can't contain anymore "They took my mind"

"And I took it back"

"I killed him.

"Loki killed him. You were with me"

He nods, "You would have saved him."

"I made my choice"

"It wasn't your choice to make!"

They settle into the silence that follows. She doesn't expect an apology, she doesn't need one. She knew what it was like for someone to take your brain and play.

"Did you really think I wouldn't know you? That I wouldn't come looking" She whispers "I fought a god for you."

"And do you like your prize?"

"Now you sound like him"

"Cause he's still in there! I'd blow a hole in my head to let him out! to make it stop!"

"Don't- I need you" She's not beyond pleading, not for Clint.

He's quiet, until the tears come. They burn his freshly shaved skin so she stems them, blotting them out with her fingers.

"I'm here, it's ok" she's writing cheques she can't cash, making promises she can't keep "It can stop now, let me take it from here"

She offers out her arms as he'd done all those years before. His arms were bigger. It wasn't such a tight fit but her skills lay elsewhere. She lets her hands creep down his bareback. Recalling every last detail she can remember about her massage class back in Russia, when they'd promised her only gentle hands could wiggle out secrets. Before they corrected the lie.

He startles as she begins, if the sobs that shudder against her shoulder are any indication.

She shhs him, cradling him like a child

"It's just me"

She draws circles against his back, letting him strain away when she touches somewhere tender.

"Please, please don't fight me like you do him"

She lets her own tears slip away as he surrenders to her touch, feeling each muscle relax against her.

Until he surrenders to the deep sleep that pulls him under.

There's no more need to fight, for she grants him rest.

[quietlyimplode]

Whumptober2020 — #2 Kidnapped

Clint/Nat - With Tony and Pepper coming to help.

“Natasha’s been kidnapped. She was taken off the roof of our hotel adjacent building. There was a struggle. I need your help. This is a secure line.” He says it robotically, breaking it down so there’s no room for misunderstandings.

He can hear Tony typing. “Where are you?”

Clint/Nat

Day 1 // 

——-

The mission in Morocco was indeed a shit show.

Landing in Rabat, Clint had that feeling that things were just going to go wrong; an overpowering pit of the stomach, dejavu butterfly- monster mash of anticipation; making him drag his feet at every transition. Natasha, however, had been in her element, large hat, beautifully dressed, tan the perfect shade and looking like a local as they headed for the Kasbah of the Udayas to meet with their contact.

Their driver had, of course, taken them the long way round but it had given them time to scout the area so neither minded the drive.

“You,” the driver had started, ��here for a holiday?”

Natasha had smiled, making light conversation easily. It had allowed Clint to take in the scenery, and scout points where he could perch. He paid more attention when Natasha reached across and grabbed his hand squeezing lightly. Looking across, she signed low for him to check if anyone was following, whilst continuing to talk about London where she was supposedly from. He’s often in awe of her but it’s times like this where the phrase ‘competence porn’ feels apt. There’s no way he could multitask like her.

Clint hadn’t noticed anyone following, assuming their arrival had gone unnoticed, who were they in a city of just over half a million people?

Intel leading them here had been from Natasha’s contact in Casablanca, he assumes it’s clean; the Black Widow’s reputation for revenge of those who would dare cross her is obvious, perhaps now, outdated.

He signs back his observations, to which she nods and inquires to the driver how much longer til they arrive. It obvious that the driver doesn’t want to give up the fare, as he drives around the tourist attraction , before stopping to let them out. Clint tips him well enough to be forgotten instantly as Natasha heads to the front desk to pay the entry fee.

The meet goes as well as can be expected and the intel they gain is easily fed back to their superiors. They ditch the burner phone and shed their personas and walk to their hotel, holding hands like two lovers on a evening walk. Their hotel is basic and they hope to be gone by the morning. Natasha takes first watch and Clint makes himself sleep, trusting she’ll wake him when it’s his turn to watch their backs. They could stay in the hotel room, but both know the risks of being ambushed in a confined space, the odds they would both make it would be low; so the compromise of shift watch is fair. He had properly scouted the area whilst Natasha had gone for dinner- he’s confident in the spot he chose for the watch, high enough to not be noticed, close enough to the hotel to raise alarms.

Clint's body clock wakes him exactly 5 hours after falling asleep- no Natasha. Which in itself isn’t odd as she may be on her way, but he feels it, Clint’s damn spidey-sense is fucking blaring. He heads for the scout point and he can feel the butterflies turn into stones as his stomach bottoms out again, feelings returning tenfold. It makes him want to throw up. Desperate now, he calls Natasha. There’s no answer, of course she didn’t take her phone and they’d got rid of the burner earlier. He hopes to god she left her earpiece in.. The one he left back at the hotel. Fuck.

The scout point shows signs of a struggle- scuff marks, blood, she had time to put up a fight then. He’s nervous. And worried.

Hurrying now, he calls Tony, sprinting back to the hotel. He can’t think of what else to do. If he goes through the proper channels, he’d be recalled, they’d go through the mission with a fine tooth comb- all of that takes time. Time he does not have; time Natasha does not have. He wants to capitalize on not being too far behind whoever’s kidnapped her.

Clint dials Tony again. And again when he doesn’t pick up. Clint rounds on the hotel, out of breath. Hands on his knees he swipes to get into the room.

Ringing Pepper now, he’s desperate. He calculates quickly in his head the time 1am here means 10pm in New York; laughing darkly as he thinks that the one time Tony’s gone to bed early or actually getting some sleep. Pepper answers on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Pepper? It’sNatashaineedTony.” He said catching his breath and blurting it out.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Pepper, it’s Clint. I need Tony,” he rephrases; slowing his speech and breaking his words.

Pepper sighs, “he’s in the workshop, can you hold?”

Nodding and then realizing she can’t see him, he responds affirmatively.

He’s packing a go-bag, Natasha would be appalled at the organization but he’s not thinking right.

Tony’s jovial hello is not what he needs right now.

Clint makes himself stop. Makes himself explain the necessity of Tony and Iron Man.

“Natasha’s been kidnapped. She was taken off the roof of our hotel adjacent building. There was a struggle. I need your help. This is a secure line.” He says it robotically, breaking it down so there’s no room for misunderstandings.

He can hear Tony typing. “Where are you?”

Clint gives the coordinates, looking them up on his phone.

“Rabat? You’re in Rabat? That’s a 12 hour flight commercial, maybe 6 by quinjet, maybe 2 by suit. I’ll re-task one with medical now,” Clint can hear Tony thinking; at least one of them is thinking straight. “I’m looking at satellite footage, when was she taken?”

Clint doesn’t know.

“We got back to the hotel, ate and then she left for the scout point. She was on first watch. I think she has her earpiece in. Can you track that?”

More furious typing.

“She’s about 21 miles from you, the earpiece is pinging from an importer warehouse. I can meet you there but it’s going to take me around two hours flying at full speed; even if we get her the jets going to be 4 hours behind me. Do you have a plan?”

Clint is reluctant to admit he doesn’t. He wants to get to the warehouse now. He doesn’t want to wait two hours, it’s going to take around an hour to get there regardless.

Tony is, surprisingly a voice of reason. He knows Tony loves Natasha - not like he does but they connect in a way he doesn’t get. Maybe joint trauma, who knows. He respects it, and right now he is thankful for it.

“I’m on my way. Head to the warehouse; I know you are anyway, and I’ll meet you there. The warehouse is guarded - I would advise not to engage tactically it’d be better to have a diversion and get her out when attention is elsewhere.” He can hear Tony jogging, talking as he goes “Who are these guys? Clint; so you know; they’re everywhere. If you can; wait for my signal. Get yourself in position I’ll be there as soon as I can, I’m swapping to your comms line now. The jets already left, Pepper is on board, and a med team. They’ll be there in just under 6 hours. We will have to get her out and get to the airport. Let’s try and get her on coms.. If she’s conscious…” he leaves that thought hanging.

“Anyway. I’m now on comms, I’ll catch you soon bird boy. Hang tight.” He hangs up the phone, and stuffs it in his back pocket. Clint’s taken the opportunity to check out and head for the ally; looking to steal a car whilst Tony’s been talking.

Tony’s right, it’s going to take him an hour to get there, even at this time. He’s thankful for the cover of darkness; the black fiat is ugly but does the job. It’s an old enough model that he can jimmy the lock and hot wire the steering. He sets the coordinates on his phone and leaves.

By the time he gets there he checks in with Tony, who reports he’s 45 minutes out. Enough time for a full scout. He tries Natasha again, tapping his com-link. It’s toast. Unless.. He connects it to his phone and runs diagnostics. He’s not as technical as Tony but he has a few tricks. When he reconnects he hears the tail end of his name.

Had she been calling it the whole time, or was that just freakishly good timing? Tony hears it too.

“Tash?!” He tries. He can hear her breath hitching. Fuck. She’s not ok. “We’re coming for you.”

Tony’s more practical and Clint’s never been more thankful for him. He’s an ass but a helpful ass, “tell us what you can?”.

Clint wants to infiltrate now. He’s desperate; Natasha describes that she can’t see anything. Not helpful. And that she can’t move. Worrying. There’s nothing after that. Tony lets her know that they’ve tracked her earpiece. She’s silent after that. No one really has anything to say except the obvious. They’re coming.

Clint heads to the back of warehouse.

Tony is now 20 minutes out.

And then it starts.

Natasha is screaming.

It’s excruciating.

Tony’s yelling at him to wait, but he can’t. He heads in. This place is a maze. Navigating the stairs, he hears Tony arrive. The explosion that sounds and rocks the building. He should have waited but he can still hear Natasha screaming and it’s ringing in his ears.

All of sudden she stops, and so does his heart. Moving faster he gets to the lower levels. Shooting two thugs in the face he starts checking rooms.

Tony is creating a hell of a diversion, drawing fire. Clint let’s him know that he hasn’t found her yet. The firefight outside continues.

The last room he checks is dark, and he heads inside. There’s something inside, he clears the doorway and finds her strapped to a table, his heart breaks in two- there’s straps around her feet, torso and arms; as he gets closer he sees the one around around her neck. Fuck.

The minefield of this trauma is just starting. He can see the rise and fall of her chest and at least she’s alive to see the c-ptsd.

Trying to rouse her he calls her name, he unstraps her ankles, and wrists; moving to her torso she starts bucking against the restraint. He tries to reassure her whilst undoing the strap; wounds that were oozing now have a streaky stream of blood. The wound on her stomach is hideous and her wrists and ankles have broken skin all around them and that’s just what he can see. He can feel her body tremors which he knows from experience only comes from electric shock. He finishes with her torso and moves to her neck. In hindsight, he should have started there, her body curls up in a fetal position - sounds of distress that aren’t words and not crying come hard and fast. Clint squats next to her face, brushing her hair back, his hand coming away with blood. He’s working as fast as he can with the strap around her neck, blood making it both slippery and sticky, fingers working the clasp.

It takes a lot for Natasha to scream, this he knows. He wonders how many were working on her to get her this distressed, this quickly. He tells her that it’s over, it’s done and they’re dead (he hopes they are), he picks her up and advises her they’re leaving.

Clint pulls a blanket from his pack and wraps her in it. He places a gun in her hands. At the most it makes her feel safe, at worse she shoots something or someone. He just wants her to be safe with him. She was supposed to be safe with him.

Clint just talks, tells her everything that’s happened since they split up. Clint tells her everything and nothing hoping it’s enough to keep her semi-lucid and awake.

Tony updates him that he’s leaving to meet the quinjet that’s made double time across the sea. He bundles her in the tiny fiat and heads for the airport. Clint tries to keep her awake, failing miserably; Natasha is moaning in pain and there’s nothing he can do at this point. He worries about concussion and trauma, but it can hold. He wants to get out of here.

.

Arriving at the airport, he sees Tony and Pepper and the quinjet waiting. Bundling Natasha into his arms, he tries to rouse her. He greets the couple, both taking one look at Natasha and hurrying into the jet. It’s when they’re sitting and he’s strapped himself in with assistance from Tony; arguing about whether Natasha should be in a hospital or at the very least needs medical interventions that Clint feels Natasha rouse. He feels her burying her head into his neck, straining for breath. Cracked ribs maybe? Tony notices, of course he does, her breathing is audible; Tony tries to make his case again and he feels Natasha trembling when medical is mentioned. Clint feels her pain. He brushes her hair away from her ear, wanting to be clear.

“Natasha. We can sedate you and fix you up if you want?”

He feels the shake of her head and he drops it immediately. It’s a long ride back to New York.

—-

Next up: we head back to the events which led Natasha to be captured (it’s shorter). Thanks everyone who’s liking and reblogging, you’re all brilliant. I also need to say, that I’m 100% on mobile so the formatting is shoddy - I’ll try and get on the computer to put it under a cut but that won’t probs happen til Monday, so sorry about that.

[magical-readathon-diaries]

Djali’s Log 1

So I guess this is the beginning of it? The big adventure I always dreamed of? Braving the Novice Path, heading towards the Academy to meet new people, learn new things, see fantastic places. Wait, should I do an introduction here? Do journals even need introductions? Well, what if one day my journal is saved for posterity for some historical reason? Maybe someone venturing onto the Novice Path in the future could benefit from reading this log and learn how to better navigate it themselves? Yes, yes, then an introduction is in order.

Hello, this is Djali, of the Great Underworld Library of Darkmeadow. I am seventeen years of age, of Iltirian heritage, and tutored in the realms of history, geography, biology, archivism, and certain magics, such as conjuration and illusion. I have spent my entire life beneath Darkmeadow and was raised by the curators of the Library, though my main overseer is, at this moment, Archivist Caddigan. My knowledge of the world and its inhabitants is limited solely to my own personal research, as this log contains my first voyage away from home, so any discrepancies or misunderstandings found within are solely the fault of my own inexperience. That’s a normal thing to put in a journal, right? Okay, focus, time to move forward.

My journey to Orilium was relatively uneventful. Caddigan arranged passage for me on a ship, which carried many other residents of Darkmeadow looking to take on the Path. I was eager to speak with them to learn how they would approach this challenge, knowing that not all who undertake it come out alive. While I did get the usual pleasantries, no one was willing to talk for long. They were still planning, preparing, or fretting for what was ahead of them. Not that I can blame them, of course. With all the stories one hears, it would be foolish not to do everything in one’s power to make sure they were one hundred percent ready. It’s just….I thought things would be different. Less…. solitary. That we would all recognize our common goal and work together, like the stories of heroes long ago. But, those stories are the past, not now, as Caddigan always tries to remind me. Still, why can’t then be now also?

I spent most of the time reacquainting myself with the map of the Path, its general layout, as well as practice some magic that may be of use during the test. I had it all down to the best of my ability, I didn’t think I can take much more of it. My head was so full of what ifs, contingency plans, and just general information it feels like it was going to burst. I think the only time I felt any solace was at night.

Though I was unable to chance a flight that night, I did fly up the mast to sit in the crow’s nest. It was made for crows after all. I haven’t done too much study into nautical topics, so that’s my best assumption. I stared for a while at the stars, still admiring, my mind wanting to focus on a single point, rather than the chaos currently bouncing around my temples. It was a nice moment, one that I will treasure always and take comfort in. Of course, I eventually fell asleep, so the morning after I needed a bit of help getting down since the blasted sun was ruining my eyes again, but we won’t dwell on that.

This was my first time leaving the Library, meaning this was probably the longest time I have been on the surface in a while. I’ve ventured out onto the topside of Darkmeadow a few times, giving Caddigan multiple heart attacks in the process, but those excursions were never that long, not enough for me to get a good sense of the outside. Being on the ship, however, exposed me to what life is like in the open air. Before I left, Caddigan gave me a blindfold, as my eyes are not used to the sun and I really would not like to spend my days in a total blinded stupor. During the day I mostly spent time below deck, just wandering aimlessly. But at night, I emerged to see a sky flooded with stars.

I’ve studied stars in the past, learned their names, positions, and what constellations they create, but actually seeing them was almost indescribable. The light was soft, gentle, unlike the harsh light of day that I unfortunately have to get used to. They were celestial pinpricks in a velvet tarp of night, the world made more beautiful just by their existence. There was no moon unfortunately, but it was still a sky worth looking at. Everything felt so still and quiet, the lap of the waves against the ship making the only noise. A salty breeze tousled my hair and for a moment I was tempted to shift into crow shape just to feel what it would be like to ride it. The captain had expressly told the Iltirian passengers not to do so, something about us “land-dwellers” not knowing how to “bend to these ferocious sea winds,” but I think it may just be his superstition of not wanting too many ‘birds of ill omen” near his ship. Not very logical thinking if you ask me, but we all have our quirks.

It wasn’t too long after that the ship made it to Orilium. Thankfully by that time I could travel fairly well in the day without my blindfold, something I was extremely grateful for as the time to start the Novice Path was drawing near. We disembarked and made our way to the campsite near the entrance to the Path. A good amount of people were already there, setting up tents, getting a lay of the land, writing messages to loved ones should they not make it out. It was honestly depressing to think about, but it was a reality. There was no certainty that we were all going to make it out of here alive. Though we were all looking for adventure, for a chance to prove ourselves worthy, that all came with a price, one that some may have to pay in full.

I don’t think I find myself particularly worried. I think it’s more like I can’t allow for failure, so I can’t even accept the possibility of it. I can’t come to grips with the fact that I may very well die in the near future. Call it the reckless abandon of youth, but It just seems so impossible. That confidence will either be my greatest asset or my ruin. But enough of that! This is supposed to be exciting! That’s what readers like! A dragging down to earth is necessary in certain parts, but only so that we can rise up again!

Clearly the mood was starting to weigh heavily in the air, as an old elf came before us and delivered a well, I think it was intended to be a rousing speech about the merits of having danger in an adventure, which I suppose is true, but doesn’t alone soothe anyone’s worries. The song he performed afterwards did a lot more in stirring up the revelry of the crowd. It’s a song we all know, a song that was practically born in our minds at birth. In that moment, all those feelings of fear, doubt, and anxiety melted away, as we raised our voices as one and came together to celebrate the calm before the storm of our journey.

The night that followed was one I admit that I will be hard pressed to forget. The archivists of the Library are, surprisingly, not the most mirthful of people, so I’ve never actually been to anything resembling a party. It was very..loud to say the least. Lots of drinking, dancing, shenanigans, which I guess is normal? They don’t exactly have any academic material on this subject, though such a text would probably be very helpful to people like me. The utter pandemonium of it all was hard to navigate at first, but I think I managed to fit in rather well. I danced the best I could with some other Iltirians. I’m not much of a dancer, another thing they fail to teach you when you live at the Library, but no one pointed and laughed so I’ll take that as a triumph.

And that has been my journey up until now. Tomorrow I begin my adventure on the Novice Path, along with the others who want to prove their worth to the Academy. It’s hard to believe that the time has finally come, that I’m only one sleep away from the most important day of my life. Here’s hoping that it’s also not the last.

I mingled through the crowd, politely taking a drink now and then. I got a few names, had a couple worthwhile conversations, some a little one-sided, but I don’t think anyone’s eyes completely glazed over as I went on about the magical properties of certain gemstones. I’m not sure if I would call anyone friend just yet, though something in me desperately wants to. There’s still the fear that the people I met tonight may very well be gone tomorrow, but tonight was for enjoying this glorious moment, not dreading the future. So, the night passed thusly, with wine and song and the hope that tomorrow is a guarantee.

When the party died down and people retired to their tents, I rolled out a pack on the ground, completely content to sleep under the sky. The stars were shining bright as ever, the lovely constants of the sky, and now there was a slight sliver of moon to accompany them. Though there was little to see, she sure was beautiful.

I’m sorry, I really can’t end the log like that. So depressing. Uh, what else to end it on?

Well, the moment I wrote that a literal tumbleweed blew past me, perfectly summarizing the emptiness of my mind.

Okay, on that note, this log is complete.

[ahopefuldoubt]

The Prince of Egypt MBTI Profiles

Finally done!  From a 2018 draft; notes and MBTI learning from 2016-2020.

Miriam: ENFJ  (Fe-Ni-Se-Ti)

Judging functional axis: Extraverted Feeling/Introverted Thinking Fe-Ti

Miriam is a warm-hearted advocate; insightful, inspiring, and active.  She wants to effect (and see others effect) positive change in the world.  Forthcoming with her opinions and emotions, at times she can be a bit forceful with them, sometimes rolling over others, or not immediately considering their perspectives or feelings, in an effort to get her point across or get things done (Fe-Ti dynamic; can come across as an “I know best” kind of attitude, which to be fair Miriam pretty much does) — one example of this is the well scene with Moses.

As a function, Fe is focused on the external world and making people-factored decisions and judgments: Fe dominants especially are concerned with what others should and shouldn’t be doing and with promoting cooperation (the higher any function is in someone’s stack, the more natural influence and use — “dominance“ — it has).  At various points in the film, Miriam becomes disapproving and stern with Moses and Aaron, the latter when he’s confronting Moses with his critical outburst (“Aaron. You shame yourself.”).  This is perhaps a demonstration of Fe-Ti taking-a-stand and/or inferior Ti: Miriam swiftly taking Aaron to task for his doubting, disharmonizing words against Moses, overlooking their value/validity and his viewpoint.  With Moses, as shown in both the well and mud pit scenes, she knows what his role is, encouraging and reminding him to act within it, connecting his responsibility to their people, and affirming his tie to them.

Miriam tends to speak in ways that appeal to human connections and welfare, as evinced by the sensitive speech she gives to Moses, in which she expresses the pain of her experience as a slave, and recounts Gd’s presence in his/their lives.  She tends to put others’ needs before her own, at the same time knowing how to defend herself and to trust her judgment, is loving and reassuring, and can rally people together through low and lofty times.

Perceiving functional axis: Introverted Intuition/Extraverted Sensing Ni-Se

When Moses returns to Egypt, Miriam seems to just know why he’s come back (knew he would come back, even), perhaps also from taking in his robes and other aspects of his physical appearance.  It’s comparable to when Moses first shows up in Goshen years before: She sees the broader implications of his homecoming, why he must be here at last.  Her sight is forward-reaching and personally meaningful; a specific goal that she's determined and focused on, grounded by both her faith and observations of the world around her.  She knows how things should/could be, how she wants them to be, and takes actions in the present to make those things a reality.

Miriam believes in others’ — particularly Moses’ — potential (“And you are, Moses. You are the deliverer.”), which is a further reflection of her Ni.  Though able to reconcile and adapt to changes when they occur (Ni-Se being adjacent functions in an ENFJ), it is nonetheless indicative of an Ni-Se dynamic that Miriam becomes stressed during the well scene when current reality and facts — that Moses wasn’t told who he is and hasn’t returned to help them obtain freedom — don’t match up with her beliefs/ideals or the underlying truth.  She understandably protests this unexpected change, and can’t/won’t let go of what she has put her hopes in, and been fortified by, for so long.  She doesn’t actually let go, but I think it does make her want to fight for these hopes more… and, in this scene and others, push Moses to achieve his promise.

Aaron: ISFJ  (Si-Fe-Ti-Ne)

Perceiving functional axis: Introverted Sensing/Extraverted Intuition Si-Ne

Aaron is practical, reliable, protective of family and others; trusting of personal experience and wary of what is new or uncertain.  Because these two naturally opposing functions, Si and Ne, are also located on opposite ends of an ISFJ’s stack, resolving the tension between them is more difficult, and this is true for Aaron, whose own journey involves overcoming his fear and becoming more open to trust and faith, stepping out of his comfort zone.

Aaron tends to make concrete, habitually self-sacrificing, gestures and actions.  He cares about others and their physical safety; it is Miriam he most clearly looks after, but this includes Tzipporah, Moses, and the Hebrew community (a camel, too).  While Miriam is often the sibling on the front lines, and, after resisting the call at first, Moses eventually comes to accept his position as a leader, Aaron plays a more supportive role, and is the one whom the other two can count on in times of need.

When Moses returns to Egypt, Aaron immediately calls attention to how Moses behaved in the past, believing and perhaps also fearing that his younger brother hasn’t changed.  Si-doms reference meaningful past details to understand the present, noticing consistencies and inconsistencies.  It’s telling that Aaron hasn’t let go of events from years ago, and that he draws a comparison between what happened and what is happening: the way Moses treated Miriam, and that he didn’t care about slaves.

His inferior Ne manifests in his fearful, cautious attitude towards things that seem to him unfamiliar or unrealistic (such as Miriam’s beliefs about Moses), and in his inclination to expect all possible negative outcomes, which are based in his (objectively negative) known, prior experiences.  One example is the well scene, but also the Nile to blood scene where Aaron despairs, rather realistically, that Pharaoh still has the power over their lives.  (I’ve thought about whether he’s in an Ne-grip, or even a Ti-loop, for most of the film.)  However, once he starts to experience with his own senses that freedom is attainable, tangible, he starts to trust these changes, challenging his established security and his courage by walking into the parted waters of the Red Sea.

Judging functional axis: Extraverted Feeling/Introverted Thinking Fe-Ti

While more reserved and even-tempered than Miriam, Aaron in general does not withhold how he feels, expressing his opinions, fears, anger, affection, joy.  He is mindful of his and his people’s position within Egyptian-dominated society (certainly dominant Si-related too), to the point of affirming his, Miriam’s, and Moses’ roles when Moses appears in Goshen — an attempt to mitigate their very tense interaction with perhaps a bit too accommodating desire for group harmony.  Aaron makes decisions based on values and how people relate to one another.  For example, during the same scene his plea to Moses is an emotional one; as in, Aaron is calling to Moses’ mercy, trying to reach with Miriam’s appearance of illness some compassionate part of this threatening prince.

Aaron makes a similar, albeit angrier, appeal to Moses during the mud pit scene, this time rousing, whether he knows it or not, Moses’ sense of guilt and morality, and asking when Moses started caring about slaves.  (I’ve always felt like there’s a resemblance between Aaron’s and Miriam’s scolding/“shaming” styles.)  While still speaking to concerns that affect people, Aaron is able to form analytical conclusions, checking logic and what “makes sense” (other illustrations: “In fact, Moses, when did you start caring about slaves?”, and, “But, Moses, didn’t you see what happened? …”).  He uses his Fe-Ti to assert himself during the mud pit scene, a kind of “sounding off” that shows that he’s reached the point where he won’t be silent any longer (it doesn’t help that he’s had to sit on these emotions for years).

Moses: ISFP  (Fi-Se-Ni-Te)

Judging functional axis: Introverted Feeling/Extraverted Thinking Fi-Te

Sensitive and just, impulsive and good-natured, Moses typically acts and reflects upon a deep and personal(ized) sense of values, of “right and wrong.”  He defends Rameses by taking responsibility for their mischief; he knows to feel remorse after he’s mistreated Tzipporah at the banquet.  When Moses finds out the truth about his origins, he is appalled by Seti’s use of infanticide.  With Tuya he asks, “Is this where you found me?”, again calling attention to the wrongness he feels.  And of course, he takes a stand against oppression.  Like Miriam and Aaron, Moses factors how people relate to one another into his decisions (all three siblings are Feelers, though Miriam and Aaron use Fe, not Fi).

Furthermore, Moses tends to share his strong feelings more privately; his one-to-one interactions with Rameses suggest this.  Not only does “All I Ever Wanted” act as a mustering of personal conviction, “this is who/what I am,” it’s also Moses’ inner monologue wherein and whereafter he sits and processes his emotions on his own.

Moses is quick to internalize blame when things go wrong, which of course anyone can do, but in Moses’ case this points to (especially dominant) Fi’s concern with upholding its integrity.  Part of his running away from Egypt is spurred on by these blows to his sense of self/self-worth and morality.  (He’s troubled by his own ignorance and identity upheaval.)  Under the guidance of Jethro and his people, Moses rediscovers and redefines his values, learning to see himself objectively — “Through Heaven’s Eyes” — as well as the dignity of every life.  His encounter with Gd and conversations with Tzipporah and Rameses allow him to reckon with the fact that he truly must “learn to join the dance” and cannot remove himself from the world nor neglect doing what he knows is right.  It’s in his later confrontations with Rameses that he’s able to step up and express his values and wishes in a firm, organized way.

Perceiving functional axis: Extraverted Sensing/Introverted Intuition Se-Ni

As a teenager, Moses is a reckless seeker of sensory experiences, pursuing enjoyment in the here-and-now and competition alongside Rameses (“Oh, come on. Where’s your sense of fun?”).  He follows Tzipporah out of intrigue — as well as a desire to make amends.  His humiliating Tzipporah can be seen as not thinking about the impact of his whims.  Even so, a healthier auxiliary Se shows in how he’s able to see the facts about himself and admit mistakes, in his adaptability, and, with maturity, in his unimpetuous playfulness.  As an adult, Moses remains someone who doesn’t much hesitate when he encounters something new: For example, he isn’t entirely cautious when he catches the flickering light of the burning bush, though one can argue that he’s also drawn there spiritually.  Another instance: He’s happy to be hands-on in Midian, minus the dancing at first.

Although Moses’ tertiary Ni surfaces in his ability to grasp the potentials that people and situations hold (“I know [Rameses] will live up to your expectations. He only needs the opportunity.”), Moses’ sense of direction and of greater purpose are shaken after he becomes unsure of what good/worth he can contribute to the world.  He “loses” himself in the present, to a free and joyful life in Midian.  However, he regains his drive and sight of the larger picture, with the help of all the figures in his life — Jethro and Tzipporah, Gd, Miriam and Aaron, and Rameses — committing to the task given to him.

Last edited: 6/8/20

[ourcboros]

𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃:   present day but not. 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒:   the patronus charm drabble task.   𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑:   death. 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆:   @dolors ( astoria greengrass ), several now dead npc’s & grandpa erberk   !

they’re eight, almost nine, and they chose a quiet birthday lunch over the offered party because they knew nobody would come. it’s meant to be a happy day, and it is, kind of - they got all of the books they wanted & the promise of a trip to the birmingham zoo when the rain clears up, and both are enough to spark joy, but when they think about the girl at school who got a lollipop from their teacher & a rousing chorus of the happy birthday song right before break time, last week, they feel almost winded.

their hair is the same shade of brown that tints the edges of a rotting flower bouquet, and they sit in the middle of a kitchen that could do with a fresh lick of the ancient yellow paint, rereading the same page of madame bovary over and over and over and over while a mother washes up the plates they’d used & the other bustles over something in the corner. they can sense the downward spiral, even if nazli does not. even if nazli will not admit to it, because admitting to it is being ungrateful for what they’ve already got, and that isn’t who they are. 

mum will turn on her heel, suddenly, and gesture for attention. mother will abandon the dishes to soapy water and paste huge smile onto her face to join the out of tune rendition of the happy birthday song that they begin, and nazli will give well rehearsed smile, to begin with, that turns into something much more real when they see the jarringly PINK birthday cake with its imperfect dip in the middle - charity had never been talented baker. there’s nine candles aflame on top, one for every year of life. they’ll act all embarrassed by this display of attention but a streak of pink the same color as the icing will shoot through their hair and when they muster up their energy for a blow that will take down half of those licks of flame in one go, they feel less sad, somehow. 

they’ve going to be fourteen soon, one of the eldest students in their year, and they’ve been alone in the hospital wing all weekend. the first time their body had gone to war against them while at school, madam pomfrey had been utterly beside herself. she wouldn’t leave them alone their entire stay, fussing over them in a way they’d forgotten people used to when their bodies random changes were a SURPRISE to be awfully frightened of. it’s been a few years, now, and she’s gotten pretty used to it. she tells them that she’s seen them in worse shape the day they’re brought up & they smile wryly and agree, but it’s best to be on the safe side, so here they lie - trying to find their own entertainment as poppy ( it’s first name basis only, now ) works her way through paperwork.

they have a potions essay due first thing monday morning that they haven’t been able to get finished. they can’t expect special treatment just because of where they are, so they’ve been trying, but the words won’t come to them and the parchment and ink have both been abandoned. good thing, too : if they’d still been holding their quill pointlessly when the doors burst open, there’d have been an awful mark right across the few words they had from the surprise. 

they recognize the first year who has joined their house from the sorting ceremony, because they remember cheering VERY loudly for them, but they don’t know much else. they can’t imagine why they’re here, too, since they don’t look very ill on the outside - though that’s hardly something to go off of given the battle waged on their insides, daily. madam pomfrey fusses in a familiar sort of way for the rest of the evening, making sure they’re comfortable on a bed two down from nazli, only leaving them alone for short spans of time until it’s time for her to clock out and leave the night nurse on the watch, a woman who prefers to sit inside the office & read her magazines. nazli steals glances towards the other every so often, their curiosity burning, but they just look forlorn. it’s a little sad, really. 

they choose a few of the books that sit atop their bedside cabinet - classics like the picture of dorian gray & the bell jar, a beaten up copy of twilight, a book they’d never recommend to anyone, a book they aren’t yet finished - and they pick their way across the shadowed hospital wing, barefoot. the other starts when they drop the small collection on the bottom of their bed, and they give a friendly smile, launching into an unprepared speech. “i’m nazli. madam pomfrey is brilliant, you know, but i spend a lot of time here and it only really gets bearable when you have some books to read - you can have these ones, if you’d like. i’ve got more if they aren’t your cup of tea, though - my cabinet is a sort of miniature library.”

astoria sits up and offers them a far more wary smile than they’ve defaulted to. that’s okay, though, because it’s good enough for nazli. they hop up onto the end of their bed. “my twilight is annotated but i did that during my i love edward cullen phase, and i’ve been meaning to go back and redo it because now i know i like girls and i have a bigger crush on rosalie than i ever had on him, and that sort of changes my worldview, a little, and makes me feel a lot more critical of his character the entire way through, you know?”

they’re seventeen and their dede can’t hide the SURPRISE that flits across his face when he emerges from the farmhouse in time to watch them trudging up the garden path, every inch of them covered in some kind of muck. it’s early morning, and they’re already tired all over again, but they’ve been laying about moping for days and days because they haven’t got an owl from either mum in a while, and they know they left england for their own safety and that charity had a duty that they did not, but they really wish the two had come, too.

the distant cousins they’re staying with don’t know nazli knows more turkish than they’ve been letting on & didn’t think that they’d heard them telling erberk that they need to start pulling their weight. they had, though, hence this : there’s things to do on a farm first thing in the morning, and nazli’s been hard at work so they find no FAULT that might be big enough to send either of them on their way. erberk hasn’t said, but they know he’s worried all the same.

he makes a comment about the smell and nazli BRISTLES, intends to walk right past until he reaches aged hand out to grab their upper arm & bring them to a stop. they expect to see the laugh lines creasing at corner of his eyes as he repeats himself, perhaps, but instead his voice drops low. “iyi iş çıkardın. sen çok temiz kalplisin, alanur.” 

they’re eighteen years old & the friends they’ve taken london by storm with are taking cover under a bus stop, but nazli is standing in the midst of the downpour, head turned to the sky. 

they’re twenty one and they’re learning to find happiness in smaller places than they’re accustomed to - the smell of new books, the taste of a morning coffee, the sound of bird song in the early morning. 

they’re twenty four and they have so many years of happy memories to draw on and they know that it shouldn’t be so hard to make them count, but even when their wand is the only thing agianst them & the dementor, they cannot help but remember that someday they’ll be the only one left, and they’re already halfway there. they know all of the words and the theory, but the patronus never comes. they’re starting to think it never will. 

[archiveofidentityconstellations]

starflower (part 1)

finally finished it

He uses the last of his money on flowers. It was supposed to be for lunch, but Morty’s got bigger problems than an empty stomach. 

“‘It’s not that bad, I’ll get another one tomorrow,’” he rehearses, jumping up the mudbrick steps. “‘No fire this time, haha.’ No wait,” he instructs himself, “don’t say that. ‘It’s not that bad, I’ll get another one tomorrow. Who even likes making rope anyway?’” He opens his mouth to add onto his speech, then sighs. He looks down at the flowers. One is dangerously close to losing a petal, and once one goes they all go. Better hand them over quick. 

Swallowing, he knocks on the door. It swings open within seconds.

“What,” Aqilah, his girlfriend, demands. 

He hands her the flowers.

She knows what that means. “Morty,” she snaps, rolling her eyes. She steps away from the door and it quickly swings shut, wedging Morty in at the shoulder. He squirms through. “Again? How many times is it now?”

“It’s really not that bad,” he argues. “I’ll get another one tomorrow. Who likes making rope anyway?” 

The flower petal fell. Damn. 

“It’s always ‘tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow,’” she quotes, making a nasally sound in her throat. Morty looks up from trying to keep the flowers from falling apart.

“I don’t sound like that,” he protests, but she’s on a roll.

“Can we go out to dinner? ‘Tomorrow.’ Have you gotten the license to travel? ‘Tomorrow.’ Why don’t you come over? ‘I have Yugi, I’ll do it tomorrow.’” She throws her hands in the air. “If it’s not losing your job it’s something to do with that kid!” 

Another flower petal falls. Morty curses in his throat, looking at Aqilah. She’s wearing a cocoa mask, supposedly to soften the skin. He isn’t so sure about that. For as pretty as she is, she is abnormally thick-skinned. “Yugi and I are a package deal, you know that,” he retorts. “I told you that I had responsibilities at the start.” He tries to fix the flowers again. “You said you didn’t mind.”

“Well, now I do!” 

That makes him stop. He looks up. “What?”

“This isn’t working,” she says quickly, like it’s pepperoil and the faster she says it the less bad it will taste. “It’s been six months now. Can you honestly say it’s gotten any better?” 

“I took you on three trips!” he exclaims. “I didn’t eat for a week so you could eat at Caero Bruq!” 

“And I never even saw you there!”

“Because I could only afford to take you!”

She presses her hands on her eyes. “You wouldn’t have these problems if you could keep a job,” she mutters. 

“You think I don’t want to keep a job?” he demands. “I’ve got a mouth waiting at home for me every day! He’s getting bigger (and somehow that means they eat more), not to mention paying for the room, Granula, shoes, clothes, he hasn’t had a new toy in over a year,” he rambles. 

“I don’t need to know about that!” she suddenly shouts. “I don’t need to know about some kid and his shoes!”

“Well, I have a kid,” Morty shouts back. “He comes with the territory!”

“Then I don’t want it!” 

He falters. “What?” 

She sighs. “I—” She bites her lip. 

Her nails catch the light from the window, and he’s transfixed by the way they shine like sugar gloss. “...Aqilah?” he questions. 

She sets her chin. “I don’t want this anymore,” she tells him, “I’m done.”

The petals spill from his hands. 

“Oh.” 

Maybe he can try Madame Lailoa’s Tea House—wait, that was the time with the flood. Well then maybe the grape orchards. Hold on, that was the place with the runaway barrel. Perhaps Rugi’s House of Exotic Beans? 

Morty brightens. The worst thing he did there was spill hot coffee on a patron, and he’s pretty sure that offended patron died two years ago. Her son was in charge now. 

...Her son had always hated him. 

Morty sighs, kicking at packed dirt on the street. It’s not like he wanted to get fired, or have colossal mishaps. He’s just...extremely unlucky. He snorts. Seven bad years of luck. What mirror had he broke? Honestly, things haven’t been right since Yafaer—

A hand grabs him by the elbow and drags him into a caravan tent. 

“Kashti!” he growls (and yes, it is a growl, not a whine). 

She’s just finished with a client, her eyes still edged with gold leaf. “I know that face,” she teases. “What happened this time?”

“Nothing.”

She raises an eyebrow at him but says nothing. She beckons him further into the tent, and he follows her sullenly. “What happened?” she asks, settling down into her chair and shuffling cards. 

He doesn’t sit, just shrugs. “Lost it.”

“You’ll get another,” she assures him. 

“You don’t know that.” 

This time she smiles at him, exasperated and fond. “Oh yes, tell the diviness she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” 

“You’re not a diviness,” he argues. “You just—”

“—work in a caravan tent,” she finishes with him. 

He glares at her. “That’s because I say it all the time.”

She laughs, round face curled like the joji berries at the market. 

He can’t help it; he relaxes. “You should move this,” he gestures to the overhead material, “back across from our pile of bricks.”

“Better clientele here,” she says. “You just miss me.”

“Yugi does,” he admits. 

“Send him over,” she suggests.

“I can’t, I pay Granula to watch him and I don’t want him walking across the city.” He begins to pace.

She watches him, propping an ebony hand on her cheek. “What do you think could happen?” 

“You know what he is,” he snaps. 

“I do,” she counters. “And I know you too, Morty.” 

He says nothing to this, still pacing. She shuffles her cards, keeping a discreet eye on his feet on the carpet. She loves him but there was no denying that he brought disaster wherever he went. After several minutes, he gives up pacing and sighs. “Aqilah and I—“

“Ah.”

“What do you mean ‘ah’?”

She lays down her cards and fixes the heavy folds of her dress. 

“You never liked her,” he accuses her.

“Of course I never liked her,” she says snippily, “All she was after was a man’s wallet.” 

“She wasn’t.”

“Yes, she was.” 

He opens his mouth to respond, but she fixes her gaze on him and he finds he has nothing to say. He grumpily sits down in the seat across from her. “You always have to be right,” he mutters under his breath. 

She sends him a look, but begins shuffling her cards again. “She’s a gold digger,” she states.

“Well, then she’s a horrible gold digger,” Morty says mulishly. “Because I have nothing.”

“You have Yugi,” she says.

“Yeah, a kingdom of screaming.”

Kashti smiles at that, then begins laying out the cards. “And you have me.” She doesn’t look at him when she says it. 

He knows, because he’s looking at her. He rubs his fingers over his palm, searching out the crease that Kashti once gently brushed against, brow furrowed in contemplation. 

His stomach feels tight. He doesn’t know if it’s from repressed emotion or if he’s hungry. He bought flowers for her. Flowers, with the last of his allocated money, and now he’s going to be hungry for a couple of days if he can’t bum a meal off Granula. He groans.

“What are you thinking about?” Kashti asks, gold leaf sparkling in the smoky lantern light. 

“I bought her flowers,” he says, feeling smaller than Yugi. 

A snort. “I don’t know what you expected,” Kashti says. And suddenly it’s too much, this pressure is too much, it bears down on him and makes him feel like there is a log on his chest, only the branches feel like hands dragging him down and he can’t breathe under soil, he can’t—

“What did you expect me to do, Kashti?” he demands. “Wait for you?” 

From the look on her face, he knows he’s gone too far.

After a long moment, she says: “I think we both know I’m waiting for you.”

“That’s a lie,” he spits. “I asked you, I asked you twice.” 

She shakes her head. “You have a long journey ahead of you, Mortichy Ratzabi.” 

He pushes the chair back and stands. “I wish you would just be honest,” he says, voice strained. He wants to be angry but the day has been long and really he wants to smush his face in a pillow and cry. “Just say you don’t love me, or that I’m a disaster, or that you don’t want to deal with Yugi.”

“I love Yugi,” she says steadily, after a moment. “Can you say the same for Aqilah?” Then, more strikingly: “Can you say the same for you?”

His chest heaves. He spins on his heel and heads to the tent’s exit, pushing the overhanging lanterns out of the way. Stupid paper lanterns. They didn’t even add any light. In frustration, he yanks one down and kicks it to the ground. He can hear Kashti’s sigh from behind him. He whirls around, expecting another confrontation, but her step is gentle and her eyes are tired. 

“What?”

“Go home, Morty,” she says. 

“I am going home,” he snaps. He goes to storm away, but her voice, clear as peddler’s glass, stops him. 

“No,” she says. “Go home.” 

He stops. His clenched fists shake. “I...I can’t.” 

“Baroft has children. It would be easy to—”

“No.” 

He can hear the rustle of her skirts. He closes his eyes. But she hasn’t drawn closer; instead, she has walked back to her chair, voice quiet as she says, “Your mother won’t—”

“Goodbye, Kashti.” 

She sighs again. But she doesn’t attempt to rouse or reassure him, and for that he feels disappointed. 

“And by the way,” he says, swinging around once he reaches the exit, “You look better with longer hair!”

She throws down her cards, exasperated. “You said you liked it!”

“Yeah, well.” He draws himself up as high as he can, puffing out his chest. “I lied!” Then he jumps out of her tent before she can reply. 

The sun is hot and dry against his neck. Morty doesn’t bother to look where he’s going; his feet know the way to his crummy rented room. He’s pretty sure there’s a family of spiders living in a hole in the wall. He keeps trying to fix it but day after day it stays, mocking him. 

Morty clenches his fists, trying not to fidget. Okay, so not Madame Lailoa’s or Rugi’s. Maybe Efraim could help him find one, except that Efraim was the one who found him the job on the docks, and he said that it was the last time he stuck his neck out for Morty. But maybe he was just saying that? 

Morty sighs. 

The debtors were starting to collect. He had heard the whispers in the streets, about men being hauled to jail and children stolen from their homes. But it was older children, he assures himself. Yugi was several years off before he...and Morty will surely find a job before that. 

He will. He will. 

With this in mind, Morty lifts up his head and hastens to Granula’s room. If his steps are rapid, that’s just him working off his temper from the fight with Kashti. His eyes narrow. Not that she bothered to make it a proper fight. Seven years and she wouldn’t even—

He pushes open the door, not bothering to knock. “I’m here,” he announces, stepping into the stuffy room. Granula is on her stool, drink already perched on her knee. Morty doesn’t make a face at her, keen to stay on her good side. He’s still hungry, after all. “Yugi?” 

Granula takes a swig, brown eyes vacantly staring at the mudbrick wall. 

“Yugi, come on,” Morty calls, stepping a little further into the room. “It’s time to go.” 

No response. 

“Yugi,” he groans. “I don’t have time for this. I still have a lot to do and think about and—did you feed him?” he questions Granula. “It’s the second day of the week, that’s our deal, right?” She doesn’t respond, so Morty paces into the next room over. “Yugi, I’m serious. Get out here.” 

The room is silent. Behind him, Granula swallows and two toddlers begin babbling, carrying on a conversation that no one older than three can follow. 

An idea pricks him. He slowly walks back into the room where Granula is sitting. He stares down at her. “Where is he.”

She takes another sip, and the toddlers begin to shriek.

“Granula,” he says through gritted teeth. “Where. is. he.” 

“Out,” she answers after a moment. 

“Out where?” 

She shrugs. “Dijali showed him the city. Yugi plays there now.” 

He could feel horror tingling down his arms like fire ants. “Where in the city?” he demands. “Granula, where does he play? Where is he?” 

She shrugs again, plunging the cup to her lips. “Don’t know.”

Something inside him snaps. 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” he shouts. “I pay you to know, you brainless cow!” 

His volume startles the children and they begin to cry. Granula casts him a nasty look, setting her clay cup against the floor with a decided chink. She stands to attend to the now wailing children, and Morty knows she won’t answer any more questions. 

“Mother Bear lap up your blood,” he hisses, shooting out of the room, kicking several toys out of the way. He clatters down the stairs and dashes out onto the street; the dingy area now teeming with danger. Every shadow seems to curve like a knife, hurting him with negative spaces. He opens his mouth to call Yugi’s name, but he can’t. His heart is pounding too much to manage it, blood sloshing down his ears like the waterfall back in Sabline. 

His hands are shaking. He can’t think. Where would—where would Yugi go? Anywhere, that was the point. Dijali could have taken him any—

Dijali. 

Morty’s sputtering breath comes to a stop. That scruffy little snot normally hung out in the market, hoping to scrape up some stolen food and coin. He would head there first, then circle around the city. His feet move without his accord and suddenly he’s down the street, neighbors and stragglers yelling at him as he passes. 

The market isn’t crowded. Any other time he would be out of breath, but now he dashes through the streets, ducking under cartpoles and exhibitors. Every sense is attuned to finding a dusty little head, every step is in pursuit of hope and not fear, not the fear of losing him to trickery or slavery or death—

“Watch it!”

Pottery shards brush his feet, and Morty jumps into a stumble. The market people eye him in disgust. Morty turns to a group of women who are glaring at him. 

“Is Dijali here?” he asks, heart in his throat. 

“No, he left hours ago,” the women say. Grumbles echo through the crowd. However, one in particular notices his agitation, and softens. “What’s wrong?” she asks. 

“Yugi is missing,” he says, voice trembling. “I don’t—I don’t know where he is and you know this city, a-anything could—could—”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” she tells him, casting a firm gaze over the surrounding merchants. They chorus their agreement. 

“A boy was here earlier,” a girl, looking to be around fourteen, suddenly says. She is sitting on a tall barrel, and Morty realizes that she’s a market bird, ready to warn the merchants of trouble. “He wasn’t Dijali. He said something about playing around the docks, but Dijali reminded him that his dad worked there and would probably find him.” She shifts. “He said something about playing in the sand pit, which I don’t know what that is.”

“I do,” Morty reassures her. “I do, I know, I—”

He dashes off, calling over his shoulder, “Thank you!”

It takes another ten minutes to get to the sand pit, and Morty’s heart feels like it’s going to explode out of his chest. What if he’s not there? What if someone say him playing, moving sand in the air and just—snatched him? Took him away? What if he was in a slave pen right now, scared and hungry and tired? What if Morty never saw him again? What if—

A little figure moves in the corner of his eye, and Morty turns on his heel. 

There he is. 

He exhales, bones turning heavy and lethargic, like stones he has to lug around in water. 

He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe. 

The child is kicking sand into the air when Morty slowly makes his way over to him. The sand slides under his feet, precarious for all its delicate grains. Yugi is short against the setting sun, red rays nestling in his mop of hair. He is gloriously alive and all in one piece, just how Morty left him this morning. And he can’t breathe out of the relief of it all, can hardly keep himself upright. He swallows. He watches the boy play, sand catching the air a little longer each time. He counts ten fingers, two arms, two legs. Two ears, two eyes, everything Yafaer gave him and everything that made him so perfect. 

He takes a step forward, and the sand crunches beneath his feet. Yugi whips around, little face scrunched in concentration. Morty stills. 

Yugi raises his eyebrows, smirk curving like one of those millipedes that scuttle around their room. There’s a sparkle in his eyes, sunlight glinting off his eyelashes. 

“Took you long enough,” he says, and this kid is so smug, so proud of himself for causing all that worry and fear that it takes everything in Morty not to kill him.

“Get over here,” he hisses. 

Yugi tips up his chin, wariness radiating off of him. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to beat you!”

Somehow that doesn’t get him to come over; in fact, Yugi takes that as a cue to run.

Sand mage or not, Yugi is seven years old and can’t outrun a grown man. Morty’s hand closes around his skinny arm, almost yanking him clean off his feet. 

“What is WRONG with you?!” he roars. His fingers latch onto Yugi’s shoulders, and he’s shaking him back and forth like a dishrag. “Do you know what can happen to you?! Do you know what happens on the streets?!”

“Let go of me,” Yugi pants, little teeth bared. He struggles to loosen Morty’s grip on him, stumbling in his attempts to escape from the man’s shaking.

“I told you to stay with Granula, I TOLD YOU!” 

Yugi just shrieks, kicking sand in the air. It catches the wind and the grains splay themselves against Morty’s face, falling into his eyes and hair and nose, but he doesn’t notice.

“You reckless, ungrateful, disobedient little brat!” 

His voice echoes in the dusk. His yelp of pain echoes too, Yugi’s sharp teeth digging into his wrist. 

“LET GO OF ME,” Yugi screams as Morty assesses the damage. The marks aren’t deep, but Mother Bear, how embarrassing. He’s going to have to go around begging for a job with his kid’s teeth marks on his arm displayed for all to see. 

“I’m going to kill you,” he seethes. He begins dragging the boy across the street, first to the building, then up the stairs. The sky has gone purple now, and Morty can hear people close their doors as they pass. 

“Not if I kill you first!” Yugi shouts. He’s been kicking and biting anywhere he can reach. Morty can feel his skin prickling, little nails scraping up and down and digging into his arm. “I hate you, let go of me!” 

Morty doesn’t answer; he pushes open their door and kicks Yugi into the room. He reaches out when he sees him stumble, but Yugi finds his balance right away. This fact almost makes him angrier. He was fine. He was fine the entire time meanwhile Morty was losing job after job, racing across the city, no opportunity out of this hell in sight.

“You’re lucky I even found you, you—”

“I hope you fall off the docks and never come back! I wish I lived here all alone!” 

He practically does live alone, with how often Morty is out trying to earn a coin or two. But Morty doesn’t address that; instead, he shouts: 

“I. can. swim!”

Yugi throws an old wooden toy at him. It hits him on the shin, and the pain buzzes with his rage.

“You think anyone cares?!” Morty continues, slamming the door behind him. “You think anyone would help you?!” 

“Go away!” shouts Yugi, voice shrill. “I hate you, one day I’m going to leave for good and I’ll never see you again!”

That catches his attention. He’s going to make a habit of this? Seven years old and playing in the streets? Morty killing himself from worry every single day, thinking about slaves and the lash and worse? His insides boil as he stomps over and points a finger at Yugi. “You are going to stay with Granula, or I swear on your grandmother’s grave, Yugi—”

“I can do what I want, I don’t have to listen to you!”

“Yes, you do!” 

“You’re not my father! Mama is dead, that’s the only reason you’re here! I wish you were dead instead!” 

The breath in his chest stutters. Okay, so that one landed. Damn. 

“And what would happen to you if I was dead?” he demands, ignoring the hurt. “How would you survive in Aris, huh?” He crosses his arms. “Going to go live with Dijali?” 

Yugi scowls at him, brows beetling together. “Dijali would be better than you,” he spits.

Morty scoffs. “He’s nine.” 

“Dijali told me everything,” Yugi announces, fists clenched. “The Great Creator is punishing you.”

“For what?” Morty demands, leaning over him. “Raising a thankless piglet?”

Yugi raises his chin. “For what you are,” he declares. 

Morty’s world goes white.

Yugi continues, but he may as well be a gnat for all Morty understands. “He told me that everybody knows about you.” He grabs him by the arm, fingers pressed against the bite he gave him earlier but Morty can barely feel it. Yugi’s voice goes on, raising in volume.  “He told me everybody knows that your blood is bad, everybody knows that you’re a—”

He doesn’t realize he’s slapped Yugi, slapped him hard, until the boy is staring up at him. 

Morty stares down at him, panic clawing up his throat. There’s an intake of breath.

And Yugi bursts into tears.

It takes a while for Morty to realize that he’s crying too. He blinks and he sees his knees in front of him. He’s slid down the wall and his face is in his hands and Yugi’s wails are filling up the air and he did that. He did that. 

He looks around their dingy room, at the threadbare curtains and the sleeping pallets and the empty food basket and he did that. 

He did all of this. It hadn’t been this hard when Yugi was a baby; Morty just seemed to be getting worse at this.

Guilt curdles like spoilt milk.

He’ll be the first to admit that he’s hit Yugi before, he’s no saint. But this is the first time it’s been in anger, pure vitriolic anger with no lesson imparted. He hit him because he was mad, and that realization makes him want to claw his skin off. 

Only he can’t do anything, he can’t move at all. It’s as if the world has stopped and shrunk, like Morty has become an ant, flooded and heading down a stream of unconsciousness. He can feel himself breathe. It shudders through him, pounding against his ribs. The world expands and shrinks and he can barely feel where he is or what time has passed, except he can still hear Yugi crying. 

Yugi is crying. 

He’s crying in the middle of the room. Morty looks at him between his fingers. His figure is but a shadow, slight and small. The dark is settling in for the night. He could really be a shadow, existing only for a blink and gone the next moment, except he’s crying. 

‘Get up,’ Morty tells himself. ‘Get up.’ 

So he gets up. Like he always does, like when Yugi was a baby and hungry, or when he was a toddler and teething, or last year when he was six and having skinned his knee. Morty lopes over and kneels, looking up at the boy. Yugi has his face covered, like he can’t bear to look at reality. Like it’s a nightmare and it never happened.

By the ancestors, he’s young. Why did he have to be so young?

He winces when Yugi’s hysteric crying picks up, gets louder in his presence. 

He did that. 

His mouth is dry, and his chest is still shuddering. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. So he just rests his chin on the kid’s stomach, and that makes Yugi pause. He blinks open his eyes, blearily looking down at Morty between his fingers. Even his fingers are wet with tears, Morty notes before Yugi wails aloud and flops against him. His nose knocks into his ear before Morty catches him. He sits back, adjusting his legs so he can hold him on his lap. 

Yugi holds onto his neck, skinny arms crossed over themselves, and cries with abandon, gasping against his collarbone. Morty’s eyes sting again. 

“I was so scared,” he whispers, holding onto him. “I was so scared, I was so scared.” 

Yugi gargles something and then breathes in a deep lungful of air. He wails again, snotty little face pressed against his shirt. “You h-hit meeeeee.”

“I did,” he says hoarsely after a minute, blankly, and Yugi collapses against him with fresh tears. 

“I wasn’t trying to be bad, I wasn’t,” he sobs. He’s holding on as tight as he can, and Morty feels that tell-tale feeling of clouds tickling his scalp, so he tries to pull away. 

“N-no!” 

“You’re choking me,” he informs him, disentangling the skinny elbows from around his neck. 

Yugi clutches at his shirt front instead, dusty nails digging into linen. “I wanted to practice so you would spend more time with me,” he warbles, tears piling atop each other. “Like wh-en I was li-ittle.” Morty tries to look down at him, but Yugi presses his nose into his chest. From what he can see, he’s hiccuping, face red and splotchy. “It was s-supposed to b-be a sur-pri-se.”

“Oh.”

Yugi presses in further, like he can hide and disappear. “B-but then you got m-mad at me and y-yelled.”

He had been so excited. Yugi had practiced for days, snuck off before sunset and worked for as long as he could. With the sand, Yugi was in his element. It felt like an extension of breathing, if breathing could be tricks. And then this evening, when he saw Morty and felt himself light up like the fireflies the merchants told them about. He was going to share everything with Morty, and they would stay in the sandpit for hours and play and talk and he, Yugi, would make Morty’s forehead lines disappear and make him smile like he used to. 

He couldn’t help himself when he saw him, he just grinned at him and said “Took you long enough” because he had been waiting for ages, and finally Morty was here. 

But then Morty opened his mouth and yanked him and shook him until his head hurt and ruined everything. 

It was like the world had been tipped and the sun swam on the ground like the golden fish in the eastern fountain, leaving Yugi gasping for air and feeling crushed. 

And Morty didn’t even care, he kept yelling and shaking him and wouldn’t let go. So he figured he would hurt Morty back, anyway he could, because Morty was strong and he hardly ever cried. Morty made him cry all the time, with words that were sharp and snapped at him like he was nothing better than a dog, so Yugi just said meaner and meaner things. They rolled off his tongue like mosquitoes, buzzing in the air but still Morty didn’t care, he didn’t care until Yugi started talking about how Dijali says he’s a bum because his ancestors were bums, but then Morty slapped him. 

And that wasn’t a spanking, that hurt and it still brings tears to Yugi’s eyes. 

He babbles this to the man as much as he can, voice muffled and hiccuping against the rough fabric. Morty clucks his tongue and runs his hands through his hair, like he’s a fragile thing, like he’s glass and worth a lot of coppers, or maybe even silver. 

But the worst thing, Yugi realizes, shuddering, is when Morty’s eyes blazed and it was like he wasn’t there anymore. Morty’s eyes blazed and he wasn’t there anymore, his only person wasn’t there anymore, and Yugi was alone. 

It answers the question that bounces around his head at night, when the moths flutter on the windowsill and Morty snores so bad he wants to stuff beetles up his nostrils. 

What if Morty left for good? What would happen to him? 

Now Yugi knows.

He would be alone. 

Almost as if he can hear his thoughts, Morty whispers above him, “I won’t leave you alone anymore. Don’t leave me. Okay? Don’t leave.” He’s holding onto him tightly, and that makes Yugi relax. He isn’t alone right now. Morty is still there, still smelling of sweat and nutmeg and something else, something that reminds Yugi of the stories of mountains and green trees. 

“Hey, c’mon.” Morty pulls away and uses his sleeve to wipe Yugi’s nose. “Quit crying.”

“You first,” Yugi shoots back, tears still leaking out of his eyes. But Morty sweeps a hand over his face, brushing away stray tears, so Yugi wipes his own face too. 

Morty watches him, watches the little face scrunch up in discomfort and exhaustion. Again, the question echoes between his ears: 

Why did he have to be so young? 

He puts his arms around the child, little and alive, and rolls to his feet. It’s dark. He can barely see in front of him, but Yugi is in his arms, and he can take a couple of steps to the window. 

He manages without tripping, thank the Great Creator, and slides down against the wall, Yugi curled in his lap. He leans his head back and looks out the window, up at the stars. “Do you remember The Tortoise?” he asks, gesturing to the sky. 

“‘Course,” Yugi sniffs, rubbing his nose. “And I know about The Soldier.” 

That was a constellation Kashti had told him about, and Morty had repeated the story to Yugi with some...embellishments. 

“Oh yeah?” He squeezes Yugi. “You remember about the starflowers too?” 

Yugi nods, but rests his chin on Morty’s chest, quiet and ready for a story. 

Morty looks down at him, and he swears that he can see the stars glowing in Yugi’s eyes right then and there. 

He’ll wake up tomorrow and find a job. And if he loses that one by the end of the day, he’ll try again the next day. He’ll try again, and again, and again, and again. He’ll try forever for Yugi, because Yugi…

“He’s my starflower,” Yafaer’s voice whispered, stroking the infant’s head. “Morty, he’s more precious than anything.” 

Morty clears his throat. “Once there was a star that fell to the ground,” he begins. Yugi snuggles into him and closes his eyes. And Morty holds him, because he can. 

“Once there was a star that fell to the ground. It took root, it grew, and lit up the night. It grows on the mountains, far away, and people dream of what luck it can bring…” 

[charlieweasleyxmc]

Absolutely love this artwork! Credit and link here. Check out “Charliexmc sittin’ in a tree.”

A Friendly Race

It seemed like all of Hogwarts was talking about it, or at least all of Gryffindor House. The fact that Charlie Weasley, the star Seeker was being taken on in a broom race, well, it was a rather unbelievable thing to say. It made it all the more crazy that it was by the Cursed Vault kid.

“I can’t believe you actually announced it in Gryffindor tower, Jae.”

Jae shrugged his shoulders, looking like he was pretending to be sheepish, but wasn’t really. His lip even stuck out in a little bit of a pout.

“Makes for good business,” he said, smiling mischievously as he produced a perfect incantation on the scrap of paper in front of him, sending it flying across the room with Professor Flitwick none the wiser.

“How so?”

The piece of paper settled nicely on Charlie’s desk and (Y/N) blushed, wondering what Jae could have written on it. It couldn’t be anything too embarrassing. Jae didn’t know anything too embarrassing.

Jae’s grin was so suspicious, Professor Flitwick took a long look at them when he turned and it wasn’t till he moved away that Jae replied.

“Bets,” he said, “I could expand my empire beyond smuggling to betting. Quite a lot of money to be made there.”

(Y/N) sighed, but decided not to respond. It would make no difference.

“It’s not going to be like there will be a lot of people there,” she finally said, giving in to her thoughts.

Jae hid a smile behind his hand, but said nothing.

(Y/N) was distracted when Professor Flitwick called the end of the lesson. She reached down to grab her satchel, but was hit in the head by something as she bended over.

She startled, looking up and noticed Charlie Weasley looking guilty.

Sorry, he mouthed. Bad aim.

It’s a good thing you’re not a Chaser, she thought. She shook her head, fighting back her notice of how his hair had fallen over his forehead while he looked at her. And his face. The ministry should make that against wizard law to look that adorable while feeling quilty and trying to look sheepish.

She sighed, grabbing the note and stashing it in her bag.

It was only once she had left the room and was walking in the corridor that she took it out and uncruppled it.

Can I help you get ready for the race tonight? I’ve got a few ideas…

That was in Jae’s large and angry chicken scratch handwriting.

That’s okay bud. I thought I’d get ready with (Y/N).

She’d know Charlie’s tiny scrawl anywhere. The rest of the parchment had been utilized to draw a quick sketch of a Chinese Fireball.

(Y/N) flamed. That little cheat was going to do something to fix the game. She knew it.

She was stomping towards Jae, a few choice words preparing to launch from her mouth when a figure in her peripheral vision caught her eye and she cocked her head just in time for Charlie to reach her side.

Charlie’s answer suddenly struck her unbidden. She blushed. He wanted to get ready with her?

She was opening her mouth to ask him what he’d meant when a chirping voice interrupted them.

“Charlie!”

They both turned their heads see Oliver Wood running towards them. He skidded to a stop at just the right moment in front of Charlie and Charlie reached down to embrace him in a very boyish hug.

When he pulled away, Oliver seemed pleased.

“You’re all right!” Charlie smiled brightly.

“We won the match!” the little second year beamed back.

Charlie sighed, but nodded his head, “we won the match, but we will have to earn a lot more points if we want to win the quidditch cup.”

“Why’d you catch the snitch so early?”

Charlie waved his hand, “we weren’t gonna hold out much longer with the one beater against two. Might as well not get too far behind.”

Oliver started to nod, but his face suddenly darkened. “Charlie…your broom.”

Charlie put a hand on Wood’s considerably shorter shoulder, “Don’t worry about it. I was more worried about your recovery.”

(Y/N) stared at Charlie. Of course, he had been more worried about Oliver, but the brave face he put on for the younger quidditch player was startling, considering the devastation she had seen on his face multiple times that week.

Oliver gaped at him, “but…it was…your broom!” he finally finished, flabbergasted.

“It’s just a broom, Wood.”

“Just a broom,” Oliver opened and closed his mouth like a fish.

Charlie shook his head, “goodness, Wood. It’s not like it was a Nimbus.”

Wood seemed to come around at this, nodding to himself, “you’re right. Not a Nimbus. We can work with that. Get you a new broom. And at least you caught the snitch first,” he was already turning away as he was muttering and nodding to himself.

Charlie turned back to (Y/N) after the younger boy walked away.

“I’m going to talk to coach,” he said. “I’m not taking no for an answer this time. They need to have Oliver on Keeper. He’s better at blocking balls than hitting them, and besides, Beaters should be bigger and burlier. A keeper should be quick and agile like Wood. They should be able to switch our keeper with him just fine.”

(Y/N) watched him closely, “what do you mean they?”

He looked at her then and he even tried for a shrugging smile, “I don’t have a broom anymore. They’ll have to put someone else on the team as seeker.”

(Y/N) stared at him, “can’t you just a buy a new broom.”

His head fell, “um…no…mum and da can’t afford it right now…”

Her heart plummeted.

“But don’t worry,” he said, raising his head, “Andre is letting me borrow his broom just this once for the race.”

(Y/N) watched him, “that’s not what I was worried about,” she said sternly.

Charlie shrugged his shoulders, “There are plenty of Gryffindors with their own brooms that are decent on them. I couldn’t possibly compete on one of the school brooms.”

(Y/N) put her hands on her hips, “of course, you could. You’d blow them all out of the water…or the air, I guess.”

Charlie smiled a crooked smile at her, “but not you?” he said.

She nodded, “but not me.”

He grinned, “I guess we’ll find out after classes.”

She nodded, her head lowering, “do you maybe…uh… want to get ready together?”

Charlie put his hand to his head, “Oh! I was going to ask you if you wanted to prep after we changed, but I have to finish a detention with Professor McGonagall right before that! See you on the pitch?”

She folded her arms across her chest, “alright, but you’re not using Andre’s broom. That’s not fair. We’ll both use school brooms.”

Charlie smiled with a shrug, moving to begin walking down the corridor.

“You’re not going to argue?” She asked, chasing after him.

He shook his head, “Mum taught me never to argue with a lady.”

(Y/N) walked beside him, mumbling to herself about whether his mother ever taught him not to go falling off his broom or wrestle strange animals that could eat him.

He laughed.

The girl’s changing room was empty, but for (Y/N) and Nymphadora.

(Y/N) huddled against the mild fall weather as she removed her robes and put on clothing fit for flying on a broom.

Tonks peeked out of the tent once she was done, scanning what lay beyond.

She pulled back, a bewildered expression on her face.

“What?” (Y/N) asked, squinting at her.

She shook her head, “you’ll see when we get out there. Are you ready?”

(Y/N) moved to grab the school broom that had been loaned to her. “I guess. I don’t know. I’ve raced Merula so many times on the training grounds, I should be ready, shouldn’t I?”

Tonks smiled, “It’s that you’ve never raced Charlie.”

(Y/N) nodded.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure out-flying the greatest seeker of this decade should be a piece of cake.”

(Y/N) grimaced, “And I thought Merula was scary, what with her having relatives in Azkaban and all. She comes from creepy stalk.”

Tonks stared at her.

“What?” (Y/N) asked.

“I didn’t know you thought I was scary.”

“What?” she stared at Tonks. “Do you have relatives in Azkaban?”

Tonks nodded slowly.

“Oh, Tonks. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

Tonks sighed and waved her hand, “nah, it’s alright. Maybe I should spread it around,” she grinned, “I could be much more intimidating. That would make pranking all the more fun.”

(Y/N) gaped.

Tonks shrugged, “Didn’t like them anyway. Well,” she cocked her head, reconsidering, “I did like one.”

(Y/N) stared at her, “What’d they do?”

Her face grew dark, “I don’t want to say it. You’d know the name if I told you, but…I don’t want to darken his name any further. I have a hard time believing it’s even true. My memory of him…he was good, fun even. It’s faint because I was so young at the time, but I think I even liked him a lot.”

“Oh, Tonks,” (Y/N) reached forward to comfort the darkening expression on Tonks’s face, an expression she had never seen before, but before she could, Penny came charging into the tent.

“What’s taking you so long?” she gasped. “We’re waiting for you!”

(Y/N) turned back to Tonks, but the other girl had already flip-flopped back to a grin.

“Better get going, Cursed Girl,” she said.

(Y/N) sighed, but she nodded, putting on a hard expression, “let’s go show that ginger haired…” she stopped, searching for a noun that befit him, “…kid…”

“Nice one,” Tonks murmured.

“…that he has made a grievous error, thinking he can outrace girls, just because he can outrace all the boys.”

Penny giggled, and Tonks chuckled.

“Rousing speech,” Tonks said.

(Y/N) ignored them. Leaving the tent, she stomped towards the quidditch pitch. It amazed her once again that Charlie managed to reserve it for a friendly race. She wondered if he had convinced someone that it was for practice. The archway opened up before her, a clear entrance onto the pitch.

She knew Charlie was on the other side.

“And we’ve got an exciting match for you today! The Curse Breaker is taking on the Unbeatable Seeker in a race no one would dare even imagine!”

Was that Murphy?

A roar sounded and (Y/N)’s stomach dropped out and fled somewhere. She stepped out onto the pitch quickly, gaping up at the crowd.

It wasn’t nearly as packed as a quidditch game, but it was more packed than any practice she had seen. The Gryffindor stands were about half full and the other three stands had at least a quarter of its usual attendees.

She shivered.

“(Y/N) (Y/LN) is on the pitch. I repeat. (Y/N) (Y/LN) is on the pitch!” Murphy’s voice rang out.

The crowd erupted, the sound mind-boggling her.

“And there is Charlie Weasley, looking the regal defender of his title!”

(Y/N) glanced across the field and sure enough, Charlie was strutting onto the field, well as much as the boy ever did strut, which was not at all. He wore regular clothes, not quidditch robes and their effect with his ginger ponytail and broom was very dashing.

She blushed, grateful that no one was close enough to tell.

She strolled across the pitch to meet him.

When she got within range, he gave her what she thought was supposed to be a disarming smile.

Must have learned that from Bill.

Used on anybody, the smile might have gone unnoticed, but used on her, Charlie’s smile would have been effective no matter how disarming it was supposed to be.

She put on a face that she thought looked intimidating, but when he chuckled, she knew that nothing she did now would change the way he saw her. He knew her too well.

Sighing, she mounted her broom, preparing to take off.

“Where’s the starting point?” she asked.

He pointed up to a spot in the air where Andre hovered beside the goal posts on one end of the field. “Andre will start us.”

She nodded, making a point to ignore his second disarming smile. When he opened his mouth to say something, she zipped into the air. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw him gaping at her flabbergasted. She grinned.

She made it to Andre and it only took a few more moments for Charlie to reach them.

“Already behind, Weasley,” she smirked.

He actually stuck his tongue at her before he turned his attention to Andre.

“Alright then. The course is simple,” Andre turned his broom slightly to point around the stadiums. “The race will start here. You’ll need to fly through one of these goal posts, then dart outside the stadium to the other side of those stands through that gap there,” he pointed towards a gap between two stands. “You then take one, two, three laps around the stadium, coming back through that gap, and then you start straight,” here he zipped his hand forward, “through one of these three goal posts and towards the end of the field. The first one through the middle goal post on the other end of the field wins. Any questions.”

They glanced at each other, both of them shaking their heads.

“Alright then. Set up,” Andre said, moving his broom out of the way.

(Y/N) maneuvered her broom beside Charlie’s, both of them under twenty feet from the middle goal post. This first test would be to see who could get their broom going faster first and make it through that middle post, the other person would have to slow their broom down in order to let the other through, already putting them behind. She could see the gap in the stands just beyond the posts.

“Ready to lose, Weasley?”

“You wish.”

She smiled, her eyes trained on the posts, raising a fist to tell Andre she was ready. Charlie did the same.

She saw Andre raise a horn above his head in her peripheral vision and wondered briefly if he borrowed it from Madam Hooch, or if Tulip did, and if Madam Hooch knew it was missing.

Blllaaarrrree!!!!

She took off, her muscles attuned to countless quick take offs while illegally racing Merula in the training grounds. She soared, not caring where Charlie was and dashed through the hoop before she even had a chance to worry about him. Realizing, she couldn’t see him beside her as she lunged for the gap between the stands, she grinned.

And then a telltale shock of ginger hair went streaking past her, darting through the gap to make a quick turn and disappear from sight.

She cursed, soaring through the gap herself and tightening her hands on her broom to veer it around and make a quick turn. She knew her turn was slower than Charlie’s had been and she grumbled as she soared after him, seeing him along the curve of the stadium.

Charlie didn’t have time to smile or feel successful. You never did in a game and he focused intently on the gentle curve he pushed his broom into as he streaked past the stands, hearing the roars of the audience even though they were on the wrong side to watch.

Whoever thought this would be an interesting spectator course was wrong. They can only see us when we pass the gaps.

He brushed the thought from his mind, focusing on the distance the stands were from his right.

He had almost made one full lap, taking the last curve around towards the gap when he caught a splash of color in the small gap made between him and the stands on his right and he knew that (Y/N) was using that gap to get past him. He moved his broom to bridge the gap so she would be forced to pull back, but she didn’t. They were neck in neck, their elbows almost brushing.

(Y/N) caught a whiff of Weasley soap and a scent that was distinctly Charlie, like juniper and campfire.

The smell reminded her of last winter, when they were just becoming friends. Charlie had wrapped his scarf around her on their way to Hogsmeade and as he had leaned in, she had caught his scent. The scent didn’t leave though he pulled away. It was ever wrapped in his scarf, a scarf she had conveniently forgot to return until the smell had left the knitting a month later.

She instinctively tilted her head to smell his scent better before she realized what she was doing.

She veered, nearly crashing into the stands and had to pull up short. She caught a glimpse of Charlie glancing over his shoulder to check on her before he had disappeared out of sight around the turn.

She made a bloody curse before she picked up speed, dashing after him.

She caught sight of him again well into the second lap. She tried to make up the difference as she cut corners, but he wasn’t getting complacent and he kept his turns ultra-focused.

When the second lap ended and the third began with her still behind him, she knew he wasn’t going to lose his focus, and she needed to do something quick or she would lose.

Gearing up on the turn around the back half of the stands, she cut the corner, pulling around faster than she would have before, but she knocked her knee violently into one of the stands as she did; the wood beam banged against it loudly. She loosed a cry of pain.

Baanngg!!!

The loud thunk startled Charlie and he pulled up short, breaking fast, when he heard the cry of pain to go with it.

He spun his broom around just in time to see (Y/N) soar past him.

She was gaping at him, her head over one shoulder.

He cursed, righted himself, and then sped after her.

(Y/N) wasn’t about to let Charlie win just because he had stopped to check on her. Her chest ebbed with guilt as she didn’t let up her racing, moving so quickly around the last half of the field, that she could even hear the rush of wind past her ears; they had gone numb.

She was getting closer to the gap, she knew, and if she didn’t perform this turn perfectly, Charlie would.

Tightening her grip on her broom as the gap approached, she braked, hard, letting her momentum carry her as she pushed on the broom’s handle, twisting it around wide and hovering in the air for the breathe that it took her to spin around, facing the gap.

I did it! The perfect turn!

Charlie saw (Y/N) turn wide, twisting around in the air in a perfect dance.

But the most beautiful turn in the world couldn’t compete against a reckless turn. He barely braked. Knowing he could do it, he went straight into the turn, the same way he had done only twice before in a crazy maneuver to catch the snitch. With a twist of his head and hands, his broom went with him, falling under (Y/N)’s turn as she did it and darting forward past her.

And through the gap.

She gaped, seeing the flash of ginger fly past her and through the gap in front of her.

She dipped towards it, speeding through as well as she watched Charlie dart through the first middle goal post, streaking towards the end of the field like a loosed arrow.

And through the final middle goal post at the other end while she was still a quarter of a field away.

She flew through the goal post too, Charlie already slowing down as he lowered towards the ground.

She hadn’t noticed, but their audience was on the field already, cheering Charlie as he fell into their arms.

Instead of landing on the ground, she flew up to the (Y/H) stands, landing delicately on the rim and then dismounted, to sit on a bench, standing her broom up beside her.

She settled in, wrapping her arms in the fall weather. It had been sunny that afternoon, but the weather had changed suddenly, growing colder, though still sunny as she watched Charlie’s adoring fans congratulate him.

She sighed, laying back on the bench and huffed to herself.

She was being a sore loser, she knew it.

Putting her arms over her eyes, she listened to the sound of the win and ignored the chill across her skin. She lay there for she didn’t know how long.

“Pouting, are we?”

She removed her arms, squinting up at a boy on a broom above her, though the sun made him difficult to see.

“No,” she protested, her words not even sounding believable to herself.

Charlie smiled, “want a rematch?”

“Right now?”

He nodded.

She sat up, looking down at the ground, but no one had stayed around.

She shook her head.

“Scared, (Y/LN)?” he said, grinning.

She gaped at him and then squinted her eyes in a glare, “you wish.”

He gestured with an arm as if to say, well?

She grinned, jumping onto her broom and soared past him, not really speeding, but just flying. She veered around to see him flying towards her.

He was upside down.

She gaped as he came to a stop in front of her, his ginger ponytail hanging from his head as he looked at her.

She could feel the smile creeping past her defenses.

He grinned before he spun back up onto the broom and darted away.

She darted after him, a laugh bubbling up out of her as she caught up with him.

His laugh burst out of him and they both sped through the air, racing with no real rules or destination, darting through the stadium in an endlessly switching game of cat and mouse.

[void-knights]

The Coffee Shop and Students

Square Filled: Coffee Shop AU Pairing: Loki / Sigyn, Tags: coffee shop AU, Modern AU, Music Student Loki, Art Student Sigyn, Odin's A+ Parenting, Bisexual Loki, Bisexual Sigyn, Customers being terrible, Casual misogyny  Summary: Since Odin cut him off Loki (a music student) needed a job while attending Uni, this is how he becomes an exhausted Barista and how he meets Sigyn a sunny art student. Word Count: 7630 Written/Created for @lokibingo

AO3 Link

Loki had never understood Odin, Odin had been boasting to all his friends and associates that Loki had got into the best university. Loki was going to be standing amongst the elites of their country, it would open so many opportunities for him, especially amongst the government. It delighted Odin to no end.

“I’m studying music,” had been the words that made Odin give up on that one instance of pride and instead he went back to praising Thor who was heading off to get himself killed in the military, just like Odin wanted. As if that had gone so well for the PTSD riddled Hela who now worked in a wolf sanctuary up north somewhere.

Sometimes Loki thought Hela had the right idea. Give up and go to live in the wilds with a pack of wolves and a bunch of people who just understood you instead of trying to please everyone.

Still, Loki attended university, he had won this chance and was not about to give up on his dreams. But Odin made an ultimatum, while he would pay for Loki’s education no matter what (no child of his would be in debt) he was not supporting Loki any further if he continued to study music instead of politics.

Loki took the money for his courses and didn’t look back, until he blew through his savings at the age of nineteen and found himself in need of a job. How hard could it being a Batista be?

He was now twenty-one and understood just how fucking difficult it was. The job in of itself was easy, once he memorized the prices, the way to make the teas, coffees and hot sandwiches he was set. What was difficult was the dammed customers. Some he liked, some he dreaded, some he hated and some he forgot because they were either unremarkable or never ever returned.

His previous coffee shop had been two hours away from his dorms, this new one was twenty minutes on foot and ten on a bike. He preferred the manager, a stout cheerful red haired man who was understanding and didn’t make rude remarks about anyone who deviated from the norm. His previous manager had been a nightmare to work with, he was never happy.

The routine was fairly similar, the manager let the students do their work so long as it didn’t interfere with their jobs and the running of this place. For students like Loki there was not much practical work he could be doing, unlike Steve and his constant drawing, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a dent in his research.

(Steve Rogers also happened to be one of his roommates which is how he found this job in the first place, the other two being Anthony Stark – slumming it with other students much to the delight of Odin who wanted Loki to be the billionaire’s best friend – and Natasha Romanov, she spoke Russian when angry or exhausted and somehow knew everyone. Loki was fairly certain she was either in a dance, theatre or art course.)

One bitterly cold autumnal day  she arrived, the woman with the golden-red curly hair and tan freckled skin. He’d never seen freckles on lips before, he thought it just lipstick until he realized the exhausted woman wasn’t wearing any make up. Understandable given it was currently six in the morning on a Friday.

She was exhausted but lovely, it was as though someone had given both autumn and summer physical form and blessed her with a cute smile and odd taste in jumpers.

Steve looked up from his sketchbook, “Siggy, you’re back?”

“No I’m haunting you, whooooo,” she said waving her hands about, Loki stared, her mittens (that turned into gloves when folded back) were snake mouths. It was like having a pair of Kermit the frog heads for hands but yellow with red eyes.

“You promised to haunt Nat first,” Steve said pushing himself away from the counter half amused.

“Nobody living or dead has the balls for that,” ‘Siggy’ half shouted watching the blonde vanish into the back office. Loki heard Steve laugh, he had to agree with the pair of them, there was nobody could handle that. At least being dead was an advantage.

Steve returned slapping a pair of keys into the woman’s hand, “Now you have to buy something,” he said pointing to the menu, “Two items please.”

“It’s blackmail then?” the woman laughed, “Give me my usual.”

“No, that will kill you this early in the morning, try green tea instead, it’s good for you,”

“Such a mother hen, I know what I’m about and I want an eight shot espresso,”

“One large Coffee pitch black and a sandwich,” Steve countered.

“Deal,” the woman sighed dramatically folding back her mittens and digging out change from her jeans pocket. She got her order and left, her umbrella was also yellow, a bright yellow stood out in the grey gloom of the rainy morning.

“Who was that?” Loki asked Steve.

“Oh that, that’s Sigyn,” Steve answered sounding bored as though she was not the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on. Steve was boring, Steve needed better eyes or glasses or everything, how could he not see what an attractive delightful woman Sigyn was? “We’re looking at houses together, so she’s borrowing my car.”

Loki’s mind skidded to a halt, what? They were only twenty-one, Steve didn’t come from money, he got into this very exclusive university through his exceptional talents, grants and only one loan. Which meant Sigyn-

“-Oh,” Steve looked up from his sketchbook, “You should join us,” it was half six in the morning nobody could blame Loki’s brain for conjuring images of sharing a bed with Steve and Sigyn, both were gorgeous.

Sense came back to him, Steve was dating Bucky, so why was Steve looking at houses with Sigyn?

“So we don’t have to spend the next couple of years in uni dorms, Sigyn is going for her masters and doctorate like me,” Steve answered Loki’s unasked question, he was rather good at that, Loki blinked, “It’s cheaper than the university dorms, so you’ll be saving money.”

“Who else have you asked?” Loki asked interested in the idea, anything to save money would help and the university dorms weren’t the best place to keep on living. They had rats inspecting the property.

“Natasha, Sam, Bucky and Tony, Tony asked Rhodey and I’m asking you, that should make up the numbers,” Steve said.

“Eight people?” Loki frowned.

“Bucky and I will be sharing a room, I think Rhodey’s happy to share with Tony and if they need to Sigyn will share with Natasha,” Steve said.

Loki considered it carefully, while more expensive Loki had his roommates had signed up for short term leases, by the semester in case they ever wanted to move out for any reasons. They had quickly learned by the first year that the dorms were not ideal but living on their own was impossible, this seemed an ideal solution.

“Well we have until the end of the first semester, let me know a week before I have other people interested,” Steve said and Loki nodded, thinking it over and not just because of the potential of getting to know Sigyn more.

A customer walked in, she carried a snotty toddler on her hip, a second kid walked alongside her and an exhausted teenager followed her decked out in every single awful thing Loki used to wear as an aspiring goth with delusions of what constituted good taste. It was nice to know some things never changed.

Loki played rock paper scissors with Steve, he won, until the snotty three-year-old was let loose and put his snotty hands all over the glass display unit. Steve smugly grinned at him as Loki went to retrieve the cleaning supplies, it didn’t help that the kid was now coughing and sneezing over everything.

“Ma’am please can you keep your child by your side,” Steve said, Steve was bright-eyed and bushy tailed even after years in retail, how? How was that possible, Loki’s charity towards customers had been chipped away within a month.

Of course the woman ignored him and let her kid do what they want, Loki couldn’t help it if the toddler tripped over his foot and crashed into its other sibling. He couldn’t help it if the mother carried the pair off embarrassed, but not as embarrassed as the teenager who paid for their order and carried it out for their mother.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that,” Steve said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Loki grinned pleased with himself.

*****

Loki decided he hated customers when one cold evening one customer loudly decided to shout at Loki for having his long hair pulled into a ponytail and did he dare wear nail polish how dare he!

Steve of course stood up for Loki, because that was who Steve was, he wasn’t like his family who would happily laugh alongside the customer about how stupid Loki looked. Steve pointed out that this was a free country and that Loki tied his hair back for hygiene reasons, anyone with long hair had to do that regardless of gender.

Because Steve believed in things like freedom of speech, expression and so didn’t give a shit about your gender or sex. The woman shamed by Steve and his righteous speech took her coffee and slunk out of the coffee shop her tail between her legs.

“My hero,” Loki drawled causing Steve’s cheeks to pink, “So confident, I can feel the righteous surging!” Steve shook his head, “Hey want a rousing discussion about truth? Honour, patriotism, god bless-”

“I get it, you love me, lets move on,” Steve sighed completely resigned to Loki’s way of thanking him.

“Aww,” Both Steve and Loki turned to see Sigyn standing there, “Personally I’ve been on the end of Steve’s speeches, great as they are they tend to amp you up, you could lead an army with Steve’s speeches.”

“Take your heart attack juice and leave,” Steve said already filling a cup with eight espressos.

“That’s no way to speak to a customer!” Loki faked shock.

“Yes, how dare you!” Sigyn grinned, this is why Steve didn’t want Sigyn and Loki meeting, it would either be amazing or terrible, “I have rights as a customer!”

“I would demand compensation, a cheese and bacon toastie for instance,” Loki smirked at Sigyn.

“I – I wait what… excuse… what, Steeeeeeve, you did-”

“-No you, Sig are not allowed any more cheese at night,” Mother Hen Steve warned her, “Cheese gives you weird nightmares remember.”

“But it tastes so good! And that’s where the best ideas come from,” Sigyn said.

“It’s her right as a free patriot to eat cheese whenever she wants,” Loki said, yep Steve regretted them meeting. He decided it was worse than introducing Tony to Bruce and Jane Foster, the science trio were mad bastards doing crazy shit.

“Yes,” Sigyn nodded, “It is my democratic right to eat cheese and have weird nightmares. Now gimmie.”

“Even the nightmare about the tap dancing pig?” Steve asked, how he did that with a straight face baffled Loki, but he did.

“There were sooo many nipples,” Sigyn whispered haunted by some weird idea that did not seem that horrific until Loki noticed her frightened expression. “I change my mind,” She relented as Steve slid her order to her, “What time does your shift end?”

“Ten thirty why?” Steve asked checking the clock, an hour to go.

“I need your friend, the crazy bloke that talks to things?” that could only be one person.

“Tony,” Steve said

“Yeah, him, I need him to look at my laptop, it’s being a right old bastard, I think he might me on his last legs,” Sigyn sighed dramatically.

“Well you can wait here and walk back with us if you want,” Steve offered, Sigyn nodded and smiled thanking Steve as she claimed a peaceful corner all to herself.

The majority of the shift was spent dealing with people who were just starting out on their night out. Their manager closed up the shop after everything was done and kicked them out was he was sure everything was done for a second time.

The walk back to their dorms was a short walk filled with brief conversation and many yawns.

As soon as they were inside their dorm they were greeted by Tony and Natasha debating which was the best way to enjoy popcorn. Steve being the gentleman he was offered to take Sigyn’s black military coat, it hung alongside the other coats, her mittens stashed away in the pockets.

“Bacon popcorn is my go to,” Sigyn admitted pulling her bag to the side to take out her laptop.

“A woman after my heart,” Tony grinned at her.

“Good, fix my laptop genius,” Sigyn said handing it to him, “I got stuff I need protecting.”

“Like your porn stash?” Tony snickered.

“No, who keeps porn  on their laptop in this day and age, get a pornhub account,” Sigyn said without any shame, Steve rolled his eyes while Tony laughed, “Fix him, he’s got my research and digital works, he’s not giving them up.”

“Greedy bastard,” Tony laughed with her.

Loki didn’t have much opportunity to spend time with Sigyn beyond handing her a bottle of water, she was too busy hovering over Tony and her laptop like a mamma duck waiting for her duckling to return. Of course the old as fuck (it didn’t take a genius to see how old her laptop was) laptop was on it’s last legs.

But Tony being Tony backed everything up on a portable SSD drive for Sigyn and told her not to worry about the cost of the thing, he recommended Laptops within her budget but said she couldn’t really expect to do much artwork beyond them, especially 3D stuff.

Sigyn thanked him and went along her way, Tony being Tony bought Sigyn a laptop. Steve said that she had beat him half to death trying to get him to send it back, Tony stuck an unreasonable amount of stickers on the laptop so no. He couldn't send it back.

Apparently Sigyn was pleased but annoyed that he had been so nice, whatever she got him in return made the young man giggle and blush. They never told anyone what it was.

*****

Sigyn returned to the coffee shop one warmer autumnal afternoon wearing a faded white band shirt with holes around the V-neck, jeans worn and weathered with time and patched with embroidery with paint stained army boots and bracelets around her wrists. Her curly hair was braided, half cornrows on her left side and half box braids on the right with beads and charms hanging from the braids.

Today Steve had the day off leaving Loki to suffer with Jane, well no that was a lie. He liked Jane, he didn’t like her dating his brother (who was four years older than her) and neither of them had the warmth and cheer that Steve had, that cheer and warmth kept them going. Instead, Jane and Loki wallowed in their misery as customers made their lives hell.

One in particular seemed to think slapping Jane’s arse was a good idea, he of course was equally horrified when he slapped Loki’s arse only to find out Loki was a dude.

“Usual?” Loki asked a little amused when she seemed surprised he would remember.

“Actually no, it’s pumpkin spice season,” Sigyn patted out a beat, “Give me a large pumpkin spice latte.”

“You can pay for it like anyone else,” Loki grinned, it took a few seconds to realize what Loki meant before she laughed a little ducking her head. Several beads clicked against one another.

It was thanks to the lack of customers at this hour (either Sigyn was a pro at avoiding customers – which if the case, she needed to teach him that skill – or she worked weird hours. Being an art student he couldn’t decide which was the right choice,) that he was able to continue talking to her.

Sigyn sipped her latte pleased with the taste, there was a reason it was so dammed popular and it wasn’t because it was famous – or infamous. She savoured the spices as studied Loki closely.

He wasn’t what she had expected when Steve first talked about him, she was expecting some posh guy who wore jumpers and talked on a diamond encrusted I-Phone. Loki was quite… normal, well terms of fashion, in terms of looks he was pleasing on the eye.

“So Steve tells me you’re a music student?” She asked thinking given his background he would be some sort of classical music star someday. She had no idea what went into music, she liked what she liked and that was that.

“I am,” was all Loki added much to her frustration, until he laughed and added, “I have always had the talent, since I first played the piano.”

“Ah, so you  are a classical musician?” she asked, he looked more like he belonged in a Scandinavian heavy metal or folk band, she couldn’t get a good grasp on him.

“Not classical no,” He smirked, and she was left annoyed once again, the tease. She had to leave due to her classes starting soon, that and a new line of customers arrived, she bid Loki a fond goodbye and walked away.

Jane stared at Loki, “You like Sigyn huh?”

“What’s not to like about her?” Loki asked.

“She  does have a nice arse,” Jane agreed, that wasn’t her only ‘nice’ feature but Loki didn’t say it out loud and instead set to work getting the next round of orders in.

*****

It was one of  those weeks, Loki was battling with a mental block, papers were due, he had run out of shampoo and resorted to Natasha’s so now he had to deal with frizzy hair and worst of all the customers.

The company had decided in their eternal wisdom to release a complicated new creation to beat their competition, this bastard of a concoction was named the ‘Halloween Unicorn’ it was a nightmarish creation of a kid that had been fed too much sugar.

Yet apparently the customers all loved it, it was an over glorified pumpkin spice latte with extras that came with its own Halloween themed cup. But it was popular, so popular that they had sold out on day two after Instagram stars starting peddling it.

Now everyone needed a picture with one, most frustrating were the people who tossed their drinks after getting the pictures. Having to empty rubbish bins that were half filled with coffee was no pleasant task. Thankfully they had heavy-duty bags that did not leak (after years of experimentation) the downside, they were heavy.

God forbid they run out of the special cups or the unicorn horns and unicorn shaped biscuit and sprinkles that the dammed drinks came with. What was wrong with a basic pumpkin latte?

Sigyn was the next customer not that Loki noticed in his exhausted state, not until she smiled at him, customers did not usually smile at him.

“Pumpkin Latte please,” she requested and Loki almost wept with joy, no overly fancy orders, just a simple god fearing pumpkin spice latte. She dropped her usual tip in the tip jar and took her order with no fuss or additional stress.

She was seated by the window perched on her bar stool making use of the Wi-Fi as she typed away on her brand-new laptop. It was a garish yellow colour that somehow suited Sigyn completely. He took the next order, things were looking up, this woman asked for a completely normal black coffee.

Then the new wave of unicorn lattes started pouring in, rush hour meant all hands on deck. Steve and Jane were manning the coffee orders, their manager took care of the food and Loki was left to deal with the customers, he rang up the orders and passed them on. He barely noticed Sigyn leaving, he couldn’t call out to her which annoyed him.

It was five in the evening when things started to die down, the students had been dealt with and the customers were thinning.

“Back again?” Steve asked sounding amused by something.

There stood Sigyn, her curly hair pulled back and held by a piece of cloth, her left cheek smeared with a blackish paint. She wore blue painters overalls with yellow wellington boots.

“Only because I get a freebie,” she said presenting the stamp card.

“Pumpkin spice?” Steve didn’t need to ask, he was already making the drink.

“Yes, feed me,” Sigyn whispered.

“Have you spent your weekly budget already?” Steve asked.

“It’s Saturday be in awe that I lasted this long,” She said as Steve went to check with their manager that it was fine giving his friend free food.

Their manager being nice and Steve being the best worker he had meant that Sigyn got her food. “So how’s your project going?” Steve asked delivering the food to Sigyn’s stable by the window.

As Sigyn took her first bite of the bacon and egg grilled sandwich the moan she uttered did  things to Loki, things that he should not be experiencing in a coffee shop, “Ah uh,” Sigyn wiped the bit of egg off her bottom lip, Loki struggled to tear his eyes away from her, “Well, I completed it.”

Steve looked up annoyed, “You… of course you did,” He sighed resigned to his fate it seemed.

He couldn’t listen in on the rest of the conversation because a customer came up to the counter, the woman had an expression that screamed she could either be a sane and nice customer or about to make their lives hell for the next ten minutes.

She chose hell.

“It’s not very professional to have your hair like  that ,” she said to Loki, his hair was in a ponytail for sanitary, health and safety reasons, not for fashion purposes.

He was used to it, “May I take your order, please?” he asked she would need to do better than that to get through the thick skin retail and service work had endowed him with.

“You shouldn’t have your nails painted,” she said, he was wearing gloves again for sanitary and health reasons, they all did.

Loki simply met her stare which made her uncomfortable, “Ma’am may I take your order please, there are other customers waiting,” he pointed out to her politely.

The woman huffed and puffed, was she somehow expecting to magically summon the manager from his office? Loki waited, the customers were telling her to hurry up and that just would not do. She broke down completely, shouting at Loki.

It was oddly nostalgic. Like Yuletide with the family. Until her words struck a particularly raw nerve, the string of homophobic slurs she spewed left the few people that did not have their phones pulling out their phones to film what was happening.

That summoned the manager, who being ex-army took no shit. The woman left without her unicorn latte (thank fuck for small mercies) and a polite banning by the manager.

Loki tried not to let such things affect him, after all she was just a nameless woman, one of many that passed through this store. But that did not mean her words did not sting. Steve took over the counter allowing Loki to make the coffee’s in peace, the woman’s tirade made people overly generous with their tips, which was nice at least.

Sigyn was sat at her usual spot, when he looked up he caught her eye she offered him a smile before returning to her work. It was an hour later when they had no customers that Loki went to sit with her, to learn what she was working on.

She had pulled off the top half off her overalls, wrapping the sleeves around her waist to prevent the rest falling down as she worked on her essay. For an art student she was muscular and very freckled, there didn’t seem to be an inch free of freckles.

“I’ve got to write an essay on Edmund Dulac,” She said he had no idea who that was, so she turned her screen to him, he nodded still having no clue who he was. “Are you okay?” she asked him which for a few moments baffled him completely.

He realized she was talking about the incident with the woman, “Yes, it is something you have to get used to,” he said she looked annoyed on his behalf.

Fiddling with a leather bracelet Sigyn smiled at him, “It’s not the most ideal time but I can’t keep faffing about with this, do you uh, well not coffee how about uh drinks sometime, with me?” she asked him.

It took him a moment to get over how adorable she was when she was flustered, that blush warming her warm brown skin beautifully. “You are asking me out?”

“Y-yep,” She nodded, “I mean, if you want to?” she was fascinated to know what he looked like outside the coffee shop.

“Okay,” he nodded.

“Wait really?” She asked surprised why? She was gorgeous, she was the beauty that most people on social aspired to be. “Oh, alright, um, my phone number,” she said.

He slid his phone in her direction, so she could type it in, “Why are you so surprised?” Loki asked her really wanting to know.

“Oh you know, because your hot and I thought you might already be dating someone and well It’s uh been a while since I’ve dated anyone,” She admitted handing him his phone back.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in an actual relationship with anyone, he had taken to one-night stands, mostly to experiment with his sexuality and try to pin it down. Sigyn smiled at him, and he believed her at that moment, she really was attracted to  him for some reason.

Wasn’t that interesting?

*****

It was near the end of autumn by the time Sigyn and Loki could find the time to just spend a day together, what with their conflicting schedules, work and deadlines. But in the meantime they texted, messaged, phoned one another even taking a few moments to talk and get to know each other in the coffee shop.

It wasn’t as though they were strangers when they finally met up then, but they didn’t really know each other that well either. It helped calm him down as he stood waiting for her in the meeting spot.

Perhaps it had not been the greatest idea to come dressed in his usual blacks, with dashes of green and gold here and here. Some older folks were certainly disapproving of the way he dressed making him double guess his choices.

There was a part of him that wondered if Bruce was right, and he should have toned down his wardrobe for first impressions outside the coffee shop. The longer he waited (he cursed himself for needing to be early) the further he spiralled into panic and misery until finally a soft “Hey!” made him look up from his phone.

Sigyn stood there smiling wearing a knee-length mustard yellow jumper dress, thick black tights and black thigh high boots. Her knitted green and yellow scarf was ridiculously long with her usual brown backpack hung over one shoulder. Her hair had been freed from any restraints and now it was determined to be noticed the golden-red curls and coils framing her face seemed almost dazzling.

“Hello,” he greeted standing up, this was a little strange. Did they need to be in a coffee shop to feel normal? She laughed softly to herself, “What’s so funny?” for a dreadful second he imagined her laughing  at him or something he chose to wear.

“Sorry, I was just thinking it’s a little weird seeing you in people cloths,” she smiled at him.

“I wear people cloths when I’m working,” He said.

“Your uniform is not people cloths, it’s the opposite, devoid of personality,  this , feels like you,” she said grinning at him. She always seemed to be smiling or grinning. “How does this even work?” she asked him running her finger along the diagonal line of the zip on his leather jacket.

“Well you take the zip,” he began showing her the zip beneath his own black and green scarf and grinning when she rolled her eyes amused.

“Smart arse,” She said slapping him playfully on the arm. He did his best not to flinch, she noticed and thankfully said nothing, years of putting up with Thor and his friends had left their mark on him. She still smiled, pretending for his sake, or comfort that she had not noticed, something he appreciated. “So what now?”

“Has it  that long for you?” He teased her she blushed an overly pleasant shade of pink as she walked alongside him.

“If I say yes would you be put off?” she asked him, hoping that he would not, some people were odd about people not dating, like it was a part of the curriculum for students.

“Of course not, I am more surprised you actually showed up,” he confessed though with a teasing tone as to not appear genuine. He did not wish to come across as needy or desperate.

“I wanted to see what you looked like in leather and skin tight jeans,” she waggled her eyebrows at him, like two charming caterpillars they danced, she was weirdly good at manipulating her eyebrows he thought transfixed for enough time to make Sigyn laugh.

“And?” he asked, he should have toned it down! It was ridiculous to think someone as warm, soft and pleasant as Sigyn would like this. Stark’s offer of a shirt suddenly seemed appealing.

“I approve,” She grinned at him, his whole body sagged in relief, she must have felt it because somehow that sunny smile seemed to grow a lot brighter. “So… what do people do on dates these days?”

He didn’t know, again dating had not been something he’d been overly interested in up until meeting Sigyn. Sigyn grinned at him, she knew he didn’t know either!

“People usually go for coffee,” He said lamely.

“ You  want to go for coffee?” She asked him sounding amused, “That’s like asking me to spend my free time in a garage.”

“You work I a garage?” Loki asked suddenly he remembered something Tony had said about having Sigyn look at his car, he assumed he meant in the ‘I want to ask someone out’ way and not the actual practical way.

“Yep,” she said leading him through the streets with an idea, “My dad was the type that made his kids learn all the skills they would need in later life. He didn’t want me being ripped off if I ever managed to buy a car.”

Funny all his father gave him was self-esteem issues and anxiety, this was not something you said on a date, Loki knew that at least instead he said “My father just tossed money at people to solve whatever little problems he had.”

“Ah, you see that’s no good, I don’t care how rich you are everyone should know basic home maintenance,” Sigyn said, which sounded like good sound practical advice, the sort of ‘advice’ that Odin would shout at his children when telling them to pull themselves up by the bootstraps.

Instead, he answered, “Well my mother did teach me how to maintain a healthy garden, I know how to keep a vegetable patch and herb garden,” he said thinking it silly.

Sigyn turned to him awed like he had just said the greatest thing anyone could think of, “Really!? I’m useless with plants, well aside from Frank and Hudson.”

“Frank and Hudson?”

“Frank’s this spider-plant that just refuses to die, seriously I forgot to water him, and he just keeps on living and Hudson’s this Jade plant, I got him when he was a wee sprout as a kid, the bastard won’t die,”

“You make it sound like they are making your life an inconvenience!” he laughed.

“They grow Loki, they grow!”

“That’s what a plant is supposed to do,”

“Yes, but do you know how big twenty-year-old jade plants can be and how many babies a spider plant produces, lots!” She flapped her hand about.

He couldn’t help but laugh at the mental image of Sigyn on her one woman crusade to defeat two rather average houseplants that refused to die. She puffed out her cheeks pretending to be annoyed as he laughed, in truth she was delighted to see him so relaxed. This was nice.

Sigyn had taken him to the natural history museum, some place he had yet to visit despite living in the city for two years already. It was fascinating and much better than visiting a coffee shop. Even if suddenly he was craving a cup of coffee, his work had cursed or conditioned him!

The date went well, he did think it odd that they had not kissed on the first date, was that normal? He wasn’t sure but there was plenty of hand holding and laughter. Natasha said that was a good sign when he mentioned the date to her later that evening.

“The issue you got right now,” Natasha said stretching with Loki, they both attended evening dance classes together, pole dancing to be exact. It was a great way to keep in shape, “Is whether she’s aware of your sexuality?”

He had neglected to mention that, usually wasn’t something he needed to mention, “It  might have slipped my memory,” Loki admitted mirroring Natasha as they went into the next stretch.

“Hmm, well you should get on that,” he would have done had dance classes had not left him close to breaking. Natasha and Loki staggered home looking as though they had been through hell and back and nobody had allowed them to collect the t-shirts on the way out.

So it wasn’t until he saw Sigyn the next day with Steve in the coffee shop that he suddenly remembered. Mostly it was the girl very obviously checking out Sigyn that helped him remember what Natasha suggested.

He knew from watching others that it could be a make or break thing, apparently some people weren’t comfortable with their partners being bisexual go figure! He didn’t want to mess things up with Sigyn, things seemed to be going good, nice even.

“Isn’t this supposed to be Jane’s shift?” Steve asked him, not as a co-worker but a customer today. The man had bland coffee tastes, Sigyn got her usual pumpkin spice latte, she was determined to fill up before they were replaced with the peppermint drinks come winter.

“Yeah but I have extra classes this afternoon, she had extra classes this morning, so we switched places,” Loki rattled off.

“Oh okay,” Steve said grabbing his boring coffee and adding no sugar or milk, he was just that type that liked his drinks simple. Sigyn was halfway finished with her latte before Steve could even dare attempt drinking his scalding drink.

“Sigyn can I have a word?” he asked, there were no other customers waiting for a drink at the moment so now was a good time.

“Sure,” Sigyn nodded, Steve pretended to make himself scarce by reading a book at Sigyn’s usual spot by the window, clearly he was waiting for Sigyn. Right! They were classmates. He’d almost forgotten. “What’s up?” she asked looking a little worried.

“Ah uh, I should have mentioned before,” Loki said thinking it was a little weird to mention this here and now, he should have waited, damn it, but now he couldn’t just not say it could he? “I,” he hesitated, Sigyn nervously began downing her coffee like a mad woman, “I’m bi?”

“Oh… that’s all?” She breathed a heavy sigh of relief, a nervous giggle escaped her, “I uh, mean no offence or anything Loki but it was kinda obvious?”

“You can’t tell if someone is bisexual by the way they dress and act,” Loki pointed out, well Sigyn was amazing maybe she could?

“True,” She nodded radiating cheer and warmth as she pulled out her phone and showed him the screen, “But meddling billionaire’s have no filter when you ply them with whisky.”

It was a photo of Loki and Tony kissing… well no Loki’s hand was quite clearly down Tony’s pants. It had been a rather strange night of drinking and more drinking, apparently Loki decided that night he was Bi and being a scientist needing to test this theory out. Loki had of course been happy to have an attractive guy make out with him, apparently Tony had a thing for potential rock stars? It didn’t matter, Tony got his answer and Loki got a half remembered fuck, it was a good half remembered fuck.

“I am going to murder him,” Loki threatened, it was a lie of course and Sigyn laughed, clearly not offended at all and used to Tony’s antics.

“If it helps,” She said quite calmly, “It doesn’t bother me that you’re bi Loki, we have that in common.”

“Oh, ah, I see,” Loki smiled, “Well good?”

“Good,” Sigyn grinned, “Does this mean we’re still going to meet up this weekend?” she asked.

“Of course, I want to see how you react to plants,” he smirked.

“Why plants?” Sigyn asked caught off guard, but Loki refused to reveal his plot to show her around the plant exhibition. It wasn’t just about plants, there was also some arts and crafts sections and something about home-made wine. “I knew it, you’re on  their side, plotting against me.”

“Ah yes, me and my legion of hydrangeas,” Loki smirked.

“That’ll be a good band name,” They both jumped, there was Natasha… in daylight hours looking as though she hadn’t slept a week. By her side Tony, who had not slept in a week, “Legion of hydrangeas.”

“Nah you want something more badass, Legion of Cacti,” Tony said waking up now he was within arms reach of coffee. Sigyn pulled her coffee cup away from him.

“Wouldn’t you be more badass with Legion of Wolfs bane?” Sigyn countered.

“Wolfs bane legion?” Steve countered.

“Just take your coffee and go, all of you," he said filling up the various cups. Natasha liked Mocha, Steve was happy with his still scalding coffee, Sigyn got her refill of Pumpkin Spice while Tony had what Steve called heart attack juice.

“You’re supposed to smile when-” Steve grabbed Tony by the shoulder and gently steered him out of the building.

“Thanks,” Natasha nodded, that was all he was going to get out of the exhausted… possible dance student. There was some speculation she might be a classics student.

Before Loki could say goodbye to Sigyn she brought him into a kiss, it was a soft quick thing, nothing but a fond goodbye but it managed to turn his legs to jelly and leave him with a dopey smile as she pulled away grinning. He was to busy mooning over Sigyn as she left, especially the way her hips swayed that he forgot to mention the traces of black lipstick.

The girl that had been checking Sigyn out glared at him, ‘ Yeah she’s mine! ’ she stuck out his tongue, she surprised him by returning the gesture.

 Their second date went well until Sigyn lost a fight with a prickly pair cactus, Tony laughed and laughed, the fact that they had to buy said cactus because it now had her blood on it made Tony laugh even harder. He bought the cactus and crown and sash, crowning it the vanquisher of Sigyn.

“I told you,” Sigyn groused poking her bandaged forearm, “Wait till Fred and Hudson hear about this, it’ll make them bold!”

Loki kissed her, she smiled at him in a very silly way that made his insides squirm and wiggle in delight. Her feathery touches, her patience all made him light up, he was certain others were mocking him for becoming so sappy, but he didn’t care.

She responded to him with affection and kindness, something he had not really had in a relationship before. At least not on  this sort of level. Sigyn was never ashamed about hugging him, or just gently brushing her fingers through his hair. Why did that one feel so good? He liked her braiding his hair or just running her nails along his scalp.

“Next you’ll be writing love songs and giving each other promise rings,” Tony fluttered his eyes at Loki the next morning. Ah so the mad bastard had finally got some sleep.

That… might be a little true, he had begun to write one (just one!)  Song for Sigyn, he couldn’t help it, when inspiration struck he had got it down on paper. But he would not admit that Tony, not when he was operating at full brain capacity while Loki was struggling to remember what day of the week it was.

Instead, he sent Sigyn a text ‘ Stark is annoying me, send help! ’

Her response was instant ‘ Mention Justin Hammer ’ why? Who was that? She sent him a list of conversation starters that included that name.

“Did you notice the university newspaper this morning Natasha?” Loki said.

“We have a newspaper?” Tony asked.

“Apparently someone called Justin Hammer-” Tony hissed like a feral cat and zoomed off shouting something about cheap copy cats.

“Tell Sigyn that was mean,” Natasha said holding up her mug to be filled with heart attack juice.

Loki later learnt that Tony had been the originator but Sigyn had perfected this particular blend of coffee so strong it could fuel rockets. Loki stuck with natural coffee, coffee that did not make people stay awake for days on end.

Loki on pure instinct refilled her mug, then looked horrified when he realized what he had done! The corporations  had conditioned him! Natasha smirked, “Serves you right,” she said sliding off the plastic barstool Bucky had fished out from a dumpster.

*****

Usually it wasn’t a good idea to move into somewhere with a girlfriend of a couple of months, but the rent was cheap and the house was decent enough. Much better than the university dorms anyway. They had plenty of space in spite of the fact eight people lived here, there was even a small garden.

It wasn’t a good idea to share a bedroom either, but nobody could blame Loki and if their relationship ended suddenly for some weird reason Sigyn could share or swap with someone else. But Loki didn’t like thinking about that.

He liked his relationship with Sigyn, she made him feel loved, special, like he could do anything he wanted and that was okay. She supported him, coming to the café’s and clubs he played at never anything short of happy grins and warm affection.

Whenever he felt those pangs of ‘I’ve fucked up and should have listened to Odin’ moments she was there holding his hand reminding him it was okay to follow his dreams. He could not understand why someone as loving and kind as Sigyn would want him, but he could not imagine his life without her now.

In turn, he supported her art shows, Sigyn it turned out was a talented painter, both with traditional and digital mediums. She was already building a regular client base and looking to publish some books, which featured her work, there was also talks of a graphic novel that she and Steve were working on together. Something about an Atalantian prince.

She liked to draw him, he didn’t mind, he was in fact flattered she found him that interesting. He was always happy to spend time with her regardless of what they were doing, especially when the Uni classes became more serious. It was nice to just share a comfortable space with someone, someone who warmed him and reminded him to carry on. That everything was okay.

Finally, Loki got to meet Fred and Hudson, Hudson was huge, Sigyn had grossly undersold just how big he was. He became the Christmas tree that year he was so big. But Fred, the spider plant who hung from the ceiling was almost as long as Loki was tall, clearly Sigyn had given up dealing with the babies and just let him grow thinking it would kill off the plant.

“Maybe you have a secret superpower-” Loki began to suggest as he placed them in the most ideal locations.

“-Plants are spiteful,” Sigyn hissed threatening the plant who did not respond.

“Maybe that’s what feeding, all that hate?” Loki suggested.

“Oooh that’s sneaky, so typical of-” Sigyn paused looking at Loki who was struggling not to laugh, he blinked not understanding why she had suddenly become so serious, “You have pretty eyes.”

He blushed always caught off guard by her compliments he couldn’t help it, she smiled taking hold of his hand and kissing him. His entire being fluttered as she slowly deepened the kiss forgetting for a moment that they were in the process of decorating the house when Bucky walked in complaining about the new coffee machine.

“Loki!” Bucky yelled, “You're the coffee expert-” Loki groaned pulling away from Sigyn who giggled, her whole body rocked against him.

“-I should have worked in the bakery,” He pinched his nose, though he could not regret his choice of work now, it had led him to meeting Sigyn.

“You know… I need help with  our  bed,” Sigyn offered him an escape, and he took it with a grin,  our bed did sound rather lovely.

[shirtlesssammy]

10x21: Dark Dynasty

Welcome to Hell! I feel dirty recapping this episode, but we’re completests here at Shirtless Sammy. Enjoy hating with us!

Omaha, Nebraska

A young woman arrives for a completely legit, totally true eyesight research study interview. Styne Brother #? looks over her credentials and then examines her eyes. Well, he swoops her hair behind her shoulder and grabs her face and it’s THE WORST. But then he pulls a fancy knife and slits her throat, so there’s also that. As she dies, he gets a melon baller and scalpel and scoops out those perfect blue orbs #bucklemingfanficwedonotwant. 

A maintenance guy hears the commotion and knocks on the door. Styne Brother #? puts the eyes on ice and jumps from the third story just as the janitor busts into the room. 

Sam and Rowena have started their dance of enemies to...something more. Rowena is chained and tasked with cracking the codex for the Book of the Damned. Sam wants results but tells her she can’t use witchcraft. 

For Holy Hell Science:

Shreveport, Louisiana

Styne brother #? gets a dressing down by Father Styne. He was sloppy with the eyeball harvest. 

…

…

Whoa, they talked and talked and I kind of zoned out. Words were said.

Um, Styne brother #? has to track down the Winchesters and kill them. Styne cousin #?!@! Is tasked with finding Charlie. 

Sam arrives back at the bunker. Dean asks if Sam’s been sneaking around with a woman he hasn’t mentioned. <EYEBALL EMOJI> (Listen, I LOATH this episode with all the fiber in my being and NEVER rewatch it. Gotta find fun where I can with this recap.) 

Sam gets tired of Dean’s interrogation and asks about what Dean’s been researching. He’s been learning more about the Styne family. That’s funny, because I want to know as little about them as possible. 

Dean wants to check out the Omaha case. Dean heads to bed. Sam heads to pick up Charlie. He fills her in on his plan to break the codex to read the Book of the Damned to help Dean. He tells her that he saved the book before burning a fake. Charlie wants to know how Dean feels about all this.

Charlie is a little upset with Sam’s actions. He then tells her she’ll be working with “one of the most dangerous witches in the world.” LOLZ. 

Charlie sets to work on her SURFACE PRO. 

Rowena and Charlie banter back and forth a bit. 

Rowena gifts us with a reaction that should be used for everything that’s wrong and unholy about this episode. 

Sam is pleasantly humored by Rowena’s attitude.

Cas arrives. (God, I know I said there was nothing redeeming about this episode but Rowena, Sam, Charlie, and Cas all in one scene???!?? OKAY THEN.)

Sam’s apparently brought Cas in to babysit. Rowena sees right through Cas to his weak spot and reveals that Sam hasn’t told Dean about this plan. Cas is livid. Sam gives a rousing speech and they all agree. “For Dean.” Well, not Rowena. “I barely know the man.” (AND NOW I HAVE StUPID SEASON 15 FEELS ABOUT ROWENA. This show is THE WORST.) 

Crowley gets word that his mother is missing. He’s mad. 

Sam and Dean head to Omaha to check out the crime scene. They watch a security video of Styne brother #? jump to the ground and start running. Sam notes the tattoo of the Styne family and then gets a call from Cas. He tells Dean it was a telemarketer. The brothers head out but the guy they were talking to gets cornered by Styne brother #? and gets knifed in the stomach. 

Charlie gets to work breaking the codex but taking pictures with her iPhone and running code on her Surface Pro. Hrmph. I find this VERY ANNOYING product placement the second most offensive thing about this entire episode. 

Cas brings snacks. Rowena is not impressed.

Rowena talks a bit about Agnes, the rogue hermit nun who wrote the codex. She understood the need for balance between good and evil. Also, the church burned her at the stake. And now let’s wallow in this pain:

Charlie: Poor Agnes. Ahead of her time.

Rowena: Much like you and I.

And now they’re both dead, killed by the church show hierarchy. 

Rowena continues to press her point about their similarities. I LOL at her drawing the line at blind devotion to the Winchesters. ROWENA, YOU’RE KILLING ME. “You’ve made them the family you don’t have. Foolish.” 

Back in the Impala, Dean and Sam discuss the Stynes as well as the Mark. Dean glosses over a list of maladies he’s been enduring including dark thoughts and creepy visions. But that’s water off a Winchester’s back, right? While they drive, Eldon Styne trails them. 

Later, at the bunker, Dean picks up Sam’s phone while it rings. It’s Cas! 

Cas is I N C R E D I B L Y awkward and hustles off the phone in record time. This sets Dean’s spidey sense to tingling. When Sam swears that he hasn’t talked to Cas in ages, Dean knows something’s up. 

Crowley interrogates Olivette, who is still a mouse. They talk about cheese pairings…I mean, they chat about Rowena including, presumably, her weaknesses. I kind of love that demon powers include talking to magical mice.

Dean picks up pizza and gets jumped by the Stynes. He kills one of them and captures Eldon.

Cas and Charlie talk at the weird cathedral warehouse in which they’re holed up. Charlie can’t concentrate under Rowena’s constant interruptions and begs to be set free for a couple of hours so she can think. I do 100% get that. Why is it easier to plan on my couch than at a desk? And people making noise around me? So aggravating. 

Dean locks up Eldon for a little Q&A. Eldon tells them that the Styne family is huge and powerful. They’re war and disaster profiteers who’ve amassed tons of wealth over the centuries. They want the book to help enhance their power.

Cas interrupts the interrogation by calling Sam, who steps out to talk. While Dean’s alone with Eldon, the Styne bro tells Dean that they surgically enhance their bodies by stealing parts from other people. Eldon reveals the Styne secret: they’re the FrankenStyne family. Excuse me while I roll my eyes eight THOUSAND times.

Sam tells Cas to get control of the volatile Charlie and Rowena situation, and to under no circumstances let Charlie go off alone. Eldon reveals to Dean that the book can’t be destroyed. When Dean realizes that Sam lied to him, he storms after Sam. The Most Awkward Winchester looks like a bug under a magnifying glass, but he’s saved by a bang from the dungeon. Eldon ripped his arm off and escaped the bunker. Shoulda tied his feet, friendos. 

Cas locks up Rowena in another room.

Rowena reveals that Crowley is her son. “That explains a lot. I'm sure that was quite a challenge,” Cas muses. Parenting, amirite? It's a good moment of levity! Let’s quit this recap right here.

Oof.

Fine. Whatever. 

Eldon and some other dumb Styne talk about Charlie’s whereabouts. She’s at the cutest, most adorably named motel and I wish it hadn’t been used for this. 

For PLEASE for the love of god design my house, Wanek Science:

At the bunker, Dean and Sam talk about the Styne family. Dean brings up the book, and Sam starts to crack like a raw egg. Cas calls him and reveals that Charlie’s missing. 

At the motel, Charlie cracks the code juuuuust in time for the Stynes to pound on her door. She calls Sam in a panic. 

Sam tells her to give them the book, or anything she has in order to survive. She refuses, sending a packet of information to Sam. Eldon bursts in and she smashes her computer. 

The next time we see her, it’s when Sam and Dean find her…dead in a bathtub. BRB, off to burn this episode in a trash can under the grim light of the waning moon. Pretty sure that’s how you rewrite cursed endings. 

Natasha: This episode will forever be in my EXTRA HATE BANK because it killed Charlie. Confusedly, it also has a very cute Cas and Rowena! I have actually rewatched this before and just stopped it before Charlie dies la la la it didn’t happen fingers in my ears.

None of These Quotes are Real and We Have All Just Had a Bad Dream:

I'm not a witch. I'm a nerd. And I know all the great centers of nerddom

Just for once, I wish you trolls would bring me some good news. "Sire, Missouri has boils." Something cheerful

This call is pointless

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[yeenybeanies]

Gone Hunting pt. 3

final installment probably! At least for this little story. This one took a hot minute to get out, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  also as a sidenote: devin doesn’t care what pronouns people refer to them as. most people, arthur included, refer to them as she/her, & they could not care less  

arthur morgan, charles smith, & devin clarke ( oc ) 

1586 words

language, blood, and some violence warnings

feel free to leave comments in the tags!! thanks!! 

part 1 | part 2 

" I heard it that time. ”  

“ Shh! Quiet! Don’t wanna wake them––– ” 

“ Is it far away? Sounds so faint–––”  

“ ARTHUR WAKE UP!! ”  Devin ducks and scuttles along their sleeping cowboy companion’s side, trying desperately to rouse him. The quiet crunch of boots on rock and sand reaches their ears as one of the bandits comes into view. The borrower freezes, not even daring to breathe. They intend to stay silent, but the second bandit looms right over Arthur’s middle, and over them. They can’t help it; they let out a squeak, which has both bandits looking right down at them. 

Oh no. 

Devin swears their heart stops for a moment. There’s no way the bandits don’t see them. Panic threatens to overwhelm them, but they do manage to secure one clear thought: if they run, they might be able to distract the bandits long enough for Arthur to wake up. 

And so they run. They bolt. They dash away from Arthur, fighting every instinct that screams, begs for them to find cover. They run towards the fire pit, placing themself even more into view. They even wave their hands! And make noise! Oh, they are going to get themself killed for this useless goddamn cowboy! 

“ What the hell is that thing? ” 

“ Might be worth somethin’! ” 

The bandit further from Arthur takes one step forward, only to stop short as a flash of silver sails through the air just in front of his face. A gross, gurgling noise draws attention to the second bandit, now clutching his neck around that silver––a throwing knife––buried into his flesh. He stumbles, tripping over Arthur and falling onto him. 

Finally Arthur wakes up. He jolts with a start to see a man bleeding out on his lap with a knife in his neck, and another man running towards––towards Charles! And Charles, being the badass he is, needs only to flick his wrist again and send another knife flying. It embeds its way into the bandit’s left eye, dropping him on the spot. 

Arthur blinks, a little slow to process what’s just happened in the five seconds he’s been awake. When everything clicks, he flinches, pushing the now-dead bandit off of his lap, and clutches his hat to his chest. 

“ Devin? ”  The worry is thick in his voice. He peeks under the hat, only to find the borrower missing. Fear sets in quickly, like ice in his veins. Arthur twists, looking around himself frantically.  “ Devin? Devin, where––– ” 

“ A-Arthur . . .! ”  

His head snaps up.  “ Devin? ”  

“ So you two do know each other. ”  Charles says, shifting to stand from his crouched position. His hands are cupped before him. Peeking just over his curled fingers, Arthur can see the top of a tiny head–––

“ Devin! ”  Arthur scrambles up to his feet. There’s Devin! . . . in Charles’ hands . . .. It hits him like a landslide. Devin is in Charles’ hands! Charles is holding Devin! Who is supposed to be a secret!  “ Er . . .. ” 

“ So this is  ‘ Devin, ’  then? ”  Charles glances down at the little being. They look . . . terrified. They stare right back up at him with big ( relatively speaking ) brown eyes. Charles feels a twinge of guilt for scaring them ( how would he feel if he was caught in the palm of some giant being? ) but he doesn’t see much a way to avoid it.

Arthur thinks his heart has stopped. With how his mouth is hanging open, he’d think that he’d be bound to catch a fly. A few guttural noises, a weak attempt at speech in this shocking moment, leave him, but nothing is coming just yet. He isn’t sure where to look: to Charles or to Devin. 

“ . . . Arthur? ”  The man’s dumbfounded look is enough to draw Charles’ attention away from the little being in his hold.  “ Are you going to say something? You have a fair bit of explaining to do. ” 

“ Uhm . . .. ”  All eyes drop back down, following the squeak from Charles’ hands.  “ It was an, uhm––an accident, ”  Devin offers. They struggle to minimize the shake in their voice. Charles lifts a brow.  “ I’m not suppose to be here, and, uh . . . you weren’t supposed to see me. ” 

“ She’s––she’s a friend a’ mine, ”  Arthur manages finally. He swallows down his unease and clears his throat.  “ She and I were talkin’ when you came to my tent, and I had to hide her, and . . . well . . . here she is now. ” 

“ Where did you . . . hide her? ”  

“ His hat. ”  The borrower answers before Arthur can, a hint of their prior resentment resurfacing. Charles frowns at Arthur. 

“ You put her in your hat? ”  His voice is flat, unimpressed.  “ That’s why you’ve been acting weird. You couldn’t just, I don’t know, discretely set her down somewhere to avoid this whole thing? ” 

If Devin were in better spirits, they might chime in again to chastise Arthur as well. That’s what they’d said the whole ride over! But Arthur already got that earful for a good portion of that ride. 

“ W-well, I––how could I? You didn’t give me much opportunity to––I mean . . .. ”  first he had to hear it from Devin, and now from Charles? Arthur huffs.  “ Can we just––– ”  he needs to refocus ( change the subject ).  “ Devin. Are you alright? Not hurt, are ya? ”  

The borrower perks up. They still look uncomfortable, scared, but they seem to be calming down . . . a little. Arthur’s fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and lift them from Charles’ hands, but he isn’t sure that’d ease them any. 

“ I, uh . . . no, I’m not hurt. ”  They look up between Arthur and Charles, feeling awkward and very, very small. Earlier today was the first time Arthur had ever held them, and now they’re in the hands of someone they don’t know. 

“ Well. ”  Charles shifts his hold, offering the borrower to Arthur, who immediately cups his own hands to accept them. Understandably, they aren’t too thrilled with being passed about, but Charles figures they might be a bit more comfortable with someone they know.  “ Devin. I’m Charles Smith. ”  He bends down, getting almost to their eye level. His lips quirk up slightly in what he hopes to be a reassuring smile.  “ Any friend of Arthur’s is a friend of mine. And I think I’m a bit better at keeping secrets than he is. ” 

Arthur groans.  “ I reckon I’ll be apologizin’ for this one for weeks . . .. ”  His fingers straighten, letting both parties see each other better. Yeah. This has been quite the mess, this hunting trip. 

“ Try months, ”  Devin corrects. Whether there’s any merit in that correction or not is up for debate ( though more likely not; they do have a soft spot for the cowboy, despite everything ). Arthur can only shoot them a sheepish look. 

" We should get rid of these bodies, ”  Charles says, straightening back to his full height.  “ And you should change your pants. ” 

Arthur grimaces and looks down at himself. His pants are soaked and splotched with blood, still wet and sickeningly warm. Thankfully he has another pair in his saddlebag. He can change after they’ve moved the dead bandits. Fingers curl inward again to cup around Devin so Arthur can move them somewhere safe and out of the way. 

“ Devin, I–I’ll say it a thousand times, ”  he starts, knelt and setting the borrower down on a rock,  “ as many times as I got to: I really am sorry for this, er . . . debacle. Hope you’d know I never mean to put you in any sort’a danger. ” 

“ Hey. ”  Devin reaches out before Arthur can fully pull his hand away, settling their tiny hands on his index finger.  “ I know. I do know, Arthur. Just get me home safe and we’re square, okay? Sound like a deal? ”  They pat that finger and offer up a smile––the first they’ve given Arthur since before they left this afternoon. He can’t help but return it, nor can he help the warm feeling blooming in his chest.

“ You have my word, Miss Devin, ”  he promises. 

Charles waits for Arthur by the bodies, having removed his knives from their respective throat and eye socket. Once Arthur joins him, the two men set to carrying the corpses one at a time away from their campfire. They dump them a few-hundred yards out, far enough away so that any scavengers they might attract wouldn’t bother the camp. 

Upon their return, Devin is still where Arthur left them, much to his relief. He quickly changes into his clean pants, and settles down next to the rock he’d set them on with a heavy sigh. Charles does the same on the other side, albeit a little farther away, not wanting to crowd Devin. 

“ Quite a day, ”  Arthur muses. 

“ You can say that again. ”  Devin huffs a sigh of their own and sits down, leaning against Arthur’s resting arm. To put things lightly, it’s been a stressful day for the both of them. Devin looks over at Charles, studying him for a moment. They’re sure he’s doing the same, if not more subtly. It’s strange to not hide from him, but they managed to get through it with Arthur. They can get used to Charles just the same.  “ Devin Clarke, ”  they say. 

Charles hums, looking at them directly. 

“ My name, ”  they continue.  “ I realize I, uh, didn’t fully introduce myself earlier. ” 

His expression softens, a smile curving his lips.  “ Nice to meet you, Miss Clarke. ” 

“ Just  ‘ Devin. ’  We’re . . . all friends here. ”  

They should get some rest, all of them. Tomorrow still awaits, continuing the debacle, as Arthur called it. At least now, though, Devin doesn’t need to hide––not until they get back to camp.

[biillyhargroves]

Hey there! May I request a fic, please? :) Some Harringrove angst, please. :). Something like Steve taking a drunk and half frozen Billy after he finds him stumbling along in the snow in the middle of the night. That's all.

you got it, sweet anon!!! I hope you enjoy this!!!

winter passing(fic requests open)

Billy is missing. 

He went to a party. He hadn't wanted to go, but Steve had convinced him. “When was the last time we really blew off some steam, huh?” Billy had suggested another way to blow off steam, and Steve convinced him they could save that for later. “You never go out anymore,” he’d told him, and Billy got quiet the way he always did when the great unspoken it hovered in the air around him. (It, of course, being Starcourt; he doesn’t name it, doesn’t speak of it, but he knows when Steve is thinking about it - knows when Steve is testing the waters, dipping a toe in to see if now might be a safe time to broach the subject. It never is.) “It’s no one you know,” Steve shrugged. “Not really. My class, mostly. College kids home on break. You don’t even have to talk to them.” 

It was fifteen minutes of the same back-and-forth, but Billy did give in. He went to a party. He spoke to no one. He drank. He drank a lot. Steve watched him warily. He tried to slow him down, but there is not stopping Billy Hargrove when he sets his mind to something, so he settled for swiping Billy’s keys. This, at least, would keep him from safe - or so Steve thought.

Billy had slipped away.

Steve isn’t sure when it happened. He asked everyone he passed if they had seen him, and they all said something different: “He was headed for the bathroom”; “I think he was getting a beer”; “He was doing shots in the kitchen, man. Dude’s a bottomless pit.”. 

Steve checked and double checked his pocket, because Billy is sly and smooth and slick and Steve wouldn’t strike pick-pocketing off his list of hidden talents, but the keys never moved. Steve checked the house, the yard around it, and then the house again, but found no sign of Billy.

Now, he is looping around Hawkins in wider and wider circles, white-knuckling the wheel of the Camaro that they took on Billy’s insistence. His foot hovers over the gas as he eases the car slowly down the streets. It has started to snow and he fumbles to flip on the wipers.

Steve’s eyes keep flitting to his watch. The more time passes, the more worried he grows. He swings past the party once or twice, just to check, but Billy hasn't returned. Steve can’t remember if he was wearing a coat; he remembers how harsh Billy’s first Indiana winter had been. California had not been so frigid, and Billy hates the cold. Steve hadn’t thought he’d ever see Billy more miserable - not until Starcourt, and what came after. 

It is well past midnight when Steve spots a hunched figure stumbling in the street. As he gets closer he recognizes the thin denim jacket stretched over hunched shoulders. Steve rolls down the window as he draws nearer, slowing the car to crawl.

“Billy!” he calls, but Billy doesn’t hear him. Steve pulls up to the curb and calls his name again but Billy only shivers and wraps his arms tighter around his middle. He isn’t walking well; his feet catch on the snow, his boots snagging on the ice beneath. He almost falls two times. Steve, heart-racing, throws the car in park and darts to Billy just in time to catch his third fall. 

“The fuck,” Billy snaps. “G’off!”

“What’s wrong with you?” Steve asks, struggling to keep hold while Billy fights for freedom. He is shivering all over. His teeth are chattering and when he takes Steve’s hands to try to pry Steve off of him his fingers are ice cold. Steve thinks they must be numb because Billy can’t find his grip. “Billy,” Steve tries, but Billy elbows him in the chest in his scramble to escape. Steve holds him tighter, closer, repeating his name as the fight ebbs from Billy’s bones. “Billy,” he says. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Get off,” Billy slurs. He speaks like his tongue is swollen, like his mouth is too small to fit the words inside. He sounds tired, too. 

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Steve tells him, exasperated. “Do you even know how long you’ve been gone? Jesus, Billy, I was really fucking worried about you.” Billy is still struggling, but with much less force. He nearly sags against Steve as Steve pulls them both to their feet. He turns Billy around and when he does he sees blood dried beneath Billy’s nose. 

Steve’s tone softens and he says, “Hey.”. He reaches to touch Billy’s face and Billy ducks his head. His hair, full of flurried snowflakes, falls over his eyes. “Hey,” Steve says again. “What happened?” Billy keeps dodging him, jerking his head away until Steve gently brushes his hair away and touches his thumb to Billy’s chin. Billy reluctantly peeks up at him. “Where did you go?”

“H-Home,” Billy says. 

“Billy,” Steve says. “Did he-” he starts, but he stops when Billy drops his gaze. Steve relents; he lets Billy look away, lets him lower his head. Steve doesn’t need an answer; he can put the pieces together. A drunken kid stumbles home in the middle of the night, wakes up the angry father that hadn't permitted him to leave. The ending is ugly; it’s always ugly. That’s how all of Billy’s stories go, so why would tonight be any different? 

Steve keeps one hand on Billy’s arm to hold him upright and he sighs the heaviest sigh of his life. The snow is still falling, and Steve thinks Billy will freeze to the sidewalk if they stand still much longer. “Come on,” Steve says. “Let’s get you warm.” 

With some difficulty, he gets Billy into the Camaro’s passenger seat. He blasts the heat and keeps one comforting, steadying hand on Billy’s shoulder as he drives. 

The Harrington house is dark and quiet. Steve’s car sits alone in the driveway, and Steve parks the Camaro beside it. Billy picks up his fight when Steve tries to help him inside, insisting on walking on his own even though he can’t seem to keep his feet beneath him. Steve tries his best to steer him away from ice, He gets Billy upstairs and into the bathroom. He begins to draw a bath, then sets to work getting Billy out of his now-wet clothes. The snow completely soaked through his jeans and left melted patches all over Billy’s jacket. There are still some flakes clinging to his hair. When Steve undresses him, he finds Billy’s skin cold to the touch, and Billy seems to brace himself against the sting of the air around him.

“You need to start dressing for the weather,” Steve says, tossing Billy’s flimsy button-down to the floor. Billy grumbles something unintelligible. Steve isn’t sure he’s even using real words. In his drunkenness, he seems to devolved into some form of primitive speech. 

“What’re you doing?” Billy complains as Steve tries to get his jeans off of him. He tries to twist away, but he is clumsy and only manages to pin himself against the wall. 

“Don’t get excited,” Steve says. “Just don’t want this shit to freeze to you forever.”

“Fuck off,” Billy says. He staggers when Steve nudges him toward the bathtub, and protests when Steve tries to guide him into the water. 

“Come on,” Steve says. “Come on, you’re freezing. Just get in.” 

“You coming?” Billy slurs. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Steve tells him. Once he succeeds in getting Billy into the tub, he tells him, “Stay here. I’m going to turn up the heat.” 

“Yeah you are,” Billy mumbles.

“You’re impossible,” Steve tells him. Billy mutters something that Steve doesn’t quite catch. Steve excuses himself, leaves Billy to turn up the thermostat, to gather clean clothes, to find extra blankets for the bed. When he returns, Billy is dozing in the tub. Steve lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching him. There is still blood dried up by his nose and Steve can see a bruise blossoming over Billy’s cheek. His eye, too, looks puffy and Steve thinks it will be black and blue by morning. He feels a tightness in his chest- guilt, he thinks. It makes his queasy  and he hopes that he can quell it before Billy wakes up with the mother of all hangovers.

Steve lets himself into the room. Billy doesn’t notice him. His lips, chapped from the cold, are parted slightly and his eyelids flutter when Steve’s shadow falls over him. 

“Shh,” Steve says. He brushes Billy’s hair behind his hair and traces the line of Billy’s cheekbone, carefully, gently, over the purpling skin. He finds a washcloth, soaks it, and uses it to dab the blood from Billy’s nose. 

His eyes drop down to the scars on Billy’s chest, the ones that snake and curve down his sides and toward his hips. The ones Billy tries to hide. The ones he doesn’t let Steve touch. The ones that give him nightmares that wake him screaming in the dead of the night, the ones that still ache when Billy moves the wrong way. Steve hesitates, then rests his fingers against the largest one, the one nestled at the center of Billy’s chest. Billy stirs at the touch. He groans, and he blinks wearily up at Steve. Feeling caught, Steve drops his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers.

“Hm?” Billy hums. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again. He sighs. “I’m sorry for dragging you out tonight. Maybe if I’d just dropped it, this wouldn’t have-”

“It’d happen anyway,” Billy murmurs. His eyes are closing against, and Steve rouses him by splashing some water over his chest. Billy groans, grumbles, sighs. He fixes Steve with a sleepy sort of look that he tries to make serious. “It would,” he says. 

“Does it hurt?” Steve asks, pointing to his cheek where the bruise is forming on Billy’s. 

“It’s not bad,” Billy slurs. 

“You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow,” Steve tells him.

“No shit,” Billy says. He sighs, and his eyes slip shut again. 

“Hey,” Steve says. “Why don’t we get you to bed?”

“M’not in the mood,” Billy groans.

“You’re impossible,” Steve says again. He rises, looming over the tub to haul Billy up by the armpits. Billy’s breath hitches and he gets water on Steve as he tries to get himself out of the bath. Steve has to hold him tighter than he means to, and Billy tries to tear himself away. “Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says. “Stop fighting me, asshole. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m just trying to help.” 

This seems to calm Billy at least a bit. He lets Steve dry him, dress him. He lets himself be lead to Steve’s bedroom and wrapped up in blankets. 

“I really am sorry” Steve says when they are lying in bed together, Billy dozing against Steve’s chest, Steve playing with his damp hair. “I’m sorry for making you go tonight.”

“Quit the guilt trip, Harrington,” Billy murmurs. His voice is muffled as he nuzzles his head against Steve. Steve holds him closer, rubs his back, tucks Billy’s head beneath his chin. 

“I’m serious,” Steve says. 

“I know,” says Billy. 

“Do you need anything?” Steve asks him.

“Head hurts,” Billy groans.

“I can get you-”

“Just shut up,” Billy says. His words are harsh, but his tone is light, and it makes Steve smile. He squeezes Billy closer; kisses the top of his head. 

“You got it,” he whispers. Outside, the snow falls quietly on their hushed little town. The windows fog from the high heat of the house. Billy burrows beneath the mound of blankets Steve has built for him. He nestles as close as he can to Steve, and Steve lets him. He listens as Billy’s breath evens out. He counts each little heartbeat until he falls asleep, too. 

[wolfythewitch]

Cause You’re Hot Then You’re Cold

It all started with Rex Glass. He‘s tall, slender and walked into my office like a man who didn’t have to worry about tomorrow. A look that suits him fine, and one I do not, well, dislike. He sits himself primly in the decades old chair I got off a yard sale, and folds his hands over his lap. His posture is spotless.

“Good day, detective.” He says.

I can hear Rita giggling outside, and with this, admittedly pretty, stranger sitting here, I wonder how my life had turned out this way.

“Yeah? What do you need?” I lean back behind my desk, feeling my back creak in response. God, I’m old.

“Detective, you simply must help me!” He cries, throwing his perfectly manicured hands into the air. “I don’t know anyone one else who could possibly be on par with your reputation and record and—“

I cut him off. Flattery won’t get you far in my office. “Hold on. You gonna give me a name first?”

“Of course, how forgetful of me.” He flashes a bashful smile, and I bite my tongue to stop whatever I could’ve possibly said next. “Rex Glass, a pleasure to meet you.” He sticks his hand out, and to at least remain cordial, I move to shake it. Instead, he takes mine in his and brings it to his lips, placing on it a soft kiss. “I’ve heard many things about you, Detective Steel.”

I feel warmth rush to my cheeks and I know he saw it. Goddamnit. He’s one of those. “Y-Yeah. A lot, huh?”

“Why, yes.” Glass grins conspiratorially. “I’m glad to say that many of them are quite true.”

“Oh yeah? Which ones?”

He draws in, spine curving gracefully as he leaned over my desk. “Why, that you have the face of an angel.”

Yeah, I may have choked. Just a bit. A lot.

“Detective! I apologize.” He circles my desk, and kneels at my side, thumping my back none too gently. He sounds simultaneously apologetic and delighted. “If I had known you would react this way, I wouldn’t have been so forthright.”

“Whatever.” I wheeze, trying to hide my burning face. “Why are you here?”

“Right, of course.” He stood up, hands clasped in front of him. “Juno Steel. Will you go on a date with me?”

What.

“What?”

Glass grins, unperturbed. “I asked if you would go on a date with me.”

“What the hell—You—You barged in my office—“

“I wouldn’t say barge—“

“Just ask me to go out with you?”

“Well, yes.”

“No.”

“No?” Glass pouts, bringing a hand to his chest. “Why not?”

“Because you... because...” I hadn’t actually thought about it really. It was purely a reflexive answer. “Because...you’re not my type.” Yes, a perfectly good excuse.

“Not your type? Truly, detective, you wound me.” He leans down, close enough that if I tilt my head up just a bit, our noses would touch. “Pray tell, Juno, what then is your type?”

“Talk, dark, and brooding.”

“Checking all those boxes yourself Juno, though I’m afraid you won’t quite make it for the ‘tall’ option.”

“I am perfectly tall.” I say, wanting to strangle that pretty neck of his. “You’re just a giant.”

“I am much more than giant, Juno.” Glass says gleefully, sharp and dangerous. “I’m very persuasive.”

“My kind of guy.” I spit out, “want to give me a rousing speech on all the pros and no cons on why I should spend the night with you?”

“Why, detective! Let me take you on a date first!” He laughs, and I hate that it sounds as brilliant as he is. “Though, as much as I delight in giving you a very rousing speech, I do find that action—“ and suddenly I realize just how close we are, “speaks much more louder than words.”

“Well. Ahem. That—That was very, uh, persuasive of you, Glass. I, um.”

“Well, everyone has their talents.” Don’t say it, Steel. Don’t you dare.

“I get off work at seven, at the earliest, if—if your offer still stands.”

“Wonderful!” He smiles, and kisses my cheek, just below my left eye. “Simply marvelous. I’ll come visit you then. Ta, detective.”

I watch him go, dumbfounded, Rita’s romcom playing their theme song as the credits roll.