#he does normal child things in the most deadpan way imaginable

[rockeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy]

joshuas

[kawaiiocelot]

Hi! It is I, currently in possession of a query

How do you interpret Durgetash with Wren and Gortash? I'd love to see more about their dinamic!

HI HELLO THANK YOU FOR THE ASK EVEN THOUGH I AM A MILLION YEARS LATE TO ANSWERING IT!! I wanted to do more art for this but alas, I have been so busy and in my free time I’ve been working on writing and cosplay stuff instead!!

BUT!! WITHOUT FURTHER ADO!! Allow me to give some info on my personal version of Durgetash aka Wrentash or Wrenver.

Some of this is kinddddaaa subject to change since I haven’t finished Wren’s playthrough yet and haven’t decided 100% what his fate is gonna be hehehe.

To me they’re both such emotionally stunted idiots who fall deeply and grossly in love. Both finally finding someone else worthy of admiration and who matches their ambition. Someone to perhaps be an equal at last.

Ughhhhh I just love the Blasphemy of Durgetash, it's delicious.

Wren definitely feels A LOT of weakness and guilt as well as confusion when he starts to catch feelings for Gortash.

He’s definitely never felt this way about another person before. Just never saw the need to tbh. Never desired to. But with Gortash something clicked intellectually and physically.

I see them having some interesting build up, both trying to make sorts of things in their heads and if this is a bad idea. But they’re both so drawn to each other. They’re fated. (Sometimes I like to say fated to die together in every universe to make myself extra sad)

Pre-tadpole Wren is a little less deadpan and a little more freaky and fiendish tbh, BUT he definitely does not handle having romantic feelings normally.

Anyways he doesn’t kill him and lets his feelings torment him.

I think Wren never realized how touch starved he was until Gortash?? Like I never imagined physical touch to be one of his love languages but uhhhh it might actually be lol.

I always imagined Gortash being casually touchy with him at a random moment. Like a hand on his shoulder?? Or hands accidentally brushing together?? And this just HITS Wren. He feels a little feral. And I think they keep having moments like this. Gortash of course catches on. They keep pushing each other's boundaries and what not. Very back and forth, very playful, but still dramatic like a dance.

Constantly finding excuses to spend more and more time in each other's company. 

But I can definitely see them squabbling a lot and play fighting. 💕

And one day it just escalates into something more intimate,,,,,,

Lots of pent up feelings and ferality.

And I think something just SHIFTS and they really become something to each other. Not necessarily labeled but it’s SOMETHING and it's strong.

As I mentioned, Gortash makes Wren realize how touch starved he is so in time I think he becomes REALLY CLINGY with him. Wren is more of a physical being who prefers actions to words so I think he’d be all over him when they get to that point lol.

They both have their respective plans prioritized of course but they just can’t resist each other?? They fill some void for each other that neither knew they had and I think that’s why they become so attached at the hip.

Wren will?? Listen?? And somewhat behave for pretty much only Gortash??

Wren really likes to bite and claw and mark and I think most Durgetash shippers agree that Gortash would be into that. 🖤

Gortash chew toy confirmed.

 ANYWAYS I know this is getting long but I do have a few other quick tidbits about them.

I know they’re “serious baddies” and what not but I think they have many moments of just being silly and cringe and playful with each other?? To an extent?? Healing inner child vibes.

Gortash gifted Wren the dagger earrings that he wears.

Even tho they are very close, Wren still fantasizes about killing Gortash lol. Just Durge things. <3

TADPOLE WREN IS A BIT DIFFERENT. I’m still playing Act 3 so I haven’t decided how everything is handled. Wren obviously doesn’t remember him. :’) BUT he has this weird connected feeling to him still ever since Gortash’s name was first mentioned. He collects every note, letter, and book that contains Gortash’s name because reading the name makes him feel weirdly closer to remembering something. No joke, he steals every poster of him in the city as well (I can’t believe those things weigh more than a pound each!! My little twink does NOT have the strength stat to carry around much more LOL).

Upon meeting him again, Wren still does feel an inexplicable connection to him but also wants to hear him out because Gortash is the only one who allegedly remembers him but is genuinely not meeting him with immediate animosity?? And like, is actually giving him some slight answers about his past?? While everyone else just seems to want to confuse him or kill him. And he’s a bit of a control freak so he’s desperate to learn about his past and clings to anyone who can help him with this.

ANYWAYS THAT'S ENOUGH OUT OF ME FOR NOW!! Only time will tell what else I decide to write for these two but these are the basics~ They’re grossly and chaotically in complicated love.🖤

[trixree]

For nahtanha on Ko-Fi, who asked: Obi-Wan and Cody, with one or both of them off their tits with sleep deprivation and doing something utterly silly. I'd prefer war era fluff but plz go where your muse takes you 💜

General Kenobi laughs, a tittering sort of sound that means danger and immediately has Steady’s hackles rising. Their General, typically, does not laugh. He certainly does not giggle.

The transports that have come to fetch them off this sithforsaken rock have finally arrived. It has been a bloody and harrowing seventy-some hours trudging through mud and sulfur-reeking pits, carefully evading Sepratist forces because they had known that they were brutally outgunned. The only victory they could hope for was a quick escape, but a storm had prevented their rescue from reaching their ever-changing position, as the Seps did not stop marching just because they were tired, and they certainly didn’t care that it was pouring rain, either.

So the General laughing—nay, giggling—right as rescue is in sight? Not a good sign.

Steady forces his way through the tight cluster of troops waiting to board, gunning for the front of the crowd where Kenobi is… hanging off of the Commander’s armored shoulders and pointing at the design on the side of the LAAT.

Lots of battalions paint their ships—lots of them paint their ships with pinups, even. So this particular artistic rendering of Senator Amidala of Naboo isn’t even that shocking. She is a fairly common muse, as far as Steady has seen. The image isn’t even particularly graphic—typical pin-up stuff, really. Her clothes are tight, her skirts flowing out behind her, a blaster clutched in her hands such that her arms are brought in close and her tits are pushed forward and up, her expression is severe and her lips are as red as the lacy item that winks out from behind the billowing fabric of her dress.

General Kenobi is staring, pointing, and giggling.

“Oh, oh, Cody, can you imagine? He’d—he’d—”

The commander deadpans, “He would cry.”

“He would—” Kenobi splutters, hysterical. “He would cry. Oh, Anakin—you’d think that given the circumstances of his early upbringing, he’d be a bit less… conservative, no? Cody, Cody, did I ever tell you how terribly Anakin hates Quinlan Vos?”

The commander makes an encouraging sound. “The Kiffar Jedi? With the arms?”

“With the arms, Cody! Yes! The arms! Yes, well—” “Sirs, can this conversation be had in-air?” Steady interrupts.

Both idiots turn to him, Kenobi a bit sluggishly. It appears as though the commander is supporting most of his weight. Was he injured? Steady hadn’t noticed anything particularly urgent, but if the General can’t even stand—

“Of course, my dear. Of course.”

The two of them stagger—stagger!—onto the ship and boarding resumes as normal. Steady follows them at a close distance. Something is decidedly off.

“Quinlan and I, we’re casual, you understand. We’ve been so since… oh.. Our padawan days, surely. And Anakin just has a sense for these things, for any hint of…” Kenobi snorts. “‘Impropriety’, shall we say. Poor child—how he came to believe that sex outside of a monogamous marriage was so taboo, I have not the faintest idea.”

“A coping mechanism?” Commander Cody muses.

Kenobi gasps, all faux-offense, and then snorts. “My dear, are you calling me a slag?”

“No, I’m calling you a slut.”

“A slut is a slag! Boil, dear, tell Cody that ‘slut’ and ‘slag’ mean the same thing,” Kenobi insists. Boil shoots Steady a horrified look. Steady shrugs and mouths, I don’t know.

“Uh,” Boil says, eloquently. “They’re… the same thing?”

“Thank you Boil. Where was I? Cody, where was I?” Steady has seen his General in some fucking states—blown up, shot, drugged, concussed, drugged and shot—but never this manic before. It’s like he’s taken far too many stims; he’s wired and chatty and has lost his fucking mind.

“You were being a slut with Quinlan Vos,” Cody relays, dutifully and with glee.

Kenobi makes a face that Steady would, under extreme duress, describe as “seductive”. “My dear,” he drawls, leaning in close to the Commander’s bucket and aiming a sultry look at it, “Are you pining for details?”

“Never,” Cody says.

Just then, the ship shudders to life and begins to rise into the air. Both men stumble and now Steady is worried.

“Bucket off, Commander,” Steady barks. “General, look at me. Did you receive any blows to the head? Take any stims?”

“No, nothing of the sort,” Kenobi answers and shies away from Steady’s small flashlight.

“He doesn’t need stims,” Cody grumbles. “He has ‘the Force’.” The quotations are not so much implied as they are explicit. Vod has the same attitude towards all things Force-related as most men reserve for sharp objects near their gettse.

Steady often wants to grab his vod by the shoulders and shake him until the stupid falls out. If you hate the karking Force so much, why’d you have to go attach yourself to a Jedi like a fucking barnacle, you di’kut? Much like a tooka that has fallen in love with a fish, the esteemed Commander Cody is doomed to pine after a creature whose simple conditions of existence are incompatible with his desire to live an unmolested life.

Finally, Cody’s bucket comes off.

Vode have fairly dark skin, especially compared to General Kenobi. At the moment, the shadows under Cody’s eyes are so deep and dark that they make Kenobi’s look like child’s play.

“Fierfeck, when was the last time you slept?” Steady blurts.

Cody blinks. “Me or him?”

“You!”

“You look pretty terrible, vod,” Boil adds, grimacing.

Cody turns a glare on him that could curdle milk. “I always look fantastic, Boil,” he says with deathly menace.

“You do, dear, you do,” Kenobi affirms. And Cody, the idiot, preens under the praise.

“Answer the question,” Steady says, snapping his fingers to get them back on track. “When did you last sleep?”

“You’re not allowed to ask me that,” Cody snaps, practically growling.

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Is this a fucking medbay, vod?” Cody volleys back.

“No, but now that you mention it, it looks like you’re in need of a visit,” Steady says, saccharine. “Now answer the fucking question before I skip the bitch-fest entirely and sedate your ass.”

Cody looks at him. Cody looks at Kenobi. Cody looks back and Steady.

“Kenobi hasn’t slept in four days,” Cody declares.

“Cody!” Kenobi hisses, scandalized. “Cody hasn’t slept for more than thirty consecutive minutes in four days! I have the Force to sustain me! It is hardly the same!”

“Manda save us,” Boil murmurs. “They’re so stupid.”

As soon as the transport is safely aboard the Negotiator once again, Steady marches his two idiots to the medbay by the scruff of their necks, cursing the Jedi and Jango Fett himself in every way he knows how.

“Both of you are getting an IV and a solid twelve hours or so help me, I will be dunking you both in bacta just for the fun of it,” he threatens. “Now is the appropriate time to tell me how many stims you’ve taken and when.”

Steady won’t do them all the embarrassment of asking why they have elected to forgo sleep entirely—this is war and the pressures on the pair of them are burdens that Steady wouldn’t wish on anyone. He knows why they’ve deprived themself of rest to this extent. It’s for the same reason as his own.

“None,” Cody says, proudly.

Steady looks to Kenobi. “Explain.”

“Cody had… objections to the notion that the Force can sustain a Jedi far past the limits of their physiology. He elected to—what was it you said, dear? ‘Prove that it’s all banthashit? I can do that, too, cosmic powers be damned?’”

Steady takes a deep breath and attempts--Fett help him--to release his rage to the Force.

[jisungscaramel]

dare | han 

❀ genre; smut, a little fluff, best friends au ❀ pairing; han jisung x reader (fem) ❀ word count; 2k

[warnings] explicit sexual content, oral, unprotected sex (be safe y’all), (mild) edging, cockwarming, saucy truth or dare

The intangible friction between you and your best friend was undeniable, yet with conviction, you held this idea that it was all in your head, and instead of fleshing out the inkling of frustration you felt every time you’d hang out, you chose to ignore it.

You chose to ignore the way he’d press his palms into the small of your back when he’d pull you close, the way he’d keep your body tight on his when he’d hug you, the way you’d catch his curious stares, the way his eyes seemed to send endless subliminal messages. 

You chose to ignore the way the butterflies would flutter in your chest whenever that physical contact was made, the desire that would pool in the pit of your stomach whenever your wordless gazes collided. 

You chose to ignore it. 

Until today. 

Honestly, you couldn’t say if he was on the same wavelength as you but as soon as he said these words on what you perceived to be a usual Netflix date (hold the chill), you were definitely suspicious: “Let’s play truth or dare.”

You knocked him on the head. “Han Jisung, you know there’s only two of us here… right?” 

He blinked at you innocently and rather cutely, as if he couldn’t see the correlation between your questions. “Yes… you’re point?” 

You clicked your tongue, sinking back into the worn in leather couch with your arms crossed. “Have you ever played truth or dare with just one other person? I sure as fuck haven’t.” 

He rolled his eyes in an exaggeratedly exasperated manner. “No, but I don’t recall there ever being a rule saying you can’t.” 

“But,” you turned to him to put on your best puppy dog face… which was mediocre at best but a valiant attempt, “don’t you wanna watch Avatar? We’re almost done with Book 2.” 

“We watched it already… 4 times actually… in the past month.” 

“Yes… your point?” you wrinkled your nose, repeating his previous words. 

“Let’s do something different for a change.”

You turn the television off. “Ok fine,” drawing out the latter word as if it were stuck on your tongue. 

Next thing you knew, he was constricting your body with his limbs, happily rubbing his cheek on yours like a child. “Yee!” and then all of sudden, he was sitting back, deadpan, folding his arms with determination. “Truth or dare?” 

“Hmmm truth.” 

And then that small child was back. “What? Why? That’s no fun!” 

You shrugged. “You wanted to play truth or dare, remember? Emphasis on truth.” 

“Fine, is it true that you hooked up with someone in the library?”

“Ji, I already told you that story.” 

“I know, but it was so wild that I didn’t really believe you. Now you have to tell me the truth.”

“What makes you think I’d be any less truthful otherwise? And also, what makes you think that I’d absolutely tell you the truth now if I was possibly lying before?” 

He widened his eyes and flared his nostrils in a rather comical manner. “If you can lie during truth or dare, you must be satan.” 

You stared at him rather blankly, speaking quite frankly, “that… made no sense.” 

His lips pressed into a firm line. “It does; you just won’t admit it.” 

You snickered, rolling your eyes. “Whatever… truth or dare”

“Dare, I ain’t no bitch.” 

You smacked his shoulder - playfully. “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

And he pouted, rubbing his shoulder. “Nothing… nothing at all.” 

“I dare you to leave Felix a voice note confessing your love to him.” 

He offered you a begrudging glare but he wordlessly unlocked his phone with no hesitation, opening his messages with his roommate. He lifted the end to his lips: “Oi Felix! I just wanted to let you know that I love you bro.” He smiled in satisfaction as he sent the note. 

“That’s not what I meant!” you protested. 

To which, he shrugged. “You didn’t specify what kind of love.” 

Your hand made contact with your face in embarrassment. “Why are you like this?”

“Because you,” he placed his palms on his cheeks to squish them, “love me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Ok, truth or dare?” 

“...Just to make you happy: dare.” 

“Hmmm,” he bit his lip in contemplation, “what should I get you to do?” he gripped his chin. 

“Please don’t make me eat wasabi. I almost burned my nose off that one ti-” 

“I dare you to kiss me… on the lips.” 

When you met his eyes, you expected the usual teasing glint, but you saw none. He was dead serious, and you felt the saliva thicken in your throat, forcing you to swallow a little harder than normal. 

As if your body was moving on its own, you leaned forward toward Jisung, resting your hands on his shoulders, distance lessening an inch by every passing moment. You were only planning on giving him a peck, but it just felt more natural to slightly part and purse your lips into a proper kiss. As your eyes fell shut, your heart began trembling in its confines, rattling your spine - you just hoped it wasn’t as obvious to him as it was to you. 

His plush peach lips were as soft as you imagined - though you’d never admit you’d been imagining it in the first place. And for a moment, maybe two, you passed through the mix of emotional signals, focusing instead on the physical, the subliminal body language: how his hands found themselves on your hips, how his lips occasionally broke the rhythm to tug on your lower lip, how he’d let out the softest groans every time there was a change in pressure. 

But then you removed yourself from your physical position, remembering the mental position you were in, biting your lips and looking away, biting your lips as if you wanted to say something, but your words clung to your throat - so you cleared it. “...truth or dare?” 

“Truth.” 

“Why did you want me to kiss you?” 

His expression was serious - something you weren’t used to. He leaned back, folding his arms, lips parted, tongue smoothing over his teeth to graze the edge of his top lip. “Same reason why you couldn’t get your hands off me.” 

You didn’t even have a moment to be dissatisfied with his answer. “Truth or dare?” there was a sultry tone to his voice, and although it was out of character for him, it was perfectly in line with the vibe he was giving in that moment. 

“Dare.” The first time you’d chosen that, it was for no reason other than to spare yourself of Jisung’s complaints, but this time? Curiosity laced your tongue, wondering where he would take it next, if he would take it anywhere at all. 

“Go down on me.” 

You tugged on your lower lip with your teeth as a subtle smirk grew on your face. Of course, he would. You got down on the floor, kneeling in front of him. 

You placed your palm over his crotch, feeling a stirring beneath the fabric of his jeans. “Are you gonna help me with this?” You prodded the top button with your index finger.

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. “You’re a big girl.” 

Challenge accepted. 

The finger on his button flicked it undone, but you took your time pulling the zipper down. You were in no rush. 

But he was. 

You could tell from the slightest gestures: the way his back kept sinking back in the couch, the way his fingers kept combing through his hair, the way he hissed under his breath, the way his hips rolled up - if you weren’t so close to him, you wouldn’t have noticed any of it. 

When you finally took it upon yourself to free his personified frustration, you were taken aback, not because of his girth or the throbbing redness - although that was in the back of your mind. You were teetering on a metaphorical edge of your friendship. The kiss was one thing but now you were approaching the gate of no return. But you’d have plenty of time to worry about that later... and after the fact. 

You let the lust shroud your head with its black clouds as you leaned in closer. You delicately ran the flat of your ring finger up his length while dragging your tongue down, eliciting an explicit gasp from him.

And he couldn’t help but squirm under you when you circled your tongue under the head, where he was the most sensitive. 

Your lips secured around the tip, and you sunk them down as far as they could go, until they pressed firmly on his pelvis. The vulgar gurgling sound you inadvertently made while fighting your gag reflex only did more to stir his arousal. 

“Fuck, since when were you this hot?” 

You started bobbing your head up and down, cheeks hollowing as a result of the increased suction. Every now and then, you’d slow down to trace his prominent veins with your tongue, and when you’d pick up your pace again, grunts and groans continuously trickled down his lips. 

You wanted to smirk. Your nostrils flared as the corners of your lips lifted up as much as they could in their limiting position. You had to take your hands away from his hip and the base of his dick to place them behind your back just to show off.

When Jisung’s sounds became gruffer and more primal, you had an inlinking of what was to come. So, you stopped, smacking your lips with a loud pop. 

“Truth or dare?” Desire poured from your half-lidded eyes, lacing your voice in a tone that sent electricity through Jisung’s nerves. 

“...Dare,” he whispered, still heavily breathing. 

You stood up. “Take your pants off and don’t move for the next five minutes… no matter what.” 

He peered up at you with suspicious eyes, but did as you asked. His suspicion turned into surprise as you pulled your leggings and panty off in one motion, setting the garments on the ground. 

“What are you doing?” he asked in a strained voice as you straddled him, gripping the back of the couch for support, aligning your now-dripping heat over his erection. 

“Making,” you started lowering yourself, taking him in, “things more,” all in, “interesting.” 

He threw his head back, “Fuck.” 

“Remember,” you tapped your phone on the other side of the couch to see the time, “no moving for five minutes.”

“You’re so evil.” He glared at you. 

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I thought you knew this already.” 

“I didn’t-” his attempt to amend his statement was cut short when you attached your lips to his jaw, trailing kisses up its line, slowly, taking your time. 

He held his breath when yours blew into his ear, heat searing his skin, and you could feel him twitch inside you.

“I’m gonna destroy you when my turn is up.”

You tapped his chin with your finger. “If you can manage to behave until then.”

“You think I can’t?” 

“It’s not that I think you can’t… I just don’t think you can.” You waved your hips to increase the pressure between your connected skin, and you could tell he had to bite his tongue just to suppress a moan. 

When your lips latched onto his neck, he gulped, staring at the clock at the other end of the room. He tried to fixate on the constant movement of the second hand, but his body had a different agenda, preferring to focus on how good your lips felt on his sensitive skin, how you alternated between sweet pecks and French kisses, hard sucking and soft nibbling.

He felt the heat radiating from his skin, sweat dripping down the back of his neck as a result of his attempt to hold himself back. He grit his teeth, frustration crippling his body; he was this close to caving, this close. 

“Time.” 

He bucked his hips up, gripping yours tightly. “Such a fucking tease.” But he still held back, keeping his pumping slow and steady. “Truth or dare?” 

You crashed your body to match his tempo. “Truth.” 

“Do you want it harder?” 

“...Yes.” 

 ><><><><><><><

A/N This one is also a reimagined version of a scenario I wrote for a different idol years ago

[need-a-fugue]

Trustworthy (Chapter 3)

Summary: You’ve spent the last three years teaming up with Santiago Garcia on every mission you had a hand in coordinating… and the past several months plotting with him to take down the biggest bad to hit your radar. But even all your time at the DEA and all your experience in the field couldn’t have prepared you for this.

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (slow burn)

Warnings: Does fluff warrant a warning? Well, before we get into the gritty mission, here be some fluffy fluff. Oh, and language. Because I speak that shit.

Thursday came sooner than anticipated, and with it came that awful rush of dread that enveloped you each and every time you set foot in an airport. You’d think you’d be over this by now, your job shuttling you off to the far corners of the Earth, making it so that the only way you could ever get to where you needed to be – Bogota, Juarez, Islamabad, home – was by plane. But… no. The fear of plummeting to an inevitably fiery death inside a giant can filled with the recycled breath of dozens – even hundreds – of strangers was one you were simply never going to get over.

“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding,” Benny barks out amid a thunderous laugh as he watches you down another pill and chase it with a tiny bottle of vodka. “Is it even safe to take Xanax with alcohol?” he asks, his face screwing up in confusion, a hint of concern breaking through the amusement. “Are you so scared of flying that you’re willing to risk an OD?”

“Seems strange, given your profession,” Tom mutters as he sidesteps Ben to slide into the row of seats behind you.

You offer no reply, instead blinking your eyes shut in an attempt to block out the awful activity of preparing for takeoff. The doors haven’t even closed yet, people still steadily boarding the plane, your new teammates still stowing bags and chatting merrily around you, and yet you’ve already buckled in, pulled the lap belt as tight as it will go, and downed your second Xanax in an hour.

“She’ll be alright,” you hear from above. You crack open a single eye and look up to see Santiago looming over the back of your seat. “Fish,” he calls out, tossing a quick glance at the man still struggling with fitting everything into the overhead compartment. “You sit with her. Tell her about all the times you’ve flown. Keep her calm.”

“I’m calm,” you mumble under your breath.

He looks down at you and raises a brow, gaze holding yours even as he tells his friend, “And don’t let her pop any more pills.”

“No shit,” Ben chuckles as he steps out into the aisle, relinquishing his seat just as Frankie finally slams shut the door on the overhead bin. “We’ll have to scrape her off the floor otherwise.”

Frankie slides in next to you, the tiny armrest barely allowing for any space between you and the scorching heat radiating off of him. Normally you might be okay with that, it certainly felt good in the chilly parking lot the other night. But right now you’re feeling flush and hot and on the verge of possible combustion, the odd suck and click sound of the plane’s door shutting and sealing you in causing a bead of sweat to begin sliding down your temple.

“Truth be told, I’m not too wild about being on flights where I’m not the pilot,” he says, his soft voice pitched perfectly to sound just over the hum of the plane, the new buzzing in your ears, and the sudden woosh of air from the vent that he reaches over to switch on above you.

“Comforting,” you mutter, shutting your eyes against the harsh, dry air blowing down on you, but inclining your head back into the steady, cooling stream just the same.

“Just don’t tell her about how many times you’ve crashed, Fish,” Ben laughs from across the aisle. You bolt upright and crane your neck around the man beside you so as to stare the giggly child down, wide eyes gleaming with a very real threat that actually causes his smirk to break and a subtle, “sorry,” to slip past his lips.

Frankie takes your hand, pries it away from the armrest that you’d been holding in a death grip, and he gives you a little nudge with his elbow, encouraging you to lean back in your seat. “I’ve never crashed,” he corrects, shooting Benny a swift, reprimanding glare before turning back to you. “I’ve just… had a couple of rough landings. But each time everyone walked away fine.”

“Yeah?” you question, critical brow cranking high. “And how often do people walk away from rough landings on a commercial airplane?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Not often,” he admits. “But they also don’t go down often, so there’s that.”

Your eyes blow wide, slight gasp catching in your throat as you eke out, “Are you trying to jinx us?”

He twists in his seat to look at you, his fingers wrapping just a little bit tighter around your hand as you inadvertently shake in his grasp. “Trust me, princesa, this is the least dangerous thing we’re gonna do this week.”

The heady bolt of fear subsides a bit, quickly replaced by a tinge of confusion – princesa? – and a hint of irritation. Your face twists into an overdone pout – “Don’t call me that.” – but you can’t deny that his words do, somehow, put you at ease. Or perhaps the Xanax is just kicking in. Either way, you find yourself settling back into the seat, body and mind both suddenly sluggish and heavy. You twist towards him, away from the window and the blinding glare of the early morning sun as it reflects off the stark white wing of the plane, and you let out a small disgruntled grunt as the too-tight lap belt digs into your hip.

Frankie easily contorts himself in his seat so that he’s able to face you bodily, smiling – perhaps teasing – eyes never disconnecting from yours as he too settles in and reclines his head to the headrest. “Gotta have some kind of callsign over the radio,” he states, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a coy, crooked smile. “You don’t like princesa… how about loquita?”

“Fuck you,” you bark out amid a snort of a laugh, the offended pitch to your voice and wide-eyed stare setting him to very nearly vibrate with stifled giggles.

He takes a moment to swallow down his obvious amusement, holding your gaze all the while. Then he clears his throat and pulls his features into a stern set. “Don’t take it personally. I’d call anyone who hates to fly crazy.”

You issue out a short, incredulous scoff. “Maybe if I were the pilot, I’d like it. If I were in control.”

“Yeah,” he admits with a nod and a sigh. “That helps.”

But the truth is, you don’t actually think it would help that much. Because, well… “What person in their right mind thinks, you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to ignore the fact that God gave me legs instead of wings and I’d like to leave the ground. I mean… the ground is the safe place, man. What are you thinking?”

He smiles over at you, a soft, tender expression that sets off a flutter deep in your core. “What kind of person wants to stay on the ground with everybody else when they can climb into the heavens and move through the clouds?”

You bite back the grin that begs to break out and instead flatten your face in the most deadpan expression you can muster. “Are you fucking with me right now?” He merely shoots a wink in response, the light from outside your window reflecting in his deep brown eyes as they pierce into you. You roll your own eyes, but can just barely hold back the quirk to your lips as you say simply, “You’re the crazy one.”

He lets loose with a soft chuckle and shifts further in his seat so that he’s entirely facing you. “You never wanted to play in the clouds?” he asks, grin pulling wider. You feel a new heat – a welcome and comforting one, not the panicky, dizzying burn from before – blossom inside of you as you notice a single dimple cave in on the side of his stubble-dusted face.

A long sigh escapes you. “I mean, I did watch a lot of Care Bears growing up,” you offer, working to keep your expression still and set. But his smile simply grows and it’s just a breath of a moment before you break and let loose with a beam of your own. “God,” you nearly whine as an airy chuckle spills out of you. “Play in the clouds? You’re so cheesy.”

“Hey, I happen to really like cheese.” He raises a rather serious brow as he asks, tone low and sincere, “Can you imagine what the world would be like without cheese?”

You force a stoic glare, bite back a smile. “It’d be terrible. No nachos or pizza…”

He shakes his head slowly, sadly. “All the macaroni would be naked.”

You release a soft sigh. “One third of those popcorn tins would be empty.”

“Or filled with, I dunno, kale-dusted popcorn or something.”

You snort out a laugh, nose wrinkling in disgust. “What would we eat with tomato soup? Grilled eggplant?”

He shrugs. “What would Green Bay fans wear to the game?”

And again, you laugh, this one full and buoyant. “Poor Wisconsin, their entire economy would collapse.”

“What about the French?” he asks.

And it’s your turn to offer up a shrug. “They’ve still got wine.”

He stares at you for a lingering moment before his eyes flicker just past and out the window. “Maybe it sounds a little cheesy,” he begins, ticking his chin towards you, towards the tiny airplane window behind you. “But look out there and tell me there isn’t a part of you that wants to climb out there right now and bounce through those fluffy little bastards.”

Your brows pull tightly together, a quick flicker of pure shock shooting through you and causing you to whip around so fast that a crack sounds from your spine. Outside the window are, in fact, hordes of white puffy clouds peppering the bright blue sky. “What…?” you choke out, utter confusion lacing the word.

When had you taken off? When had you reached altitude? How had he managed to distract you so effectively as you climbed thousands of miles into the sky in this deathtrap tube?

You stare out the window for a long moment, giving yourself time to breathe, to comprehend. Allowing your fingers – which had just clamped painfully down on Frankie’s hand yet again – to slowly relax and loosen their terrified hold. No, there’s no part of you that wants to go out there and bounce around in the damn clouds. No. Way. In. Hell. But there is a part of you that begins to get lost in the soft, subtle beauty stretching out all around you. It’s still scary as hell. But it’s also… amazing.

Frankie watches as you continue to gaze out at the sprawling sky, bright blue on this beautiful day, a day he’d like nothing more in this world than to be out in, flying through the wide-open sky. Your hand remains wrapped around his, even if the intense grip has slackened. And your shoulders are still nearly pressed to you ears, so tense and taut. But there’s a sort of wonder wrapping about you now too, a look of, if not joy, at least appreciation.

“Los cielos,” he mutters from behind, seemingly to himself, his tone dreamy and airy and full of something like… wonder. You toss a glance over your shoulder and catch the way the sun lights his face as he stares just past you, his eyes fixated on the world beyond. You stare for perhaps a beat too long, not realizing until his gaze slowly shifts from the window to you, catching you in the act. The dimple caves again, wide smile pulling once more as he locks onto your eyes, light laughter bubbling out of him as your gaze pings away in a swift moment of embarrassment. He squeezes your hand, tightening his grip on your fingers for a single, quick, perfect millisecond before he utters, honeyed voice once again carrying more than a hint of teasing, “Cielo.”

Confused, you look back up at him, your brow twisting. But you let out a groan the moment he tenders another wink, the moment you realize that he’s just offered up another ridiculous callsign suggestion. You roll you eyes again, but make no move to pull out of his hold nor turn from his heated gaze. “So much cheese…”

He laughs again, his grin pulling tight as he watches you settle back into your seat with an exhausted sigh. You raise a brow in question, in challenge. And the smirk fades to a stony façade as he gives a single, definitive nod and declares, as though all has been settled, “Cielo.”

000

The flight knocks you for a loop. Less than an hour in, you’re passed out, snoring away on Frankie’s shoulder. You wake at one point to discover a pool of drool leaking from your gaping mouth and soaking through the shoulder of his button down, but you don’t even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed, nor the grace to apologize. Instead, you lazily swipe at the mess and turn with an incoherent mumble before dropping your heavy head against the cool glass of the window. You’re pretty sure you hear the tinkling of laughter coming from across the aisle – pretty sure that’s the sound that woke you from your drug-induced slumber to begin with – and you can definitely discern the throaty whispers of shut the hell up and you’re an asshole, Ben coming from the man by your side. But you’re too laden with sleep to really process or care.

For the next however many hours, you dream. Dream of bouncing through clouds in a bright blue sky. Dream of slinking through the jungle with strange men by your side. Dream of falling and floating and somehow rising to fly. You sleep and dream – and snore and drool – until an all-too familiar laugh sounds from above, a barking command of, “Hey, get your ass up, agent,” echoing in Santi’s exasperated – yet amused – tone. You blink open your eyes, tilt back your head, and see both him and Tom glaring down at you as they stand – bent awkwardly from the low ceiling of the plane – in the row behind. “Everybody else is already lone gone, bonita. Get your ass off the plane.”

Your brow furrows and your middle finger rises steadily upward, but somehow the rest of your body feels too heavy to move and it takes a kindhearted gentleman in a tattered old ballcap to ease you to your feet and out into the aisle.

“The second one was a mistake,” you mutter wearily as you nearly faceplant into Frankie’s chest.

“Yeah,” comes from behind in an annoyed scoff as Santiago reaches over to collect your bag from beneath the seat. “I’m confiscating your Xanax.”

The ride to the run-down inn and resort – far from the city and cheap as all hell – passes in a blur. But by the time you arrive and check into your little bungalow, you’re feeling, if not refreshed, at least awake.

Everyone agrees to meet up at the tiny restaurant at the edge of the grounds in about twenty minutes, just long enough for a quick rinse and wardrobe change. And somehow you manage to be the first one there, allowing you the opportunity to have a quick chat with the bartender – which results in a free, giant fruity concoction – before settling into a table in the corner. You let out a relaxed sigh and breathe back in the humid jungle air, realizing only in this very moment that a part of you actually missed this place. That a part of you might just think of the Amazon as home. You glance around, take note of your surroundings – as you always do, always have done, even before your law enforcement training – and begin to watch the rather handsy young couple at the bar as they giggle and swoon.

It isn’t long before Benny jogs up behind you and drops into the seat on your right. He sets down a fruity drink that looks suspiciously like yours, making you wonder if the bartender treats all tourists to a free, sugar-fueled beverage and perhaps your flirting earned you nothing at all. But as the others meander in and join you, all with mere sweating bottles of beer in their hands, you decide instead that you and Ben must just be the most special of the bunch.

Of course, that notion begins to chafe once Benny turns to you with a wicked look in his eye and pulls his phone from his pocket, nonchalantly swiping though a parade of terrible photos with an all-too delighted smile. The first few show you passed out on Frankie on the plane, mouth gaping wide as you spill drool into his shirt. “Oh, God!” you gasp, only just now recalling the brief moment of near lucidity from earlier in the day. “You took pictures?!”

You give him a quick slap and try to grab the cell from his hand only to have him rear back and laugh out, “Wait, wait, these are my favorites,” before scrolling through the next dozen or so, each picture showing a steady progression of your drowsy head falling from Will’s shoulder down to his lap as the two of you sat in the back on the drive in from the airport.

“You talk in your sleep,” Will states plainly from across the table, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

You cock your head suspiciously at him, gaze narrowing. “Liar,” you accuse despite knowing full well that it’s true.

The corner of his mouth quirks into a crooked grin. “Something about… sliding down rainbows?”

“Ooooh,” you drawl out, nodding your head. “Yeah, that makes sense. Frankie kept talking to me about Care Bears on the flight in.”

The man to your left takes a steady gulp from his beer, a swallow so huge it makes you think he’d been navigating the desert all day, desperate for a drink. “You were barely conscious for more than five minutes on that flight. You don’t have a clue what I talked to you about.”

“Better not have been anything dirty,” Santiago interjects pointedly.

You turn and pin Frankie down with an intent yet amused stare. “I definitely remember something about playing in the clouds.”

“Naked?” Ben asks as he jostles your other side with his elbow.

“Ahora, eso seria realmente el cielo,” Frankie mutters softly, ducking further beneath the bill of his hat and trying desperately not to laugh as you level him with an astounded glare.

By the time the food comes, your table has managed to outdo the small group of college students in the corner in terms of noise, filling the only partially walled-in establishment with a relaxed sort of banter and the occasional booming laughter. Benny continues his jokes and playful ribbing, eagerly pulling you in to blend with his tightknit group. Will and Frankie both remain mostly quiet, despite their comfortable-looking grins and occasional bursts of laughter.

Tom’s demeanor is similar, perhaps a bit less relaxed, a bit more guarded. Even after claiming to be cool with your presence on this little escapade, he’s anything but warm and welcoming to you. It doesn’t escape your notice that he continues to pull Santi aside to whisper what you can only assume are either covert sweet nothings or – far more likely – mission-related thoughts and plans that he still doesn’t quite trust you with. You shrug it off… it’s fine, really. You’ve had to slip into other cliques and clusters before, wedge yourself into a special operations task force or try to integrate in with local police to gain access to intel. This wasn’t your first rodeo. And frankly, compared to the Federales in Juarez, all of these guys had welcomed you into the fold with wide-open arms.

It isn’t long – or it doesn’t feel like long, anyway – before Santi rises and tells everyone that he’s heading to bed. A shit-eating grin passes over his face as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, familiar looking pill bottle. He shakes the remaining Xanax around and states simply, “For once, I’m actually gonna sleep great.”

Tom follows hot on his heels after issuing out – in a tone equal parts dad and captain – “We’re up at 0500 and I don’t want any of you to be dragging ass.” Everyone nods their assent, but the moment he and Santi are out the door, Ben promptly buys another round and the four of you who remain settle into a new rhythm that lasts until the tiny restaurant and bar finally shoos you out so they can close for the night.

The lot of you wander the grounds of the inn for a bit after that, indulging in the cool breeze after hours of sweltering heat, and continuing to laugh and talk. But as you make it back to the bungalows, the brothers break away, Ben disappearing into his room without so much as a grunt of goodbye, and Will raising a pointed finger high and telling you and Frankie both to, “Get the hell away from these mosquitos and go get some sleep. Otherwise, Redfly’ll be raining down shit on everyone in the morning.”

But you’re now more awake than you’ve been all day, sated from a too-large dinner and positively sloshing with alcohol, well-rested after your many-hours-long nap during your travels, and you just can’t seem to make yourself shut up, not even once you arrive at your door.

And Frankie seems to welcome it, listening intently as you babble on, filling the gaps with assertions of his own. Now that Ben’s no longer around to monopolize the conversation, you and Frankie develop an easy back and forth, the dialog taking on a soft, steady, even cadence. You talk about everything, the two of you. About Mexico, because you spent nearly four years in different parts of the country, and he still has family in a few of those areas. And you talk about all the places you’ve been, you with your sprawling career and general lust for travel – Road trips are more my thing though… and camping, hiking… Have you ever been through Bryce Cannon? God’s country. – and Frankie with his time in the military and more recent contract work – Yeah, nature’s great and all, but have you walked through the bazars in Marrakesh? Unbelievable. Though I wouldn’t say no to a day of fishing off the Gulf.

You talk about Santiago, each sharing stories of the man who had only just become a trusted colleague and friend for you over these last few years, but had been one of Frankie’s most beloved people for well over a decade. And that leads you into asking about the other guys too, each of whom you find yourself getting to know better and better from even just the few stories he shares as you two recline back into the railing of the bungalow’s small porch. He even manages to get you comfortable enough to share some stories about your own comrades over the years, the good, the bad, and the ugly… and the long-time partner who bled out in your arms following a bust outside of Albuquerque. Though you don’t spend much time on that, eager to move on almost the moment that your partner’s name passes through your lips.

The look on his face, though – as you share those sparse details from that most awful day – tells you immediately that Frankie understands exactly what it’s like to lose a partner, a brother in arms. And while that isn’t a surprise in the least – he had just gotten through telling you that he spent fifteen years in the special forces after all – that knowledge does cause you to feel a whole new pull. It makes you scoot a bit closer, makes you drop your hand easily atop his, your sweaty palm gliding along his warm skin before he reciprocates by slowly turning in your grasp and twining his fingers with yours.

“So,” he breathes out after a moment. “You’ve been out here for… three years?”

You nod, a soft smile blooming as you think about this bizarre and stunning corner of the world. “About that.”

His gaze travels out into the lush jungle located just beyond the row of bungalows, small porchlights illuminating just enough of the canopy to remind you both of where you are. “What’s the city like?” he asks after a beat.

“It’s nice,” you rush out. “Small, relaxed…” Your lips purse together as you think on what to say, how to describe this place that has been your home for three years now. “Lot more tourists than you might think. It’s funny, even the people who live here – in the city at least – a lot of them are transplants from Bogota.” You give a nonchalant shrug – “The streets flood a lot. That’s not always fun.” – and relish the deep chuckle emanating from the man by your side. “There’s a legend about how it got its name,” you say suddenly. “I’ve never really gotten any details about it, but supposedly a Colombian soldier fell in love with an Amerindian woman…”

“Leticia,” he supplies, the name slipping from his tongue in a perfectly accented drawl, falling out into the dark night in a soft, low rumble.

You nod. “And he named the city after her.”

Frankie huffs out a small laugh, a light and airy rumble. His gaze continues to wander, dark eyes shifting along the barely perceivable horizon. “Must’ve been a hell of a lady,” he mutters absently, giving your fingers a squeeze.

You watch him closely, his features soft and relaxed in the low light, the slightest hint of a smile still riding his lips. “Yeah. Must’ve been.”

Taglist:

@tweedlydumbtweedlydoo @icanbeyourjedi @greeneyedblondie44 @mrscrain-x7 @kyjoraven@elephants-are-a-thing @nakhudanyx

[allthingsmustfall]

Charthur Love HCs

It’s blisteringly hot and humid, and I’m feeling kind of melancholy, and was thinking about Arthur and Charles and the way they love each other.  I saw a post a while back (this has been living in a gdoc for a while), that accurately pointed out that in so many fics, Arthur puts Charles on a pedestal as some perfect unflawed human, and that that isn’t the best way to treat a character - it makes them one-dimensional if all they are is the Good which you use to measure another character’s Bad.  I fell into that a bit in ‘like thieves in the night’ and so it’s been sticking in my side….Anyway, it got me thinking about WHY they love each other, because if I could define that, then it might make it easier to write their relationship more realistically - so have some completely unrequested head canons from ‘like thieves in the night':

Arthur loves Charles

Arthur doesn’t think much of himself, not with all the things he’s done - if he’s remarkable in any way, it could only be because he’s put so much bad out into the world.  So with that lingering self-loathing, he’s always gonna consider his actions to be worse than similar things done by similar people.  So while he knows that Charles lived most of his life by thieving and killing folk, he doesn’t think of it as ‘bad’ in the same way Arthur regrets some of his own behavior.  Charles is Kind, and the things he’s done that weren’t kind - well, that’s only because there weren’t any other options afforded him; it doesn’t change the fact that Charles is, at the heart of him, good. Arthur is so much more willing to give others the benefit of a doubt.  While he can’t forgive himself for some of the things he’s done, he’s far more likely to forgive others.  Charles in particular.

Outlaws aren’t all chivalrous men who are competent and effective, Arthur knows that all too well.  So when they bring on new blood into the gang, Arthur never expects much.  Far more people fall into outlawing because they’re stupid and lazy than because they’re fighting a war on civilization in general and Washington, DC in particular.  And yet, immediately, Charles is Capable.  He comes into the gang and does more than his fair share of the hunting, the guarding, the chores.  Arthur has made the gang his family; taking care of them is how he shows his love.  Seeing Charles take that on without question or complaint is unusual enough to be startling.  It’s probably what first made Arthur look at Charles with real consideration.  For a long time, he waited for the other shoe to drop, for Charles to reveal himself as untrustworthy, to have some fatal flaw like most men they take on.  But it never comes. 

So many of the folks in the gang are bloviators who can’t shut up about how amazing they are.  But Charles doesn’t slam his ego around like a fucking weapon like the rest of them; it’s not that he’s uncertain about himself or his place in the gang.  He knows without question that he’s good at what he does and lets his actions/results speak for themselves. Many times Arthur has watched Charles smile privately after a job well done, either chopping wood or getting through a robbery without having to kill anybody. He's proud of his work, and rightly so.  It’s...admirable (cue confused soft emotions)

Arthur gets shit from some of the gang about how much time/energy he spends helping out the lost lambs of the world, but Charles does the same sort of thing.  In my fic, I gave Charles the Charlotte mission, but I like to think he picked up some of the other things that would have fallen to Arthur in-game.  So, back to Arthur’s low self-esteem, when Arthur offers that selflessness, makes himself vulnerable for no reason other than it was the right thing to do - whatever, nbd.  But when done with Charles’ hands, Arthur recognizes it as the sort of kindness that changes the world in small and loving ways.

Charles has a sense of humor that Arthur just gets.  It’s not loud or performative like Sean.  It’s quiet and sarcastic and deadpan.  It took him a while to really notice it, but Charles just cocking an eyebrow at the perfect time is enough to make Arthur crack. Charles has amazing eye roll game.  He can’t imagine that anyone thinks of Charles as silent and menacing, not when Arthur has personally heard Charles repeat filthy limericks until Arthur gave up trying to sleep, swung his leg over Charles’ hips, and kissed him quiet. 

I think that Arthur would have spent his whole life holding Charles in High Regard, not examining too closely the tremor in his chest when he makes Charles smile, or how...nice it is to just watch Charles chop wood. I think the love he feels for him is physical, not in a sexual way, but in a tactile, grounded way that's totally different than anything he's felt for a woman. With Mary, that love was ethereal, hard to grasp, but with Charles, Arthur could point to the point on his chest where that love lives. It's as real and alive as his heartbeat.

Charles loves Arthur

I think something bad happened prior to Charles joining the gang; not necessarily terrible or uniquely awful, but something that made him weary of being on his own.  Maybe he had to deal with some local racist troublemakers, got away clean, and was making camp for himself out in the rough only to be happened upon by more racists/bandits/troublemakers, and was forced into yet another fight for his life.  So he’s exhausted, and he wants a place to rest and he hears about Dutch’s gang. Dutch seems honorable, doesn’t mention his race, and almost...shows off the other POC in the gang (look at all the POC I have so generously taken in! Praise me for my open mindedness).  It’s condescending, but it’s better than the overt hatred he gets out on his own.  So he joins up.  He’s not expecting much out of a gang of outlaws, and some of them live up (down?) to expectations, but there’s a good chunk of people who are far more like a family than he was expecting.  They’ve even got a kid with them, who’s protected as fiercely as any child deserves.  And Arthur, for all that he’s introduced as Dutch’s menacing lieutenant, spends most of his energy protecting and caring for that core little family.  Yes, Arthur spends a lot of his time with his hands dirty, but at the end of the day, he wipes them clean and sits quietly at the fire, clear affection in his eyes as everyone talks over one another and laughs and dances.  It’s far more human than he was expecting from a man whose face is plastered from here to New Hanover and back again, drawn hastily above a litany of sins.

Arthur has been on the wrong side of the law his entire life, has probably killed more men than he’s had hot dinners, which makes it all the more amazing that he has any moral compass at all, let alone one which so unerringly brings out that fierce stubbornness when marginalized people are threatened.  Being kind matters all the more when the option to be cruel is so much easier, when it has been nurtured more than kindness ever has.  It’s...amazing, so much so that Charles is appalled that so few others seem to notice.

Charlie's is startled by Arthur’s tenderness; he had worried that Arthur would mistake him for a woman, at first, that this thing of theirs would make Arthur think of him as something delicate in need of protection. But Arthur still relies on Charles in a fight, he doesn’t try to wade in and fight Charles’ battles for him - well, for the most part.  Arthur is protective of the things he loves - so when he picks fights on Charles’ behalf it’s less because he doesn’t think that Charles can fend for himself, and more because he is impatient to kick in the teeth of every bigot in the world (it’s a thin line to walk, and Arthur doesn’t always nail it - it’s been the subject of more than one fight).  But still, Arthur is...soft in a way that surprises Charles.  Even before they admitted to themselves and each other that this was more than an occasional hand beneath a blanket, that love was creeping up around them like a slow tide, Arthur’s hands were gentle on him, reverential.  There was more than one time Charles had feigned sleep just to enjoy the soft way Arthur carded his fingers through his hair, the way the pads of his fingers traced, unasking, over his collection of scars.  The types of trysts Charles had had in his past didn’t involve anything like that - that quiet, naked intimacy that only comes after the sex is done and heart rates are drifting back to normal.  It makes Charles’ throat tight, even as the rest of him goes soft and liquid under Arthur’s hands.

Because Arthur is white, is a man, and now has enough money that he and the rest of the gang are set for life, there are things that he will never experience, and in never experiencing them, will never really understand.  Occasionally, Arthur forgets there are places that won’t serve Charles dinner and he’s enraged when he runs across them, wants to burn down every racist, bigoted piece of shit he runs across.  But he doesn’t expect Charles to comfort or educate him about these inequities. Arthur doesn’t see himself as some sort of uniquely qualified savior who can liberate the oppressed just because he’s white and he cares.  He’s learned that the best person to solve those problems isn’t a white man riding in with a gun and a temper; that the desire to help is most effective when directed by someone who has lived under that oppression.  And so he listens when Charles speaks, and he learns.  

Arthur has been with women, has been in love before Charles.  That doesn’t bother Charles - not exactly.  But Arthur has a road map to love that Charles has never seen; Arthur already contains the spaces within himself in which love can be built and tended to - the sort of thing that only comes from experience.  Charles never had the chance for that, had never expected the opportunity, not when the world was already ready to hang him for so many other things.  He’d never anticipated love, not like this, not the sort of thing which was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.  And so Arthur more easily vocalizes  his adoration.  He has told Charles he loves him plainly, many times, unthinkingly calls him ‘darlin’ when he’s distracted or preoccupied.  He doesn’t even seem bothered that Charles’ own admissions are quieter, hidden within other words and deeds.  There’s no doubt in Charles, now, about how they are together, how deeply this connection runs, but that gentle, unthinking intimacy still steals his breath away, even twenty years down the road when Arthur is walking around the cabin hollering “Darlin’ you seen my new leather hat?  I swear I had it just - ah, never mind, there it is-”

They just - are in awe of each other, each the other’s wonder which holds the stars apart.  

[advena87]

Kaer Morhen shenanigans (but mostly Lambert’s) part 6

.

Here is: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10 and Daily Lambert

also Keira & Lambert’s love story, Aiden & Lambert’s love story and… this.

.

Lambert: I need an adult.

Eskel: You ARE an adult.

Geralt: Eskel now you have exaggerated.

***

Vesemir: I love you son.

Lambert: Unrealistic. Unbelievable. Lies. False.

***

Vesemir: Lambert! Don’t make me come over there and be a parent!

Lambert: FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING, HUH?!

Berengar: BUUURN!

***

Vesemir, a tired dad, trying to teach the next witcher generation: Okay, let’s try this one last time. Forest, corpses everywhere, Leshen attack. What do you do?

Geralt:

Eskel: …

Lambert: Call the witche-

Vesemir: YOU ARE THE WITCHERS!

*later*

Vesemir: *launches the witchers into Leshen’s forest*

Eskel: Vesemir, where is the rest of the guys?

Vesemir: I'll tell you where they're not... safe.

*in the forest*

Geralt, fighting with Leshen: Lambert, quick, think! What would Vesemir do in this situation?!

Imaginary Vesemir in Lambert’s head: *walks away* Bye, Lambert!

Lambert: I'm beginning to think I have issues.

Geralt: *fighting* Lambert, support!

Lambert: Well your hair looks terrific. Grey is a lovely color on you. And frankly, you're the only one on this team I can rely on.

Geralt: I meant hit him!!!

*after defeating Leshen*

Geralt: Luckily all that violence and gore had no disturbing side-effects on our decent childhoods-

Lambert: *quartering Leshen while drinking blood from it’s skull*

Geralt: ...

Lambert: I'm sorry, I have to do that every twelve minutes.

Vesemir: I’ve never felt such an odd mixture of pride and mortal terror.

***

Eskel: Hey, Lambert, how are things going with Vesemir?

Lambert: I dunno, lets see. HEY DAD, YOU WANT TO TRAIN WITH ME!?

Vesemir: *in the distance* FUCK OFF!

Lambert: Why are you acting like this? I’m your son!

Vesemir: Yeah and are you as disappointed as I am?

Eskel: Wow, you are just the Grand Central Station of disappointment for him, aren't you?”

Lambert: Yup. Thats me.

***

Vesemir: Lambert, if I die before you, I want you to lower me into my grave.

Lambert: Aw, da-

Vesemir: So you can let me down one last time.

Lambert:

Lambert: Eskel, do me a favour, if I die before him, cremate me and throw my ashes in Vesemir’s face.

***

Eskel: Don't you miss the vivid imagination of childhood?

Lambert: I never had one.

Berengar: An imagination or a childhood?

Lambert: ...

Geralt, mockingly: Oh, what, not gonna tell us your tragic backstory? I thought you loved to talk about that shit.

Lambert, completely deadpan: If I felt like talking about my childhood trauma, I'd go to therapy. Murder is way less emotionally taxing.

Eskel: ... I can't tell if your childhood was that fucked up, or you're just okay with killing people.

Lambert: It's less of an 'or' and more of a 'one lead to the other'.

***

Eskel: Lambert! Are you drinking again?

Lambert: Yep.

Eskel: You said no more alcohol!

Lambert: I said “no, more alcohol”.

Eskel: Do you live in your own little world?

Lambert: Yes. But unfortunately I have to share it with all of you.

***

Lambert, drunk as shit: Give me my sword!

Geralt, also drunk, handing him a plastic butter knife: Here you are, my liege.

Lambert: Thank you, peasant.

Lambert, pointing the knife at Eskel: SURRENDER OR FACE MY WRATH.

Eskel, late and sober: Are... Are you kidding? You’re joking right-

Geralt: DO NOT INSULT M’LORD.

***

Lambert: Hey, do you think I could fit fifteen marshmallows in my mouth?

Berengar: You're a hazard to society.

Geralt: And a coward, do twenty!

Eskel, to Berengar: Have you ever just looked at someone and knew the wheel was turning but the hamster was dead?

Berengar: Everytime I look at these two.

***

Geralt: Taco cat spelled backwards is still taco cat.

Eskel: I don’t know what to do with this information.

Lambert: Dog food lid spelled backwards is dildo of god.

Eskel: I don’t know what to do with this information either.

Berengar: Crack? Is that what you two smoke? Do you smoke crack?

***

Lambert: *does something selfless without making a joke of it and genuinely being nice*

Eskel: So you do have feelings after all?

Lambert: *shrugging* When I have the time.

***

Geralt: They call me coffee because I grind so fine.

Eskel: Oh my God.

Berengar: They call me coffee because I keep you up past 2 a.m.

Eskel: Stop.

Lambert: They call me coffee-

Eskel: Please don’t.

Lambert: -because I’m dark and bitter and most people don’t like me without changing some aspect of who I am.

Eskel: Oh.

Lambert: Sorry, thats just my train of thought.

Geralt: Or as we like to call it-

Berengar: The Anxiety Express. Don't worry, I have one of these too. I thought I was in a bad mood, but it’s been a few years now. So I guess this is just who I am now.

Eskel: Am I the only normal child here?

***

Berengar: Being a pessimist is great. I'm always either right or pleasantly surprised.

Eskel: That’s an awfully optimistic take on pessimism.

***

Lambert: Oh, are you *covers Eskel’s ears* kidding me?

Berengar: That... wasn’t a swear word.

Lambert: It’s not? *sighs* Ah, shit! I swear so much, I don’t even fucking know the difference anymore!

***

Berengar: At my age, do you know how I’m statistically most likely to die?

Geralt: At the hands of your brother?

Berengar: An accident.

Geralt: That’s how I’m going to make it look.

Berengar: You can’t kill me if I kill myself first.

Vesemir: WHAT KIND OF LOGIC IS THAT?!

Geralt: Actually, yours.

***

Geralt: Has anyone ever told you to keep your damn mouth shut?

Lambert: Everyone. All the time.

***

Lambert, drunk: Hold on! I’m having one of those things… a headache with pictures?

Berengar: What the fuck?

Eskel: He's having an idea.

***

Geralt: *Can’t find Lambert in a crowd* Shit, we lost him.

Eskel: This calls for drastic measures.

Eskel: VESEMIR IS A GREAT FATHER!

Lambert: WHAT?!?!!

Eskel: There he is.

*meanwhile*

Berengar: Excuse me. I lost my youngers brothers, in a crowd. Can I make an announcement?

Store Clerk: Of course.

Berengar: *leans into mic*

Berengar: Goodbye, you little shits.

*later*

Berengar: All in all, a 100% successful trip.

Vesemir: Berengar, you lost all your brothers!

Berengar: All in all, a 100% successful trip.

Vesemir: Prepare to feel really bad about yourself!

Berengar: Oh yeah? I’ve been prepared for that my whole life.

***

Vesemir: There will come a moment when you have the chance to do the right thing.

Berengar: I love those moments. I like to wave at them as they pass by.

Vesemir: There are always lessons in failures...

Berengar: Ah, yes, this must be why you are very wise by now.

Vesemir: Yup, I have four of you.

***

Lambert: *throws open balcony doors at 6am*

Lambert: GOOD MORNING WORLD!

Berengar *from the lower balcony* Shut the fuck up!!!

Lambert: YOUR LITTLE RAY OF SARCASTIC SUNSHINE HAS ARRIVED!

Berengar: Lambert, let me ask you a question.

Lambert: Shoot.

Berengar: Is there any part of “shut the fuck up” that you don’t understand? 'Cause I’d be happy to explain it to you.

.

[zutarawasrobbed]

Hesitant to Love

AO3

ff.net

Rating: T

Summary: Zuko loves his wife, but he doesn’t know how to tell her.

Happy Zutara week everybody! This story takes place a few years post canon. Special thanks to @markedmage​ for her wonderful beta skills

Zuko loves his wife. He knows he shouldn’t, but he does. This was never supposed to be about love. But how could anyone not fall in love with her the moment they looked into her eyes? The moment she revealed her smile to the world, her righteous fury exposed in the crinkle of her nose and narrowed eyes, he adores so much. The excitement she felt for every one of his, or her, bills passed. The prospect of bringing peace to the world by sharing her life with her best friend.

Best friend... friendship. That’s what this was supposed to be. Two best friends putting aside their individual futures to be joined as wedded loves, to bring about a new era of inclusion to not just the fire nation, but the rest of the world. But he was doomed from the start. He promised himself he would repress this feeling. As he looked at the sleeping face of his wife with a hand on her protruding belly- his child, a daughter, he was sure, even though she was adamant it was a boy- he knew he could no longer keep this secret from her.

Zuko loves his wife, but he doesn’t know how to tell her. How can he? Will she hate him for breaking this arrangement they made when going into this union? Their marriage was supposed to be a symbol, nothing more. She would bear his children and they would love them, but not each other... Well not the love he felt for her at least. He knew she loved him, she told him so even before marriage. But it was the love a friend shared with another, platonic and pure with none of the complications that came about from being in love with someone. He thought he could live with this. Keep this secret in exchange for having her in his life.

(There are many things Zuko would do for Katara. Follow her around the world, train a little boy the secrets of his people. Take her to find the man who cracked her heart and shattered her innocence in a matter of second. Take lightning to the heart for a girl like her. But keeping his love for her a secret? Not a chance.)

But now it felt wrong. Like maybe he was deceiving her, yet his mind was filled with words and promises to always be honorable. Words and promises that wouldn't let him get away withholding the truth from her any longer. He used to escape them by whispering softly in her ear as she slept.

But now she held a promise of a different kind. Promises of sleepless nights with crying children. He always knew it was inevitable. But the way it happened was still bizarre to think about but also so Katara he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

_______________________________________________________________________

It was early evening and they were having dinner in his quarters, a common occurrence to escape the gossiping maids and nobles, when it happened. He just finished his bowl of sea prunes when she spoke

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” It was automatic. Her mouth was in a straight line, her fingers fidgeting with the table cloth sewn by her gran gran. In hindsight he should’ve known she was about to ask something serious, but as always his mind drew blank and simply responded the way he always did when she asked him anything.

“Well... it’s more of a request-never mind...” her voice faltered and deflated.

Zuko’s frown was evident on his face. He wondered if he said or did anything to make her feel as if she couldn’t tell him anything. His heart screamed at the prospect. His mind wanted to spill everything he wanted to say. I would give you anything you asked. If you asked for the moon, I would find a way to bring it to you. If you asked for the stars I would learn how to fly to pluck them out of the sky. He would give her anything she asked. She already had his soul.

“It’s just that...” oh! she wasn’t done. “I was thinking about our marriage-“

Shit

“And we’ve been married for almost three years...”

Three years next month- 34 days. But who’s counting? “Already?” Not trusting himself to speak he took a sip of the broth left in his bowl.

“I want a baby!”

If he could, Zuko would turn back time so he reacted better. Or at least not choke on his soup as his wife bent the liquid in his lungs... “what?” His voice cracked. He would also not do that...

Katara steeled herself with a look of determination he only ever saw when she dealt with stubborn nobles. “I want a baby.” She said simply. As if she didn’t just ask him to impregnate her.

“Now?” His voice was still high pitched, but at least he didn’t sound like that toad from the western air temple.

“I think it takes longer than a minute to have a baby.” She deadpanned.

That should be funny. But his laugh was devoid of humor. Instead filled with nerves. She noticed.

“Zuko.” She reached across the table to take his hand. “I want to have a child with you. I know you must be apprehensive at the prospect of sharing your bed with me-”

Not in the way you think his mind interjects,

“but I don’t think it would be so bad. But there are other methods if you prefer!”

Hmm let me think, would I prefer using your bending to you in my bed? That’s a tough one.  

“But I’d like to try the more natural way. If that’s alright with you...” her resulting blush forced a smile from his lips.

“Okay.”

_______________________________________________________________________

He wishes he could say their first time was magical with fireworks and moans of pleasure... not laughter and snorting. He wished he lasted more than a minute. Agni I’m never gonna hear the end of this for the rest of my days. My ancestors must be mocking me in the spirit realm as we speak ! “I’m so so sorry.”

Her laughter ceased, “I’m not. I heard from gran gran this was might happen. It’s totally normal. I just assumed you did this before.”

She did? Wasn’t it blatantly obvious how awkward he was? Where did she get that idea? “No, just you.” He embarrassedly admitted.

“Hey,” her smile in return filled him with warmth. “Don’t be embarrassed. How about this time you let me take the lead?”

_______________________________________________________________________

So he did. He was in control, one the throne, and she was in control in the bedroom. It wasn’t long before the news of her pregnancy was delivered to him. When she told him, he allowed himself one moment of weakness and kissed her deeply, as if she just gave him the most precious gift in the world. He supposed she did in a way. The gift of a child- their child, one part him the other half her. He hoped it was a girl, a girl just like her. Katara kissed him back and laughed as he broke away. He should have told her then. But her smile was infectious and the words died on his lips. He almost kissed her again, but one moment of excitement was justified, another was just selfish.

_______________________________________________________________________

Now, three month later he’s starting to see the evidence of her pregnancy in her stomach and he can’t pretend any longer. Taking a deep breath, he strips his shirt and goes under the covers and pulls her to him, covering her hand on her stomach with his own. She stirs awake and snuggles closer to him.

“Hey.” Her voice is raspy from sleep. But she’s awake and she turns to face him with a smile.

This is it. No going back.

“I need to tell you something.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes look into his with clarity and concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I- I’m in love with you.”

Silence is all he gets in return. Her eyes are wide in shock and his heart breaks from the fragile agreement he’s just broken.

“I,” she steels herself, but slowly a smile adorns her face and her hand rests gently on the scar on his chest.  “I’ve loved you since you jumped in front of that lightning meant for me...”

This, he thinks, is what happiness feels like. Not being crowned Fire Lord. Nor the moment he could finally create lightning from his fingertips. Holding her close, her back to his front, her hand in his laying atop her stomach, is happiness. It feels like the dawn of spring colored by the crimson of the sun reflecting in the pond of blue. Like the sky after its fight with a storm, exploding with colors of all sorts in the middle of the day. He thinks he’ll never love her more than in this moment…

_______________________________________________________________________

Six months later their daughter is born and the sounds of her wails fill the palace walls. One look into her golden eyes staring up at him with curiosity, from her mother’s arms, he’s proven wrong. This, he knows , is happiness. When his wife looks up at him with her tired eyes beaming with joy and pride she tells him, “I love you.”

They tell each other constantly since that night. But this time it feels different. This time he knows their hearts no longer belong to just each other but the little girl with her eyes the shape of her mother’s with the color of her father's gold, the heat of her darker skin confirming what type of bender she’ll be.

He loves his wife, she loves him, and they love their daughter.

_______________________________________________________________________

Notes: I’ve read many arranged marriage fic that have Katara and Zuko as either strangers or enemies. I love reading those AU’s but in this story, I decided to go in a different direction. A direction of mutual consent for mutual benefits.

[scriptaed]

his side, her side | 7:00 P.M.

genre: angst/fluff/implied smut; (bold = genre for this particular drabble)

pairing: reader x jungkook;

length: 2.9k;

synopsis: a collective snapshots in time shared between two, whose fates were undeniably intertwined and futures would never come to be.

a/n: this is not a chronological series; more so, his side her side is a collection of drabbles in which each drabble helps paint the overall picture. each drabble can be read separately without having read the others. // alternatively: his side, her side pt. 4;

her side; 

Even if it pains you to admit, you knew that this—whatever it is between you and Jungkook—was more than just something… or at least to you, that is; because to part ways after an ephemeral five minute small talk right outside the company’s doors only to long for next week when your opportunity to relive what most would consider an insignificant five minutes of your seven days has to mean something. 

That unequivocal something, however, would forever be a crush mislabeled as boredom. 

“So how far do you live from work?”

Oh, shoot. Does that question seem too invasive? Peeping around at your chattering colleagues of whom gradually fade into the distance behind you two, you figure the coast is clear. The last thing you would want is to assume the new subject of your coworkers’ morning gossip rumors. You can just imagine it. Your stalkerish tendencies and your supposed obsession with the partner of your most recent project, Jungkook… they would call you a lonesome girl with fleeting emotions, willing to fall for any boy who gives her the slightest of attention.

That image, in itself, has been a nightmare you’ve grudgingly albeit successfully steered clear of.

It seems that your coworkers should not be the subject of your concerns, however, because even the shadow that befalls his profile that blocks the lamp post’s white-blue glow is not enough to blind you from Jungkook’s sneer. Your partner peers down at you and speaks his seldom words of the night, “wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“Wh—” you’re at a loss for words, not exactly because of his remark but rather over his rare choice to speak in exchange for an opportunity to tease you… something he hasn’t done in the past month of your blossoming relations “—what? I was just wondering how far you lived because you mentioned driving to work before.”

“Yeah,” he simply answers without further elaboration over his sudden tease. “I live with my brother. About five minutes away. Not too far.”

“You have a brother?” 

“Yeah,” he pauses, “you have any siblings?”

“What do you think? Do I look like I have any?” 

You lean back, as if to allow him to have a gander over your appearance that supposedly dictates your compatibility for a sibling. To your surprise, the boy who’s usually much less easily entertained turns his head as an acceptance to your challenge. The thought of his absolute attention focused on you, eyes scanning you up and down, is enough to have you slightly regretting your question. You’ve never been the type to feel self conscious; but moments like these, when you fidget with your hands and hastily tuck a lock of your hair behind the ears, you’re left wondering why he, of all people, is an exception. 

The spur of the moment skews your balance and you rock back and forth, subtly albeit unsuccessfully avoiding further attention from the boy before you; because as your right foot slips back only to counter the sway by pushing forward, your dumb self unintentionally pushes your left arm firmly against him. 

Your arm doesn’t just touch—no, it wasn’t a graze and it surely wouldn’t seem like a mere accident by the standards of people with a normal sense of balance, but it’s more of an assertive lean to the point that you’re sharing his warmth and molding into his well-toned biceps that you’ve covertly ogled at for the past weeks until his firm stature becomes the reason you’re not stumbling forward like a goofball.

Even the most dense of them all would have picked up on it; but Jungkook isn’t just any boy, because whether for the better or worse, he chooses not to mention the small mishap. 

“You seem like the older sister type,” he mentions, averting his attention ahead to the dimly lit sidewalk. 

“Oh,” you can only mumble as your arm dwells over the wake of his touch.

Wait, what does he mean by that? Do you seem reliable? Or does he see you as a know-it-all? Does he think you’re the girly type? The responsible type? And was it supposed to be a compliment?

One too many seconds had passed by for you to inquire for further elaboration. Instead, the occasional silence between you two has you scrambling for a new topic after the death of its promising albeit lackluster precedent.

“What about you? You live near here?” 

Alas, you can internally sigh in relief because at least the struggle to rekindle the conversation is a mutual one. Maybe he doesn’t think you’re too boring, after all.

“I live across the bridge and a few blocks down, so I just walk to work.” 

“Across the bridge?” he articulates with much more vigor than you’re used to. Ultimately, your surprise is short-lived when a cocked grin replaces his temporary gawk. “Try not to get mugged.”

“Wooow. Considering the sun sets before we’re out of work and crossing that bridge when it’s dark is a legitimate fear I have,” you give him the worst stank eye possible, “thank you for your concern.”

The damn boy only grins, “no problem.” 

As oddly comforting your usual, silence-filled conversations with Jungkook have been in the past, you don’t think you would be too disinclined to fiddle with your partner’s snarky attitude once in a while. Maybe you’re overanalyzing or maybe you’re excessively shrewd, but the organic flow between the two of you is starting to awfully resemble that of two close friends. 

But are you friends or are you merely colleagues coerced into working overtime? 

“Boy, I swear I will—”

“—oh shit,” Jungkook beats you to the curses, like usual, “I forgot to bring my card.” 

“So?” you quirk a brow at the distraught boy. “Just go home and make some food. Our cafeteria sucks anyways.” 

The boy turns to look at you, profusely serious and not a glint of shame present in his eyes. Then, he deadpans, “but I’m hungry.”

“So... you want me to spot you.”

“Hey,” he finally chortles with a slightly embarrassed grin akin to that of a child caught red-handed, “I skipped dinner after gym so that I could make it to work on time!”

“No one told you to skip dinner!”

His already ear-to-ear grin widens, if that was even possible, “I did it so you wouldn’t be alone!” 

Spotting your friends has never been a predicament for you; this, however, you’re not too keen on lending money to a boy whose relations are only based upon work, mutual friends, and endless inevitable crossovers between his path and yours—in fact, too many to be under the hands of mere happenstance. 

Surely, the two of you have grown much more acquainted than ever in the last month, but it’s not like you two never interacted before. On the rare occasion that Jungkook actually greeted you, a plea for help regarding work would always follow shortly after. To you, he only saw you as a reliable source. He never saw you as a friend and you never saw him more than a mere colleague. Even now, after all the sparks between you two, it’s difficult for you not to suspect his ulterior motives. 

You will not be taken advantage of. Just because he’s slightly—okay, maybe profusely—above average in looks, you will not make a fool of yourself. What happens next, however, takes you and your adamant determination by surprise.

“Okay, fine...” you grumble. “But you owe me boba!” 

“Boba?” his eyes pop as he chuckles. “Alright, sure.”

“Yeah, in fact, you owe me three boba,” you add. “I like roasted oolong milk tea with egg pudding. Write it down.”

“Three?” he gawks. “Wait, roasted oolong and what…?” 

He had asked a question, yet you can’t help but simply smile at him from ear to ear. Was this really happening? Was he serious or was this another one of your playful bickers?

Shrugging and stifling the laugh that threatens to slip from your lips, you decide to let fate override your usual level-headed reasoning, “take me and I’ll let you know.”

In that fleeting moment, the flutters in your stomach and the adrenaline that coursed through your veins were worth it all; and it wouldn’t be until months later that you discover your last leap of faith was not one worth taking. 

-

his side;

“So how far do you live from work?”

Her question finally ceases the dreadful standstill. The internal sigh after a prolonged bated breath and the realization of the unknown implications of such relief strikes Jungkook as an oddity. Clearly a quiet, standoffish man who strays from the center of attention, Jungkook had always preferred to observe rather than participate. To him, the state of nothing is where he belongs and silence is his safe haven—and yet, around Y/N, he can’t help but chant words of panic: shit, what do I say next? 

As thankful as Jungkook was for his partner’s break of silence, he, himself, isn’t aware enough of his once stone cold pond of a state, now disturbed by ripples of which its origins are unknown. Instead, the moment of anomaly is mistranslated into the only expression he’s developed a knack for. A sneer. 

Well, that wasn’t exactly what he wanted… but he figured he was close enough with Y/N to joke around with her by now, right?

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“Wh—” Jungkook peers down at her baffled response “—what? I was just wondering how far you lived because you mentioned driving to work before.”

It would be a lie to deny how the look of bewilderment that plasters her face doesn’t egg him and his teasing streak onwards. Despite being a man of few words and little thoughts, the rare sense of amusement brought upon by her short-lived distraught catalyzed by himself, truly, has Jungkook scratching his head. The tinge of guilt intermixed with worry that perhaps he had gone too far only furthers the confusion. 

“Yeah,” Jungkook returns to his usual collected albeit monotonous composure, “I live with my brother. About five minutes away. Not too far.”

“You have a brother?” 

“Yeah—” what should he say now “—you have any siblings?”

“What do you think? Do I look like I have any?” 

Oh? He’s a bit hesitant to hurl a curse at his partner, but how the hell is he supposed to know?

When she leans back to open her profile to the boy, something Jungkook has realized is a rarity for the usually closed-off, shifty girl, the boy has no choice but to play along with her antics… either that or he lacks the energy to deny her politely. The boy turns, scanning his partner up and down with little haste and no specific game-plan. He doesn’t exactly know what he’s supposed to be looking for, but what he finds is much more than what he was expecting. 

For someone who speaks with such wisdom, who performs so well in every criteria, who seems to know the answer to all his questions, the way she fidgets with her hands and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear at this very moment as he watches her conflicted with the confident impression he once only knew. He had taken note of her occasional avoidance of his eyes—something which he had amusedly combated with an even more intense, to which she never challenged—but her wavering gaze that flickers on whatever was on the ground is especially prevalent today. 

Funny. 

Then she begins to lose her balance. How? Jungkook had no fucking clue; but before he knew it, she was swaying back and forth until her left arm finally stabilizes the rather skittish gal… through the use of his right arm.  

The sudden contact catches Jungkook off guard. No, it isn’t enough of a surprise to have him jolting back—although nothing really could elicit such a reaction from a boy like Jungkook—but he does notice the firm, close contact between her and him. The closest he’s ever been to her was visually through the eyes and the closest he’s ever touched her was tactually through the occasional graze of his fingertips against the back of her hand. Sure, his bare skin could only feel the cotton of her sweater and the moment of contact lasted for an ephemeral two seconds, but even that is enough to leave an imprint on that night. 

There’s no doubt in Jungkook’s mind that it was all accidental. Y/N isn’t the type to mess around with boys like him… but did she notice? 

Turning his head to the sidewalk brightly illuminated by white and gulping whatever was in his throat, he decides to fill the awkward silence, “you seem like the older sister type.”

“Oh.”

Shit, why does she sound so disappointed? She doesn’t think it’s an insult, does she? Well, it really isn’t his fault if he struck a nerve, Jungkook internally shrugs, he was just answering a question. He had to admit, though, her unpredictable sway of emotions was entertaining to say the least. If she really wanted an elaboration, she could always ask and he could easily clear up his intentions. 

But what’s the fun in a conversation without speculation? 

And so, Jungkook figures he’d leave her at that. 

“What about you? You live near here?” 

“I live across the bridge and a few blocks down, so I just walk to work.” 

“Across the bridge?” Jungkook gapes, although he’s unsure of why his expression is much more of an exaggerated version of how he really feels. Something about the drama of it all fueled the conversation further. Grinning, he remarks, “try not to get mugged.”

“Wooow. Considering the sun sets before we’re out of work and crossing that bridge when it’s dark is a legitimate fear I have—” damn, that was a long sentence and her stank eye doesn’t help any bit “—thank you for your concern.”

Her anger only spurs him and his unexplained satisfaction forward, “no problem.” 

Jungkook had always kept his circle of friends close and tight. It isn’t like he preferred it that way, but the world of simplicity and permanency gravitated toward him. Unlike the other countless guys who liked to spend their nights surrounded by girls whose names they didn’t know nor cared to know, his closed lifestyle kept him grounded. If someone were to tell him years ago at orientation that this girl would eventually be holding a conversation closely resembling that of two close friends, he never would have believed them; but now that he’s here, he could definitely see it. 

“Boy, I swear I will—”

“—oh shit,” a wave of terror overtakes the boy as he rummages through the pockets of his shorts “—I forgot to bring my card.” 

“So?” his partner quirks a brow at him and he almost narrows his eyes at her preposterous advice that follows. “Just go home and make some food. Our cafeteria sucks anyways.” 

A ravenous growl rumbles across his abdomen. The regret for having skipped his usual granola bar in exchange for making it to work on time after gym returns with vengeance. The two things Jungkook had no shame in taking seriously were: one, gym, and two, food. As cautious as he has been around his seemingly delicate partner, he had no shame in turning to look straight at her. Next, he deadpans, “but I’m hungry.”

“So…” the girl mulls, each second egging on the emptiness of his stomach. “You want me to spot you.”

“Hey—” well, that isn’t exactly what he wanted and now he just seems like a leech but prolonging the swift conversation that had developed as well as filling the hole in his stomach doesn’t sound too bad “—I skipped dinner after gym so that I could make it to work on time!”

“No one told you to skip dinner!”

He can’t help it when his grin widens, “I did it so you wouldn’t be alone!” 

Truthfully, her advice would have been much less of a bother to Jungkook. One, he wouldn’t have to spend all this time and effort convincing her. Two, he probably would’ve been home by now and enjoying his masterfully cooked instant noodles. Most importantly, he wouldn’t seem like he was trying to take advantage of his partner because severing their professional relationship and borderline friendship was not in his plans. 

As little of a crap he gave about the impression he gave others, he wasn’t that shitty of a person to willingly be the bad guy… and certainly not to Y/N. 

“Okay, fine...” she finally grumbles to his relief. “But you owe me boba!” 

“Boba?” he can’t help but chuckle in disbelief. “Alright, sure.”

“Yeah, in fact, you owe me three boba,” she asserts. “I like roasted oolong milk tea with egg pudding. Write it down.”

“Three?” Jungkook gasps; and this time, he really means it. “Wait, roasted oolong and what…?” 

How the hell is he supposed to remember that? And does she want it delivered to her house or work or what? 

Her next remark, however, answers his question. “Take me and I’ll let you know.”

Food might be all that he sees at the moment, but if obliging to her request could induce further conversations and get him to the light at the end of the tunnel? Then to Jungkook, that’s a win-win. Someday, he’ll take her when they’re truly friends and not mere coworkers with coerced interactions. 

Maybe not now, not later, but certainly in the near future. 

[midnightrooftops]

Don’t Blame it on the Kids

Drabble #2

Story here

Summery: Shouta talks with All Might.  Drabble.

Characters: Shouta Aizawa (Eraserhead), Yagi Toshinori (All Might)

MANGA SPOILERS: ch. 303 (well past season 4 of the anime) post-war arc

TW: mention/referenced abuse, mention/reference character death, canon-typical violence, PTSD, amputation, hospitals, panic/anxiety

“Oh, this is a cool one,” Mic says, holding out his phone for Shouta to see. “I think this is what Rumi is getting.”

Aizawa is ignoring him as he looks over the file in front of him. 

“She’s getting an arm, not a leg.”

“Yeah, but I think this is the designer.” Mic goes back to browsing. “You think about that fake eye yet?”

“I’m not becoming a cyborg,” Aizawa says, too tired to put any malice in his voice. He rubs his eye from the mention of it and holds back a flinch at the image he sees. He’s getting used to blinking and seeing the fight, really, he is. It’s annoying as hell, though.

“But it’d be so cool,” Mic continues. “Matching glowing eyes. Tracking system to lock on your prey.”

“And yet, I still wouldn’t be able to see 3D movies,” Aizawa deadpans. He’s grateful for Mic, though. The first few days were tough, but Hizashi has gotten better about downplaying it all and Shouta is thankful for it. He can handle losing a leg and an eye. He can. But he didn’t have to weep about it.

“You don’t even go to movies,” Mic says and he’s back on his phone again.

There’s a soft knock on the door, so soft it doesn’t even register to Aizawa until he hears Mic get up.

“Hey there big guy,” he says in his friendly DJ voice. It’s still softer than normal but Aizawa owes that to it being a hospital more than Mic’s sense of comfort for his friend.

“Hello Hizashi,” All Might says and Aizawa looks up and past the curtain to see the skeleton of the man in the door frame. “Could I have a moment with Aizawa?”

“More secrets?” Mic presses but he’s only teasing the old man. All Might, for his worth, looks ashamed by it. Mic laughs, pats him on the shoulder and offers Shouta a wave. “I’m off to refresh the playlist,” he says. “Text me if you want anything from the cafeteria.”

“Thanks,” Aizawa says and watches Mic leave. 

All Might closes the door. Not all the way, but enough to imply privacy. He shuffles slowly across the room to the chair next to Aizawa’s bed and sits gingerly.

“When are you getting out?” All Might asks.

“Tomorrow,” Aizawa says, pushing the papers back into the manilla folder. 

All Might nods. “They expect Midoriya can leave by the end of the week.”

“That’s good.”

“Indeed.”

The silence settles between them. Aizawa let’s it. 

“He hates the hospital,” All Might says and Aizawa almost lets out a real laugh. Of course he does. The poor kid spent more of his first year of high school in the hospital than actual classes. But the reason why that’s the case dries up Shouta’s amusement. 

“He doesn’t say that, of course,” All Might continues. “He wouldn’t talk back to a nurse or doctor. He’s not like me. I fought them tooth and nail any time I ended up here.” A smile creeps onto his face. “No, but I can tell. He gets anxious as soon as he has energy back in his body. He’s desperate to leave, even now. After telling you, I could see how eager he was to go home.”

“Was it his decision?” Aizawa asks, knowing why All Might has come.

“Yes.” All Might looks at Aizawa and his eyes are heavy but honest. “It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you.”

“I know.”

“It’s a big responsibility.” It’s an excuse.

“Too much for a kid,” Aizawa says.

All Might nods. For his worth, he seems to sincerely agree. “In my retirement, I’m beginning to think it’s too much for anyone to bear.”

Aizawa sees the way his shoulders hunch, the way his spine, even through the suit, is still visible. He sees the skin pulling at the man’s face and hears the rattle of blood in his breath. For all the times All Might has been in his natural form around Aizawa, he never wanted to see the hero. It was a painful sight. 

He thinks, for all Shouta’s criticism, he can agree with that. Which begs the question…

“Why him?”

Why Midoriya? Granted, he knew now he knew nothing of the kid. He’s been pouring through Midoriya’s records, trying to figure him out, trying to make sense of what he was just told.

A smile crosses All Might’s face and his eyes aren’t looking at anything in the present anymore, they’re seeing the past.

“He asked me, once, if a quirkless kid could be a hero. And for all my honor and duty, I told him no.”

Quirkless? Quirkless?!

“And then, when a villain was attacking his friend and no other heroes, including myself, could step up to save him, Midoriya ran straight into the fight.”

Aizawa knows about the sludge monster incident. Mostly from Bakaugou’s file but he knew Midoriya was involved. Jumping in without permission. It was a red mark against the kid.

But not in the version All Might told.

“Put simply, that boy reminded me why I was a hero. He has that power inside him, the one we can’t teach, the one that has nothing to do with One For All.”

Aizawa knows what he’s talking about. Usually, it’s the reason why Midoriya is the problem child of the problem class. But it’s a spirit he’s seen in the best heroes.

“I know you don’t agree,” All Might says. “I thought All For One was dead. I thought he had more time. Time to grow and develop...” All Might bows his head. “It’s no excuse.”

It’s not, but it explains some things.

“You said he was quirkless?”

All Might nods. “I should think that’s his part to tell,” he says and again, Aizawa can agree with that. 

But…

Damn. Midoriya being quirkless makes sense. Aizawa remembers the beginning of the year. He remembered the entrance exam. 

Midoriya wasn’t a lazy kid. He wasn’t just overusing his quirk to get attention or try to impress people, like Shouta originally assumed. He literally had no control. 

“Who else knows?” All Might looks confused and Aizawa supposes this was one of the things he missed in the discussion earlier.

“Nedzu,” he says and Aizawa has to hold back a groan. Of course he did. At least All Might wasn’t the only one at the school to blame. “Chiyo. Mirai did. Detective Tsukauchi and young Bakugou.”

Aizawa nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Bakugou?”

“He’s been helping Midoriya train,” All Might says and… yeah. That makes a lot of sense. Aizawa can probably put a date on exactly when Bakugou learned. 

“The after-hours fight?”

All Might nods and there’s a smile in his eyes. 

Of course.

“He respects you,” All Might says. “It’s one of the reasons why he didn’t tell you. Not just because I asked him to keep my secret, but I suspect he didn’t want to influence how you saw him. From my time knowing him, he hasn’t shown the least interest in fame or admiration. He wants to be the best, but not for the title. He wouldn’t want you to judge him based on my quirk.”

“He’s going to have serious issues,” Aizawa says and All Might coughs, spitting blood. Aizawa doesn’t let go of his glare. “You gave a quirkless child the perhaps the most powerful quirk in the world and asked him to carry on your legacy. These kids are under enough pressure at school.”

All Might had the good sense to look ashamed but then he smiled.

“I know it’s unfair to ask it of Midoriya,” he says. “And, to be truthful, part of keeping the quirk a secret is so that he doesn’t have to carry on my legacy.” All Might’s eyes twinkle and Aizawa doesn’t know if it’s tears or just how he looks when he’s inspired. He’d believe either. “When I gifted young Midoriya my quirk, it was to give a quirkless child a chance to achieve his dreams. He was never supposed to face All For One. I thought I had ended that monster. On my life, I thought he was gone.”

It was the closest to hatred Aizawa had ever seen from All Might. The tone of his voice, while still constrained, seethed something Aizawa never heard from the hero. He couldn't tell if it was directed at the villain or the hero himself.

Shouta sighs, his head pounding with this new information. Not just that Midoriya was supposed to face this horrible threat but that Bakugou knew about it and that, perhaps, some of the other students. He wasn’t even focusing on Todoroki yet and all the news about his life out there. 

“It’s not my business,” he says. 

“I’m respecting Midoriya’s wishes,” All Might says. “He wants you to know. And I’m glad you do. Without you, I can’t imagine what would’ve happened to him.”

What would’ve happened to Midoriya? It was Midoriya, Bakugou and Todoroki who had saved Aizawa in the fight. For all the pro heroes there that day, those three showed up and beat the villain back. He could scold them. But when had that worked before? And, as he was currently down a leg and eye, he couldn’t fault them. 

Even when it was Midoriya who, after identifying the threat, had run and led the villain away from civilians. While he could scold Midoriya for returning to the fight, Aizawa would be dead if the boy hadn’t returned. How do you explain that to an up-and-coming hero sworn to protect others?

Even so, all three of them had gotten so close to unlucky. That’s what it was, really. He could preach all he wanted about talent and skill. But in the end, sometimes it was pure luck. Sometimes, it was just him who got picked up over another hero and that’s how he’d survive. Sometimes it’s self-sacrifice, sometimes it’s just luck. Sometimes he thinks-

“Aizawa?”

Shouto looked up, unaware how long had passed since their last exchange. He couldn’t remember the last thing they spoke about.

“I suppose I should let you rest.” All Might moves to leave.

“All Might,” Aizawa says, then corrects himself. “Toshinori. Thank you for telling me. I’ll teach him everything I know.”

He doesn’t think he sounds desperate, he hopes he doesn’t. He doesn’t know why his heart is beating so fast. He doesn’t understand why he’s suddenly so upset.

But All Might, Toshinori, gives him a small, soft and warm smile and nods. 

“I wouldn’t trust him to anyone else,” All Might, former number one hero, says. He leaves the room.

Aizawa doesn’t know why the room is spinning. He doesn’t hear when Hizachi comes back. He hears his ridiculous excuse of a joke bring him back to the present and settles back in.

[bytheangell]

Hey! Can I request something where Raphael is human again, attends the Shadowhunter Academy and then heads to the NY Institute and Izzy just adores seeing him around all the time and they grow even closer. And maybe Raphael asks Maryse for her blessing because that was just how he was raised. Love your works, they're always amazing!

The Life We Choose (Read on AO3)

It only takes a year after turning human for Raphael to admit how much he misses the Shadow World. He knows that the option to become a vampire again is there - both Simon and Lily offered to turn him previously, but he turned them both down with the promise that they’d be the first he comes to if he changes his mind. Even though he misses the Shadow World, he doesn’t want to be immortal again. That isn’t a fate he’ll be spared twice if he goes back to it, and he doesn’t want that for himself.

He has another idea, one that he thinks about long and hard before deciding he’s serious about it, which is when he finds himself in Isabelle’s office at the New York Institute.

“I’d like to apply for ascension,” Raphael says.

“What?” Isabelle asks, blinking rapidly in surprise.

“I’d like to apply for ascension,” Raphael repeats, clear and calm. He’s thought this through and is entirely confident in the request, even if Izzy doesn’t seem to share that certainty.

“You want to be a Shadowhunter?” Izzy questions.

“Yes,” Raphael says. “I’ve thought about this a lot, Isabelle. I want to be part of the Shadow World again, and this is the only way while keeping my mortality intact. I want this.”

Izzy bites down on her lower lip in thought. “It isn’t just like I can sign off on it. You need to study, and get approved, and drink from the-”

“The Mortal Cup, yes. And then take my first runes. I know the risks, I know it’s more dangerous the older you are, and I know I’m well beyond the usual age for this sort of thing. I also know,” he adds confidently. “That adults ascending isn’t unheard of, and that the Clave can, and has, approved them.”

“They’ll look at your history with Camille,” Isabelle points out. “But I’ll vouch for you. And I’m sure Alec and Magnus will, too. We should have enough pull to get it approved… are you sure this is what you want, though?”

Raphael nods. “Positive. And if you’d rather not get involved, I can take it to another Head in another city and work from there,” he adds. This is the first sign of hesitation he’s shown because he doesn’t want to go through strangers in other cities. He’d much rather do this with Isabelle by his side, though he understands if she doesn’t feel the same.

Izzy shakes her head. “Absolutely not! I wouldn’t trust this with anyone else. I’ll help however I can.”

---

Izzy is true to her word. She shows up to the Academy about once a week, claiming she’s only there to offer her assistance since they’re short on staff, but always managing to spend most of her time with Raphael. She checks in on what they’re studying, helps him with whatever he doesn’t already know about Shadowhunter-specific laws, and practices runes with him every chance she gets. When she’s too busy with her own responsibilities Jace manages to suddenly appear in her place, though Raphael can tell it’s mostly because his sister asks him to and less because he actually wants to be doing it.

Raphael’s always been a quick study and knows that as far as the book work is concerned he’s good to go. It helps that he’s older than everyone there, and more familiar with the Shadow World than many of those from Shadowhunter families, though they do have the upper hand on more Shadowhunter-specific knowledge. Fighting while re-adjusting his instincts to more refined tactics than he was used to as a vampire is, honestly, his biggest struggle.

It helps (as far as he’s concerned) that his abrasive personality and history as a vampire leaves him with plenty of time to study and train, as he isn’t exactly winning many of the young Shadowhunters over as friends.

Izzy seems concerned to find him alone all of the time, but Raphael only shrugs.

“I’m not here to make friends,” he points out. “I’m here to learn.”

“And when you all have to work together?” Izzy prompts.

“They don’t have to like me, they just have to trust me,” Raphael points out.

Izzy smiles at that answer. “You’re going to fit right in with the Nephilim,” she says.

He hopes she’s right.

---

The next time he sees Isabelle is the day before his Ascension ceremony. He almost doesn’t agree to meet with her, not sure he can deal with a teary ‘in case you don’t make it’ speech, and only relenting when she swears that isn’t why she’s there.

“I’m glad you came here,” Izzy says “You’re going to be a great Shadowhunter, I can already tell. You’ll be an asset to whatever Institute you end up at. And… and I wanted to make you an offer. You don’t have to take it, and I’ll totally understand if you’d rather take your new life in another direction, but…”

“What is it?” Raphael prompts.

“Look, I really like spending time with you, Raphael. Not just teaching you, but having you around again has been really, really nice. And once you’re ascended-” he notes with a small smile that, true to her word, she isn’t turning this into an ‘if you survive’ moment. “-if you wanted to be stationed in New York, we’d love to have you.”

He isn’t expecting that. “We?” he questions, following a hunch.

“Yeah. Jace and the others... and me,” she says, then folds under his steady gaze. “Alright, mostly me. I’d love to have you there, but only if you want to.”

Raphael smiles. “I do,” he agrees, and it’s nice to know that Izzy wasn’t just helping him because she felt any sense of obligation, but because she genuinely enjoys spending time with him. He’s thrilled that extends to his time as an actual Shadowhunter.

...now he just has to get through the Ascension.

---

He does. At his insistence, Izzy and the others don’t come to the ceremony, because he doesn’t want them there to witness if something does go wrong. Thankfully it does not, and he emerges a full, proper Shadowhunter.

Of course, in true Magnus Bane fashion, there’s a party at the Loft afterward, complete with banners that Magnus made out to say “It’s a Vampire Mundane Shadowhunter!”.

“You’re not funny,” Raphael says, deadpan, only to have Simon walk up immediately after, burst into a fit of laughter, and tell Magnus how hilarious the banners are. Raphael can only glare more pointedly in response.

Wasting no time, his first patrol is the very next day. Isabelle goes out with him herself, and it’s an easy one with no actual reported activity. This gives them a chance to talk a little more about how he’s doing and little things they can do so he adapts into this new role in the Shadow World as easily as possible, starting with a room at the Institute.

“Would you rather I threaten everyone into being nice to you or threaten everyone into avoiding you entirely?” Izzy jokes. At least, he’s relatively certain she’s joking.

“I’m hoping they warm up to me eventually,” Raphael admits. “This isn’t exactly a… what did Simon call it… a single-player game,” Raphael recalls. Shadowhunters have to work together on patrols and missions, they have to be a team. They have to trust each other. He can’t do that if he isolates himself the way he’s used to. “I can take care of myself, but I guess that’s the one thing the Academy managed to drill into me - it’ll rarely be just me out here.”

Izzy’s smile softens. “They will,” she reassures him. “Once they get to know you they’ll love you as much as I do.”

Raphael’s heart skips a beat at her words, and Isabelle suddenly looks very preoccupied with the ground in front of her as she quickens her pace to walk a few steps ahead.

---

It’s better than he ever hoped it would be. Raphael could admit to himself, at the very least, that the idea of becoming a Shadowhunter was more than a little idealistic. He’d accepted it as his only way back into the world he missed, accepted it as a compromise that allowed him back into the Shadow World at all, but the longer he’s here the more suited he finds himself to the lifestyle of the Nephilim.

He’s a good fighter, and he gets better once the others trust him enough to train and spar with him. He’s also a good teammate - he always was, even before he went to the Academy. The number of times he put the good of the Clan before his own wellbeing, the risks he took for them, leave him with the same instincts to use on missions, just for the sake of a different group of people.

Mostly it just feels good to help people. It’s what he always wanted to do, what he tried to do even as a vampire, but now he can make the sort of difference protecting people that he set out to do even as a child, as that teenage boy going after los vampiros to protect his family and friends. His family may be long gone but he has a new family now, new friends, and he can still protect them.

Once he settles and begins to drop his guard, he starts to notice, to really notice, Isabelle. At first, he thought she was just spending time with him to keep an eye on him during his transition, but she seems to genuinely enjoy his company. They find themselves spending their free time together, whether it’s going out and exploring new places to eat or staying in and losing hours to talking, or simply existing in each other’s space.

“Missed you at breakfast this morning,” Izzy says one day after Raphael oversleeps and misses the normally shared mealtime. It’s such a casual statement, but it catches him off-guard. He never imagines himself as a presence that would be missed, but Izzy misses him when he isn’t around.

He can’t help but remember another time, not so long ago when he thought there might be something between them. The timing had been off then, but now…

“What’s that look for?” Izzy asks, breaking his silent, drifting thoughts.

“I don’t have a ‘look’,” he deflects, quickly looking away.

Maybe there’s something there, but he isn’t going to risk ruining the friendship they have, not until he’s certain.

---

The thing about ‘routine’ missions is that there’s nothing routine about their job - anything can happen. It isn’t anyone’s fault when the demon he’s sent to find ends up finding him first, and his small group is descended on by more elapid demons than they expect.

Raphael gets caught not once, but twice, by the venom-laced fangs of the demons, but manages to keep fighting until they’re almost taken care of before collapsing to the ground, unconscious.

He awakens in the Infirmary of the Institute, to the red eyes and tense features of a very worried Isabelle Lightwood.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” she says, then promptly collapses against his chest in relief, her hand clutched over his own where it rests beside him on the bed.

“I thought… I was so worried…” Isabelle starts, then stops, then starts again, the words mumbled against the sheet draped over him. “Ugh, this is awful, how do Alec and Magnus make these dramatic declarations so flawlessly all the time?”

“I love you too, Isabelle,” Raphael says, and Izzy looks up at him with a smile he never wants to see leave her face again.

---

It takes a little while for word to spread that the two of them are a couple, mostly because of Raphael’s dislike of public displays of affection. Isabelle never pushes him, she never asks for more than he’s willing to give, never expects anything other than his returned feelings for her.

“I know you’re not interested in sex,” she says to him early on. “And I’m not sure what else you are, or aren’t into, but whatever it is, I’m fine with it.”

Raphael raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Izzy nods. “Really. I have you, right here, just as you are. That’s all I need.” It takes him a little while to believe her, but that trust comes the way everything else did with Isabelle - after she proves time and time again to be a woman of her word. She never moves to hold his hand, or wrap him in too-tight hugs, or kiss him on the cheek, or the corner of his mouth, or his lips, until he either does it first or tells her it’s fine.

They figure it out slowly, but they figure it out together. He finds a simple, easy happiness with her that he never expected to find in his life, not even when he had an eternity stretched out before him to seek it.

He knows how lucky he is to have found it here, now, with Isabelle.

Raphael plans to keep this love and joy, to make it as strong and permanent as possible, which is how he arrives on Maryse’s doorstep one night. It isn’t the first time he’s been here - Isabelle’s brought him over for the occasional family dinner or drinks - but it’s the first time he’s been here by himself.

“Come in,” Maryse says, with a small grin tugging at the corners of her lips at the sight of him. He imagines it must be obvious why he’s here, that he could probably skip the theatrics of the small speech he has planned, but if he’s going to do this then he’s going to do it right.

“Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?” Maryse offers, already making her way into the kitchen as Raphael closes the door behind him and toes off his shoes next to it.

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you Mrs. Lightwood,” Raphael calls after her.

“Please, Raphael, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Maryse,” she laughs, returning a minute later with two steaming cups of coffee, handing one over to him as they make their way to the table. They sit in companionable silence while they take their first sips until Raphael works up the nerve to speak.

“I’m head-over-heels in love with your daughter,” he begins.

“I know,” Maryse says. “I can tell every time I see the two of you together - and I can tell that she feels the same, too.”

“I certainly hope so,” Raphael admits with a small smile. “She’s been there for me through so much of my transition into a Shadowhunter, and as much as she’s supported me I want to be there to support her as well, through anything the future may have in store for her. She deserves nothing but happiness in life and I’d like the chance to be the one to bring that happiness to her, as much as I can.”

Raphael is aware that the practice of asking for permission to propose is a bit antiquated, that his speech is too formal, that if Isabelle wanted to marry him he’d do it no matter what her mother said. But that doesn’t change the fact that he wants to do this the right way - he wants to make sure she knows he’s serious about her, that he isn’t taking this lightly just because he already lived one lifetime over.

“I’d like to spend the rest of my life with Isabelle by my side. And it would mean a lot to me to have your blessing first.”

Maryse eyes him critically, and for the first time he feels a moment of fear that she might actually say no - it passes the moment a wide smile spreads across Maryse’s lips. “Of course, Raphael. The two of you are so good together. You’re so good for each other. You have my blessing a million times over.”

Raphael smiles back.

“Of course, we both know that it doesn’t matter what either of us says here tonight. No one makes up Isabelle’s mind besides Isabelle. When are you going to ask her?” Maryse asks. They spend the rest of Raphael’s visit discussing his plans for the following day and end it with a promise from Raphael to call Maryse first after it’s done.

Raphael can only hope it’ll be with good news.

---

The proposal is simple. Raphael asks her in the privacy of her room - a room they share more often than not these days - just after they wake up the next morning.

Raphael turns over and watches Isabelle’s eyes flutter open slowly, her expression still soft and hazy from sleep.

“If I could wake up to this sight for the rest of my life, I’d be a very happy man,” Raphael says quietly, the words barely above a whisper.

Isabelle smiles. “I’m not going anywhere,” she promises.

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Raphael says, reaching an arm behind him to open the drawer on the table next to his side of the bed, pulling out a small box. He shifts to sit up slightly, holding it out to her. “Marry me?”

Isabelle shifts up to half-sit beside him, propped up on her elbow and looking from the ring up to Raphael’s face in surprise. Raphael isn’t a fool - he knows there’s a chance she’ll say no. That dating and even love are one thing, but marriage, to a former Downworlder with nothing to his family name, is another entirely.

“Yes,” Isabelle says, dispelling any worries he has with a single word. He slides the ruby engagement ring onto her finger before bringing his lips down to meet hers.

Raphael doesn’t think he’s ever felt more at peace with his place in life than he does at this moment. Not as a child looking out for his friends and siblings on the rough streets of the city, or as a vampire looking out for his clan, or as a human reconciling the decades he spent in a world of magic and angels and demons. Every one of those things was accidental, a decision made for him, a world he was thrust into unwillingly, even if he did his best to accept his place in it as part of a higher purpose.

He still believes in a higher power and that he’s exactly where he needs to be - whether it be God’s will, or Raziel’s - and he likely always will. But he believes in something else now, too, in a way he hadn’t before all of this, before his ascension, before Isabelle: he believes in himself. He’s here because of himself, because of his own will and motivation and desire. He’s exactly where he needs to be, and for the first time, that’s also exactly where he wants and chooses to be.

“Not regretting asking me already, are you?” Izzy asks, her tone light to show she isn’t serious-serious, but curious at the way she notices him lost in his thoughts just then.

“Not at all,” Raphael replies, moving to lay down again and pulling Izzy beside him, wrapping an arm around her. “Quite the opposite - I don’t regret a single choice I’ve made since the day I first walked into your office.”

Izzy smiles at that, warm and comforting, a smile that feels like home.

“That makes two of us.”

[swiftlymoniquesblog]

Sam Girl- Sam Winchester x Reader

Pairings: Sam x Reader, Dean, Castiel

Warnings: FLUFFY FLUFF, mentions of the last half of the final season of SPN and the emotional rollercoaster we’re all currently on (I know, I’m sorry!) lying, secrets, insecurities.

Word Count: 2,407

A/N: This imagine kind of plays off my series Crossing Parallel Lines but it’s totally separate! I came up with this imagine from this locket that I bought from Hot Topic. The Winchesters are always so uncomfortable with the idea of “the other world with the actors who play them on TV” and I love Changing Channels; one of my top favorite Supernatural episodes!

*Italics are flashbacks*

 “What?! No! What?! Oh, my Chuck, what the actual hell!” You yell at your phone and throw it across the room.

You huff in annoyance but you feel your heartbreak; you just watched the trailer for the last half of the final season of Supernatural.

“Y/N? Are you okay, I heard you yelling? What happened?” Sam asks, slowly stalking into your slightly ajar door. He knew you could get pretty expressive about your interests and sometimes, the best thing to do is to give you space.

You had been living at the Bunker for a few years since you had connections to the Winchester family. Not that you ever asked for it, but you grew up in the life as well, thanks to your Dad, who ended up getting killed during a hunt when you were sixteen. You had run on your own, doing your hunts, until you got in over your head, and ended up in front of the Bunker, needing the help of the Winchesters to defeat God. Yeah, he was after you too. Your family had more to do with him and had pissed him off, more times than not. It was your Dad who had discovered the lies Chuck had instilled into almost every hunter since the dawn of time, and that wasn’t okay. So, you had to pick up essentially where he left off.

You let out a heavy sigh, running your hands over your face. “Yeah, Sam, I’m okay. I just uh, watched something pretty, well I don’t know how I feel,” you look to him.

“What did you see?” He asks, coming to sit next to you on your bed, after getting the okay from you.

“Um, some animal got hurt and no one could save it,” you say as nonchalantly as possible, hoping Sam would still buy it.

“Oh no, yeah that would upset me too. I’m sorry you saw that baby; are you good now?” He asks as he wraps you up in his arm, pulling you into his side, and kissing your head. You hold onto the opposite side of him, nuzzling your head into his side and showing him the same affection as he was showing you, but also feeling guilty about your lie.

“Yeah, I am. I’m good now, thanks,” you kiss him quickly before you left the room. You hated lying to him but he could never know that side of you. He would dismiss you for sure.

Sam and you had been dating for roughly six months after he heard your discussion with Dean about a current crush you had. Names were never given but it wasn’t hard to figure out who you were referring to. The idea of being close to someone on that level of intimacy again scared him. He knew what the inevitable was for someone like him and it was unfair to the other and it hurt him with a pain he never felt with anything else. When he took interest in a woman, she becomes the center of his world the longer he is with her. Most of the time, however, they never stay too long. It could be a day or a night, or a few days if he was lucky, but the last long-term relationship he had, crushed his soul. Time went by and healed those wounds, but he couldn’t let anyone get too close, no matter how much he wanted to be invested. But when you came into his life, something shifted. He immediately took a liking to you but he wasn’t sure how far he could go. As time went on, and he knew you were sticking around, he allowed himself to go there. He allowed those feelings he knew too well, to flourish within his heart, and it was strange to him, but he liked it. When he found out the feelings were mutual, it did something in him he wasn’t used to; it made him happy. Sure, he’s been happy before, but he had a lot riding on a possibility and if he played his cards right, it could be extraordinary. And it has been. It all started slow, a snail’s pace really, but you couldn’t blame him. If you had been hurt and uncertain as often as he was, you would take everything slow too. That’s why lying to him now, was killing you on the inside. He didn’t deserve it but you knew what kind of man he was and you knew how he felt about certain things.

The library was quiet, so you could be alone with the screaming in your head. You fought with yourself constantly whether, to be honest, or not. Your biggest secret was a huge part of who you were. Adoration for the TV show, Supernatural, was an understatement; you LOVED it! But, hearing the stories from Sam and Dean about when they were stuck in another universe where there were people who act like them, you knew it was unmentionable. Social media was your avenue to let out all your thoughts and ideas with people who shared the same love. No one knew that you lived with the Winchesters, or that they were even real, but that made it more alluring to you. Sitting at the table with your laptop open, you scroll through different comments left by other fans of the show. They were seeing what you were living and that was the most rewarding secret you kept. Pulling the new locket out of your shirt, the words Sam Girl, engraved on the top. Opening it, the anti-possession symbol sat on one side, and a picture of Sam on the other. You run your thumb over the picture, knowing that he was yours, but kept it hidden from him. You owned a plethora of shirts, hats, jewelry, notebooks, and so many other merchandises, that you were quite proud of. You even had a successful blog that was dedicated to the show and the characters, and your imagination with fanfiction. All things you knew Sam would disapprove of. You began writing out your reactions to different videos or events that happened in, not just the Supernatural world, but other fandoms as well.

“Hey, there’s my girl. I was wondering what happened to you,” says Sam. He smiles his small, one-sided grin at you, and sits in a chair to your left.

“Hi, sorry, I got busy writing and I guess I lost track of time,” you admit, closing out your Internet tab and leaving your screen on the cute photo of you and him on your wallpaper.

“You always do,” he chuckles and takes one of your hands. Sam knew about your love of writing and only a few of the topics you wrote about. You laugh along with him, blushing at the fact he knew you so well.

“The life of a writer, baby!” You say, confident in your work, but seeing the look on Sam’s face, quickly changed the mood.

“Where did that come from?” He asks, looking at the chain that hung from your neck. Looking down, you noticed the locket had made its way out of your shirt.

“Oh, that’s nothing!” Grabbing at it and tucking it back in your shirt, you try to advert Sam’s curiosity but that fails.

“Oh, come on, Y/N, let me see it. It looked beautiful.” He comments but you deny him.

“Sorry, but it’s fallen into my bra now,” you say, hoping that would end the conversation but the Winchester Brothers were both very stubborn.

“Don’t think I’m afraid to go in there.” Slight darkness fogged over the normal brightness of his eyes, but it left just as fast as it showed.

“Honestly Sam, it’s nothing. Trust me, you don’t want to know what it is.”

“Trust me y/n, I do want to know. My girlfriend suddenly has a locket I’ve never seen before and won’t show me? I have to wonder if her other boyfriend gave it to her.

You deadpan to him, giving your best bitch face, and he just laughs.

“I’m kidding, but seriously, I want to see it.”

“You didn’t move at first, so he stood up and leaned over to reach in your shirt, but you backed away before he could get there.

“Fine,” you grumble, unclasping the necklace from the back and hand it over.

He seems satisfied that he won this battle, flipping the locket around in his larger than average hands. His eyebrows knitted together, in the cutest look of wonder, like he was a child with a new toy. He opened it, stared down at it for a minute, then handed it back to you.

“You have a locket with a picture of me, which I guess is normal in relationships, but why does it say Sam Girl on the top?” He looked at you quizzically, wanting to know more.

This was it, the time you were dreading the most, but you couldn’t do it anymore; you couldn’t keep lying to him. You prepared yourself for a long discussion and a lot of disgust from him, so you sat back in your chair.

“Sam, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“Oh, okay,” he sits back in his seat, eyes glossed with worry and locked on you.

“I’m a Sam girl. I watch that TV show about you and Dean and your lives; I’m a big fan of it. We have, the fans, what are called someone’s girl. Like me, I’m a Sam girl, so I tell other people how I feel about you , what you say and do, and I talk about my romantic feelings towards you. Well, you on this show; it’s a little different.”

Sam had kept quiet the whole time you explained your secret and he held no emotions. You didn’t know what was going through his head, but it couldn’t be good.

“You like that show about our lives from that other universe?” He asks, suddenly breaking the silence.

“Yes,” you answer, hoping he wouldn’t explode at any given point.

“And you didn’t want to tell me about it?” He then looks to you with his infamous puppy dog eyes, wondering why you kept something like this from him.

Taken aback by his calmness, you continue to explain. “Well, I heard the stories of when you went to that other world and how much it freaked you and Dean out, so I thought you would disown me or something if I was into it.”

“Why would I do that?” Sam asks, sadness now forming across his features.

“Because I like something you make fun of! I thought you would make fun of me for what I do. I’m in the whole fandom, Sam! The show, the merchandise, the fanfiction, the blogs; everything!”

That sparked his interest again. “You write fanfiction?” His tone got more questioningly, but you took it as he was going to lay on the mockery.

“Yes, but I swear it’s nothing like some of the stories people write about! It’s actually all clean and sweet. I write about our dates and my feelings, but play it off as fiction.”

Then, his face melted into a smile (GIF), that childlike wonder again. “You write about us?”

“Yeah, I do. And people like it.”

“They do?” He’s surprised now, telling by how high his eyebrows are raised on his face.

“Everyone thinks you’re romantic and that you’re the best boyfriend, but the best part about it, it’s all true,” you smile, but hide it from wandering eyes.

“That’s… sweet,” he comments, stunning you.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I love that you write about us. I think it’s great that you are proud of our relationship and it makes me proud of it too, especially considering other people think I’m pretty great.” He has a little smirk playing on his lips; he’s going to brag about this to Dean later.

“So, you’re okay with all this?” You start to creep a little further into his level of positivity from this topic.

“Surprisingly I am, and I love that you’re showing off that you’re mine,” he pecks your lips before asking another question.

“Wait, are there more of these lockets?”

“Yes, and there’s some that say Dean girl. The same concept,” you comment like it’s nothing but it’s a big deal to Sam.

“There are Dean girls, too?!”

“And there are Castiel girls too, and even some of the other people you guys have met in life, but mainly you three.”

“Oh my God, wait until Dean and Cas hear about this!” Sam was set on telling his brother and his friend; the worst thing you could think of.

“No, please don’t!” Panic set inside you. Telling Sam was one thing but Dean was another.

“Why not?”

“Because Dean won’t be so nice about this. He will mock and ridicule me so much for this. He’s way more opinionated and harsher than you are.”

He thought about it for a minute but knew you were right. Sometimes, his older brother would take things too far, to the point of hurting those he cared about, and Sam couldn’t let that happen to you.

“You’re right, he definitely will freak out over this. He’s way more headstrong about what he doesn’t like. Alright, I won’t tell him and Cas? Well, he’s gotten a lot better with human interactions but, we wouldn’t want to throw him for a loop again,” Sam laughed at confusing the angel with more human things, like when he first came to earth.

“Thank you, Sam,” You say, going to hug him.

“Of course, no one is going to hurt my girl, not even me. But uh, y/n, we need to get you another locket,” he says taking the locket in his fingers again.

“Why? I like it and I paid good money for it,” you take it back and drop it in your shirt.

“Well, there are more of these lockets out there so that means other girls are walking around with a picture of me around their necks. It’s not okay that yours is like everyone else’s, so I’m going to make a special one that I will have engraved with a message from me that’s just to you; my girl,” he whispers the last part right in your ear, electrifying chills through you.

“O-okay.” You stutter out as Sam goes fishing for your locket from the bottom up.

Second A/N: When I was looking for that GIF of Sam, ‘Sexy Back’ started playing; it was perfect!

Tag list: @fandom-princess-forevermore​  @tloveswriting​ @forever-trapped-in-my-dreams​ @simpleb00x​ @67-chevy-baby​ @grace15ella​ @marvelfansworld​ @austin-winchester67​ @pecu-1-iar-lester​ @irn-dad​ @trippin-over-my-fandoms​ @randomwriter23​ @cuddyclothes​ @meilynnotmailyn​ @lilulo-12​ @lillysilverus​ @mereka18​ @jackofalltrades1937​  @samfcknwin​ @thegirlwidabook​ @cutesymrsinuyashagamer​ @emowolf227​ @littlesunshinesammy​

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[adulttrio-imagines]

Lemon yellow and teal for the adult trio👀 ( or just lemon yellow if ur up for it )

EDIT: Some stuff might be triggering, so just beware there’s a childhood sexual abuse headcanon under the cut

Teal: How do they flirt?

Hisoka

He’s disgustingly annoying

Acts very persistent and in your face about it, privacy no longer exist

You go on a trip, he’s right behind you. You’re training, he goads you into a sparring session. You’re at the grocery store, he loads your car with bungee gum.

He acts like a child who doesn’t know how to handle these feelings and pulls the pigtails of the girl he likes, except he’s a lot more dangerous

He acts out a lot to get your attention

Will randomly drop by your house (don’t ask how he found it) and drag you out on adventures

Tons of innuendos, he likes making you feel uncomfortable

Its mostly to get into your pants for the most part

Non-stop sexting

He’ll send you tons of photos of himself

Someone STOP HIM

Chrollo

He likes making you do all the work and get you to chase him for attention

He’s actually quite cat-like. He’ll skirt around you for attention, and then act all surprised when you do give it to him. He might even pretend he doesn’t want it and play hard to get even more

He smiles a lot more around you, to put you at east, will also laugh at your jokes, even if they might not be funny

Drops plenty of subtle hints and cues to let you know what he wants, and acts very surprise when you catch on to them

He can be very romantic and sweet when he wants to be although it’s all an act, but he plans the best dates and is the most normal of the trio so why not just go along with it

Interestingly, I can see him enjoy play wrestling with you as a form of flirting. You get plenty of physical contact, which is a plus for him, and he gets to overpower you and win

He’ll send you romantic poems that he wrote (they’re all stolen from obscure poets and he passes it off as his own)

If he is really interested in you, I can see him recommending books he enjoyed, or places he liked going to, since they have a special place in his heart

Illumi

Illumi doesn’t flirt, period

All those cues, it flies over his head

He appreciates honesty, so acting coy with him would lead you nowhere

Attempting to flirt with him gets a deadpan stare or if he gets it and doesn’t like it, he’ll just turn around and ignore you

His version of flirting may include whatever old timey dating scenes he had been exposed to as a young child; such as opening doors for you, pushing your chair in, basic stuff like that

But that’s where it stops because he doesn’t understand pick-up lines or innuendos

He basically flirts through his actions; he is very old-school and learns through whatever he saw from his parents as a young child

On a darker note, you bet he will stalk you. Unlike Hisoka though, he wouldn’t get caught, and he’ll steal certain things from you like a magpie

He sacrifices his time alone to do things with you, that’s the biggest give away. If he’s willing to both out in effort and spend time with you, you can tell he is pretty serious

I have a headcanon that Illumi is very good at gardening and tends to his greenhouse whenever he’s not on a job. I can imagine the most significant act he can do is gifting you a carefully selected bouquet of homegrown flowers, with each flower representing a special meaning

He can spend hours talking about his garden and how useful it is, so if he’s willing to open up on that you’re in pretty good shape

Lemon Yellow- How does your first kiss go?

Hisoka

His exposure to sexual acts started very young, even before he could fully understand the meaning behind such actions

I’ve a whole backstory planned in my head, it’s not very happy

He was very young when his first kiss happened, possibly around 6 or 7, and it was not consensual at all

It was forceful, uncomfortable and he hated the way it felt

He couldn’t escape the man at that time, neither could he escape the subsequent acts that followed

He didn’t understand the significance of the event, or how serious it was in hindsight, but it did mess up whatever little understanding he had of affection and negatively skewed it

The fact that it was a regular occurrence messed him up long term

That’s what he learned to associate kissing or sexual acts in general with with; strength, willpower and pain

Chrollo

He was young, curious, and wanted to try something out

Probably around his mid-teens, somewhere around 16 going on 17

He would have went with a woman, possibly with more experience than him, both because it’s the norm and he would like to know what proper kissing would be like

Behind young, handsome and soft-spoken left him with many choices

In the end he went with a girl slightly older than him who had a nice smile and pretty neck

His first kiss evolved into more of a makeout session, and he found it to be very interesting and liked how she made him work for more kisses

He just went with the flow, and followed the other’s lead, focusing on what likes but also what made the other person groaned

Found the overall experience to be  pretty enjoyable

Illumi

Like Hisoka, he was exposed to sexual acts against his will

Probably around 13/14 years old, around an age where his parents believed that such... feelings would have arisen in him

The problem was that he suppressed his desires and emotions so much that at that age it was all very buried in his subconscious

His parents thought it would be a good time for him to learn how such things work, all for the sake of perfecting the assassin trade

He was exposed to prostitutes basically, both male and female, since more exposure was better to his parents, and told to treat it as a mission

He didn’t understand what was happening, and wasn’t interested in it either

The kisses felt too wet, everything was too warm and he hated being held down like that

When it became too much, he snapped and killed them

He didn’t like how the bruises looked on his skin those subsequent days, and there were no more special visitors in the Zoldyck manor after that

[thedistrictsleepsalonetonight]

Better with you

This is the way of things:  

Riley falls in love with Harper. Harper breaks her heart. Harper falls in love with Abby. Harper marries Abby. Abby has a friend. Riley falls in love.

In retrospect it both annoys and amazes her how Harper conditions so much of her life. If she imagined her life in the form of roads as complex, as confused and as diverging as the lines on her palm, there are probably multiple signboards that have Harper’s face on them, with some strange quote written beside them along the lines of “Hey! Been a while since you thought of me, the girl who ruined most of your life hasn’t it?”.  

Riley hates it.

Okay, so in all honesty, she hates it until she crashes into Maya.

*****

Here’s the thing about Riley: She’s stupid around the people she loves.

How else does one explain all her major life decisions? She stays quiet when Austin Thomas spray-paints “Dike” all over her locker (even through the shaking, and the trembling and the huddling in a bathroom cubicle in the morning, what has her more concerned is what it’s probably doing to Harper. Well, that, and the fact that dyke is hilariously misspelled). She watches Harper from across the corridor, biting her lip, holding onto her left arm with her right hand, and hates that she still wants her so badly that she can’t breathe. She hates herself for loving Harper, hates her heart for betraying her in this very fundamental way, hates it for not being able to think rationally enough.

(The thought makes her laugh. What brand of love was ever rational?)

Even after she’s adequately moved on, has fallen in love a second time, the third, the fourth, she can never really bring herself to do that. The thought of Harper will evoke all forms of insufferable feelings ranging from sorrow to nostalgia. Not fury, though. Never fury.

She walks out of high school with excellent grades, graduates med school top of her class, gets into the one of the best residency programs in her state, all in a misguided attempt to compensate for this huge cosmic failing she’s somehow been saddled with. If life handed out academic report cards, chits of paper with affirmations engraved on them, then the ones she would give her parents would read Your child is doing great; She’s sorry she’s gay. Your child is trying her very best. A tiny PS at the bottom right corner would say – Love her. Please.

And she comes back, every year, to those stupid White Elephant parties, combats side-glances with polite smiles, off-hand comments about how her peers are heterosexually married to their heterosexual partners with grimaces. Brevity helps, and so does a glass of wine on her at all times.

And then Harper brings Abby, one Christmas.

*****

She’s not going to deny that she has a little bit of a crush on Abby.

Come on. It’s Abby. She’s a lesbian dreamboat with some serious hair-game and the gayest sense of dressing she’s ever seen on anyone. How is a girl supposed to not like that earnest smile and deep, soulful eyes?

(But Abby’s earnest smile unfurls like a ribbon when it falls on Harper, and her eyes tell stories that seem to end at Harper, and Riley knows that in some rudimentary way, Abby has always, and will be always belong to her girlfriend.)

“Dude, we have to stay in touch,” Abby says, the morning after the party, when they run into each other. “I’m gonna need support at the White Christmas party next year. So, I don’t accidentally use the wrong fork and then embarrass myself.”

She laughs, enters her number into Abby’s phone. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to text all the time, because, well — hospital hours. But I will try.”

Harper, standing beside Abby, shoots her a tiny, strained smile. Things will never be great between them; there’s too much spilled blood, and angry tears that lie in this chasm, but this is maybe a tiny start to bring matters back to the way they were when it all started. Polite. Nice.  

Abby texts her — “I can’t believe I survived the Caldwells” five days later, and Riley has no idea at the time, but good things are on their way.

*****

“Please, please, please, please, pleeeeease,” Abby begs her over the phone. Riley is pretty sure she’s actually holding her hand out in supplication.

“Can’t you just give her flowers and chocolate like a normal person?”

A dog barks on the other end, and Riley imagines her walking dogs on the streets. “But I know this is something she really, really wants!”

“An obsolete book that’s only found in a bookstore in New York?”

“Yes!” Abby replies. “Wait, hang on. John, tell her how important it is.”

Some muffled noises, then John’s clear, deadpan voice is audible. “Hey Riley,” he says, sounding disinterested as always, “How are — wait, lemme at least ask her how she’s been, how life in New York has been, if there are any cute guys in her hospital—”

Riley stifles a laugh.

“—yeah, yeah, okay. Fine. Riley, this woman really wants it, God knows why. So I’ll be in New York this weekend. I’ll come with you to that store and then bring that book back.”

“So why do I have to come?”

“Because,” Abby sighs, like it should be obvious, “I don’t trust John.”

Weekend. Sleeping in. Riley closes her eyes, whispers a Rest in peace to a previously perfect weekend.  

“Fine, I’ll do it.”

*****

The woman nearly scares her out of her wits.

She’s split up with a still-woozy-from-his-flight John as he’s set off to find the book, and thumbing through the random paperbacks on the Fiction shelf, when a voice interrupts her musing.

“I wouldn’t recommend that one,” Riley hears, and whirls around, wide-eyed.

A woman steps out of the dark corner, hands held up as if in warning, an apologetic smile on her face. “I’m sorry,” she says, awkwardly, “that I — I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Riley shakes her head, waves a hand to tell her it’s alright. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Pretentious. Definitely sat with a thesaurus. Too many men.”

The tiny detective that sits at the back of head, the one that registers women, and says “It’s elementary, Watson” every time it sees behavior that might be not-heterosexual, goes off with a ding.

“Too many men is a problem,” she admits, wryly, broadcasting her own message in case there was a willing audience. I’m gay I’m gay I’m gay. “What would you suggest?”

The woman steps into the light, slow enough so Riley knows she’s going to enter her personal space. She picks out a book from the top shelf easily, holds it out in front of her.

This close, Riley can’t help but stare. She’s taller, with dark hair that falls just past her shoulders. She’s wearing thick glasses, and behind that, her eyes are tiny and smiling. Riley smiles back, a little awkwardly. Looks at the book, then laughs.

“Sorry,” the woman chuckles, pointing to the copy of Midnight Sun that she’s just handed over, “Little joke.”

They’re still smiling at each other, when John ruins it all by exclaiming “Maya!” from behind her. And that’s when Riley discovers how easy it is to manufacture meet-cutes. And that she really, really hates Abby Holland.

*****

“How dare you?”

Abby sighs on the other end. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

John, who is currently scarfing down a hotdog, mumbles his apologies into the speaker.  

“I tried.”

“You didn’t even try,” Abby retorts. “What was the one thing I told you? Don’t let her on to the fact that you know Maya. And what did you do?”

“My best.”

Riley snatches it from him. “Don’t you think it’s a little weird of you to be setting up your girlfriend’s ex-girlfriend with your friend?”

(Just saying the whole thing aloud makes her head hurt)

“Harper doesn’t mind,” Harper’s reserved yet slightly amused voice comes, a little muffled. “Because Harper thinks it’s hilarious.”

There had been three rules, three rules that she had laid out for Abby at the very beginning, when their friendship was still in its tentative stages. One, no weird conversations about Harper. Two, no weird medical questions about fingers. And three, no setting Riley up on blind dates.

Riley had dodged Abby’s attempts to break rule number three about five times already.

(Who knew one could have so many single, willing and Sapphic friends in New York city? Part of Riley was annoyed; the other part was impressed)

“It’s not going to happen, you hear me?” she enunciates. “Absolutely not.”

*****

Riley doesn’t know why she’s back at the bookstore.

Well, she does. Officially, that is. As she had told John already, she hated the idea of things being so awkward, and that Maya must’ve felt that she was rude for clamming up after the whole story came to light, and that she definitely ought to go clear things up with her, let her know very politely that it wasn’t in the cards. John had uh-huh-ed and mm-hmm-ed and nodded until she got annoyed at herself for overexplaining. It was simply a courtesy call, that’s all. Nothing more, nothing else.

(If part of the reason she wants to go back is because, after a long, long time, she went to sleep with someone’s face in the back of her mind that night, kept replaying that certain someone’s voice over and over, it is none of John’s business. Or Abby’s, for that matter.)

It was crazy. Crazy. They’d had one conversation, and part of it had been after Riley had found out she was supposed to be set up, and thus had been filled with Maya trying to ease things over. There was no reason she needed to be thinking this much about someone.

(Not that she was. Thinking that much. About a woman. Just a regular amount)

“So wait, let me get this straight,” Maya looks right at her, “You came all this way to tell me that you don’t want to go on a date with me?”

Well now Riley just feels stupid. “Yes.”

Maya tilts her head a little. “Okay,” she says, “Just out of curiosity, what’s your problem with being set up with people?”

Oh, this she can answer. “One, the general awkwardness with your friends if it doesn’t work out,” she ticks off on her fingers. “Two, too much pressure to make it work. Three, I’m not—”

“—yes?”

Lovable. Bearable. Worth it.

“—looking to date?”

“What qualifies as a date to you, though?”

“A meal shared with romantic intent. Holding doors open, pulling chairs out. You know, the drill.”

Maya seems to be mulling it over. “Alright,” she says, nodding slowly. “What if.... what if two people were to spend time together with no food, no holding doors open or pulling chairs out? Technically that wouldn’t be a date, would it?”

Riley has to bite at the inside of her cheek to smother the smile that’s threatening to set up home on her lips.

“No,” she replies, “It wouldn’t.”

*****

This is what not-dating Maya is like.

It’s tired half-hour phone conversations at odd hours of the day. Riley doesn’t have a lot of time free, but she doesn’t go to sleep without talking to her at least once. She falls asleep to Maya nerding out about the books she’s read, about how she wants to own a gay café, about how she saw the ugliest shirt on a discount store window, bought it, and couldn’t wait to put it on. Wakes up to texts that read “Okay I know you fell asleep but I can’t, so I’m just gonna rant about random shit you can read about when you’re up, okay?” followed by some inane discussion on whether her pillow would be a salad or a sandwich if it could be eaten. It’s stumbling on the streets, half-carrying a drunk Maya as she navigates the confusing maze of New York avenues, and insists on having pizza wherever she goes. It’s bright smiles shot across coffee shops, tired rants before bed. It’s easy.  

It’s so easy that Riley has no idea what to do.

“Can you keep a secret?” she asks John on the phone, right before she tells him what’s been happening the past month.

To his credit, he listens to the whole thing before he says something monumentally stupid.

“A whole month and you haven’t had sex? I thought you had game.”

“Oh, fuck off. It’s not like that.”

“You don’t want to have sex with her?”

She’s blushing. “I — I do,” she says, feeling hot all over at the very thought. “I just — it’s not — not what’s important.”

“No, I mean, seriously” he says. “What do you guys even do? Stare at each other’s faces all day?”

“I wish I could stare at her face all day,” she says, before she’s even thinking about it. “Her face is all.... nice. Pretty. Oh God.”

“Oh God is right, darling,” he sounds amused. “You got it bad.”

“I do not — got it bad.”

“You do.”

“I do not — ugh fine.”

“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that you do got it,” he proposes. “What are you going to do about it?”

Riley takes a deep breath, lets it out. She has no answer to that.

*****

The next day, Maya says, sheepishly — “I guess you finally told Abby, huh?”

“Wait, what?” she’s confused. “Told her what?”

Maya blinks, awkwardly, waves a hand between them. Realization dawns.

“I told John!” Riley tells her, furiously. “That asshole must have told her.”

Maya shrugs a shrug that seems to convey how stupid it was to trust John with keeping secrets from Abby of all people.

“But also,” Riley frowns, “I thought you must have told her already.”

“Nah, I hadn’t.”

“Why not?”

Maya shrugs again, hands in her pockets. “I didn’t know if you wanted her to know.”

And see, it’s this consideration that leaves her lacking for words. Maya is effortlessly considerate, to the point where she wouldn’t say something even if it was bothering her. She’s constantly putting Riley’s needs in front of her own, constantly worried about how she feels and Riley is just. She’s just—

(The word grateful, smitten pops into her head. Refuses to exit)

“You’re nice,” she says, because other adjectives would be too revealing. You’re amazing. You’re beautiful. You’re probably the light of my life.

“I’m only nice to you, Riley,” Maya admits, very frankly. Riley kind of wants to ask her why that is. She’s kind of scared to ask her why that is.

*****

“Just ask her out, already, jeez.”

“I — I can’t,” she tells Abby, sitting at the park, phone in her hand.  

“You like her,” Abby states. “She likes you. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“She likes me?” Riley asks, knowing that she’s probably giving away all her hope in her voice.  

(Okay, in some weird, convoluted way, she knows Maya likes her already. She’s not completely useless, contrary to popular lesbian stereotype. Just an—

“-Idiot,” she hears, a deadpan chastisement that she rolls her eyes at, “What are you even waiting for?”

“I — I’m not — I don’t know, okay? I’m not—”

The ghosts of her ex-girlfriends in the background, go — Good at being emotionally available. Good at being committed. Good at loving people. Good.

Abby stays quiet.

“I don’t think I can make her happy,” Riley says, finally.

There’s the sound of a sigh on the other end. “What if you already do?”  

*****

“Again,” she says, as she’s walking backwards, “I am so, so sorry.”

Maya, who has been waiting for her to get done with her surgeries since two hours now, and will probably have to wait another couple of them, waves her phone in the air, laughs. “I’ll read a book until you get back, okay? Go do your thing.”

She’s on an ob-gyn rotation, but thankfully, the delivery goes smoothly. And a good thing it is, because her head is all over the place. Two warring factions are on a rampage — one that’s raring to go tell the girl of Riley’s dreams that she is, in fact, that girl of Riley’s dreams, and the other equally strong battalion that is standing there with flags raised, flags that read – But what if it goes wrong?  

Here’s the second thing about Riley: Love barely ever goes right around her.

Oh, she’s dated people before. Loved them, adored them. And yet, things always start falling apart after a while, start shattering into pieces. Honestly, she doesn’t even blame them. Who wants someone who barely has time to talk for an hour because she’s almost always busy, who is ridiculously tired most days, and barely has the time or energy to grow a relationship?  

(So it will happen when it happens, but also, when it happens, Riley has a tendency of scrambling for cover)

She walks into the main hall with the paperwork, and stands at the nurses’ station, lets out a deep breath.

“Your girl tuckered out an hour ago,” Shaqueel tells her, leaning against the table, casually interested. She can see the rest of the nurses leaning in for better quality audio.

“Not my girl,” she tells him, fighting to keep a straight face.

“Really?” Julie asks, face resting on her elbow, an expression Riley can only describe as sappy on her face. “Because she would like to be, that’s for sure.”

Riley turns to Danny. “I told you to make sure none of these,” she waves a hand towards all of them, “busybodies talk to her!”

He shrugs. “What can I say? They were determined.”

“Useless,” she says, already walking away. There’s so much damage control to be done.

Danny texts her a “She’s a keeper”, as she’s walking, and even though she’s mad at all of them, part of her is inclined to agree.

*****

Maya is sleeping.

Riley knows the tone in which she’s thinking this is certainly not the one two strictly platonic buddies would take while referring to each other and yet the tenderness seeps in, anyways. She looks at the hair falling over her askew glasses and wants to brush it off; looks at her dozing with her mouth open and the sight is such a perfect mixture to utterly absurd and adorable that she wants to wake up to it in the morning. Every day.

She takes a deep breath, presses at all of her wants and urges until they’re packed, once again, in the already filled box related to all things Maya in her head. Kneels so she’s almost at her level, and gently taps Maya on the shoulder.

(Waking up comes as beautifully to Maya as do all things, and Riley is most definitely an idiot in love)

“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” she says, softly, her eyes still squinty from the last remnants of her nap.

“Don’t apologize,” Riley replies, equally as soft. “I fall asleep all the time on the phone.”

“Eh, you save babies. It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long.”

“Riley,” Maya tells her, very seriously. “I would wait a lot longer for you.”

(And because being stupid is a fundamental quality of Riley being in love, there’s absolutely no way she isn’t swooning at that, inside)

She’s sleepy and tired and stupid right now, so it’s probably coloring her judgement, but she’s done caring. Riley Johnson is not letting this one get away.

“Would you,” she starts, slowly, “consider waiting two more days so you can take me out to a fancy restaurant on Saturday?”

There’s a light in Maya’s eyes that she can only classify as hope. “Depends. Would you open the door for me and pull my chair out?”

Riley’s smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. “Absolutely.”

“Well, then,” Maya says, leaning in, “It’s about fucking time.”

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 7: A Spark of Electricity

Keith makes a new friend and discovers he’s been committing tax fraud his entire life completely unknowing 🤣

First  Previous  Next

Keith stirs. It hadn’t occurred to him that sharing a bed with Lance might be to his benefit, but he finds it better than being alone. He’s spent a few decaphoebs of his childhood alone already.  

Being alone as a kit does a lot of damage. It can make the kit skittish and paranoid. It impedes their ability to express themselves, both verbally and through body language. Especially body language. It leads to depression and antisocial behavior.

And it makes sleeping difficult. Kits are instinctively driven only to sleep when their older littermates or parents are around. It keeps them safe. As such, having a full-grown, larger Altean sleeping only a few dashes away does a lot for him.

It can’t repair what was done to him as a small kit crying on a cliff’s edge for his father to get up and climb back up to find him, but it helps.

Except now he's alone, curled up by himself beneath the warm blankets. Or is he alone? There's a static sound, a flash behind his eyelids, a curse. Keith opens his eyes.

A small girl, an Olkari, is fussing with a panel in the wall. Much like himself, Keith can't imagine that she's an adult. But when she turns around, she wasn’t exactly a child, either. More adolescent. But extremely small.

“Oh, great, you’re awake! Keith, right? That’s what Lance said you like to be called.” Seemingly benign.

“Who are you?” Keith asks, blinking sleep and tangled hair from his eyes.

“Pidge. I’m the resident tech expert around here. I’m modifying the lighting system so that you can adjust it from your datapad. There was a glitch, unfortunately, which Lance picked up earlier when he went to adjust it for you before he left. My fault. Happens to the best of us. I’d fix it the ‘normal’ way, but the Castle isn’t Olkari tech, so old-fashioned way it is! Besides, I don't mind it. I actually like doing it this way.”

Normal way? This is the normal way! Keith sits up. “I don’t have a datapad.”

Pidge holds up a piece of glass with a white border around it. “Now you do.” She tosses it onto the bed. “I’m almost done with this. Just give me a second. Then I’ll help you set it up. Can you read Altean?”

“No.” He can, but the girl doesn’t need to know that. Keith busies himself with tracing the embroidery on the duvet cover.

“You're a terrible liar, but that's your business. That’s fine. I can program the pad to translate everything into Galran for you. We can even go old school and use a handprint scanner to unlock it, if you want. Only you and Lance would be able to get into it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Lance said that Hunk and I are to make you as happy and welcome as possible and since we’re friends, I’m happy to oblige.”

“We’re friends? Who’s Hunk?”

“Lance, Hunk, and I are friends.” Pidge pressed the sparking tool back to a wire. “You are... a potential friend. Lance says you seem alright.”

“I’m flattered,” Keith deadpans. Pidge laughs. She’s not... so bad. Nothing here, minus the people Lance calls ‘courtiers’, are too terrible. And the Altean food. That’s terrible too. Also the clothes.

There's a lot that's terrible.

“Be nice, and maybe I’ll make you a body modification so you can taste sweet things?”

“You can do that?” Pidge nods, replacing a panel in the wall, work seemingly complete. “But you’re... just a girl? Like, a very young girl.”

“Nonbinary, actually. But yes, I am quite young.” Pidge smiles, removing the magnifying lenses from their eyes.

“Oh. Sorry. I-” Keith had assumed that most species followed the laws of the Alteans. he'd assumed his species was unusual.

“No worries. Just try to remember for the future and we're all good.” Pidge gets up from the floor, coming to sit on the bed like it's their own. “So, you wanna turn that datapad on?” Keith sucks on his lip, ears wilting as he inspects the datapad for a button. “Here. Gimme.”

Keith hands the datapad to Pidge, blushing beneath his short facial fur. The Olkari shows him a small button on the side, turning it on and handing it back to him. They spend the next varga showing him how to use it, how to translate texts, how to access the castle’s documents. They even show him how to tap into video feeds they’ve set up to spy on the kings in Alfor’s laboratory, though they warn him that not everything that happens in there is alchemy. At least not in the traditional sense.

Apparently Coran likes to visit. Also? Gross.

After all of that, Keith finds himself just... chatting with the young Olkari. They poke him and prod him and shine a flashlight in his ears. They ask probing questions about his personal biology and what purpose such trimorphism might serve.

“Well, it used to be that child-bearing and care was more of a... communal thing? We didn’t always form the strong bonds with our mates that we do now. But since our trimorphism doesn’t hold any disadvantage, our biology hasn’t changed.”

“That. Is so cool.” Pidge fiddles with another panel in another wall while Keith makes note of which foods he likes from the sampler he’s just received for breakfast. “Keith?”

“Hm?” Keith looks up from a small bowl of deep green beans, licking the corner of his mouth. Pidge turns, absently playing with the end of his tail. They’re a cute little thing, Keith decides. Inquisitive. Benign. A kit, like himself.

“How old are you?”

“Just nineteen decaphobes. Turned nineteen a few movements ago.”

“So you’re just a pup. Like me.” Keith nods, gesturing for them to continue. “Why would Zarkon marry you off, then?”

“Didn’t like my dad. Different perspectives, I guess? My father wanted to focus more on internal growth; Zarkon wanted to focus on expansion. They had a falling out.” Keith twitches his tail, watching the inquisitive Olkari chase it with their honey-colored eyes. “It happens sometimes. Anyway, I think he wanted me gone. Bring back sad memories, I guess.”

“How did you end up with him anyway?”

Keith’s ear wilt, tail stilling. “My father... died. Zarkon sent me to live with a friend, Takashi. He's basically my littermate.”

There was so much more to it than that, but Keith didn’t want to talk about it. Pidge narrowed their eyes at him, and Keith knew they could tell he was hiding things. Finally, they nod.

“Well, at least Zarkon didn’t hold your father against you.”

“No, he didn’t. He hoped I would be happy here, I think. He worries about me.” Keith tucks his legs up to his chest. Pidge hums, reaching out to touch a tangled lock of Keith’s hair. They begin working the knots out of it.

“I’d worry too, if my child nephew was married off to the likes of Crown Prince Lancel. He’s got quite the reputation. Or did. Adam says everyone was astounded when he showed up to hold court today. Especially King Coran. King Alfor's heart probably stopped when he heard about it.”

“What does Lance normally do?” Keith latches onto the change of topic.

“Hm. Runs all over. Flirts. Goofs off. Goes hunting. Flirts some more. The people like him as a person, but they don’t care for him as their crown prince. Y’know, because a crown prince becomes a king, and a king needs to like, do stuff. Other than the local prostitutes.”

Keith grins just in time for the door to open for Lance himself, followed by Adam toting a stack of tablets.

“Okay... question one,” Lance mutters, nose stuck in his own datapad. “What the quiznak are taxes?” Adam sighs, exasperated.

Pidge gives Keith a significant look. “Do you want to laugh or shall I?”

“As his spouse, I claim that right.” Keith dissolves into quiet laughter, the Olkari following suit.

“Oh, great!” Lance vaults over the back of the couch with a comb. “You two are getting along. Pidge, Keith. Keith, Pidge-”

“We’ve already done that,” Pidge informs him.

“Excellent! Anyhoo, Keith, your hair is a mess. Come here.” Lance doesn’t wait for a response, instead taking one lock of Keith’s hair at a time, starting at the ends and working his way up.

"...Thanks. I'll- I'll get it cut. It's inconvenient like this."

"No, don't you dare. I need you to keep it." Adam looks like he might throttle Keith. "Do you have any idea how difficult it will be to endear you to these fops? The cuter and more harmless you look, the better."

"Gee, thanks," Keith grumbles. Pidge snickers, going through the pockets of Lance's... what is it with Altean clothes? Lance has pants, but then a skirt in the back? What's even the point of that? He also had a cape? Nevermind. Pidge searches in the pockets of his pants.

Keith allows Lance to do as he likes since the comb doesn't hurt. He occupies himself chatting amicably with Pidge, taking comfort in the blunt openness and bright enthusiasm that they exude. Lance joins in, braiding a red-and-gold ribbon into Keith’s hair. The seamsmaster has assigned Keith an aesthetic and run with it. But the braid looks pretty, so whatever.

If only the matching wardrobe were more comfortable.

Hair done, Keith climbs up into the loft, watching from above as Adam and Pidge team up to teach Lance about taxes. He likes Pidge. Likes how sweet Lance is with them, giving them bits of junk he’s found lying about, letting them sit in his lap and scan the soft scales on his face with some device. He yelps when they try to stroke them against the grain. Pidge, unaware that it would hurt, apologizes immediately. Lance just waves it off, the same way Pidge waved off Keith's misgendering earlier.

These people. They're so easy-going. Adam is a tight-ass, but he's definitely overworked and probably overtired. Lance and Pidge seem to take offense to little, brushing off accidental hurts like one might brush off a drop of rain. Keith likes them well enough, but he's content to do so from his loft, where he can't be disappointed if they don't like him back.

Instead, he listens. And learns. Apparently, taxes are an allotment of money taken from the citizens to fund the crown. Who knew?

Living in the woods like a wild animal is not taxable. Keith smirks, realizing that he's technically a life-long criminal.

Wait until Lance finds out.

[blackaquokat]

mother (make me a song so sweet)

Fandom: WKM

Pairing: Mayor Attorney (Y/N District Attorney/Damien)

Series: Ours to Choose

Summary: In which Damien finally meets a member of the law student’s family.

A/N: Hi, yes, it’s been a million years since I’ve written for this series. I’ve had this one swirling in my head for a while, but only just got the inspiration and energy to write it today. I hope you guys like it, as it has one of my favorite OCs making a reappearance from Satisfied.

And yes, that’s a lyric from a Florence + the Machine song for the title. 

---

At first, Damien decides to give his friend space to reunite with their mother, freshly returned from the front two months after the war was declared over. He figures they would want plenty of time to themselves so their mother can settle back in and get reacquainted with normal life.

This plan lasts exactly three days before his friend calls him in the afternoon and asks why the hell he hasn’t come to visit.

“What?” Damien’s brow furrows as he adjusts his grip on the phone receiver. “But I thought you would want some alone time with your mother?”

“Damien, she’s been with soldiers for years now on the front, she said she wants to meet my friends and any other mildly friendly civilians I might know. So. Come on over. She’s making tea and hot chocolate.”

“Why both?”

“She really missed chocolate and decently-made tea, so she’s having both. I’m just counting my blessings that she didn’t try for chocolate tea.”

“Does such a thing exist?”

“Dear God, I hope not. I’d be doomed to an even worse tea addiction.”

---

Twenty minutes later, Damien knocks on his friend’s door, boxes of Almond Joys, Junior Mints, and Whoppers cradled in his other arm, courtesy of a quick stop at the nearest grocery store.

The door opens and a tall, severe woman who could only be his friend’s mother stands before him. Even if Damien had no knowledge of this person, the resemblance between her and his friend is irrefutable, from their black curls to their nose, even to the shape of their hands.

The most obvious difference is the scar that cuts from the side of her nose to the corner of her lips.

She looks him up and down, and suddenly Damien sees that she has the same kind of eternity in her eyes as her child. “You must be Damien. I’m Ruth.” She holds out her hand and Damien only gets to shake her hand once before she lets go. “Come on in, the tea’s still warm.”

“And the hot chocolate too?”

“Oh, you wanted some of that? It’s long gone.” After Damien shuts the door behind him, Ruth eyes the candy in his arms. “Is all that chocolate for me too?”

“Yes, um, my friend mentioned that you missed chocolate, so I thought I’d bring a Welcome Home gift for you.”

Ruth’s eyes brighten as she accepts Damien’s offerings. “Raindrop! Your friend is here and he brought chocolate offerings.”

“MOM!” Suddenly, there’s the law student coming out of the kitchen with a tray carrying three steaming mugs. “I have been so careful keeping that nickname a secret! You’ve been here less than a week and you expose me!”

Ruth waits until the law student sets the tray on the coffee table before pinching their shoulder. “I’ve got lost time to make up for, Raindrop. That includes using your name and fulfilling my parental obligation to embarrass you in front of your friends.”

Damien thinks he might love Ruth already, even with her highly intimidating demeanor. He also decides, for his own safety and self-preservation, not to ask Ruth about the “Raindrop” nickname until the law student is out of earshot. “What kind of tea do I have to choose from?”

“Chamomile or mint.”

Damien selects chamomile and the three of them proceed to sit down, Damien in the armchair, the law student and Ruth on the couch.

Throughout their discussions, Damien finds that Ruth’s similarities are more than surface deep. A similar deadpan sense of humor, the refusal to deal with nonsense, a love for tea (Ruth makes two more cups for herself and one more for he and the law student), etc. 

But Ruth has a haunted look in that ancient gaze of hers that the law student lacks. He imagines this reflects the impact the war left on her. It makes his heart ache.

Before he knows it, their conversations last long into the evening, full of laughter and geniality as they all slowly eat their way through the candy Damien brought. The wrappers rest haphazardly on the coffee table around the empty mugs.

By the time he looks at his watch again, the late hour makes him blink. “I...oh my, I think I’ve overstayed my welcome into tomorrow, or, well, today, I suppose.” He yawns. “I’ll get out of your hair--”

“Nonsense,” Ruth interrupts firmly. “We’re not sending you home at this time of night. You’ll yawn yourself off a bridge.” She gestures to one of the hallways next to the kitchen. “We have a guest room. Feel free to use it.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose--”

“If you were imposing, I wouldn’t offer. Stay the night, we’ll all have a nice breakfast together. We have clean clothes you can wear in the morning.”

Damien suddenly sees where the law student gets their blunt way of speaking.

Speaking of the law student, they’ve been watching this interaction with thinly veiled amusement. “Maybe we could all have breakfast at Amy’s Planet tomorrow. They went through some renovations while you were away, and expanded their menu.”

“Oh, I would love some of Amy’s coffee, let’s do that.” 

Ruth gives Damien a pressing look, and he realizes he doesn’t have much of a choice in rejecting this venture. Which he’s absolutely fine with. He can’t remember the last time he’s enjoyed company to this extent, and he’s eager to get to know Ruth better. He had been worried she would not like him, considering the unorthodox way he and the law student became friends.

“In, ah, that case,” he says through another yawn, “I think I’m going to turn in for the night, so I can be plenty coherent at Amy’s tomorrow.”

They all exchange good nights, and as Damien makes his way to the bathroom (where the spare toothbrush he’s claimed on past impromptu sleepovers awaits), he overhears Ruth say to the law student, “Your taste in friends has improved greatly, Raindrop.”

Damien can’t help but smile victoriously at that. Mission accomplished.

---

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