#i think part of why this particular memory is so persistent- and has been for years like it constantly comes up when i'm tired-

[mod2amaryllis]

who else haunted by an apology you never got the chance to make???? 🤪🤪🤪

[tartagilicious]

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 / PART TWO (scaramouche)

a drabble series that explores what would happen if you were to reunite with them after a long time apart ♡ will come out in parts :D aka an excuse for me to be a cheesy mf for six drabbles in a row

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬: albedo, scaramouche,, xiao, dottore, and thoma

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: i wasn't sure what to write for this for a while, THEN THE HARBINGER TRAILER CAME OUT everyone say thank you to mama hoyoverse. but also i hate mama hoyoverse because now leaks about scaramouche's personality/backstory are coming out and i've literally had to rewrite this 3 times i'm so tired please help me. for that reason, it might be a smidge out of caracter but bear with me here 😭🙏this goes off of the theory that scaramouche wants the gnosis because it's the only thing that will let him feel whole.

-> you are his most loyal subject, as he is your most loyal friend — should the man deserve to be called anything of the sort. it is still unclear to you what scaramouche deserves, though, whether it be good or bad.

-> most picture the balladeer as the pinnacle of the element he wields, snapping at anything that draws too near, and the perfect lieutenant for someone such as the cryo archon. but he is your friend. no matter how much those not close to you croon at your foolishness, you're sure of at least that.

-> because you are not naive enough to say he is a good person, but you know that humans are not naturally bad -- whether they're artificial or not. scaramouche is not only mean, nor eternally angry, but he is well versed in pretending to be. he is capable of being more than razor-edged, and you often believe that you are the only one competent enough to see it.

-> everyone has a past, whether it be a gnarly and tangled mass of things unspoken, or a collection of closely cherished memories. such things are the building blocks of a person.

-> it's why despite scaramouche's rigid view on life, you had chosen to brave his persistence to be alone. it's why despite the things that were said behind his back, and despite the fear and the uncertainty that your choices rewarded you, you pushed yourself into the limelight.

-> because you care about his past. you care about what lead him to stealing the electro archon's gnosis so brashly, and proceeding to flee with it alone. unfortunately, though, it wasn't ever much of a topic amongst your colleagues -- those who attend to the harbingers have much more dire things to worry about. if anything, his disappearance only meant a lapse in work.

-> though, you surmise that scaramouche's colleagues aren't too fond of him either, considering how discussions involving him tend to turn to inazuma's gnosis rather quickly. it stings to know that your friend was left to his own devices without a second thought.

-> if anything, you knew that he didn't need their help, much less yours. but the fact that he had enacted such a plan without giving you any kind of warning is worrying. scaramouche is capable of many things, but his lack of emotional sense can make him susceptible to bad decisions. 

-> it's hard to think about him on your own. you realise that what he's done is ultimately the best choice for himself -- you know his connection to the electro gnosis well, and it's understandable why he would chase after it. even so, his silence is hurtful.

->  you lie awake in bed some nights, bleakly wondering whether you had misinterpreted your friendship. perhaps his tolerance for you had merely been for appearance's sake, or to satiate your continuous want to prove that he wasn't as bad as everyone thought.

-> you know it makes you a fool to check his office each morning for his return, but you do it anyway. for the small chance that he's decided to come back, successful in his plight or not. 

-> it's almost four months later when at the break of dawn, you creak open his office's large wooden door. you chose this time in particular because there is a quiet mess of guards changing shifts in the halls, making the odd person less noticeable.  

-> you gather that was his thought process too, because as soon as your eyes adjust to the low light, you notice someone's back to you. 

-> you don't even really see them at first, but when you recognise the shadows moving to accommodate something, you make the decision to step forward.

"...excuse me?" 

your voice is quiet, enough so to not draw any outside attention, but it feels strong when it escapes; meaningful. like your intent to know the identity of the person in front of you is for a reason heavier than just usual suspiscion. but it's warranted, you think -- archons forbid this reaction be wasted on merely anyone.

the figure stiffens momentarily. beneath your focused gaze, you notice that their hands had been previously working at something in front of them, though you aren't quite sure what.

"you aren't allowed to be in here." you warn.

you're forced to rush the tail of your words when you notice a pair of guards turning a nearby corner. while you're a trusted member of the balladeer's entourage, you'd rather avoid the complications that would come with being seen peeking into an absent harbinger's office. 

with knitted brows, you step inside the room and close the tall door quietly behind you. any sound, however small, is suddenly silenced in your wake. 

only two sets of breaths remain.

"that's all?" a familiar voice asks, though now that he speaks, you hear the rapid flipping of pages. "is this level of softness what i pay you for?"

your breath catches in your throat. you're afraid that he hears it too, as his hands suddenly stop their movement. and though your body is still, your heart pumps warmly, ignited by this unlikely scenario.

"scaramouche." you let out a loose sigh. he must hear it, too, because he turns his head to the side to reach you with his peripheral vision. 

your gaze quickly leaves his and finds the curtain drawn window, seismic relief running through you. you come to quickly, however.

"you don't pay me, and i'm glad." you retort. "if that were true, i would've be on the streets three months ago."

he's unmoving for a few moments before he scoffs, though you catch it as he turns away -- the telltale signs of a bit back smile. scaramouche has a habit of doing such things, you've realised. 

it must be an effect of thinking he is emotionless without the gnosis he was created for, but he has not yet realised that he holds himself back on a more fundamental level.

his focus is on the book in front of him, but he still speaks to you, "were you paid to laze around, then? seeing as you had no master to serve."

you straighten. "i have served others in the meantime."

his hand on the book stiffens for a moment, but it smoothly returns to its task soon after as if nothing had happened. but, it had happened. and you'd seen it clearly.

you ask, "have you returned for good?"

he's silent for a moment, as if thinking about his answer.

"...i haven't decided." he replies quietly.

seeing as he stands back in fatui headquarters, his escape with the electro gnosis couldn't have gone well. however, you know better than to mention it outright.

quietly, you make your way to where he stands to peek over his shoulder. the book he's been brashly flipping through is a lexicon of alchemy that's probably as ancient as it looks. you hadn't known he even kept such a thing in his office, thoughyou're certain it must hold a practice related to the gnosis.

scaramouche then turns his head, face eerily close to yours. startled, you attempt to read the page he has flipped open. though truthfully, you're unable to take in a single word.

"why are you here of all times?" he suddenly asks, or demands, it's a curious mix.

you feel nauseous all of the sudden. your gaze flicks over to his quickly, and you clear your throat.

"i heard a noise and wanted to check." you lie. when you take a freeing step back, scaramouche finally turns to you fully. 

he scoffs. "liar. there wasn't anything to hear."

"you've always been quite loud." you insist. "you just never knew it."

he glares at you in a way only he can, and you find yourself sighing. in disbelief. in a wretchedly ironic way, the emotionless man is staring you down as if he has a real heart pumping blood through his veins. 

you narrow your eyes. "perhaps fusing the gnosis with your body isn't necessary. you show your anger well enough."

"did i say you could change the subject?" he snaps. 

you snap back. "i can change it if i want. i don't serve you anymore." 

"i came back, didn't i?'

'"no," you correct him. "you said you haven't decided whether or not you'll stay."

his eyes narrow. "maybe i won't, if you continue to be so difficult."

"this was never about me." you hiss, and he's momentarily stunned by your reaction. "your return was supposed to have meant that you were successful. that abandoning everything and everyone here was worth it. yet even when it wasn't, you toy with me."

because you're heartless. it's on the tip of your tongue, but you don't say it.

scaramouche goes silent.

"i'm not toying with you" he mutters. some visceral part of him seems embarassed by your words. though perhaps your rationality is only clouded by your wish to see such a thing.

but scaramouche proves you wrong when his gaze narrows with an emotion you've never seen before.

"do you truly believe i abandoned you?"

the weight of his eyes on you makes your skin prickle.

"you should have only returned successful." you repeat in a tone that barely qualifies as a whisper, looking away as your chest pinches. "it wouldn't have hurt as much to know that nothing was in vain."

scaramouche's body shifts to follow your gaze without thinking, a curious hand reaching out but quickly being pulled back in.

"nothing was in vain, ___." he assures you, voice uncharacteristically rough. "not on your part or mine."

you take a peek at him. his hand is still square by his side, but his words beckon you to see things from his view. and somehow, you can't say a thing to that.

"just, quit being so stubborn." he commands helplessly in your silence. you want to snap at him, but something in his voice stops you. "i order it."

"clever, but you haven't resigned to stay here yet. i don't serve you."

"follow me elsewhere, then." scaramouche challenges when you expect him to back down. "to a life where neither of us will have to deal with the misfortune of such things."

your mouth opens and closes, briefly choking on the mess of words that rush to your lips. so, you settle on,

"...what?"

scaramouche raises a brow, tone unecessarily sharp. "did you not hear me?"

he's afraid. afraid you'll laugh, maybe. afraid you'll decline and let him feel like a fool for opening his heart to someone so blatantly. but whatever the reason, the slight curve of his lip deepens when you hesitate for longer.

"i want you to come." he says it suddenly, and halfheartedly, you think it's the most honest he's ever been.

"then i'll go." you push out a laugh, shrugging weakly. "if you'll have me."

there's a moment of silence that follows which you can't quite explain -- and despite the frown that's made its permanent home on your friend's face, scaramouche seems satisified with your response.

"that's what i said, isn't it?"

he turns around to his large book of alchemy casually, but the blush that fights its way up his neck is stikingly honest.

[darthkvznblogs]

What are your thoughts on Sailor Moon and its characters? I'm personally still surprised over how ahead of its time it was and how much it holds up in today's media.

I was going to answer this ask while I watched Promise of the Rose last night but it’s not available where I watch it 😭 this is devastating…

Anyhoo, I have a LOT of thoughts re:Sailor Moon! I'll list them below, rapid-fire style, in no particular order. I also have no idea what the consensus is so there may be some hot takes I’m just not aware of haha :P

I had no idea how much of a little shithead Usagi was! I guess seeing gifs and images from her I had a very different concept of what she'd be like, but I really love how much of a gremlin she can be.

For such a romance-obsessed series (which I don't mind and actually quite enjoy most of the time) they don't actually show you much of the actual relationships, which I think is a shame. You've already sold me on Usagi and Mamoru, but I need more meat on those bones! Show me them going on cute dates! Show me arguments that last longer than two lines (and are often motivated by magical destiny BS)! You're telling me about a love that has managed to survive through death and the thousands of years in between their past and present lives, now show me it!

I'm such a sucker for the premise of S1. The sense of love and duty persisting through death and reincarnation, the struggle to regain the memories of a past life while keeping your footing in the modern world, the classic balancing act between being a teenager and having the weight of the world on your shoulders as a superhero, the engaging dynamics between the members of the Dark Kingdom and, of course, the bonds between the Sailor Scouts...

...and that finale, goddamn. What a freakin' sucker punch. It's one thing to allude to the fact that death is a very real possibility when facing the enemy throughout the series, but the show hadn't done much more than flirt with it a bit here and there. Seeing that flashback to the Silver Millennium and realizing that not only is it possible for them to die in the line of duty, but that it's actually a very likely prospect...and then following through with it! That sequence, as each of the Guardians sacrifices themselves to clear the way for Sailor Moon, with Usagi going through pretty much every stage of grief in a mere few minutes, had me slack-jawed the whole way through. And Usagi finally fully embracing her identity as Princess Serenity and sacrificing herself as her mother once did, wishing for something as simple (as understandably selfish, as heartbreakingly yearning) as giving herself and her beloved friends their normal lives back, free of their burden. Genuinely perfect ending.

I think the only part that doesn't work for me about the S1 finale is that the monsters that kill the Guardians aren't shown to be special in any way, just volunteers from Beryl's monster hordes. I wish they'd been her elite royal guard that never left her side or something, otherwise why wait to deploy what are clearly your most powerful mooks? It makes the lieutenants lesser by comparison.

The bespoke animations for each of the signature attacks (and the transformation sequences, of course) are great, but there's like...no fighting in this show, which is disappointing, ngl. I know this isn't a shonen and I'm not asking for complex fight coreography, but trading a few blows, damaging the environment, just generally showcasing that the Guardians aren't just soundbites and elemental ranged attacks would be much appreciated.

I regret to inform you all I've become a Sailor Earth truther. NARU DESERVES BETTER (or at least, she deserves to have superpowers so she doesn't get her life force drained every other episode, jfc)

S2 had kind of atrocious pacing - I didn't mind it having two distinct arcs, but the Ail and An arc dragged on for too long and too much time was spent with Rubeus relative to the other Black Moon clan members, so it really robbed them of their impact. I felt great satisfaction when Rubeus was defeated, but the others...eh. I did love the Spectre Sisters and their decision to become normal humans, and Wiseman/Death Phantom (though he kinda came outta nowhere) was super cool. Never underestimate the stark image of a bleached human skull and a cool voice haha.

I feel like most people probably find Chibiusa really annoying (and I was right there with them a few times, admittedly), but remembering that she's a terrified, traumatized child really helped. It was utterly bizarre of Usagi (and the show, to some extent) to consider her any sort of rival for Mamoru's love, that was uncomfortable and ridiculous. The reveal that it's her fault that Crystal Tokyo went to shit was great, I loved that (and generally the implication that the Black Moon Clan is only a problem because they were excluded from utopia as part of Silver Millennium 2.0 for very vague reasons felt like a very intriguing detail, like Neo-Queen Serenity might've also made a huge mistake there.)

Just generally speaking, I wish the Sailor Scouts were a bit more consistent in battle; they're either utterly dominating or getting absolutely destroyed within moments of arriving.

The drip (as the kids say) in this show is impeccable lol everyone always looks amazing

I could go on but you get the idea! I just started Sailor Moon S yesterday so I'm still trucking along. If there's anything I didn't mention that you want my opinion on feel free to hit me with another ask!

[lover-of-villains]

No Way Out * Vin/OC, Chris/OC, Ezra/OC (part 6)

Summary: The world has changed. That fact became clear when the dead began to roam the streets. When they brought down the living, and then those living died and turned. All Buck and Chris want to do in the chaos is protect their own, possibly with the aid of others. But they will all soon learn that not everyone is a safe harbor. Sometimes, the living are worse than the dead. AU based on The Walking Dead.

Warnings: alternate universe, multi-OC fic, zombie apocalypse, apocalyptic AU, graphic depiction of violence, allusion to smut, reference to past sexual assault, gun use

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five

(Quarry Outside Denver, CO)

Sadie remembers this place. She remembers coming here as a little girl, with Chris, and Sam, and their parents, when their father would have the weekends free from work. It was before things had gotten out of hand. Before he had started drinking. Before their mother had died.

Everything had seemed so much simpler. Cleaner. Certainly better, because together, the five of them had actually been a family. Or at least, they had been trying to be. They had been trying to be, until the very center of their world had come crashing down around them.

After, they'd stopped coming as frequently. When they did, things always seemed just a little strange. And by the time she was a teenager, Chris had stopped bringing her and Sam here at all.

Now, as she sits perched on the overturned bucket near the firepit, gazing around at her surroundings, Sadie is once again forced to acknowledge the differences between her memories of this place, and the reality right in front of her. She is unable to avoid the reality of the situation they now face. It terrifies her, if she is being honest, but even then, she cannot bring herself to give any sort of outward reaction. She cannot seem to break free of the persistent state of numbness keeping her captive.

Her mind won't even allow her to think of exactly why she is in such a state, but Sadie cannot seem to bring herself to care. Not even when she is almost constantly aware of the concern behind Morgan and Sam's constant glances. When Vin is always hovering nearby.

Between the three of them, they have done a remarkable job of making her feel as though the slightest thing will cause her to break. And even though a small part of her knows it is irrational, the other part—the part that is becoming increasingly difficult to deny—is almost tempted to try pushing that limit until their fears become a reality.

Maybe then, she will finally be able to feel…

But then again, given everything that happened, perhaps she does not want to.

Vin's reappearance effectively shuts down that particular line of thinking before Sadie can fully come to a decision, though, leaving her to frown as she chalks it up to still more proof that her suspicions have been correct all along. And as he comes to sit beside her with a cautious smile, she tries her best to avoid allowing her disappointment over the interruption to show upon her face.

"You doin' alright?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?" Vin asks, clearly doubtful of Sadie's admittedly overly hasty response, though he is not blind to her attempt at a reassuring smile, "Ain't gotta be just to make the rest of us happy."

"I'm fine, Vin. I promise," Sadie assures, hoping that the smile she'd been able to summon will be convincing enough to hide the slight tremor behind her words. In spite of her frustration over being so closely watched, she truly doesn't want to worry anyone. Vin, perhaps, most of all. He'd already done so much for them, when he didn't have to. Staying with them after Chris had been hurt. Keeping them safe when the world had started to fall apart.

Even now, he is still protecting them, and the very last thing she wants is to say or do anything to cause him more concern than he appears to carry already.

"Want anything for breakfast?" He inquires, his expression indicating that while he may have accepted her assurances on the surface, Sadie is far from being completely out of the woods. In truth, she'd anticipated exactly that, given the general reluctance everyone seems to have to trust her words at face value. Not that that realization makes the reality of it all sting any less, but then when in recent history had her reality actually been a kind one?

"Maybe in a little while."

"Should probably eat somethin'. Not sure how successful we're gonna be on that run into the city."

"I will," Sadie promises, this time managing a more successful attempt at a smile when Vin reaches over to poke her in the side. It's one of the things he's always done, insisting that she reminds him of the little sister he never had. And, for the moment at least, it seems to be enough to pull her out of her own internal numbness, and back to some semblance of who she used to be, "Unless Sam did the cooking, that is."

"Ain't gotta worry about that. I fixed up some eggs an' bacon."

"Sounds good."

Sharing a laugh at the memory of a few of Sam's failed attempts at cooking over the years, both Vin and Sadie allow for just a moment to enjoy the approach to normalcy, each of them knowing it can never truly last. Though Sam had sworn them both to secrecy, when it happened, given that she knew Buck and Morgan in particular would never let her hear the end of it if they knew the truth, it is entirely too tempting to cling to the memory now, in favor of facing what their lives have become first-hand.

Thinking of the past only prompts Sadie's thoughts toward Chris, though. To how her brother had laughed for what felt like the first time in forever as soon as he saw Sam's disastrous attempt at a meatloaf…

And just like that, the numbness comes back full-force.

"I think I'm gonna—gonna take a nap," Sadie says, then, aware of the renewed concern in Vin's expression, and hurrying to stand as a result, in hopes that moving quickly will prevent him from stalling her efforts to disappear, "Wake me up before you leave for the city?"

"I will."

Grateful that Vin opted for an easy reply, rather than attempting to question her sudden retreat, Sadie makes a beeline for her tent that rests just a few feet away, her eyes already starting to burn with the sting of unshed tears. Ducking inside, she drops down to her sleeping bag in next to no time at all, her body resting on the surface and curling into a ball as though she is determined to make herself as small as she possibly can. As though if she is small enough, perhaps she will simply cease to exist.

Sadie knows that it is hardly normal to wish for such a thing, but even then she cannot stop. And as the sounds of a muted conversation reach her through the tent flap, a sure sign of Sam and Morgan's return from the lakeshore situated at the quarry's center, she squeezes her eyes shut, and tries for sleep.

It may not be the answer she seeks, but it is certainly preferable to the alternating pain and numbness that assault her in waves when she is awake…

And for now, that will simply have to be good enough.

…

(Larabee Ranch, Denver, CO)

Standing inside the empty home, Chris Larabee tries to remember that he had predicted this. That he had told himself over and over again that Sam, Sadie and Vin were likely already gone. A part of him had honestly hoped for this. He'd heard enough from Nathan to indicate that most of the area surrounding the city had already been overrun.

If Vin had gotten the girls out, that could only be a good thing, even if it means he has no idea where they are, now. Even if it means he never sees them again. But even that knowledge is not entirely enough to waylay the discouraging feeling that nearly drives him to his knees.

Regardless of what he knows is the best case scenario, Chris knows he will never fully be able to rest, not seeing proof of Sam, Morgan and Sadie's safety with his own eyes. And that is something he is not very likely to have.

Forcing the thought to the side as best he can, however, Chris opts instead for focusing on the task at hand. On redirecting his attention toward gathering what he can in terms of supplies.

He is poignantly aware of Nathan's presence just behind him, but he does not spare the other man a glance, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards beneath them as he begins to maneuver his way down the familiar hall outside the foyer. He is so preoccupied with getting the supplies and getting out that he does not notice the very distinct sight of empty picture hooks spaced evenly along the walls.

But Nathan does…

"What happened to all your photos?" He muses, following after Chris as the taller man heads for a closet just off the kitchen area, already intent upon withdrawing whatever he needs from inside. A glance around shows that someone else—or several someones—have already been through the house, cupboard doors hanging open, and the occasional bit of clothing littering the floor.

The tick of a muscle along Chris's jawline indicates he appears to have noticed the same, and Nathan is hardly surprised when he does not immediately reply. The idea of people ransacking his family home has to sting, if nothing else.

Something that causes the tone of his response to Nathan's question to harden, like a shard of glass that is under almost enough pressure to crack.

"Looters wouldn't have a reason to give a damn 'bout 'em."

"No. No, they wouldn't," Nathan agrees, pleased that Chris appears to have come to the same conclusion as he has, himself, even if the realization clearly troubles him more so than he already was before they arrived. It would be a lie for him to pretend he is not somewhat disappointed in the lingering hardness behind Chris's response. But that does not mean he cannot understand it, his tone remaining light as his next words attempt to bring the man standing before him to realize that perhaps everything is not as dour as it seems.

"Guessin' your sisters made it out alright if they took 'em."

"Don't mean they're still alright, now."

"Any idea where they might've gone?"

Chris offers only a brief shake of the head in response to the question, clearly recognizing Nathan's attempt at infusing a little hope into the conversation, though he is not yet willing to accept it, himself. Instead, he remains focused on placing various non-perishable foods in the pack in his hands, knowing that is perhaps better for him, in the long run…

He can't risk focusing too much on the honestly poor chance that Sam and Sadie are still alive. That Morgan and Vin are still alive.

He knows if he does, and finds out otherwise, there will be absolutely nothing left to encourage his willingness to survive, and that is not exactly a reality that he is prepared to face.

"Reckon we can stay put for a few more days while we decide where to go, next," Nathan speaks up again, aware of how tenuous Chris's temperament seems to be, and taking steps to prevent any sort of unraveling as best he can, "Give you some time to see if something jumps out in your mind?"

"Mm."

"Can always stay with us, if nothin' else."

"Don't want to be a burden," Chris disagrees, moving through the den and kitchen to a hallway that will lead to the bedroom that had once been his own, the beeline he makes for the gun safe so routine he is almost not fully aware he is even doing so at all. Crouching to put himself closer to the safe, he spins the dial, ignoring the jolt of pain that tightens around his heart over the familiar numbers. Adam's birthday.

Gritting his teeth together, he forces himself to focus on the task of going through the weapons stowed inside. On deciding which to take along with him, and which to leave behind. He can feel Nathan's gaze on him from a few steps away, but he ignores it, the task of finding suitable ammunition far more important than anything else.

Once that task is complete, he stands to his full height again, brushing past Nathan to head back out into the hall. And even if he is well aware that he is hardly doing anything to assure his companion that he is in any state of mind to be considering venturing out on his own, he knows.

He will never be quite capable of doing anything else.

…

(Quarry Outside Denver, CO)

"Wait. You're—you're going, too?"

Sadie hates the horror that is so poorly contained in her voice, but she cannot exactly stop it as she stands beside Vin's truck, with Morgan at her side. She can't help it. The news that Sam intended to go with Vin into the city on a supply run appears to have been the one thing capable of breaking through her numbness for any significant amount of time.

A part of her honestly knows that her sister is making the right call. That sending Vin on his own again would be tantamount to hanging him out to dry. But even then, she cannot reign in her panic. She cannot stop envisioning a scenario in which Sam and Vin do not return.

A glance at Morgan shows that she is feeling much the same way, though to her credit, she does a far better job at hiding it. Something Sadie wishes she could be capable of, herself, particularly as Sam moves to reply.

"Better to have back-up, rather than wishin' you didn't, Sadie. You know that."

"I—I know, but—before the broadcasts cut out, they said the city was—overrun."

"Even more reason for me to go."

"Sam—"

"I'm gonna keep her safe, Sadie. I promise," Vin cuts in, his tone clearly meant to be reassuring, though Sadie cannot fight the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes that come about in response to the earnestness in his expression, "Ain't gotta worry about that."

Sam seems to bristle just a bit at that, her body tensing just a bit whether she cares to physically show such a thing or not. And it is then that Sadie sees something she had missed before, her own worries having clouded her ability to read her sister's moods. While Sam may like to pretend she is harder to figure out than that, Sadie has always been able to see beneath the tough facade her sister clings to far more desperately than she should.

She wants to leave in part to have Vin's back, yes. But there is something else there, lingering beneath the surface. Something that indicates all too clearly that the main reason Sam is so eager to leave camp is the idea of what she will do if left behind.

It is as though if she cannot keep moving—if she is forced to remain relatively still—she will simply lose her mind.

"Maybe—maybe we can all go."

"Someone's gotta stay behind an' keep an eye on the camp, Sadie. You know that."

"And that someone is me."

"Woah, hey, what am I? Chopped liver?" Morgan interjects, the near-constant wordless conversation she seems to have been having with Sam clearly cast aside in favor of a rather obvious attempt at teasing to keep Sadie calm, "Ouch."

"You know that's not—that's not what I meant."

"Well, good. Because I'd hate to have my reputation as your favorite sister take a downgrade."

"Favorite sister?" Sam questions, for the moment, distracted from her impending journey into the city in favor of regarding Morgan with a skeptically raised brow, "Now who's chopped liver?"

"Sorry, Sam. I can't help it if your sister likes me better."

"Uh-huh."

"I mean there's the glaring fact that you never had the patience for things like makeup and hair care—"

"Well if I see any eyeshadow palettes while we're out, I'll bring one back for you."

"Thank you," Morgan quips, pleased that Sam appears to have picked up on her desire to lighten the mood, at least as much as she can given the state of their little corner of the world on the whole, "Should probably bring back some lipstick too, if you can."

"Got a secret boyfriend the rest of us don't know about?"

"Or maybe, if one of those things inevitably takes me out, I want to look good when it happens."

Morgan does not miss Sam's answering snort, and even Sadie manages a light laugh in spite of the slightly darker turn the attempt at a joke had taken for the conversation at large. In truth, the only one of their group that does not appear particularly amused is Vin, his expression harboring absolutely nothing but concern.

Something she moves to rectify almost as soon as she notices, her own humor fading as the knife of guilt that has been plaguing her once again twists painfully in her chest.

"Oh come on, I'm not going to do anything stupid. I just want to look—"

"Clean?"

"Hush, Sam."

"Shouldn't tease like that," Vin chides, the seriousness behind the words prompting Morgan to open her mouth to apologize, though she finds herself stopped almost as quickly as soon as she notices the slight twitch pulling at one corner of his mouth…

The little shit is teasing her right back. Clearly. And now, Morgan is left feeling that familiar sting of amused defeat over losing the upper hand.

"But if I see any nail polish that matches the lipstick I'll be sure to bring it back."

"I hate you."

"Just what a fella wants to hear."

"Okay. Well, we should probably go 'fore it gets dark," Sam suggests, returning the conversation back to the task at hand, and inadvertently putting a damper on Sadie's momentarily lightened mood as a result. While she knows her sister certainly isn't doing it purposefully, it does not change the fact that she can no longer ignore the reignition of nerves inside her gut. And it is that sensation that has her biting down on her lower lip, her gaze meeting Sam's for a moment before she speaks.

"You really have to go?"

"I do."

"Then be—be safe," She begins, aware of Sam's curt nod of agreement, before turning her attention to Vin instead, "Both of you."

"We're gonna come back, Sadie. Wouldn't dare do anythin' else, with the threat of Morgan resurrectin' us to kill us again hangin' over our heads."

"Aww, you remembered."

Unable to resist the faint pull of a smile that comes about in response to Vin's assurance, and Morgan's answering reply, Sadie still knows that such a promise cannot possibly be a guarantee.

Still, she is just foolish enough to attempt clinging to it, regardless. And as she allows Morgan to wind an arm around her shoulders in a silent show of support, she sends a silent prayer heavenward that this time, things will actually work out in their favor.

She has absolutely no clue what it is she is supposed to do if they don't.

…

(Larabee Cabin, Woods Outside Denver, CO)

Staring at what is clearly a hastily dug grave just a few miles away from the cabin, Cyrus Larabee is well aware of the sensation of his jaw tightening with enough force to crack from the strain. He hadn't wanted to believe Duane when he told him about what happened to Milton. He hadn't wanted to believe his daughter could've been so damned foolish.

But then, the hole in the ground a few steps away clearly says otherwise.

"I'll get the rest of the guys together," Duane states from his current position standing in wait at Cyrus's side, his hand already lingering on the gun holstered at his hip, "Girls can't have got far."

"No."

"No?"

"No," Cyrus repeats, his teeth grinding together for a moment before he turns to look at Duane head-on, "No, this is mine to handle."

"So what're you gonna do? You can't be thinkin' about lettin' 'em go."

The suggestion is laughable, to say the least, the hard laugh that escapes not standing a chance at going unnoticed while Cyrus turns to stalk back towards the cabin without a second thought. His fingers flex and curl at his sides, the sound of his heavy footfalls the only other sound as he moves inside.

Already, he is formulating a plan. Coming to grips with what he needs to do, because his daughter is clearly more of a damned fool than he ever gave her credit for. Morgan, too.

Neither of them can be allowed to get away with taking down one of his own. Not without consequences. And even as much as he may know it is hardly wise, he makes a beeline for the bottle of whiskey resting, half-full, on the table, taking a swig, and savoring the burn that makes its way down his throat not long after.

"Cy?" Duane prompts, clearly not at all willing to take his companion's silence in stride, "What're you thinkin', man?"

"I'm thinkin' we need to move out in the mornin'," Cyrus instructs, downing another few gulps of the whiskey, and turning back to look Duane in the eye. He'd hardly wanted to do this, leaving the shelter and relative safety of the cabin in the woods something he had not planned on until the dead that are roaming the streets gave them no other choice.

Still, he isn't about to waste time letting Sam, Morgan and Sadie get away simply because he hesitates to leave a place that had become almost like home. A fact that only makes itself far too apparent in his ensuing words.

"You're right. We need to find those girls before they can get too far away. But you and your 'guys' ain't doin' anything unless I give the go-ahead, first."

"They wouldn't do anythin'—"

"Not a thing," Cyrus interrupts, the bottle of whiskey falling to the countertop nearby with a distinctive thud, before he favors Duane with an almost haunting smile that is more akin to something sinister than anything else.

"Just 'cause you're doin' me a favor don't mean I won't take you down if the situation requires."

…

[thedaveandkimmershow]

It comes up, of course. How fast time moves. How years, decades are gone in the blink of an eye.

Which feels true.

Even though it isn't.

Definitely when I look back across years and decades I'm looking at a thing—Time—that's massively compressed by that act of looking. I imagine those years and decades in a literal blink of a eye. I don't relive them. I don't unpack them. So of course it all seems like it zipped by. Because in thinking about it just then...

It actually did zip by.

However.

That wasn't my lived experience.

Okay I lied just now. That wasn't always my lived experience.

Why?

Because I wasn't always paying attention. I wasn't always invested in whatever it was at the time. I wasn't always fully present for certain experiences. So yeah.

That time. Blew by.

Because I didn't really live it. A little like that Adam Sandler movie "Click" where he has a remote that can literally fast forward or rewind his life. The remote also has a memory. So if he's jumped ahead for a certain activity or circumstance once, the remote will jump him forward on its own whenever that activity or circumstance turns up again. Until suddenly he's skipping through huuuuge chunks of his life.

That's maybe overly dramatic on my part... but the lesson remains. Invested or not. Relational or not. Present...

Or not.

To be clear: life always feels like it just sped the heck by when you're looking in the rearview mirror. That's a perceptual trick, however. The real question is Did I live my life? Did I experience it with the people I love?

Because yeah. There are always ways to not.

Try to avoid those, is my advice.

😐

I'm kicking the tires on these ideas right now because I was thinking about how intentional we've been with Kimmer's aunt Jacquie. How intentional Kimmer's been. How intentional Jacquie's son has been.

I'm thinking about how we spent the last ten months during which Jacquie obviously didn't have tons of time left on the clock. I'm remembering each visit. I'm remembering sitting next to her bed and holding her hand. I'm remembering Jacquie back at her memory care home in the midst of a squirt gun fight in the courtyard on a hot day. I'm remembering walking her in the halls of her rehab place at the top of the year when she thought we could catch a ride with whoever that was parked out in front of the front doors. I'm remembering walking around her neighborhood with her. And walking around her neighborhood with her. And walking around her neighborhood with her.

I remember our family sitting around the patio table for pizza dinner when her husband, Dave, was alive and we were joined by their son and grandson.

I remember the details. I photographed a bunch of those details. I wrote about those details.

And Kimmer?

Yeah. She spent ten times more time immersed with her aunt than I (at least). And she has a better memory than I. She could tell you stories.

She could.

The reason I'm banging this drum right now is to point out that, in the rearview mirror, time is like hyperspace. You travel great distances in no time at all.

Memory, however, is different. When we choose to unpack a particular event or circumstance or relationship whether through raw remembering, photographs, or writing... time unfolds again. Not fully, of course. Just enough to remind us it didn't actually happen as fast as it later seems because...

Because we were in relationship. Because we were fully present. Because we were and are invested. And yeah. Those experiences that claim more space in our brains? We get to unpack those later. That time isn't lost to us. The experiences aren't lost to us. They colored us in ways that persist. They affect who we are and how we are. Because Life does that when we allow it to. Because Time does that when we allow it to. Because our closest relationships do that.

When we allow them to.

In the end, we have no regrets about our time with Jacquie. We ended well together. Especially Jacquie and Kimmer.

Those two ended well.

And the Why of that's not lost on me.

Kimmer invested herself in Jacquie's remaining days. Before that, she invested herself in Jacquie as Jacquie's dementia drained her of memories, names, relationships, and bandwidth. Before that, she invested in Jacquie as Jacquie's favorite niece just as Jacquie invested in Kimmer as Kimmer's favorite aunt. Two peas in a pod, their relationship was a natural expression of their personalities and experiences. They had no problem being fully present with each other. Kimmer had no problem being fully present with Jacquie as dementia began the drawn out process of taking Jacquie away from us. Kimmer had no problem being fully present with Jacquie during the last five weeks of Jacquie's life as Jacquie's cognition ebbed and flowed, as her consciousness sometimes latched onto things in the real world...

But mostly didn't.

Kimmer lived that experience with Jacquie. She walked the last lap with her.

And ended well.

No regrets.

It comes up, of course. How fast time moves. How years, decades are gone in the blink of an eye.

Which feels true.

Even though it isn't.

🙂

[ivykhoozx]

Creative Nonfiction

People fade, feelings stay, memories haunt...

Have you ever cried so bad, longed to scream at the top of your lungs wishing someone would hear you? You experience extreme exhaustion and a sense of inner death.  So vulnerable, so lost… You want to speak or rant to someone about it but it’s deep into the night and you don’t know whom you could turn to without burdening them. So, you just wish and wait in vain for someone to make the first move to message you instead… but it never does. You want to express yourself on social platforms but you hesitated because you’re scared that people might criticize you or think you lack attention.

You wish you could just chill out. Hoping you were one of those individuals who could choose not to give a damn and go to sleep. Sadly, you’re not. Your eyes begin to get puffy from all the sobbing yet your mind continues to race all night long. You could feel your heart breaks a little with every sigh you let out. You begin to reflect on life and overthink each and every thought that enters your head.

You eventually fall asleep when the daylight shines but when you get up you have to put on that smile and face the world again. This feeling stays, it doesn’t just go away. It leaves you feeling dead inside. It’s amusing to think that someone else may be feeling the same way as you do and going through something similar. Yet we are all on our own in this.

A gazillion unanswered questions are running through your head but one particular keep coming up: “When would he/she ever return by my side?” You simply keep trying various tactics to get them back. You seek help from your friends and mutual friends you both had but you tend to pay attention to the ones that assure you and overlook the true guidance. You are at your wit’s end and therefore desperately want them back. It seems as though everything in your universe has crumbled.

You start stalking his/her followers on Instagram whom you think they might actually move on with. They claim that they just need some alone time but you see them hanging out with new people despite their assurances that they don't want you to move on. You begin to wonder if it's time to move on since everything that once seemed right now doesn’t anymore. It seems that no matter what you do, nothing seems to change.

I was clinging to something that never existed. I persisted, struggled, and most importantly, gave it my all, but for what precisely was I putting in such effort? I held myself responsible for all of the problems. When something doesn’t go as planned, I tend to question myself about what went wrong and what I could have done differently. Every day and night, I kept having conflicts with the thoughts and voices in my head.

I have always told myself to hang on because of those few reasons even though there are probably a zillion more reasons why I should leave even if I have never wanted to. I have always been the type of person who would fix something when they are broken instead of throwing them away or replacing them with a new one.

I hung on despite the pain. I believed it was worthwhile and that if I persisted, everything will be just fine. I doubt I will ever be able to forget the moment I realized that there was nothing I could do to make you go head over heels for me again. Even after all the pain you put me through, I still couldn’t hate or stop loving you. I’m so afraid I won’t be able to find someone else like you, I’m so afraid that I may never find the same feeling you once gave me again, instances like these eat me alive.

You took my feelings for granted even though you are aware of my feelings for you but you still lead me on without any intention to get me back. You took advantage of me because you knew I was always there. I was foolish to even believe for one second that I could have changed you.

Deep down, a part of me secretly wishes you to go through hell and suffer the same way I did but my heart can’t put up with it having to watch you go through it all. Love is something that comes naturally, it can’t be forced. Eventually, when you love someone with your whole heart, you would love them more than you could ever love yourself. Hence, I guess that is why I would rather be the one who is suffering rather than watch him hurt.

At the end of the day, being an adult has taught me to deal with it because love is not going to be as uncomplicated as two people living happily ever after. Relationship goals only exist in fairy tales and those don’t exist. We anticipate our love lives to be filled with unicorns and rainbows. Let’s get real here, this will never be the case. Love doesn’t need to be perfect; it just needs to be true. Absence isn’t love. You are experiencing the pain of losing someone who had once given their everything to you.

Love is about give-and-take. It makes us weak but it also makes us strong at the same time. Is it simpler to walk away than to fight for what you really want, is it better to hurt than to be hurt? Nevertheless, what is love without tragedy? I think that one can only truly experience happiness after going through genuine hardship.

 If someone loves and cares about you, their actions will prove it to you. If they truly love you, they will never wish for you to experience any kind of distress, let alone harm you. Those who are sincere about staying will search for justifications, not reasons.

[amjustagirl]

Chapters: one. ~ two. ~ three. ~ four. ~ five. ~ six. ~ seven. ~ eight.

Wordcount: 2.7k

Summary: Being with Miya Atsumu is like chasing a storm - equal parts exhilaration and danger. After all, it’s impossible to tame a storm

Masterlist here 

AO3 Link here

Atsumu didn’t get his name on the National team roster, let alone the Olympic team because of his genius setting skills (unlike dear Tobio-kun),  but because of the stubbornness and determination that he has in spades and figures he might as well deploy these same qualities to win this particular match. Osamu is of zero help here, muttering insults under his breath but fortunately, he has an unwitting accomplice in Shino, who happily babbles about how ‘mama is going to bring her to the park on Sunday’ . 

So armed with onigiris pilfered from Osamu and a box of mochi from her favourite dessert shop, he goes a-hunting for his wife and child at the park on Sunday afternoon and finds them lying on a picnic mat in an open field framed with trees.

‘Oto-san! ’ Shino squeals and dashes into his arms. He lifts her up, spinning her in the air, pressing kisses to her chubby cheeks. 

‘What are you doing here, Atsumu?’ she demands as she sits up. ‘How did you even know we’d be here?’ 

He winks and gives her his most dashing smile. It doesn’t seem to work though - the frown on her face deepens, but he tries not to let her look of distrust slice through the smile on his face. 

‘A little princess gave me a hint that her mama still has a habit of going to the park to watch the birds and clouds in the sky. Right, Shino?’

Shino cheers and waves her arms in reply. 

‘Good girl!’ he laughs encouragingly. 

She folds her arms and is about to retort when Shino demands that ‘Oto-san and Oka-san’ try to catch her - and takes off, barefoot on the grass. Atsumu catches her easily with one hand - because of course he does, a three year old is hardly a match against a national athlete, even with an injury, but Shino pouts when she sees the cross look on her mother’s face, and she has to hastily rearrange her expression into something more acceptable to her daughter. 

He counts it as a point won when they share the onigiris and mochi in silence and watch their little girl chase butterflies in the grass. 

‘What on earth are you doing here?!’ she says, feeling as if she’s woken up from a bad dream to find it actually is her reality. 

Atsumu stands in the foyer of her office building, in the middle of a conversation with Yuna-san, the resident office gossip, who shoots daggers at her when he bounds over to greet her with a peck on her cheek. 

‘I thought I’d surprise my dear wife with lunch,’ he drawls, with an emphasis on the word ‘wife’, passing her a bento box that smells amazing and makes her mouth water despite herself.

‘What are you playing at?!’ she hisses while pretending to tuck his hair behind his ear.   

‘Nothing!’ he answers her, a too-innocent look on his face. ‘And you’re welcome. Enjoy your lunch, sweetheart!’ 

He counts another point won when she’s left gaping at him incredulously as he prances off. 

He pats himself on the back for the stroke of genius that prompted him to pass Shino the three tickets to the Osaka Aquarium. Before she could utter even a word, Shino shrieked in excitement at the thought of being able to see her favourite penguins again, so with gritted teeth, she agreed to bring Shino to meet him at the aquarium on a Saturday afternoon. 

‘Did you know seahorses mate for life?’ he remarks to her as Shino gathers with the other children in front to watch the penguins being fed. 

‘And male seahorses are the responsible ones who bear their young - what’s your point anyway?’ she responds, contempt dripping from her voice. ‘Anyway, never mind that -’ she continues, brushing him off. ‘Have you signed the divorce papers?’

‘I forgot,’ he tells her lamely. 

‘See that you remember to pass it to me next time’, she says, walking ahead to scoop Shino up in her arms. 

Point lost. Time to recalibrate. 

‘Atsumu! What the hell am I supposed to do with FIFTY rolls of toilet paper?’ she shrieks over the phone. 

‘I may have bought a little too much…but there was a great discount!’ he responds sheepishly. 

He’d overheard a conversation between her and Osamu yesterday that she needed to make a grocery run but hadn’t had the time to do so in between endless meetings with her boss. He concedes he may have gone a little...overboard.

‘And how many cans of milk powder did you buy?!’ he continues to hear her scrabble through the cardboard crate outside her home. ‘Atsumu!’ 

‘Gotta go, bye darlin’ - talk to you soon!’, he says, hastily ending the call as she screeches at him. 

Shit. Another point lost.  

He brings out the big guns by buying season passes to the museum of natural history, gambling that a blatant appeal to nostalgia might win him some points. But he knows she recognises his gambit when she corners him while Shino is playing with toy fossils in the sandbox. 

‘Atsumu. When are you going to sign the divorce papers?’ she demands, her grip tight on his elbow. 

Defend. Counterattack. 

‘I’ll sign them after my collarbone heals and my arm is out of the sling, alright? I can’t even hold anything in my right hand, let alone sign anything now’, he says with a false smile.

Hold your opponent off until they start to tire. 

‘Fine’, she mutters, shooting him a hard stare. ‘Make sure you do. I’ll be waiting once that sling comes off’. 

Fuck. He’s backed himself into a corner. This might be a harder match than he imagined. 

He offers to look after Shino on a Friday evening when she mentions to Osamu her boss organised a client dinner that she can’t miss. She’d nodded reluctantly after a moment’s hesitation, and they agreed that he’d drop the little girl off at home around ten p.m. 

He fumbles with the keys pilfered from Osamu, pizza box balancing precariously on top of Shino’s pram and after an undignified struggle, manages to squeeze in through the doorway, finding the apartment completely still. With his one good arm, he lifts Shino from the pram, careful not to disturb her slumber and treads softly to her bedroom, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead as he tucks her in. 

As he returns back to the entryway to fold the pram away, a glint of gold catches his eye, and he forgets to breathe when he realises what it is – the wedding ring he'd deliberately left behind, an act calculated to inflict maximum pain. Wow, he really wishes he could go back in time and punch that stupid prick of his past self - he thinks, holding the ring up to the light, failing to spot any flecks of dust or dullness to the sheen of the ring. She's kept it meticulously clean, sitting in the exact same spot he left it, the sole artefact of their marriage that's been preserved against the passage of time. 

After all, he notices that she’s wiped the place clean of him, that much is obvious when he turns to survey the home he left almost a year ago. There are signs of Shino in the toys scattered all over the worn carpet in the living room, colourful scribbles on the walls that probably makes her fret, and there are little touches that remind him of her - the chipped teacup she insists on using, the set of handmade knives displayed in the kitchen that was always intended by her family as a threat. 

But there are no traces of him - no stray pieces of clothes or volleyballs that he always forgets to put away (that she’d always get on his case for), no picture frames of them, not even the ones from their wedding day that he’d loved because he thought she looked like a snow maiden from a fairytale in her white kimono. 

He’d promised her father that day he’d always take care of her. He wonders when he’d forgotten that. 

‘Tsumu?’ he hears her murmur, and he jumps a little in shock because he hadn’t noticed her curled up on the couch. ‘Have you come home?’ 

Yes – he aches to answer, but does not. 

(Because he knows he chose to turn his back on this little apartment, filled to the brim with happy, golden memories. It’s his fault he can’t call this place home, not anymore.)

‘I brought pizza in case you’re hungry’, he does say loudly – carefully keeping his distance as she sits up and shakes the sleep from her eyes. 

‘Oh. It’s you’, she says, and he can hear cold steel return to her voice. ‘Why are you still here?’ 

‘I brought pizza to share. It’s Friday night, remember?’ he answers, plastering a grin on to his face, gesturing at the pizza box on the kitchen table. ‘I even got pepperoni, your favourite’. 

‘You can’t keep playing this game, Atsumu’, she says, walking over to the switches to flick on the lights. It brings her into clearer focus, allowing him to notice the pink scars stretched across the back of her hand and the front of her knees -  were they always there before? 

His eyes sweep over her form - and oh -  his heartbeat thunders, roaring in his chest because she’s wrapped herself in his old jacket - the same one he’d stolen from Osamu and threw over her trembling shoulders that fateful night when he stole a kiss from her for the first time.     

‘I miss you’. He blurts out, startling himself. ‘I want us to be a family again’. 

‘I don’t’, she answers so forcefully it makes him take a step back. ‘I want a divorce, Atsumu’. 

‘But why?’ he persists, ignoring the spike of panic coursing through his blood. ‘If you give me a chance, we could try to start over again.’

‘How many chances do you think you deserve, because you’ve already left me  twice, damn you!’ she shouts, pulling the jacket tighter around herself, as if to keep herself from unravelling apart. ‘The first time you left me when I was pregnant with our child was enough of a blow – but the second time I fell to  pieces and if it weren’t for Shino and ‘Samu, I would’ve never been able to weld myself back together again. And now after all this time, you want me to take you back?’

‘It’s only been a few months’, he pleads, hating how stupid his excuses sound, even in his head. ‘I should've managed it better, I should’ve talked things out with you instead of just leaving, and if I could rewind time and change what I did, I would, but I can’t, and I regretted it so goddamn much when I got to Milan. I’m back now, I’m begging you - please give me another chance.’ 

‘Why would you even think you deserve another chance’, she laughs, the sound fraying at its seams, sending shivers down his spine. ‘You’ve spent our entire marriage putting your dreams first, Shino a distant second, and me - your fucking wife - dead last. This past year has taught me that I don’t need you, ‘Tsumu, I don’t need your lying, cheating ass in my life when I can manage perfectly fine by myself’. 

‘I didn’t cheat on ya’, he defends himself heatedly, but she levels him a hard glare that makes his gaze slide to the ground. ‘I mean - I thought about it, but I couldn’t go through with it’, he admits, guilt flooding his belly. 

‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ she says dryly, rolling her eyes. 

‘Yes - no - I don’t know.’, he answers. ‘Look doll - I know I’ve been an asshole, I know I’ve hurt ya badly, but I know you still love me - you know your face gives ya away when you lie’, he adds, when she opens her mouth to contradict him, and she closes it in defeat. ‘Otherwise you won't be wearing my jacket when you sleep, neither would you keep my ring clean. And if ya love me, don’t ya think you should give me another chance?’

Her face twists in anguish, and there’s a rush of shame in his chest that he tells himself to ignore, reaching forward instead to cup her cold face with his hands. She winces at first, almost as if his touch is scalding, white hot with heat, but soon surrenders when she realises his grip on her is unwavering, lifting her gaze to meet his.��

‘You can’t do this to me, ‘Tsumu’, she says, her voice brittle, echoing with an aching sadness that tears a hole into his already gaping heart. 'You can’t leave as and when you feel like it and return when it suits you – that’s not how marriage or fatherhood works. And it’s not fair for you to try to guilt me into taking you back. Why should I give you another chance only to end up being hurt again? I'm only human, and there’s only so much my heart can take'.

It’s only then that it hits him that while she may have transformed herself in his absence into a woman of iron and steel, her heart is still made of glass, and a single careless touch might shatter her into fragments across the floor. And he knows he shouldn’t strike her any further with his words, but he’s a selfish fool of a man - always has been, always will be - so he pretends he does not see her pain  (looks deliberately away from the fissures in her heart that might cause her to fall apart) and continues to press hard. 

‘Please - just trust me enough not to hurt ya, I just need one more chance. Tell me ya still love me - even now.’ 

‘I do, oh gods, I do, ‘Tsumu-  ’ she gasps, almost as if she’s drowning in a whirlpool of his selfishness, her breath tipping over into a broken sob - ‘I love you, but our marriage is over - it was over the minute you put yourself before Shino and I, and left us behind to fend for ourselves.’

He shakes his head, desperately flailing against the death knell in her words - because it can’t be over, he refuses to accept it’s over, what does she mean it’s over - but he stills when she chokes back her tears to smile, lifting her hand to meet his. 

‘I’ve already paid you with my heart, ‘Tsumu - don’t you think I deserve to be free?’

Her words swirl in his mind as he makes his way back to Osamu’s flat. 

‘Things didn’t go so well, I take it?’ Osamu asks as he lurches through the door with overcast eyes. 

He inhales slowly through his nose. ‘Nope’, he admits, exhaling in defeat. ‘She isn’t prepared to take me back.’ 

Osamu pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and waves him to take a seat, sliding a plate of reheated curry rice under his nose when he does. ‘Eat up’, he says, not unkindly, and Atsumu does, even though the smell makes his head spin and every swallow of food lodges itself painfully in his stomach. 

‘Go on, say what’s on yer mind’, Atsumu says, knowing his brother too well to see through his posture of nonchalance. ‘I know you’re gonna tell me ‘ I told you so ’ and mock me with some insult intended to make me feel worse than I already am’. 

‘I’m not going to gloat, if that’s what you mean’, Osamu says mildly. ‘All I can say is that the heart is a funny, fickle thing, and sometimes it hungers for things it knows will only bring pain. But I think ya know you’ve reached a point where you need to consider whether you can live with yourself for constantly causing her pain.’ 

Atsumu stays silent, fingers tracing absently over the outline of the wedding ring in his pocket. He wonders if he’s imagining the coolness from the metal seeping into his skin.

[imaginesandinserts]

Irreverent Drabbles: Perils of Realization

Title: Irreverent Drabbles: Perils of Realization Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader Rating: G Words: 6078

A/N: This takes place chronologically between chapters 28 and 29. 

Irreverent Series Masterlist

You went on a date.

You realized that you were in love with Hotch, and your first instinct was to go on a date with someone else.

In all respects, it was a relatively good decision. Hotch was your boss and despite the close relationship you enjoyed with him, any romantic relationship between the two of you was impossible.

Miles Burton was a Senior White House Advisor whom you'd run into during your social obligations as a member of the Women in Service organization who had persistently flirted with you at the Griffiths fundraiser and had made it a point to say hello at the following two events you'd both been in attendance for.

Once you'd come to the fairly life-ruining conclusion that you were head-over-heels in love with Aaron Hotchner, you made sure to actually flirt back the next time you saw Miles Burton. That was how you found yourself on the date that had you questioning ever having harbored an attraction to men - dinner and drinks accompanied by a rendition of the 101 Life Accomplishments of Miles T. Burton.

This was hell.

After dinner, Miles had insisted on driving you home, and you cursed yourself for having taken a cab to dinner in order to avoid the lack of parking options in downtown. For some reason, he'd gotten it into his head that paying for dinner entitled him to having your mouth wrapped around his cock while he was parked in the street overlooking your house. You'd extracted yourself from the situation with as much contained outrage and dignity as you could muster, and having closed the front door, you find yourself leaning against it with only one thought in your head – Aaron Hotchner would never.

*------------*

"Rough night?"

You look over at Derek as he peers at you over his coffee mug, his eyes filling with amusement, no doubt having already taken in your slightly puffy face and the extra large cup of coffee you're carrying. After Miles had driven away - you'd watched from your window just in case - you'd needed a drink, which had turned into two drinks and ultimately falling asleep on the couch. You'd woken up late and having rushed out of the house - sans makeup - had arrived at work just in time. Hotch may no longer be upset at you being five minutes late, but he's still entirely stringent about punctuality and you hate to disappoint him.

"Bad date," you respond, dropping into your chair and whipping out the little compact and concealer from your bag so that no one else sees you looking like this.

Emily perks up at that, walking over to perch herself on your desk, the beginnings of a grin already forming on her face. "You finally went out with Burton?"

You look up at her, slightly shaking your head in disapproval at her glee. She'd warned you against him. Something about bad vibes, but since it hadn't been anything concrete, you'd impulsively gone against it. You should've known better. Emily's gut, when it came to men, was impeccably accurate.

Pursing your lips, you make sure your face no longer bears the telltale marks of having fallen asleep, drunk on your couch, before you look up at her and Derek once more. "He tried to Lewinsky me," you tell them ruefully, a scowl making its way onto your face as Emily unsuccessfully stifles a snort.

Derek's eyebrows rise in question. "It's fine, I'm okay," you assure him, before looking back at Emily. "You were right. He's an arrogant creep."

"I'm sorry," she tells you, scooching up further onto your desk and swiping up your coffee before you could stop her. "Everyday I continue to be attracted to men feels like a waste."

"Tell me about it," you mutter, careful to not allow your eyes to slip up to the landing where his office was.

"Oh come on, we're not all bad."

Both you and Emily turn to Derek with looks that say exactly what you think about that particular statement.

"Geez, tough crowd." He raises his hands in surrender, turning away from you both and back to his screen, no doubt to message Pen and fill her in on everything.

"I'd make a good lesbian."

You look up at Emily, who has a contemplative look on her face as she continues to take sips of your coffee. Your coffee. Your hot, perfectly sweetened and foamy latte.

"You would," you agree with her, reaching out for the cup, which she thankfully hands to you, before her eyes flit up to the landing. You turn and follow her gaze, eyes coming to rest on Hotch.

He's wearing the navy blue suit with the nice red patterned Gucci tie that you'd helped Jack pick out for him on Father's day. He has a folder on his hand and his brow is already furrowed, straining under the weight of the world far too early in the morning. His eyes move from the papers in his hand to all of you looking up at him, muscles tensed and breath held tight.

"Briefing. Now."

It takes only two words from him to get you all scrambling from your desks and rushing upstairs, his tone telling you everything you needed to know.

It was going to be a bad one.

*------------*

Five girls missing, three bodies found. Based on the pattern, it's already a foregone conclusion that the fourth girl was also dead. Not that you'd tell her parents that. Not until there was a body. All of your efforts were concentrated on girl number five.

You've felt the eyes of the entire team on you ever since the third body was found and Caroline Geller, lucky contestant number five, had been taken from the parking lot of a grocery store after work. All five girls were around the same age, pretty, low-risk, and had no connection to the unsub that you'd been able to work out.

You look up from the notes you'd taken while talking to Caroline's friends from work to see Hotch looking at you. When your eyes meet his, he's quick to look away, turning back towards the screen in front of him. You know why they're all concerned. While all of the girls are roughly the same age as you, Caroline Geller looked like you. Same hair color, similar features, comparable build – at first glance one might mistake her for you.

She taught ballet at the local dance school, volunteered at the soup kitchen every week, and had recently gotten engaged to her fiancé, a beautiful and heartbroken man who had planted himself on a bench outside the precinct and refused to leave his post.

You'd been at their home, combed through their life, seen the wedding invitation pinned to the refrigerator, held her pointe shoes in your hands as you looked around at everything left behind.

Your eyes stay fixed on Hotch's back as he continues to assess the screen of suspects and look at the evidence board, as though willing something to fall into place. He seems more affected by this case, this girl's disappearance, more than any other in recent memory. There's this childish, naïve part of you that's hoping against hope that it has something to do with you. Because she reminds him of you. More likely, it's the fact that he's had to walk past her fiancé, every time he's left the precinct. Hotch had been the one to speak with him, and the poor man had broken down into tears right  in front of his eyes. It was enough to affect even the coldest of hearts and Hotch hardly fit the bill of a cold-hearted man, despite any misconceptions made based on his reticent exterior. Aaron Hotchner was one of the kindest and most sincere people you've ever met – devout father, responsible team leader. His very aura commanded the sort of respect reserved for those men, the kind of men everyone looked up to and knew they'd never be.

Somehow, he's permeated your entire life without you realizing it. Ever since the two of you had made up, it felt like things were back to normal, even more than before he'd left. You had dinner with them as often as possible. Both him and Jack slept over at least once a week when there wasn't a case going on. The sight of Hotch in pajamas, disappearing into your guest bedroom was becoming a familiar one. It's beyond normal coworkers, beyond a normal friendship – you can finally admit that to yourself.

How it had happened though - how the two of you had allowed it to happen - still remained a mystery. It had been innocuous enough in the beginning. Accompanying Jack and Hotch to the Zoo or the Smithsonian. Relieving Jess when Hotch couldn't get away and she had to go home to her own family. Keeping him company late nights at the office because you hated seeing him be the last one there.

You can feel a lump rise in your throat as your eyes stay on his frame, watching as he points out an additional factor for Reid to consider in his geographic profile. You didn't deserve him. You didn't deserve someone like him, even if he were to give you the time of day.

You've already thought through how it would go if you were to tell him. Blocked out what you'd say and how'd respond. The initial shock of your revelation would catch him off-guard. He'd falter ever so slightly. It would be quickly followed by a professional and kindhearted rejection. You were his subordinate. You were too young. He's sorry if he did or said anything that might have led you on. Of course, he understands if you need some time and space to gather yourself and make your peace with the matter. Of course you'd still see Jack, he'd never deny you his son again. And he wouldn't. He'd stay true to his word.

But you'd never be the same again. You'd never be able to look at him again and feel anything but the sting of that rejection. The confirmation – you weren't good enough. It didn't matter that you'd changed everything. It didn't matter that you'd tried and tried to atone. You weren't good enough. You never would be. Not for that. Not for him. Slowly, you'd start to withdraw. You wouldn't be able to help yourself. It would hurt too much, just being near him. Without meaning to, you'd lose him.

*------------*

Samuel Nolen, age 45, a landscaper who'd worked jobs around each of the women's workplaces in the weeks leading up to their disappearance. He'd been the only common link Garcia had been able to pinpoint and he fit the profile exactly. Older white male, non-threatening demeanor, rotating job that gave him the freedom to watch his victims uninterrupted. Grew up with a single father, mother left the family when he was nine years old and was never heard from again. Garcia had found out that she'd moved out to Vegas and had a relatively successful career as a cabaret dancer.

He was sat in the interrogation room with both Rossi and Reid talking to him while the rest of you watched from the other side. There was something almost gentle about how he held himself, how he shied away from Rossi and leaned more towards Reid, whom he perceived as non-threatening. The guess was that he'd lured in his victims under the guise of needing help, and based on the man in front of you, you could see how some women might fall for it. He seemed nice. If there's one thing this job has taught you, it's that men don't ask for help from women. If a man is asking you for help, run.

Neither Rossi nor Reid were having much success with him. You could all see the twitch in his fingers as they curled around something imaginary. All of the victims had died via strangulation. The hope was that you'd captured him before he'd managed to get back to Caroline and subject her to the same fate.

Derek and JJ had been the ones to pick him up, and as Derek had marched him past you, through the precinct, Samuel's eyes had caught yours and they'd lingered, sending a chill racing down your spine. He might be able to fake it long enough to lure those women to their deaths, but there was no hiding that look in his eyes. The look of a predator.

"I want to talk to the female agent. I'll only talk to her."

It was the first thing he'd said since the interrogation had started half an hour ago. You feel yourself tense, the eyes of the rest of the team on you immediately. None of you needed to ask which agent. From the corner of your eye you look at Hotch beside you. He isn't looking at you, still glaring at the unsub through the mirror, but you can see that his jaw is set tightly.

When Rossi and Reid exit, Rossi immediately looks to you before his eyes go over you and to Hotch. You don't have to turn to see that they're engaged in a wordless debate about the right next move.

You can't help but think of that lovely empty house. The despondent man still seated outside. Those satin shoes that had just been broken in. They deserved to be worn.

"Hotch," you turn to face him, making up your mind as you do. You're going in. You're going to get answers.

He's already looking at you and you can tell that he doesn't like it at all. His forehead is already wrinkled and you can literally see the dissent on his mouth. He's incredibly protective of the team and everyone knows that you're being asked for because you look most like the victim. His ritual has been interrupted and he's going to be eager to resume it. With you as proxy.

"I have to go in," you tell him, before he can say anything to dissuade you from the notion. There was no point in waiting. Every second you waited, your chances of finding Caroline worsened.

His eyes bore into you, silently speaking his every concern into existence. You didn't have to do this, there was always another way. You look so much like her. You look too much like her. If you go in there, he won't see you. He'll see her.

It is a tense minute as you and Hotch look at one another. He's giving you the chance to back out despite knowing that's the last thing you'd do. Finally, a nod comes from him.

"We still have the personal effects that were found in her car?" You're already walking out to the main office as you direct your question to Emily, who is quick to follow you. She guides you to a box of items, among which there's some pieces of clothing. Grabbing the box, you go back to the office overlooking the interrogation room. If he was going to think you were Caroline, then you'd play into it.

Quickly, you shuffle through the clothing in front of you, selecting a well-worn seeming crewneck with her alma mater on it. Slipping your blazer off, you pull the sweater over your head, adjusting so it hung off of you in a manner reminiscent of how Caroline wore it in the photos you'd seen. You shuck off your heels as well, finding a pair of low flats in the box, which you don instead.

Behind you, you can feel the eyes of the team on you as you slowly transform yourself. For the final touch, you take your hair out of your usually prim updo and let it down. Your hair was a little bit longer than Caroline's, but, as you part it down the left side just as she did, you figure it was close enough.

Turning finally to face the unsub, you take your first breath as Caroline Geller.

*------------*

Aaron watches, fists bunched tightly together, thumb itching to move, to do something that would accomplish something larger simply watching and waiting.

They all knew what you were doing - playing up the similarities between yourself and the victim to draw out whatever it was about these women that played to the unsub's compulsions. Prey on his weaknesses just as he'd preyed on them. It was a good tactic – one he could feel forming in your head as you'd searched through the evidence box in search of props for your scene.

You're good in the field, there's no doubt about it. But here, in the interrogation room, that's where you really shine. It was one of the hardest taught skills and it was the one that you had outperformed in beyond imagination from the very start. Your methods unpredictable and out of the box, but highly effective. Out of them all, you were always the best at getting inside the heads of the unsubs and finding that one little thing that made them break.

He's seen it before countless times now, been witness to each spoken word, well placed emphasis, timely pause. The interrogation room was a stage and you were always the star.

It had been the topic of some conversation between himself and Rossi – how you'd managed to convince some of the toughest unsubs to crack under the pressure of your presence. Aaron, personally, chalked it up to your childhood and upbringing. When your entire life was a performance, you know how to play your role.

Now, as he watches you, he sees how you've managed to mimic the mannerisms of Caroline Geller from the home videos you'd seen of her – the slight tilt of the head, the fiddling with the ends of your hair. Your voice has shifted as well, a slightly higher and happier pitch, more like what one might expect of a dance teacher with students in primary school. You've done your homework on this one, that one is easily clear. However, it's the slight pause you have as the Unsub addresses you as Caroline, the nearly imperceptible tension in your shoulders as the Unsub mocks Caroline's desolate fiancé whom Aaron hadn't the heart to look at. This one had gotten to you, and you wouldn't be able to deny it. Not to him.

At long last, you get what you're searching for. The docks by the east river.

The answer came at a price – twenty five long minutes with just you and the Unsub as he poked and prodded at your psyche just as you did to him.

The confirmation from Garcia, of a heat signature at the given location, comes within the minute and Aaron is quick to rap his knuckles against the glass, signaling your curtain call.

*------------*

You can't save them all. That's the one lesson every new agent learns at their own pace.

You can't save them all.

She'd suffocated before you could get to her. You'd been too late.

JJ hadn't let you see Caroline's body, dragging you back and away from the dock containers when Derek had emerged with a somber face, slowly shaking his head.

Your gun feels heavy in your hand, and it is only out of sheer rote habit that you manage to disarm and reholster the weapon. JJ stands with you as the flurry of people begin to process the scene, lit only by the red and blue flashing lights of the police cars.

You'd failed. You'd been too slow to extract the location, too slow to get there. You'd been too damn slow.

You've lost victims before. Everyone has. But you lived in this girl. You'd worn her clothes, her shoes, taken her name. You'd walked like her, changed your voice to mimic hers. It was as though, by pretending to be her, you'd taken in a part of her that now yearned to reunite with the rest of its whole, but it wasn't able to. So now a piece of Caroline Geller rattled inside of you, sobbing and crying out for the rest of itself.

Hotch and Emily finally emerge and you follow JJ to join them as Hotch assigns everyone their roles. One of the policemen interjects and informs him that Caroline's fiancé had insisted on coming along and was now waiting with a deputy by the barricades. You see Hotch nod, his eyes briefly moving towards the direction of the barricade, before refocusing on the team and instructing Reid to assist with the evidence logging.

As everyone starts to disperse, you can feel a lead ball drop into the pit of your stomach, knowing that Hotch now had the task of informing the fiancé that Caroline Geller was dead.

"Hotch," you begin, his name coming out full and heavy, sitting in your mouth like warm air.

He halts at your voice, turning back towards you. He'd already given you your assignment, so he has to be wondering what you could possibly have to say to him.

You look up at him. It's just you, him, and Emily left now, as she waits for you to help her with processing paperwork on the unsub that Hotch had tasked you both with. "I – ," you falter as you meet his eyes, and you can barely see a hint of him behind them. He'd already donned his mask to go face the fiancé.

"I'm sorry," you manage quickly, jaw tight and heart clenching at the awfulness of the job that he now has to do. The job he always has to do.

The only acknowledgement you receive that he had even heard what you said over the din of the police and ambulance sirens, was the barest of wrinkling to his forehead. The ever so slight slippage of the mask during which you thought you might get to catch a glimpse of him, but he catches it far too quickly and keeps it in place. As if it never happened. Not even nodding, he turns away and walks towards the barricade.

It's a miserable few hours for Emily afterwards, you're sure, as you monotonously follow her back to the police station and begin the task of coordinating with the local office to handle the case and subsequent prosecution.

Emily likes to talk while the two of you work together. Rarely ever do the two of you work without talking, however she seems to pick up on your mood fairly well and the two of you quietly go through all of the required processes.

"You know what your problem is?"

You look up at Emily, who had finally broken the silence, her sharp voice cutting through the small storage room that the two of you inhabited, gathering all of the files that would need to be sent off to the local office.

You swallow, bracing yourself for the worst. At your slight nod, she proceeds, her voice a calm fury like you'd never seen before. "Even after everything you've done, after everything you had to go through, you seem to harbor this delusion that you're not supposed to be here."

"What're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you. Apologizing to Hotch. You think you don't belong here. That you aren't good enough. You think that girl dying today was your fault."

You scoff, shaking your head. "It was my fault," you retort, grabbing the box you'd just finished packing and making your way to the door before you're blocked by Emily, preventing your escape.

"No, it wasn't. The only person responsible for that girl's death is the guy who's going to rot in prison for the rest of his miserable, fucked up life."

You sigh, shuffling your weight from one foot to the other. "If I'd gotten – "

"You can't save everyone," she interrupts, barreling onwards. "We're going to try. We're going to try our best every single time. But we can't save everyone. None of us can. Not you, not me, not even Hotch. But that doesn't make it your fault."

Emily stares down at you, reaching out and grabbing the heavy box out of your hands and setting it down on the floor by your feet. You look away, up at the ceiling, tears pricking at your eyes, causing them to burn. Your chest feels tight and you take a shuddered breath. The lure of wanting to believe her was so very strong, struck against the waves of dissonance it posed in your head.

Emily softens her voice, reaching out towards you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders as she easily pulls you into her chest. "Hotch isn't blaming you. He doesn't think you have anything to be sorry for."

*------------*

The plane ride back was a somber affair, everyone on the team off on their own. Spencer was reading a new book whose title had caught your interest, Rossi was tucked away in a corner with his eyes closed but you're not sure if he's actually asleep. Both Emily and JJ were sitting close together, quietly sharing a bag of Cheetos while JJ worked on her presentation to Henry's class for Career Day and Emily bided the time alternating between reading the trashy romance she'd found left behind in her hotel room and staring out the window. Derek sat across from you with his headphones on, leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. Across the way, you can see Hotch diligently working on his report for the case, the only sound emanating from his faint taps against the keyboard.

Emily's words still play in your head, now competing with that churning voice that you'd had in your head for the past few weeks – you would never be good enough for the likes of Aaron Hotchner. Her words were starting to put some minute cracks in the foundation of that particular statement, and you had no idea what to make of that.

You hear the tapping of the keyboard stop momentarily and watch as Hotch turns up to look at you, your eyes meeting for a long second, before he breaks his gaze, returning back to the screen in front of him. From your seat, you can barely make out a slight crinkling of his forehead as his hands hover above the keyboard, as though faltering in typing out his next words. You have to guess that he's arrived at the part of his statement around the interrogation. You turn away, following Emily's lead and staring out your own window, while unbeknownst to you, his eyes can't help but return to you countless times more.

It felt as though you'd thought of very little besides Hotch, since that day that your mother had visited. She'd left in the wake of one of the few times you'd seen him lose his cool with someone, and having it be done on your behalf, in your defense, had somehow unveiled this entirely ridiculous truth that you'd tried in vain to deny.

You were in love with Aaron Hotchner.

You had no idea what to do with that.

Dating other people hadn't worked out so well.

Trying to simply get over it had been an exercise in vain.

You've run miles in your own head, trying to make sense of it. The question begged itself – why Aaron Hotchner? If you merely wanted a husband and kids, you've no doubt you could have that with anyone you got along with well enough.

Your mind had briefly flitted back to that final date you'd had with Cedric Kensington. It had been highly promising, you'd finally felt it heading in a definite direction and you could see it. You could see yourself being with Cedric, marrying him, having children with him if you were so inclined. Had you not gotten the call from Garcia, informing you that Foyet was back on the grid, who knows what could have happened. Maybe you could've had that with Cedric. Having that perfect life with someone else was not entirely out of the realm of possibility.

You'd thought of John. How it had never been the right time when it came to the two of you. Then finally, when you could conceive being something real with him, you'd faltered. You couldn't go through with it. It hadn't been the right time to choose him. It hadn’t been the right time to choose anyone but yourself.

It had taken you some time but you think you've finally come to the right conclusion of why it was Hotch and no one else – the possibility of losing him was terrifying. Even when the two of you had been on the outs, you hadn't been able to leave, staying anchored to him despite being furious with him. Seeing him had been torture. Not seeing him had been so much worse, and you couldn't bring yourself to endure that again.

Given the absolute fact of the matter – you being in love with Hotch - there were really only two paths forward that you could see. Ignore it and hope it goes away, or tell him and pray you didn't lose him in the process.

The Pro/Con list to that second option had begun, unbidden, the week prior. Your mind going rogue and dreaming up ridiculous and absurd scenarios of you confessing your truth to him.

Pro: You're absolutely, unshakably, madly in love with him.

Con: There's a fairly good chance that he does not and will never reciprocate those feelings.

Pro: Aaron Hotchner was loyal to you. You had always felt he was, but your conversation a few weeks back had cemented that. He would do anything to help you, no matter what.

Con: He's twelve years older than you and has a kid.

Pro: You love his kid.

Con: Between the two of you, your past trauma could be its own wing in the Library of Congress.

Pro: You're both good at getting the other person to talk.

Con: You work together and workplace romances are frowned upon. He was your supervisor, and dating him would no doubt lead to rumors and malicious gossip, which would follow you the rest of your career at the Bureau. It could tarnish you entirely and it could also hurt him.

Con: You would not be alright if the two of you didn't work out. You know that you weren't even together, but the idea of ending things with Hotch, after knowing what it was to have him – that would break you entirely.

Con: He was going to say no, so it was all a moot point.

Towards the end, you'd run out of items for the Pros to balance out each Con, and as of now, the Cons were definitely in the lead.

*------------*

The two of you are once again the last two people in the office. Emily had been the last to leave, leaving her book from the plane on your desk, having already put sticky note bookmarks in all the right spots. She'd winked as she left, encouraging you to skip the rest of the book and skip straight to the good stuff. You had to smile at her attempts to cheer you up. Some friends bought you a drink. Emily Prentiss curated sex scenes that she thought you'd enjoy reading.

You glance up and see that Hotch's door is shut, the orange blush emanating through the glass windows, alluding to the fact that he'd given up on using the overhead lights. They were too bright for him and gave him headaches, so despite the strain on his eyes, he preferred to read by the glow of his desk lamp. With Jack away at sleepaway camp for Cub Scouts for the week, he's unlikely to leave early.

You grab your finished report and head up the stairs to his door, stopping and knocking before hearing his permission to enter. As you open the door, your eyes go immediately to his desk, however he's not seated behind it. Instead, you're greeted by a most unfamiliar sight.

Aaron Hotchner is seated on the brown leather couch in his office, a glass of amber liquid in his hands. You don't think you've ever seen Hotch not working in his office. Sure, he'll take a break here and there when you interrupt, but the image of him outright sitting on the couch, not a report in sight, was entirely foreign to you.

It feels as though you're intruding. Like you’ve stumbled upon something entirely private, because Hotch doesn’t strike you as the kind of guy that makes a habit out of drinking in his office by himself.

You could imagine this was something he did with Rossi on occasion, the two of them sharing a drink after a rough case or catching up and reminiscing about the so-called good old days, before the team had a plane on call.

"You can set that on the desk," he tells you, his voice deeper, made warm by the liquor. He doesn't look up from his glass, eyes fixed on something in the far off distance.

Unsure how to react to the sight in front of you, you quickly make your way across his office, setting your file on top of the already tall stack at the edge of his desk.

Turning around, you quickly walk back towards the door, eager to not bother him any longer than absolutely necessary. When you get to the door, you hesitate, turning back to face him. Before you can stop yourself, you can feel the words tumbling out of you. "Hotch, are you alright?"

He looks up in your direction, his expression entirely unreadable. He nods slowly, and you can see a deep sigh work its way through him, before he finally meets your eyes.

"It was a rough case. Telling the families isn't something I'll ever get used to, I think."

You nod sympathetically. It wasn't fair that it always fell on him.

"I'll be fine, though. Just need to be alone after some of them."

You nod again, not trusting yourself to say much. As you turn to leave, taking his words as your cue, he speaks again.

"You can stay."

You turn back, your head tilting in some confusion as you meet his eyes once more. He looks at you for a second longer, before reaching over to the side table and grabbing a second glass. He pours from the bottle of good scotch that Rossi had given him last Christmas while you watch him.

Proffering the glass in your direction, he beckons you forward. "You're easy to be alone with."

Somehow, in a slight daze, you manage to walk back towards the couch, reaching out and grasping the heavy crystal glass in your hand. He motions for you to join him and you sink into your usual spot, tucking your legs underneath yourself.

His eyes stay on you as you settle in and take a sip of the scotch, feeling it burn your lips, the tip of your tongue, before blooming into a subtle smoky sweetness in your mouth, settling into your stomach like dying embers.

"Are you alright?" he asks, watching you carefully.

You try not to squirm under his inspecting gaze, unable to offer much beyond a shrug. "I will be."

It's quiet for a moment as he continues to look at you and you distract yourself with a stray thread in the cushion stitching.

You hear him clear his throat, shifting slightly on the couch so that his leg bends at the knee as he turns his body to face you, arm stretched out on the back of the couch, fingers grazing the top of your shoulder. "You did everything you could."

You feel that heavy tug in your stomach, unable to look at him, knowing that your face would betray you entirely.

He says your name, soft on his lips, gentle with every part of you. He waits until you look up at him, meeting his brown eyes that held the warmth of an everlasting hearth.

"You did."

You nod slowly, because who were you to disagree with him. Because if Aaron Hotchner said you did everything you could, then maybe it was true.

Not much more is said that night, as the two of you sit side by side.

Pro: You could be alone with Aaron Hotchner.

[perverse-idyll]

Hello! I hope you are well! 💛 The idea of you having works in progress thrills me to no end, let me tell you! So if you don't mind answering some more wip asks....what about 7, 10, and 16?

Also, sending you lots of good vibes for both writing, and life! ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨

Thank you so much, Danni! I wish I could be equally thrilled by my WIPs, but my main feeling about them is "For the love of sanity, let me finish at least two of them this year." And I appreciate the good vibes. I can truly use them right about now. ❤️‍🩹 I wish the same for you. Your outpouring of fic this year has been a fantastic fireworks display!

7. do you outline before writing? if so, what’s your outlining process like?

Nope! I'm a total pantser. I always have particular scenes in mind - I wouldn't be able to start a story without those intoxicating but very loosely linked moments of inspiration - but I don't plan and I don't outline. I've tried sitting down and hammering out outlines in the past, and it bored me to the point of abandoning the story. It utterly killed the desire. But I usually have a general sense of the buildup and the direction I want the story to take, and often know where it will end, although once I reach the ending it can give me conniptions because I can't nail down the specific lines as neatly or elegantly as I'd hoped. I also write out of order, especially now when weeks can pass with no time to write. I hate losing a scene to the erosion of daily drudgery, or feeling the life go out of it, so I'll write the image when it occurs to me and then keep it on tap until I've pushed forward to the relevant point in the fic.

10. how many wips do you actually have right now?

Seven total:

The Blood of Stars (Snarry)

Impossible Without It (Snarry)

Untitled "back from the dead" fic (Snarry)

The long version of The Lost World (Snarry)

The long version of Scenes from an Insurrection (Snape/McGonagall)

Untitled gift fic for Kelly Chambliss (McGonagall/Grubbly-Plank, with Snape friendship)

Fic of Harry finding Snape alive within Snape's memories (Snarry - this one only exists as a few opening scenes followed by several pages of notes)

16. do you count brainstorming/daydreaming/outlining as a part of the writing process? why or why not?

Oh, absolutely. The habit of daydreaming predates the act of writing. Once I embraced the world of reading as a child, I started learning how to translate the essence of an internal landscape or fantasy through storytelling; to shape and articulate those daydreams. These days, brainstorming and woolgathering and mulling things over are what keep the ideas alive when I don't have the freedom to sit down and put them into words. Sometimes the only thing that keeps them alive. All that wandering around in my own head is where the most vivid images come from, the glimpses that seem to appear out of nowhere and have the incandescence that really excites me. I always work best when I have several scenes in mind that I'm actually infatuated with - scenes that distill my feelings for a character or consummate a foreshadowed moment, usually some emotional payoff. Without the daydreaming, without the unpredictable and magical inspiration, I don't know if I'd still be writing. It's sustained me through some very dry spells.

Adding here, @fuck-mate asked for #23

23. what’s something that you think all writers should know? 

Speaking as a reader, I'd say SPaG aka Spelling, Punctuation, and Grammar. I may be more persnickety than most, but persistent errors of this sort pretty quickly wear down my interest in a fic. Of course, when writing fanfic, you're not obliged to do anything except for fun, but in my ideal world, writers would care about the flow and clarity of sentences.

As a writer? I'm stumped. There are all kinds of rules and suggestions and practices, and none of them apply to all of us. Not everyone needs to be passionate about writing. Not everyone defines "fun" in the same way. Some writers have only one heartfelt subject, some have a hundred. Some people would stop writing altogether if forced to write every day. Some take years to find their voice, some burst forth complete from the first time they sit down to a notebook or a keyboard. The one truth that seems, in this current climate of overwrought moralizing, to bear repeating to the majority of writers is: "You can't please everybody, so the least you can do is please yourself."

[lazarettta]

Misthios VI

Pairing (Spartan! Reader x Mother Miranda)

Word Count (1.4k)

Rating (T)

“Yeah, life was more intense before the world became so modern and technology dependent. It was simpler back then...but it wasn't always so great.”

“But you were a mercenary, right?” Daniela asked, staring up at you wide bright eyes and too morbidly fascinated with the conversations current topic but you figured out a while ago that these women weren't at all human, looking like one didn't count in your books, and that they were not saints, “A Misthios? Did you ever lose a fight?”

“Oh yeah, lost a couple,” you laughed, glancing at Alcina for a moment but like her daughters she was listening raptly to your stories though she was far more regal and less obvious about her own curiosity than her daughters were. “Most of those were when I was younger and for a merchant to kill a kid was just bad for business, so I usually got a good beating and yelled at before I was let go.”

“That's...” Daniela made a face, not impressed, “Lame.”

You chuckled, shrugging because she wasn't wrong, “It was, but when you're hungry...you take risks like that, had too.”

“So...how did you end up surviving the streets if you were caught and beaten all the time?” Cassandra asked, speaking for the first time in a few hours or so—being the most reluctant to fully interact with you but even she couldn't deny that it was nice to talk to another immortal that wasn't in the village. Not that the other Lord's really talked to them anyway.

“I said I was beaten, never said I gave up. Taking odd jobs all the time for drachmae teaches you things...I used those skills to survive and eventually I was making a name for myself—and then the villagers just came looking for me with their monies. Help me this, help me that...I had to learn a hard lesson that not everything could be solved with words, y'know?”

On the other side of the door, Miranda stood and listened as your voice carried over the roar of the fire as you answered any of the questions the Dimitrescu daughters asked while their mother remained steadfast and quiet in her chair closer to the fire. Miranda had been standing outside of the study for close to an hour now, just listening to you reminisce and never shying away from a question and more than once Miranda caught herself smiling behind her mask every now and then. She too remembered a few of those stories, ones that you've told her plenty of times...others she has experienced right by your side.

It stung a bit when you omitted her from those particular stories, how flawlessly you did so really—Miranda hated it, really. She hated how persistent part of her thoughts were, reminding her that she could've had this with you with children of your own shared between the both of you. And more than once did that vision lay itself out for Miranda—for her to have everything she's ever let slip between her fingers. Those pesky intrusive thoughts weren't new but harder to shake off now that she physically had you...but could she keep you?

~~

You were in the middle of telling the story about being hunted by a albino bear when you saw Alcina tense up from the corner of your eye before the Lady of the castle was rising to her feet and that was the only warning you received before the double doors were opened and Miranda walked in, wearing her robes sans her gold encrusted ravens mask. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun but there were a few strands loose in the back. You hadn't even realized you were also on your feet until Miranda stopped a few inches away from you, closer than you expected and it amused her to make you squirm a little.

“Hello again.”

“Hi.”

Miranda held your gaze a little longer, hers eyes flickered around your face as if trying to commit it to memory before she turned to the Countess, “Lady Dimitrescu.”

“Mother Miranda.” Alcina nodded, her eyes flickering to yours momentarily before she addressed her daughters who were watching everything and everyone closely, “Alright girls, story time is over. Go finish your tasks for the day.”

You weren't surprised by the complaints and grumbling from the three daughters but you weren't surprised when they didn't outright protest—Alcina didn't seem the type to put up with backtalk, especially not from them. However, when Alcina herself stepped out of the room, you were surprised not expecting to be alone with Miranda this soon. You weren't sure if you were ready to do this with her yet, but time hasn't always been your friend lately, has it?

Once the doors soundly clicked shut, emphasizing that you were both alone, you had no idea what you should be doing. You rubbed the back of your neck, a nervous tick that you've carried with you since you were a teenager, “Ah, there's still some tea left, do you want any?”

Miranda glanced at the tea tray sitting on the coffee table, shaking her head, “I prefer coffee.”

“I don't think this castle knows what a coffee maker is, to be honest.”

Miranda shared your small smile, hoping to put you at ease for what she was about to say next, “No, but my house does.” Miranda's smile grew a little when your shoulders tensed beneath her heavy stare.

“Oh, you took care of that problem already?”

“It took care of itself, really.” Miranda shrugged, shifting her wings slightly catching your attention and this time it was Miranda's turn to tense, but whatever she was going to say next was caught in her throat when one of your hands came up to her shoulder, at the bend of her wing.

“They've grown,” you murmured quietly as you have a better look at them, you saw the night before but you were distracted. But you couldn't bring yourself to actually touch her—you didn't have that right anymore, and you wanted to slap yourself for forgetting that. You cleared your throat, shoving both of your hands in your pants pockets and took a step back—but Miranda followed you, causing you both to freeze. Her expression mirrored the surprise you felt to some degree and you knew that she didn't mean to do that and it furthered convinced you that it wouldn't be a good idea for you both to be completelyalone.

“I think it would be best if we talked here.”

“No.”

“Why not? We're already here and alone—”

Miranda sighed heavily, her eyes narrowing slightly, “Because I'd rather have this conversation in the privacy of my own home than someone else's. Preferably not where it echoes either, or have you gotten quieter when you're upset, hm? Do you want the entire village to know our business?”

Eyes downcast you licked your lips and you didn't see Miranda's glare waver, but she had a point—there were things you'd rather not have overheard. You exhaled heavily, get your shit together (Y/n)! “You're not carrying me.”

Miranda's grin was predatory and smug, “It'll be quicker. I won't drop you, I promise.”

“The last time you made me a promise, you ripped my heart out. Do you remember that?”

“(Y/n)...”

“I gave you everything, Miranda! And you threw it back in my face by marrying some bastard Prince behind my back?! I was fucking humiliated and broken because of you! So, no...keep your promises, Miranda. And no, you are notcarrying me.”

The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them but you couldn't find it in yourself regret them—the relief of getting them off your chest felt too good. You weren't sure were that flash of emotion came from as you'd been relatively good at keeping your cool but Miranda had always made you emotionally charged whether you wanted to be or not—both good and bad. And right now old memories were resurfacing and old feelings were warring against the new ones.

“There's so much you didn't know, (Y/n)! I—”

A tray was dropped down the hallway outside of the study startling both of you and reminding Miranda where she was.

“...right,” Miranda clasped her hands together in front of her to keep from fidgeting with her rings, “I'll speak to Alcina and see about you procuring one of her horses for a few days.”

You didn't verbally respond and you watched Miranda cross the room back to the door. She paused at the door, poised to turn as if she wanted to tell you something but after a second or two, you were alone. You sat down on the edge of the coffee table, combing one hand through your hair, “Fuck...what am I doing?”

[shoichee]

39 + Murasakibara please ! ! ! <3

hello, my anon!! here’s more tooth-rotting fluff <33

Murasakibara x Reader

39. “Please come home, I miss you”

Word Count: 1266

prompt list here

»»—————　☼　—————««

If there was one sentence to describe your relationship with Murasakibara, Himuro would confidently say that it would be: “You’re willingly participating in a free trial of a parental program.”

No, seriously.

Himuro knows the feeling of constantly checking over his back to see if a certain man-child was lugging behind or the feeling of dread whenever there weren't any snacks on his hand (or nearby him) to bribe the said childish man.

Which was why he can only imagine how much more clingier Murasakibara was with you, especially since he was completely enamored with you (even if he didn’t openly express it). Nothing has really changed ever since they graduated from Yōsen.

But imagine his surprise when he recently finds out about the truth about you two’s relationship dynamics.

“Hello! Muji Bakery, how may I help you?” Himuro smoothly delivers his rehearsed lines with ease as he juggles with the orders on his hands while clutching the telephone with his neck and shoulder. “Ah… yes, the preorders will definitely be ready by this evening, and we will be happy to serve you the fresh pastries when you stop by to pick it up… yes, they’ll still be warm even in this weather… yes, please do not worry, they will absolutely be a treat for your Christmas dinner… have a wonderful day and Merry Christmas.”

He sighs before he turns to his best friend behind the kitchen. “Atsushi, I sincerely hope you’re not spending all that time frosting when you still have those shredded pork buns to make on time… along with the other orders.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Murasakibara huffs as he peeks over the high counter. “Leave me alone and do your work.”

“Haha… I guess I should.” He silently chuckles at his snappy attitude before facing the incoming customer at his cashier. He knows the exact reason why Murasakibara is in a bad mood.

You haven’t stopped by today.

Oftentimes, you would drop by during your work break with a bag of a variety of pastries, sweets, and breads you accumulated from either your workplace’s food court or the shops nearby. Murasakibara would have his own bag of pastries made from this bakery, and both of you would have a “bread trade” before exchanging a quick peck, snuggle, and a short conversation before you would leave the bakery back to your work.

After dealing with a massive mob of customers and seeing that the onslaught of customers has temporarily halted, he turns to Murasakibara after hearing loud grumbles on his end.

“Atsushi, I know you’re antsy right now, but if you keep this up, even if we’re working part-time for a local shop, the old gran will have to fire us.”

“I know that.”

Another phone ring interrupts their conversation, adding further to an already hectic indoor scene of fluorescent light vomit, incessant chatter, and repetitive festive melodies.

“... Hello? Muji Bakery… (y/n)-san?”

Murasakibara snaps his head up at the sound of your name.

“Himuro!” you huffed on the other line. “I ordered my Murasakibara and he isn’t here in front of me yet—and don’t say that I have to pick him up for delivery, because the crowds make it impossible…”

“What?”

“Where is he right now? I wanna talk to himmmm… He didn’t answer when he was supposed to normally have a break.”

“We’re both at work, and you know that,” he replied exasperatedly. “It’s the holidays, so of course there was no way we would have any breaks. Working overtime isn’t really fun.”

“Where’s Atsu right nowww?” you groaned.

“Over there still frosting the same damn bread.” At his words, Murasakibara sends a pointed glare at the ravenette.

“Pass the phone to him, pleaseeee Himuro?”

“... You can’t just call the bakery’s number for yourself. The other customers need to call here too—”

“PLEASE WAIT—JUST GIVE ME 5 MINUTES TOPS.”

Himuro sighs at your persistence and hands the entire telephone (receiver, cable, dial pad, and all) to Murasakibara’s high counter, and he leaves the receiver face-up with the speaker on.

“Chibi-chin… sorry.”

“Atsuuuuuuuuu~” you whined. “Please come home… I miss you…” Himuro raises a surprised brow at your words. Since when were you ever this clingy?

But by the looks of it, Murasakibara isn’t phased one bit. “I dunno when the old lady will let us out of our shifts though… I can only try to convince her to go easy for today.”

“Tch, why did you have to take a shift today?” Himuro could definitely hear the pout in your voice.

“If I spend it all on snacks and don’t earn the money back, how will I pay for school?” he deadpanned, still focusing on decorating the pastries in front of him.

“Hmph, you really, really better make it up to me,” you sighed. It was clear that you accepted the high possibility that Murasakibara might not make it home early this Christmas.

“Hn, I will.”

“Love you love you lots, Atsu.”

“Hn.”

With that, you hang up and Himuro promptly takes the phone back to its original spot on the front counter as he sees the next customer mob pouring in. And Murasakibara was still working on the same order.

It was going to be a long workday.

———

Evening crawled by, and while the crowds have become more manageable, they were still an intimidating size to handle. To be honest, Himuro completely lost track of who, what, where, how—he was going on auto-pilot, his lips uttering the same lines from muscle memory and his fingers clicking the familiar patterns of the cashier as he habitually thumbs the paper bills from the machine.

Occasionally, he would eye Murasakibara to make sure he wouldn’t slack off on his orders, but it seems that the giant was off in his own world of an auto-pilot.

“Atsushi,” Himuro calls out, causing the giant to jolt from surprise. “Isn’t it getting late?”

“Hm? Well, yeah.”

“Just go home. It’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“I’ve been noticing how you’ve been meticulously making certain desserts for way too long, and that’s not like you at all. They’re for (y/n)-san, aren’t they?”

Murasakibara only gives incoherent grumbles as a reply before turning his full attention back to his workspace, assuming that Himuro would chastise him again.

“Ah, so that was why there was so much dough in the ovens this entire morning and afternoon. Were you mass-preparing these beforehand? All so you can spare your remaining time for these particular desserts?”

The pastry chef harshly frowns but says nothing, but the way he gently squeezes the frosting bag and how he places the finished treats into a decorated box told Himuro everything. “Why don’t you get ready to go home? I’ll cover for your shift too.”

Murasakibara immediately snaps his head up and stares at Himuro in suspicion before he sees the earnestness in his eyes.

“Seriously?”

“Well, you already did most of the work. All I have to do is watch the ovens before they finish baking. I didn’t think of (y/n)-san as someone of high maintenance, but now that I do know, I’d probably get an earful the next day about how you couldn’t make it for the holidays.”

“Muro-chin…”

“You’re covering the next shift I pick, though.”

“... Yeah.” Himuro quietly laughs when he sees Murasakibara’s rare, genuine smile and ushers him to change out of the apron to get ready to see you.

With a carefully-tied bundle snug under his arm, Murasakibara casually waves before he leaves, a soft jingle signalling his otherwise silent departure.

“... Merry Christmas, you two.”

[anonthenullifier]

Alright, my headcanon/prompt that's been living in my mind rent free is the idea that Vision doesn't buy Wanda flowers, he buys her vases with sprouts on them, new life ready to grow. When he first heard of people gifting each other flowers he didn't fully understand why you would kill something, and make your loved one watch it slowly wilt away, when you could get them something they'd help survive. After watching so many loved ones die, I just think Wanda would be really touched to help something live and grow (just like her love for him blossoming)

I love this head canon so much. So damn much! I’ve written a story before (It’s About Thyme) that has them planting a garden and nurturing it as a way to mirror their relationship so to say I like to think about them with plants is an understatement. And then your gorgeous head canon looks at it in a way I never thought about and it’s perfect. Thank you for sharing it!

Here’s a little fic that came to mind as I was reading your ask. I hope you like it!

—

To say Vision is perplexed would be an understatement. Which is itself surprising because he has come to a tentative theory that to be human is to be irrational, and yet this, this crosses a line of reasoning he cannot begin to fathom. Typically he would have Wanda here to volley his concerns towards and to then explain in however many examples and phrasings that it takes for him to understand. Except he is here covertly, under the expert opinion of Sam, to procure a token of affection for all that Wanda provides him. Which brings him to a standstill of indecision waltzing along with a niggling horror at all the implications.

Luckily for him, he hopes, there is a sales associate close by. “Pardon me?” The man turns towards him, brown apron emblazoned with stitched on daisies and a name tag that reads Samuel, a fitting name since the other Samuel in Vision’s life suggested this course of questionable action. “I was advised that purchasing and gifting flowers is a socially appropriate way to convey affection.”

Samuel’s eyes squint for half a second, a common reaction whenever Vision goes out in public. “Uh, yeah. What does your special um,” this scanning over of Vision’s body is also common, uncomfortable, but he does his best to act unperturbed otherwise it might stoke potential fear into ire from his observer, “individual like? We’ve got roses, carnations, lilies, daisies, asters. Anything float your boat?”

If this decision were a boat it would be taking on waves at the moment. “But all of these have been removed from their roots.”

“Yeah, kinda the whole point of making a bouquet.”

The sass is not appreciated but Vision believes in remaining polite because the attitude of the man could be compounded with mistreatment from other customers or negative life events and not solely due to Vision’s inquiry. “Does that not mean they will wilt and die?”

Samuel does not share the distaste for this thought, a simple shrug and a rather unhelpful piece of advice given, “They all come with flower food, helps them stay fresh a bit longer.”

“I see.” Vision determines this issue may be best cogitated alone, so he sends a polite, tight lipped smile towards the man, “Thank you, Samuel.”

“Yep.”

The man leaves and Vision continues his stare down with the beautifully variegated display case in front of him. The differing colors and petal shapes form a kaleidoscope of awe, one that feels romantic and wispy and desirable. Except they will all wilt, the petals will curl up and fall to the ground, and within a week it will be in the trash. His love is not so brief, so fragile and he is perplexed as to why he would present Wanda with a token that cannot survive. Would it not imply his love will fade? That he will, even if fed her own love and passion and attention, eventually fall away from her? Even if she were to dry them out, like he has seen Laura do at the Barton farmhouse, it would require her to keep them someplace safe and to never touch them, the lifeless remnants too delicate and brittle for anything other than distant observation—a poor metaphor for his intended message.

Wanda has endured so much already, the memories as vivid as the Tiger Lily in front of him, days of listlessness and tears, evenings brimming over with invasive memories of all the deaths and all the pain, the only salves he could offer were strong arms and gentle reassurances. Why would he gift her something that will also die? Provide a further suggestion that her life must always be dictated by loss? Why would anyone, rational or not, believe temporal brevity a better show of love than something lasting?

Vision turns away from the bouquets, prepared to leave the store and find somewhere quiet to reassess his gift. It is this defeated swivel that brings a small display into his view, one tucked away as if it was an afterthought. On it are simple clay pots of various sizes, bags of potting soil heaped on the ground next to it, and a little table top rotating kiosk of seed packets awaiting to be planted and nurtured into a long and beautiful life. Vision’s lips curl up at the new idea in his head.

————

There is a subtle chime to her left, in the general vicinity of her door. It is the closest he ever gets to a knock. Wanda puts her book down and waits for the unmistakable gleam of vibranium and the glow of Vision’s phasing to come through the wall located mere inches from her fully functioning door. “Hey Vizh.”

He pauses, irises twisting rapidly to the left and lips puckered as if he’s been caught doing something wrong. Which would be not using her door and yet he still persists and still always makes this face, and it’s a welcome joy in her day. “Good afternoon, Wanda.” Unlike usual, his hands remain behind his back, pulling the threads of his synthetic sweater into a tension similar to his body. “I, um, brought you something.”

Hoping to ease his nerves, she shuffles to the side a bit and then pats the mattress, inviting him to come over and haltingly lower himself to the bed, body remaining twisted to hide whatever it is. “What is it?”

Slowly he brings his arms into view and in his right hand is a clay pot with a little seed packet inside, all wrapped up in a red bow, and in his left is clenched a small bag of soil. Wanda shares her gratitude with a smile, scarlet twining around the gifts and bringing them to her hands to inspect them closer. “I had been informed by a trusted associate that flowers are considered the socially acceptable gift for conveying affection.”

Gently, soothingly she offers a minor correction, knowing he doesn't like to be embarrassed by misinterpreting social advice. “Usually they mean a bouquet.”

A grave nod accompanies his, “I am aware.” Vision lifts his hand, waving it around to help usher out the full story, “But it seemed incongruous to provide you a fleeting gift for a sentiment that is not so,” he hesitates, maybe because he realizes the implication himself or because he can see it in the growing smile on her face, either way he’s committed to the admission of how long he sees this new relationship going and she’s hoping he won’t back down now. And he doesn’t, even if he stammers through it. “brief. I would rather my affections be shown in an appropriately long lasting form.”

Experiencing the fascinating way his mind works is always a pleasure and, due to listening to him and learning the way he thinks and feels, she understands it perfectly, feels a deep, warming thankfulness at this chance to play a hand in allowing something to live and grow, a chance she’s been denied so much before. Wanda ropes him closer with her powers and firmly plants a kiss to his nervous smile. “Thank you.” She unwraps the bow and studies the picture of a happy sunflower, a little confused. “I didn’t think these were indoor plants.”

“Oh well,” now that an explanation that is not tied to emotions is needed, he loosens up, “they are meant to be started and nurtured indoors and then, once large enough, can be moved outside or to a greenhouse.”

“Do we have a greenhouse here?”

Vision considers this, lips parted as his thoughts tick away. “Well no, but it could be enjoyable to convert one of the older equipment sheds into such a structure so we could have a year round garden.”

This simple gift blossoms into something bigger, something rooted in a hope for a future together. “I think it would be fun.”

“Yes,” Vision slips back into a slight, carefully paced cadence, “I selected this particular flower because it is often symbolic of adoration, loyalty and um,” he acts as if his actions have not already made it clear, as if his words should be a surprise, one he isn’t certain she’ll like, “longevity.”

Wanda offers a sunny smile, hoping to sear away any question as to her appreciation and reciprocal feelings, “I love it.” An equally exuberant curve forms on his lips. “Want to help me plant it?”

His instantaneous and joyful, “Of course,” is all it takes to settle them into a path towards a life and love they’ll nurture together.

[socketz]

Johnny Depp x Female!Reader

Indulge Me.

Type : Fluff! (with a wee bit of Angst thrown in there)

Warnings : Internal conflict, swearing, kissing (pretty detailed, though nothing overly sexual), a little alcohol consumption I suppose, and that’s all. It’s super fluffy! 

Word Count : 6.3k (kinda short, I know :/ my bad) 

Request : Not Requested.

Summary : Johnny x Female!Reader, where they have been close friends for a super long time, and the reader (you!) has slowly developed feelings for him. A confession, a walk, and a sweet, slow, kiss, in the rain. 

Authors Note : I don’t know why I got the urge to do this, but I started writing and simply did not stop, so here we are. I thought it turned out quite cute, although it is very cliche :) Also, Johnny is not famous in this, though it’s set in like ‘91, or ‘90. He’s just a really sexy regular guy, I suppose. That’s all :) Enjoy!

Indulge Me, Johnny Depp x Female!Reader

There was truly something about him - about Johnny - that you simply could not place. The two of you had been friends, strictly friends, for almost too long to remember, and it seemed that with every passing moment either of your spent, swaddled in each other’s company, that relationship merely grew. It manifested, and developed, so incredibly, yet entirely unnoticed, by both Johnny, and yourself. It was incredible, really, that such a friendship could hinder quite so rapidly, and seemingly only for one participant. 

You didn’t mean to begin noticing the little things, the details, about him. Like the way he smiled, so incredibly gentle and uplifting - contagious, you could argue - or the way he would change, so naturally, when around you, in comparison to that of everybody else. His laugh would grow louder, freer, and his voice would amplify; no longer riddled with nerves and a sense of timidness. Comfort, you supposed, was a factor he allowed himself to become engulfed by, whenever you were present, and you certainly liked it. You began noticing the way he would touch you, tender, and cautious, or the way he held your hand - merely due to instinct, he would always blame, though your butterflies wished it something else - and the way he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, when you complained for the cool breeze, never once bothered by your close proximity. You noticed the way his eyes could light up, and he would smile something small; ridden with joy, for no particular reason at all. You noticed that his hair was longer, now, and that it fell to a messy central parting, digits consistently brushing it from his gaze - you liked the way he styled his hair, you decided, and it was so soft - so tender. You began to notice the way he treated you, so polite, yet bitterly brutal when his jokes played themselves around. You noticed things that you probably shouldn’t have, and, well, such an inconvenience caused a severe disruption to your whole mechanism. 

At first, you thought it to be an illness of some sort. The stomach churns - the best kind, as you later discovered - and the butterflies, the tingle between your thighs. Am I sick? You began to think, as you checked yourself for a temperature. Alas, there was nothing but a flush of embarrassment to your reddened cheeks, and a heavy sensation within your chest, as you supposed that it would all disburse within a matter of days. 

Well, a couple of days came, and went, and things had only gotten worse. 

You began to dream of him, and, admittedly, you enjoyed them - of course you did - but it only made your face-to-face discussions an almighty difficult task to partake in. The butterflies ascended into a trail of breathtaking tingles, ignited by the slightest touch, and a sense of fire ruptured within your throat - it was so difficult to say the things you wanted to say, when your infatuation threatened to spill from your tongue at any given moment, and his beautifully chocolate gaze held you so captivated, so numbingly, to your place. He rendered you silent, your mind falling blank, with a simple smile, or a glance. Pathetic! That’s what you’d call it. Utterly pathetic. And, realistically, you knew it would only grow worse, the longer you decided to repress such information from your closest companion - and apparent lover, in your emotions’ eyes - but you simply couldn’t find it in you, not at all, to utter such simple words.  

They could do so much damage - undo so many memories! And ruin everything. Maybe you were simply paranoid - maybe you were driven by utmost fear - but romance seemed so terribly painful, and you weren’t entirely sure if you could handle the way it would end. After all, everything good must come to something bad, right? Perhaps it was just the way your childhood played out, between lies and heartbreak, separation and loneliness, and fear and rejection - or maybe you were right. Maybe everything people were taught, all that they would read, about love, and about fictional infatuation, was just that - fiction. Maybe true love didn’t exist, and the books had it all wrong. Though that would not explain the thin sheen of sweat, glistening something noticeable upon your forehead. 

You were nervous, to say the least.  

The seven o’clock News displayed upon your television, igniting the darkened room in an expanding, blue, illumination, and you nibbled your nails somewhat anxiously, thoughts engulfing the surrounding buzz of the visual journalism - not that you ever paid it any mind, anyway. You always found the News boring - they reported nothing but shit, and you made sure to voice such an opinion, whenever Johnny would force you to watch it. “It’s educational!” He would laugh, gripping onto your hips and forcing you upon his lap. Of course, it was only something playful, and his arms would snake around your waist, chin against your shoulder. It was comfortable, you could never deny, but the News was still ever-boring and droning. 

Though, now, it seemed appropriate. You were far too nervous to concentrate on anything in particular, like a gameshow, or something of the sort. Even the soccer seemed far too involving for you. 

After all, today was the day you finally relieved yourself of such a weighty secret. You could hardly contain yourself any longer, and you were growing tired of the worried glances Johnny would throw your way, when you flinched from his burning touch, or paused mid-sentence, struggling to find your gasped breath. God, it was all so embarrassing. You hoped sincerely that it wouldn’t render something awkward, or differentiate your friendship, in any which way, but you were certain it was all one sided, and just wouldn’t be the same after. Perhaps he already knew, and was attempting to ignore such a thing, as best he could, and for that, you practically worshiped his ability to handle difficult situations lightheartedly. Or maybe he was as entirely clueless as he seemed to be, and it would be as awkward as you could picture the whole ordeal going. 

Either way, you needed to say something, before it accidentally slipped within a regular conversation, and ruined everything. You attempted to reason with yourself, that if things truly did turn bitterly awful, at least tonight there would be pizza and wine, to salvage your mortification, and- 

The soft jingle of metal echoed, distant, yet alarming, throughout the quiet and dim apartment. Scuttling, your hands grasped the remote control, muting the television in a rapid and almost panicked manner, breathing laboured and uneven. You weren’t ready - you definitely weren’t ready. You couldn’t do this - tell him how you felt, that is. How the hell would you even go about it? It wasn’t the kind of thing you could just bring up- 

“They didn’t have any of that wine you like.” He sighed. You froze, rigid in your seat. “I got somethin’ else,” He trailed, “Doesn’t have a brand, I don’t think.” Two rustling bags settled in place before you, his keys landed with a loud crash upon the glass surface, jacket shrugged upon the ground with a sudden waft of cool breeze. Johnny glanced toward you, as he slumped hastily upon the sofa, booted feet kicked out before him. “What’s up?” He mumbled, his eyes fluttered to a gentle close, eyebrows furrowed gently. 

“Nothing.” You said. How great of a lie it surely was, though you refused to blurt your confession aloud just yet. 

An eyebrow raised, doubtful for your unconvincing reply, as a gentle grin teetered to the corner of his lips, and, oh, didn’t he look pretty. “C’mon,” He teased, “What’s up with you?” A finger jabbed to your side - an extraordinarily ticklish disposition for yourself - and you squirmed instinctively, a certain warmth engulfing your chest at the familiarity of that supple smirk. 

“Really,” You persisted, “It’s nothing.” A breathy chuckle falling from upon your quiet tongue. “Have you tried that wine before?” You could confess your adoration for the poor man amidst the meal, though for now, it could wait. 

“Uh-” He frowned, the quiver of a smile to trace his gaze.“No.” He said. 

A subtle laugh dripped from your throat, gently shaking your head, as you mumbled a witty response. “Am I surprised, Jonathan?” To which he scoffed, his gorgeously depthful eyes rolling, and shone you a wickedly charming smile. 

“Guess not.” He muttered, a beat of comfortable quiet to drift you both by. “You’re watching the News?” He then added, a furrow to draw his eyebrows closer; glance fluttered between yourself and the blare of the silenced television, projecting utter bullshit as it went - ever-the-regular, you could argue. 

You simply nodded, “I am.” You said, somewhat a grin to upturn the crevices of your expression. A soft round of laughter fell from the man beside you, and you found your breath stuttered within the depth of your throat. It was an angelic muse, really, and thus you found yourself unable to conjure a furtherly coherent - never mind advanced - response, the simple two words proving enough for his bemused self. 

“But you fucking hate the News.” He scoffed. “Why the hell are you watching it?” 

A subtle giggle left your throat, and you snatched the lip of the bag before you, eager to indulge within the gorgeously scented - and warm - food. “Shut up, Johnny.” You said, a gentle smile to follow, “What’d you get?” 

“I don’t know.” He smirked, “Somethin’ meaty, I think.” 

“Of course,” You sighed, unable - quite - to dislodge the grin upon your rosy cheeks. “I mean, why would you know the pizza you ordered, right?” 

“Precisely.” He smiled, “I’m thrilled you understand.”

“Always a pleasure.” You simply said, for your mind had distilled something blank, useless, and your words had seemed to fail you. The sofa was old, it was desperate, clinging on to the stitching hardly reliable, but it was comfortable. It was familiar.  Johnny, and yourself, had refused to refurbish it - those cushions had been with you both, from the very first night. Roommates, you were. And simply the best kind. But there truly was something so tragic about a romantically tinted friendship, no matter for whom the sufferer seemed to be. 

Johnny latched upon the large pizza box, throwing it open, and - unsurprisingly - knocking the wine glasses with a greatly shrill ring, their clink a subtle jump. They wobbled, slowly, though regained their posture, and you found your shoulders slumping to a tender slouch. “Idiot.” You muttered, a certain fondness about your breath, as he merely smirked, and picked up a stringy-cheesed slice, mauling the triangular corner with not but an ounce of grace. 

A shimmer of grease coaxed the pout of his peachy lips, cheeks bulged with bread, and with toppings; over-loaded and particularly Johnny. Meats of various kinds - various shades - littered upon the excessive amounts of cheese. “Did you order extra cheese?” You mumbled. The man nodded, a wolfish grin to reciprocate his childish gaze, and you merely breathed a subtle chuckle. Of course, you thought; of course he did. 

You reached for the wine, popping the cork with a slight groan, and you poured a tester within the clear glaze of the bowled glass. You raised the edge to your mouth, took a sip, and smacked your lips. “Not bad.” You uttered, decidedly enjoying the rich tang of fruity combustion, flat and coiling, upon your tongue. You poured the glass full, hardly a centimeter from the brim, and you took a rather large gulp, quite liking the flavour, as it trickled upon the back of your throat, and you sat back, nestled within the comfortable cushions of the wondrously aged sofa. It was almost moulded to your body; for you always sat on the right, and Johnny, the left. 

A comfortable silence embraced you both, and you found yourself almost wishing it could remain undisturbed - you couldn’t find it in you, no matter how hard you probed, to conjure any kind of courage at all. Your knees, they felt weak, and your stomach churned uneasily - entirely disagreeing with the digested mouthful, as you rammed the corner of a pizza slice within your mouth, and you chewed slowly, cheeks beginning to rise in temperature. How the fuck would you even go about it all? ‘Oh, by the way, Johnny, I’m entirely in love with you, and I lose myself every time we touch!’ It sounded ridiculous. There was no possible way you could simply blurt out such a destructive sentence. You weren’t even sure if your feelings were real! They had just bothered you, and you feared that they’d somehow escape the breach of your lips, and flutter around, utterly unnoticed. Goodness, it was terrifying. 

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong, or are we gonna sit here in silence?” Johnny said, a light amusement to simmer upon his tone. You gulped, swallowing a particularly dry mouthful, and your muscles seized up. 

Surely this was the perfect opportunity, no? “Well…” You trailed. You did not want to ruin everything you’d worked so effortlessly to build with each other. Maybe you were just being silly, and your feelings were hardly potent at all. Maybe it was all dramatic, and you were fine. Maybe it was an exaggeration, and the entire thing was meaningless, and- “I think I’m in love with you.” You blurted. Fuck. Fuck, fucking fuck! Your eyes clamped shut, and you loathed the white noise. You could hope that he hadn’t heard you, though he wasn’t chewing, anymore, and he seemed suddenly rigid beside you. That was certainly a way to go about it, you scolded, wishing - with a burning detestation - that the sofa would swallow you whole. 

Say something, you begged, silent, and to yourself, as the quiet continued on. He shifted, and you froze - furtherly, if apparently possible. You daren’t share a glance with his gaze, fixated upon your burning mortification, as another gentle bite snuck between your lips. You chewed, and you chewed, a soft shimmer of sweat beginning to accumulate upon your brow - how foolish you had been, to admit such a thing, in that kind of way. “What was that?” He muttered. Shit! His throat was tight, you could hear the subtle restriction, and tone low, quiet. Don’t make me say it again, you thought, a volumed gulp to follow such a ponderous moment. Please, don’t make me say it again. 

“I’m sorry.” You sighed. Goodness, was it always supposed to be quite so difficult? Something began to wedge within the base of your throat, aching substantially, as the rising sensation of freshly salted tears began its ascent. Were you really going to cry? “I didn’t-” The voice caught in your throat, hindered by that ever-growing lump. God, you really hated this. “I didn’t mean to.” You didn’t mean to ruin your friendship, and everything in between, for a stupid confession that held you to the brink of fucking tears. 

More shuffling was to be heard, and you noticed his hands swiftly maneuvering the - now closed - pizza box, delicately dropping the white board upon the coffee table, no longer perched between you, and him. His gaze burned upon your expression, and your cheeks flamed scarlet, glare locked unwaveringly upon the television, slightly glazed with something fearful. You truly didn’t want to lose him - to have him laugh in the face of your affection, and turn you away. And although you knew the let down would be gentle  - it was Johnny, afterall, and there was hardly a bad bone in his body - you anticipated the worst. “Y/N,” He said.You gulped. A sigh escaped his lips, and he maneuvered the pizza slice from within your subtle grip, sneaking a quick bite as he went, and placed it quietly upon the table. “Y/N.” He tried again. You turned to face him, hesitant in yourself. His expression was gentle, the comforting kind of soft, and the corner of his lips lightly fluttered to the ghost of a smirk. “What are you crying for?” He scoffed, the grin simply growing as he spoke. “Don’t cry, Love.” You had hardly noticed the slip of a few salty confessions, as a soft laugh fell from your lips, hands roughly ragging upon the moist complexion. Pathetic, you thought, you were so fucking pathetic. “Come ‘ere.” He said. Your eyebrows drew together, glance unsure and lightly confused. He was so calm, and seemingly unphased by your confession - you couldn’t quite understand it. 

He rolled his eyes, the tilt of amusement to pepper his cheeks, and he grasped your upper arm, dragging you along the short distance of the sofa. You slumped into his side, another giggle trickling from your tear-tangled throat, his arm engulfing you in a tight embrace; one along your shoulder, and the other curled upon your waist. You rested your head on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat subtle and calming, and he shuffled about, gradually withholding a lying position, yourself flatly placed along his front. “I’m sorry.” You repeated, a light sigh to accompany the apology. You meant it, really, you did. It was never truly your intention to adapt to such feelings, to succumb to your attraction - he just made it so fucking difficult, with those beautifully brown orbs, and a smile filled with the brightest kinds of sunshine. 

“Please don’t apologise.” He said. A short silence followed, and - perhaps it was simply an imaginational malfunction - you thought the rhythm of his heart rate differentiated, though only for a fleeting moment. “Did you mean it?” He whispered, tone soft; hesitant. 

A gentle frown caressed the bow of your expression, and you tilted such to face him, his features crossed handsomely with a sense of slight worry. Of course you had meant it - why on earth would you lie for such a thing? “Yeah.” You said. His gaze flickered between your eyes, a whir of doubt embracing the warm stare, and his tender wrap upon your frame squeezed for a passing moment. The hint of a smile glazed his orbs, a certain light suddenly rupturing within their mocha tone, and the corners of his mouth twitched a feathered smirk. 

“Oh, yeah?” He said. 

Your eyes rolled, seemingly still slightly dampened by your emotional concern. “Yes, Johnny.” You said. 

“Ah, right,” He muttered, grin widening to that of something toothy, and warm. “See, I thought I was going crazy.” He craned his neck to the slightest degree, gaze dropping momentarily to your parted lips, before springing back up, a twinkle of mischief to glaze his eyes. “I thought,” His tongue darted gently, dampening the flush of his lips, and you found yourself staring with a tingle of a blush - God. Your thighs began to ache, camped tightly together, at such a marvellous sight. “There’s no fucking way,” He continued, slowly, as his tone simmered to that of a tender whisper. “That the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known, could fall in love with me.” 

Beautiful. Beautiful, he had said. Beautiful! He thought you were beautiful! Your heart stuttered, and a furrow found your eyebrows, consciously aware of the circular trail, lightly peppered upon your waist by his wandering fingers. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You said, a mere mumble beneath your gaze of adoration and concern. What was wrong with loving him? 

A breathy laugh escaped his lips, the simmer of amusement and amorous repentance dancing within his stare. “Well, why me?” He said, “You could choose anyone.” He shrugged, “Kenny, from that corner store. Andrew - you know, Andy, the one that makes the cakes all the time?” You merely nodded, albeit speechless as to his rambling. “And what about Louis? The flower guy?” You raised an eyebrow, “You could take any of ‘em. You got a choice. So why pick me?” Why wouldn’t it be him? Why would it be anybody else? You couldn’t quite understand his doubts, as you adjusted your positioning, and leaned up ever-so-slightly, with great attempt to level your shared beam. Surely he wasn’t feeling insecure, he had no reason to, after all - none that you had given him, that is. 

“Don’t start that.” You said, “I wouldn’t want anybody else.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He asked, an eyebrow raised, “And why’s that, Love?” He was teasing you, you could ensure, though you felt little resistance to fall within such bait. 

“I wouldn’t want anyone else, because,” He glanced feverishly to your mouth, and the words seemed to pause, caught briefly within your throat. His gaze returned to yours, his smirk filtrated with some kind of newfound arrogance, and, my, didn’t it look devilishly handsome on him. 

“Because what, Deary?” He said, a sudden dark swirl to his tone. It was rich, nauseatingly good. 

“Because I want you.” You said. “And I’ve always wanted you.”   

Though your fear found itself wretched, stammering doubts of rejection within your conscience, you supposed there was just no going back from that. And you didn’t truly believe you wanted to.  

A glimmer of something heartily mischievous eloped within his gaze, “In what way?” He humoured, a slow smile beginning to trace the very corners of his wondrously entrancing lips. You paused, a moment of silence, and wondered whether you could dare to be as graciously brave as your protruding thoughts were  starting to grow. 

Your tone fell to something quiet - low. “In any way you’ll let me.” You said. And, oh, it had you aching, the way those delectably beautiful eyes darkened, and a pepper of thickening quiet settled between the two of you.  

Johnny’s mouth opened, the breach of something verbal threatening to fall from the gasp, though nothing came out, and he closed it, instead. His breathing stammered, you dared to notice, and you felt almost ill, bereft with the simplicity of your want, your need, for his emotional acceptance. “I see.” He said, somewhat breathless, and entirely succumbed with - what you depicted, perhaps foolishly, to be - love. You felt something rise, flutter, within the depth of your digestion - almost drabbled with such pride, that you could affect him in any which way. A grin engulfed his expression, once more, and elated the darkness, clouding his chestnut orbs in a magnificent kind of way, as one hand crawled up from upon your waist, and clasped the curve of your blushed cheek. His calloused thumb traced a thing of gentle affection, stroking the soft complexion in a timid manner, and that flock of butterflies found themselves satisfied with their numbingly strong fluttering, crawling upon your skin in a matter of nerves and anxiousness. “Well,” He spoke, glancing adoringly between your eyes. From one to the other, as though he couldn’t quite believe you to be smitten within his hold, reciprocating his feelings so endlessly. The warmth of his adorning breath fanned the supple part of your gaped lips, expectant; waiting. “Best go put on your shoes, then, aye?” He whispered. 

And with that, he was gone. Hoisting you up, as he stumbled to his feet, and his expression elated a smile. He squeezed twice on your shoulders, humoured by such a frown, and he swooped down to collect his jacket from the floor. “Go on,” He said, “We’re off on a walk.” 

“We are?” You echoed, a slight distance woven within your tone. 

Johnny smiled, “We are, Love.” He said, and he barreled himself through the arms of his coat. 

You paused, be it only a moment, as gentle tufts of hair drifted upon his forehead, and he brushed them back, a toothy grin etched upon his face. He stretched up, an arch to his back, and muttered a; “Go on! It’s raining, you’ll get your feet wet if you don’t.” With a hustle, and a small shove to your shoulders. 

Frowning, you found your feet drifting you to the corner of the room - he’d gone mad. It was decided. Though, perhaps, you thought; you were just as crazy as he. For why else would you slip on your shoes, and throw on a jacket, hanging up on the wall hooks? Without another thought of hesitation, you shoved it all on, and you regained your full height, a little breathless - unfortunately so - and met the uneven smirk that was utterly Johnny’s.

He clapped his hands together, a soft connection, and rubbed them slightly, bounding to the door before you both, and swinging open the darkened oak. Neither you, nor he, bothered to dismantle the blaring illuminant that was the television, as he awaited the passing breeze of yourself. 

You wandered him by, mind a whir of incoherent thoughts, though one - one in particular - stood out, among the others. He hadn’t said it back. 

The weight of his arm, curled around the crease of your shoulders, brought you away from such a thought, and you had hardly noticed the few tender steps you had traced. “You smell nice.” Johnny said, a slight smile to his tone, “Fruity.” You merely grinned something small, and rolled your eyes. Ever the strange one. 

“You’re sure you haven’t had any of that wine before?” You jested, “On the way over, perhaps?” 

He smiled, something soft, as his free hand fumbled within his depthful pocket, and his gaze found his shoes. “The cheap stuff gives me indigestion.” He smirked, “Didn’t want the heartburn.”

“Ah,” You breathed, “I suppose that does make sense.” 

You approached the stairwell, poised to the end of the depressingly dim hallway, and watched as he bounced upon every step, no longer wedged beside you, but rather bounding upon the echoing chorus of the descending metal. His hair, naturally dried from a drizzle of cooling rain, flowed - up, and down - in a majestic kind of motion, as a subtle giggle fell from you, and your legs maneuvered a slight jog, to catch up with his waiting frame. 

He stood, slick with a grin, at the door, his arm a barricade upon its weight, as you muttered a curt thanks, and you stumbled into the waft of approaching crisp. The winter chill embraced your figure - a sudden movement, as it trailed from your toes, to your hips, to your finger-tips, and your nose - and you draped your hands within the depthful pockets of your dark coat. You shuddered - Heavens, was it freezing - and you clenched your jaw, spat with a sprinkle of dainted moisture, as the clouds shed their supple solemness. 

“It’s beautiful, don’t you think?” Johnny muttered, striding to that of a similar pace, as his hands, too, found the inner comfort of his pockets, and his arm brushed with yours. You warmed at the touch, though not by much, and you simply assumed it was all in your head, dismissive for the sudden heat. “The night.” He continued. “There’s just something about it.” 

You turned, gaze fixated upon the gorgeous glow of his sculpted features, contorted with a content smile, orbs fluttered upon the scenery before you both, unmoving, and entirely comfortable. Happy, you dared to notice. And as were you. “I know what you mean.” You mumbled, a saddened grin to quiver upon the corners of your lips, though you simply couldn’t force it’s obtain, as it fell, and your eyes found the floor. He hadn’t said it back. 

“It’s like-” He paused, tongue winding upon his lips, and his eyebrows furrowed momentarily. “It’s like the whole world is asleep.” He smiled. “It’s not, but it feels less… Alive.” 

You breathed a gentle laugh. “Like it’s only you.” You mumbled, “Without the pressure, and the judgement.” There was a subtle nod, as he brushed the fallen hair from within his vision. 

“I know how to be myself, when the moon’s my only company, y’know?” He admitted, nibbling the tender flesh of his lower lip, as his gaze darted, between the street, to the tree, to the housing scattered around. “Like whatever happens, under the stars, it-” He paused, he let out a breathy chuckle, and continued: “It won’t matter in the morning.” You simply nodded, as he opened his mouth, a stuttered mumble falling from his tongue, and your silence remained, for you knew he was not quite finished. “I just- I-” He paused, another shaky exhale, and your eyebrows furrowed. He scratched the lower-crown of his hair, ruffling it, slightly, with a nervous chuckle. “I don’t want-” He frowned, gulping, and continued: “I don’t want tonight to be one of those nights.” 

Your furrow seemed to deepen, the words falling before you found yourself able to grapple them. “What do you mean?” You mumbled, a gentle cloud upon the frozen nightlife. 

“Look, I think-” He sighed, pausing mid-step, and standing, amidst the weighted rain, as it grew heavier, and you simply grew wetter. You paused, expression contorted with a slight confusion, dribbled with copious droplets that you didn’t bother to brush away. “I think I could dote on the darkness, forever and a day.” He said, and you frowned. You wondered just quite where he was going with such, though failed to interrupt his continuance, as he spoke, soft, among the patterning rainfall, draping upon the concrete with a rhythmic dance. “But it’s not-” He caught himself, one more, as another nervous laugh trickled from his dampened lips. Verbal gold, it surely was. “None of it - it’s not- it’s not as, uh, captivating, as you.” 

Your chest fell woozy with a supple ache, furrow one of grave compassion, and he glanced, hesitantly, with a curt removal, to your expression. You smiled, a glaze of sorrow melting from upon those amorous features. Captivating. He thought you were captivating. “And I think you- uhm-” He coughed, a slight smile to catch the corner of his lips. “I think you taught me to love, again.” He mumbled, head-up tilted, as his warm, genuine, gaze, infiltrated your own. 

“Oh?” You grinned, truthfully unable to rupture the flutter of great tingles, encasing your shivering complexion - a certain warmth cursing throughout your frozen blood. 

He laughed, a glance of something shy to his shoes, and he nodded. “Yeah.” He mumbled, returning to meet your joyous expression. “And I think I’d like to dote on you, instead.” 

“In what way?” You muttered, mocking for his previously sly commentary, a gratuitous - particularly brazen - step closer, to the grinning man, as his hands, slightly coaxed by a pink chill, from the breeze of winter's embrace, draped upon the clothed fabric of your hips. 

He drew a step closer, your shoes toe to toe, and he spoke - dangerously low; nauseatingly rich. “In any way you’ll let me.” He smirked. And, well, that seemed quite enough for you. 

There was a certain warmth about it - the capture of your supple lips upon the soft flesh of his own, molded wondrously to a hymn the Angels could never know. Eyes fluttered to a gentle close, engulfed with a sprinkle of vanishing warmth; the rain no longer seemed to matter. For you were clothed, slick like a second skin, in the thick moisture of everlasting water - wet, to the very bone - but no longer did you shiver, no longer did you tremble, with the ache of a chilling night. The pressure was timid, and the exploration a motion utterly anew - yet so beautifully divine, so entirely right. 

Your fingers - pink, and bitterly numb, in themselves - wove to clutch upon the lapels of his cotton jacket, a clutch of passion, and of longing, to emancipate the wondrous flutter in the depth of your gut. It twisted, it turned, it ached, it shrieked - you felt ill. Ill with the fever of amorous recipricance and a lover so sickly sweet, you felt you’d awake with cavities, in the later morn. You liked that thought, as your head tilted, be it only slight, to the side, and he followed your subtle retreat. Like honey, did he taste; like gold, did he display. And, oh, if this was love - if this, two lovers combined amongst the ache of winter’s cue - you decided that it was, undoubtedly, real. It was real, not a mere description of romanticised fiction. No. No; it was the golden sunlight, woven between your very hands; it was the melody of the birds, so suppley sweet; the dew upon the whispered grass, a lick of crisped morning; the enticing ferociousness of the oceanic waves, an azure of alluring power; the liquid gold, to drip from a Poet’s pen, woven beneath the tongue of their romantic thoughts - Oh, it were all that, and more. So much more. 

And, as his feeble smile fluctuated upon his bowed lips, and his fragile hold - something so gentle, upon the flush of your frozen cheek, you hardly noticed the grace of movement, thumb brushed beneath your fluttered eyes - draped across your features,  you found yourself discovering all that it ever could be. 

His tongue, though warm, and tender, slithered something slow upon the breach of your lower lip, and your cheeks furrowed a blossoming grin. Parting your lips, subtly, you allowed the delicate invasion of a gratifying, sweet, pressure, as the flesh ran along the side of your tongue, and you encased it within a frail suck, withdrawing from such an entanglement for hardly a moment. You inhaled a particularly deep breath, unfinished and wondrously interrupted, as his lips found yours once more, a collision of teeth, and of grinning hearts, and he craned upon your stature, a barricade to crawl along the base of your lower back. The soft slosh of clapped fabric wove amongst the rainfall, and a breathy chuckle harmonized from upon your lips, himself ridden with a gorgeous grin; chest-to-chest, with a kind of warmth you had never before known cursing throughout the very complexion that was your own, as your bodies collided, and his strength held you close. 

You inhaled the scent, familiar, though certainly different, and it tingled the depth of your nostrils - like woodland, and a subtle cologne. It seemed raw, so ravenously close, and your lips twitched upward at the thought. Oh, how you loved him. It ached your smitten chest, as he moulded his lips upon your own, and your movement harmonized something bitterly perfect, and it combusted among your soul. It tore the very sense you once held, from within your capacity, and it brushed such necessity beneath the carpet; for what was sense to a girl in love?

Nothing. All that made sense was him - was he - and you yearned to know it all; every crevice, every dent, for the rest of your days. Forever seemed a long time, though life so awfully short. To spend forever, a faux illusion of endless measures, by his side - it spread a warmth, such burning heat, throughout your tender frame, and you ached to know the script of every moment spent together, all until every moment were merely a memory, with nothing left to come. 

His feathered affection fell to a tender null, a lingering pause to disperse upon the gape of your swollen mouth, and he draped a peppered peck upon the very corner, withdrawing from such an intertwined proximity. You fluttered your gaze to meet his own - a stare of saturated honey; of every nightfall; of every poetic tale - and he smiled. A smile, so incredibly warm, you found yourself unable to withhold the reciprocance, as a timid blush crawled upon the complexion of your grinning features, and your eyes retained their strengthful embrace. 

For the bitter breeze had returned, and your lips were falling cold, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered - not the howl of brash wind, curling within your locks, and whipping the hood of your coat; the ache of layered rain, as it pattered, continually, upon the distilled world around; the treacherous ache of all things nauseatingly woozy, engulfing your frame in an intensely warm ambiguity - unfamiliar, though entirely welcome. None of it mattered - not as you drowned within the softness of his adoring gaze. 

Adoring, you thought; oh, did he adore you? “I love you.” He mumbled, a quiet crackle upon the pattern of rain, though you caught it - oh, did you catch it, clutched within the fragile hold of your softened heart, ached with the pressure of convicting ribs, it cried for freedom, for home; for Johnny. A smile, so genuine, so utterly enticed; joyous, draped upon your lips, and the corners of your glimmering eyes fell to a crease. He loved you.  He breathed a gentle chuckle, soggy arms curled upon that of your shoulders, as he drew you close - so unimaginably close - and he clutched your warmth upon his own. “God,” He breathed, his cheek slumped upon the crown of your head, down-tilted, and soaked with the cold of splattered rain. “I love you.” 

Arms draped across his middle, clutched upon his lower back - you ached from the cold, though you minded it not - as you smiled, and you breathed the only response you felt acceptable. “I know.” You said. 

“And I’ll give you the sun.” He continued, a mere rumble upon the quiet noise. “Indulge me, and I’ll give you the sun, ray, by fucking ray.” 

Oh, how you ached for such sonerous truth - for you knew he would never lie to you. 

[karlyfr13s]

Helping Destiny Along

A fluffy CS one-shot for the lovely @teamhook

Thank you @veryverynotgoodwrites for being one heck of a beta, and @the-darkdragonfly for your brainstorming powers!

Summary: Henry Mills has a theory: for each Captain Hook, there must be an Emma Swan. Well, he found Princess Emma Nolan at long last and is determined to bring her together with Killian Jones now that he's back in the Wishverse version of the Enchanted Forest.

Read it on AO3

At nineteen, Princess Emma Nolan believed in True Love. After all, her parents had found each other, and everyone knew theirs was a legendary love worthy of poetry and song. She watched for a prince from the high windows of her tower bedroom, waiting for someone tall, dark, and handsome to sweep her off her feet. He would be bold, romantic, dashing, and kind-hearted—she just knew it.

At twenty-two, she concluded that such a love was rare and that her parents may be the only two people with a Capital-T, Capital-L True Love, so she started looking for the more run-of-the-mill variety. Instead of waiting for someone to ride up to the castle gate and court her, she took a more active approach and sought her love by traveling and meeting new people. When that didn’t work either, Princess Emma tried for mutual attraction, which was fun at twenty-four, but grew stale by twenty-five. So she resigned herself to loving her kingdom and her people.

At twenty-eight, a man knocked on the door and utterly transformed her life. To be clear, she did not love that particular man. Henry came from a faraway land and told her fantastic tales that seemed beyond the reach of even her magic, and while she did not love him, he told her somewhere out there in a world beyond her grasp there was an Emma Swan who was his mother, and who loved him ferociously. For days, she and her parents welcomed Henry to stay in their home and share meals at their table, and for days he regaled them with stories of his world and of other versions of each member of the Nolan family. They were spellbound by his narratives. He was a gifted storyteller, and as if he’d known this was too fantastic to be believed, he came with something called photographs that showed a still window into his world. She saw a version of her mother, Queen Snow, but much younger and with close-cropped dark hair instead of the silvery tresses she was accustomed to. Her father was another surprise--he looked barely older than Emma herself, sandy hair where now there was gray, and while she knew her father was still a strong and capable swordsman, this version of King David seemed able to challenge even the mightiest ogre.

Princess Emma Nolan even saw herself, but not herself. They looked identical, she and Henry’s mother, and while her style was different from this unknown twin’s, she couldn’t help but notice some similarities. Emma Swan was often pictured in a short red leather coat, while Princess Emma Nolan’s favorite doublet was a rich blue leather. When she commented, Henry told her they both wore them like armor, gesturing to the bruise on his shoulder from their earlier sparring session in the yard. Emma Swan liked to pull her hair back, wearing it high on her head much like Princess Emma Nolan when she wasn’t expected at court or in her regal finest. Henry even had a picture of his mother with a sword--is she trained as well? She’d asked, and Henry grinned at the question, answering with another tale of his mother besting a pirate in single combat!

“I’m pretty sure that fight was rigged though,” he admitted as they walked the castle gardens one afternoon. “And that’s part of why I’m here.” He stopped and faced her, saying he hoped she could believe one more outlandish story before he had to return to his world.

“You seem to come well-armed with evidence, Henry. I don’t see why I should doubt you at this point.”

“My mother, Emma Swan, is an incredible woman. It took her a long time, but she found her True Love, and I think you can find yours. When I learned there was a version of her--of you--here, I had to find out if you were with him too, and when you weren’t…” Henry trailed off, frowning at the ground. He was quiet for a long while, and Emma ran through his words over and over. Henry thought he knew who her True Love was? How? How could he know that his mother and whoever she was with were one another’s True Love?

“I know he’s here now--I’ve met him before, and back in my world--”

“What? Then how can he be my True Love if he’s from your world?” None of this was making sense, and for the first time she doubted Henry. It seemed he could see the uncertainty within her, and he steered them to a bench to sit and talk as he clarified this man was not from his world, but had been brought there by a curse. The same curse that separated Henry from his own family.

“I know you understand curses and magic,” he began and she nodded at his words. “So when I tell you he was swept up in a curse and brought back in time to my world, that should make sense, right?” She nodded again, wondering who could have cursed two men from different worlds at the same time. Someone powerful and dangerous. Henry sighed and continued. “His name is Killian Jones, and he’s the best man I know. He’s my father in every sense of the word, and while there’s a version of him who is my mother’s True Love, I know there is one who is also yours. He has to be.”

Henry told her a lengthy story about a witch who ensnared a group of people from this kingdom, trapping them in a place called Hyperion Heights. He spoke of a coven leader who cursed Killian Jones so he could never be in contact with his daughter—a child she had abandoned him with after tricking him into spending a night with her. “But you see, Emma, you can break that curse. Your love--yours and Killian’s will break that curse. You will have each other and Alice--hell, and Robin! I haven’t even told you about Robin,” he was lost in thought again after that. Emma waited and tried to make sense of all she had learned.

Is it possible? In some way, his tale made sense. If what he said about the curse was true, it would explain The Gap. Emma had never mentioned The Gap to Henry, though he may have learnt of it through other means. It was rarely spoken of, but everyone in the Enchanted Forest shared one simple truth: there was a block of time no one could account for. Whenever Emma or her parents tried to focus on that space, thinking back to her twenty-sixth birthday, there was a strange void where there should be at least some memory of the year. She could remember the celebratory ball and the night of her birthday, but every time she tried to focus on what came next it only earned her a persistent headache.

“Please don’t hate me, Emma,” Henry put a hand on her shoulder, bringing her back to the present. “I told him to meet me here three days after I arrived. That’s tonight. He’ll be here, and he knows what I believe about you two because he also knows my mother and her Killian. He’s, uh...not entirely convinced. He’s been through a lot, but…” He shrugged and gave her a lopsided smile.

“It’s his story to tell, so I won’t go into detail, just...go easy on the guy. He might be a little gun shy—uh, guarded,” he quickly clarified when he saw her blink in confusion. “I don’t think he’s seen anyone since that witch who duped him, led the coven, and tried to destroy Hyperion Heights. Think that might do a number on a guy.” He looked so sincere, so much like he did when telling all his other tales that Emma chose to believe. Henry hadn’t lied to her before, so what would the motivation be to do so now?

She chewed at her lip, fretting over what to do and how to greet someone who might be a part of her very soul--someone who had been through tricks and curses, and had suffered real loss. She couldn’t simply turn him out in the night, that was unthinkable, but what do you say to the other half of your heart? If that is what he is. This had to have been simpler for her mother. At least she’d simply caught her father in a net after robbing him. That seemed easier than calmly welcoming fate to dinner and introducing the man to your parents on day one.

“Well,” she got up and dusted off her breeches, “I suppose we’d best let my parents know we’re expecting another guest. And I may need to change as well. I think I’d rather not smell worse than the stables when I meet him.” Emma faltered on the last word, not knowing how to address Killian Jones. Henry smiled and followed her lead.

-----

One thorough and contemplative bath later, Emma emerged in a blush pink gown that shimmered softly in the waning sunlight. It had taken her three other dresses before she settled on this one. It was simpler than what she wore to galas and State events: tea length and embroidered in sheer flowers. She knew it would glow softly under the lights of the candles and torches at dinner, and Princess Emma Nolan found herself hoping he would like it.

When he arrived, it was Henry who greeted Killian Jones first, clasping the man’s hand and giving Emma a moment to simply observe. His smile was warm, a bright white flash of teeth and Emma noticed the slight creases at his eyes as well. An authentic smile, she noted, enjoying the genuine moment between the two men. He was dashing there was no other word for it--dressed in black and rich crimson, rings and charms gleaming in the firelight, their glimmer echoed in the silver strands that threaded here and there through his otherwise coal-black hair. Where his left hand ought to be, Emma found instead a polished silver hook and she remembered whispered gossip of a pirate captain referred to only by the moniker Hook. Once a fearsome leader of a brutal band of thieves, he had all but vanished into lore years ago. She realized too late that she’d been staring, and cleared her throat softly before curtseying to cover the awkwardness. Henry took the moment to introduce them, “Captain Killian Jones, may I present Emma Nolan, Princess of Misthaven.”

She offered her hand and Killian took it up, placing a chaste kiss across her knuckles. His eyes met hers, their brilliant lapis blue making her breath catch in her throat. Regardless of the formality of their meeting and the fact Henry, her parents, and several serving staff looked on, she felt the pull immediately. From the moment her hand was in his, it felt right. She wanted to keep hold of him more than she’d wanted anything in her life, wanted to memorize the rough calluses formed by his years at sea, but she forced herself to maintain propriety and brought her hand back to her side. Emma reminded herself they did not know one another, to not get swept up in Henry’s notions without evaluating the truth of the situation. Though she saw in his gaze a strange flicker of recognition, a brief knitting of his brow that asked a silent question she could not interpret, she let the moment pass and returned to her expected duties.

Emma introduced him to her parents, watching her father’s scrutinizing gaze contrast with her mother’s brilliant smile. No doubt her father was riddling out Henry’s purpose in inviting this man to dinner, though she couldn’t fathom him guessing the truth. All through dinner, Emma could barely take her eyes off Killian. He shared a few stories from his days at sea, talking of far-off kingdoms and uninhabited islands, and Emma felt a longing take hold of her as he spun a tale of a snow-covered northern kingdom where they carved elaborate ice sculptures, held firelight festivals, and celebrated the beauty of winter rather than fearing its chill. His voice was low, its velvet warmth wrapping around her and pulling her from all sense of time. The evening passed quickly, and long before she was ready, Emma’s parents stood to signal the end of the affair.

“It’s far too late for you to make a return journey, Captain Jones,” Queen Snow spoke. “We welcome you to stay as a guest in our home. We will have a room made up for you at once and hope you will accompany us for breakfast in the morning.” At his thanks, the Queen turned to Emma, “Oh, and Emma, darling?”

“Yes, Mother?”

Emma approached and her mother drew her in for a close hug, whispering softly, “See to it that Captain Jones can find his way. Most of the staff have already retired and I’d hate for him to get lost in search of rest.” With that, the Queen turned and gently tugged her husband toward their own chambers, leaving Emma to escort their two guests.

She could hear her father grumbling about leaving Emma unchaperoned, but Snow’s voice echoed back, “David, she’s twenty-eight, not sixteen, she’ll be fine. Our daughter is perfectly capable--” Their voices were lost as they rounded a corner, and Emma suppressed a smile. It didn’t matter that she was a full grown woman, her father would always be protective of her.

When she turned around, Emma realized Henry had vanished. Someone seems to think himself a matchmaker, she mused and as her eyes fell upon the man who waited by the fireplace she could understand why Henry had made himself scarce. Deep breath, Emma. He’s simply a man like any other. If she tried very hard, she just might convince herself of that. Well, unless she stopped to listen to the way her heart raced when the corner of his mouth ticked up in a smile.

“Did you want--that is,” she faltered and tripped over her tongue, coming to stand near him where he leaned against the back of a chair by the hearth. “I don’t know how long a trip you made today, and so…” Why was this so hard?

“I’m quite alright, Princess. Would it be terribly inappropriate of me to ask you to keep me company and perhaps share a drink?” She smiled in response, slipping a large book from a shelf over the mantle after pointing out where her father kept a set of glasses on a shelf nearby.

“He thinks I don’t know about this,” she opened the volume to reveal a bottle. “Rum he had imported from the south--is that acceptable, Captain?”

“Aye, that will do nicely. Bit of a pirate in you isn’t there, Princess? Pinching a man’s rum while he’s fast asleep.” They shared a conspiratorial grin as she poured and each took up a chair near the fire. “To what shall we toast, love?”

She hummed in thought, considering the man before her. The pull was still there like some invisible thread entwining the two of them and she hoped it wasn’t only she who felt it. “To new beginnings,” she offered, holding her glass aloft. He echoed the sentiment and crystal clinked as their eyes met over the rims of their glasses before both looked away shyly and took a sip. The warmth and spice slid down her throat, settling in her stomach and making her shiver. They were quiet for a time, simply sharing the space while they glanced at one another, eyes never quite meeting, nor acknowledging they were both performing the same dance.

“I take it dear Henry shared his theory with you?” Killian broke the silence, addressing the weight that had settled in the room. She confirmed he had shared that along with several other stories, asking if it were true he’d been swept away to a land without magic. “Aye, and for some time I had no memory of myself or this place. When the truth finally came back to me it was...difficult to deal with. Did he...mention Alice?” He swirled the rum in his glass, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“Yes, he also mentioned a curse is keeping you apart,” she reached across the small distance that separated them, hand resting on the brace that held his hook. “Killian—if I may call you Killian,” she felt herself flush at the informality and he nodded encouragingly. She said it once more, feeling the musical quality of it as she continued. “What kind of monster keeps a father from his daughter like that?”

His shoulders sagged as he said the story of Gothel was one for another day, that it was a story filled with dark shadows he dare not conjure without the sunlight to dispel them. “I only mention Alice because...well, given what Henry has told both of us I have been...” his brow furrowed as he searched for a word, and she leaned forward, absently running her hand over his sleeve and feeling where the firm leather of his brace ended and the warmth of his arm began. His gaze dropped to where her hand rested and she looked up, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Concerned,” he finished at last. “That is, I’d thought perhaps because I have a child with someone else, and because I am obviously older than you are, that you might feel...or not feel a certain…not that I think Henry is necessarily right…”

His words tapered off and she became very aware they were both leaning in now, the distance between them nearly closed. She could see the silver in his hair glinting in the firelight, the strands at his temples more greyed than the rest. Greedily, she took in all she could in this moment. The heat that radiated from where her hand still rested atop his arm, the scents of leather and petrichor that clung to him were so close she could nearly roll them on her tongue. When she searched his eyes she saw a lingering hurt, but behind that was what appeared to be cautious hope. Setting her glass aside, Emma brought her hand up, allowing herself to do what she’d been wanting to all evening and running her fingers through his hair. He held her gaze, eyes wide and uncertain and she realized his past hurts ran deep enough that he wouldn’t act on that hopeful glint she’d seen moments ago. She would have to be brave for both of them.

With a whisper of his name she closed what little distance remained between them. She’d intended a light brush of her lips, had simply wanted to know what may lie between them, but the moment their lips met Emma knew she would never be satisfied with so little. She poured herself into the moment, moving to grip the front of his shirt and pull him tightly to her. He followed her lead, their kiss deepening as he tilted his head, the two of them moving as though they had done this a hundred times before. She heard her pulse pounding away in her head, felt his breath ghosting over her lips as they breathed into one another for a moment before he captured her lips again. Something shifted then, like the single beat of a massive heart, a shockwave rippled outward, though neither could be bothered to break this moment. Finally, the two pulled back, eyes searching one another.

“Was that?” Emma asked, not knowing how to complete the thought. Her parents had told her their story several times: the kiss that broke the curse. The kiss that radiated out from them in a burst of force and light. The kiss that sounded an awful lot like what she had just shared with Captain Killian Jones.

Killian rested his forehead against hers, breathing out slowly before replying in a soft voice, “Aye love, I think it may have been.” She asked how that was possible, neither naming it yet and both quaffing their rum before leaning back in their chairs. “Years ago,” he began, “I ran into a fortune teller on the docks. He told me I would find my happiness though it was presently locked away in a tall tower. So, when the time came and I found myself facing a witch and finding a woman locked away in a tower I had thought my moment had come. Instead, I found Gothel and her tricks. I brought a daughter into this world only to have her freedom snatched away by the cold-hearted woman who bore her.”

Emma watched him closely, he seemed far away and lost in another time. “Tonight,” he continued after several beats, “when I saw the westward tower of this castle I had to stifle my hope that perhaps after so long--what is that tower to you?” He leaned toward her suddenly, his sapphire eyes searching hers as though he could read the truth within them.

“My bedroom,” she admitted. “My parents thought it would keep me safe. With only one known entrance and exit, it was easy to post guards and easy to know who sought my attention. Of course, there is another exit, but no one other than me knows of it. I devised it when I was sixteen and desperately wanted a way out without the entourage of guards.”

He fell silent, his forehead creased in thought as he tapped a finger against the bow of his lips. The mantle clock’s rhythmic ticking was nearly deafening as Emma waited through each drawn out second. Mesmerized by the path he now traced along his bottom lip, her mind drifted back to the soft press of his mouth against hers and she wished fervently to undo whatever had him so lost in his own thoughts. Come back to me, Killian, she sighed aloud and he snapped to attention. “My apologies, love. I believe I may be in need of rest.” His explanation rang hollow and she leveled a gaze at him, knowing this wasn’t the full truth.

“I swear to you, Princess, I will make my theories known. I do not intend to hide anything from you.” He stood then, stretching languidly before offering his arm and waiting for her to rise. She acquiesced if only for the chance to feel the warmth of him once more before she retired for the night. She tried to stifle her yawn behind her hand and heard him chuckle low in response. “It seems I may not be the only one in need of sleep. Lead the way, love.”

She led him to one of the guest rooms not far from Henry’s. As she bid him goodnight, Killian leaned down to brush a featherlight kiss across her lips, wishing her sweet dreams. Emma felt as though she floated on air the whole way up to her room, content to leave him to his musings tonight and trusting he would speak his mind soon enough.

----- The morning saw Emma waking earlier than usual, calling a chipper “Good morning” to her sleep-rumpled lady’s maid before dismissing her and attending to her own routine. Still abed at this hour? It seems dear Tink has been keeping late hours herself. She let herself ponder whose affections might be persuading the spunky blonde to be less than punctual, smiling at her reflection as she brushed out her golden tresses.

Once ready, Emma hummed to herself, making her way down the innumerable stairs in search of breakfast, her parents, and Killian--the thought made her grin. His sudden shift into contemplativeness notwithstanding, he had been the perfect gentleman last night. Thoughtful in their discussion at dinner, genuine and curious without overstepping, and then there was the kiss. She flushed, pausing before the dining room doors to gather her thoughts and put on what she hoped was a soft smile rather than the doe-eyed look she’d undoubtedly been wearing since she woke.

Her parents, Henry, and Killian were already seated when she entered--the latter both rising and inclining their heads in deference. “Good morning, Princess,” they intoned in unison. She laughed, insisting they sit and continue the conversation she had interrupted, taking her place at her father’s right hand and quietly thanking the servingman who filled her cup with coffee and cream.

“Killian, you were asking about the tower, yes?” Queen Snow offered an encouraging half-smile before sipping demurely at her tea. At this, Emma heard her father mutter under his breath about the Captain inquiring about his daughter’s bedroom.

“Yes. You see, Your Majesty, I can’t help but notice it is nearly identical--from the outside,” he clarified at her father’s rapidly reddening face, “to one I encountered years ago. That particular structure was the residence of a rather powerful witch.”

“Gothel,” her father spat, and all eyes shifted to him. Emma saw Killian’s jaw clench at the name and he gave a single, curt nod in affirmation.

With her mother’s hand resting on his shoulder, her father began the story she’d heard many times over the course of her life. The story of how Gothel heard the regents were expecting and deduced there would be a child born of the most powerful magic in all realms: True Love. That she knew as well that child would have light magic, and that even if it never manifested there would be power in their blood. It was the story of why Emma’s parent’s fortified their home so heavily once word of Gothel’s covetous wish reached them, and why they insisted she train with sword and bow.

“It’s why my little girl was taught to ride like a soldier and not a courtier. Hell, it’s why I gave into her frankly dangerous wishes and allowed her to learn to sail--in case she needed to escape quickly.”

“Does it help to know Gothel can’t harm anyone anymore?” Henry offered helpfully, trying to lighten the weight that had settled on the group. There was general agreement at the table that, yes, it did help. Quite a lot, in fact, and it felt as though the sun broke out from beneath the clouds as they returned to their breakfast.

“Is that what you were concerned about, Captain?” Emma caught herself in time and used his title, not yet ready to have that discussion with her parents.

“The thought had crossed my mind, Princess, but it seems your own construction must have inspired hers for some reason.” He dismissed the thought, though she could practically hear the gears of his mind grinding away. The conversation returned to banal pleasantries about the weather and what game was in season. Her father consulted Killian on the conditions at sea, and in general the rest of the meal was like any other. Like any other meal you share with your family, a new friend, and the man you just shared True Love’s Kiss with less than eight hours after meeting him. Perfectly normal. Emma put on her court smile and commented politely, waiting for her moment to pounce.

“Join me for a walk in the gardens, Captain?” The moment arrived after a lengthy debate about the benefits of traveling by horse in comparison to ship. Thank the gods for the momentary lull as her father’s cup was refilled yet again - Emma didn’t think there was enough coffee in the whole of Misthaven to keep her alert on this topic.

“Of course, Princess.” He smiled bashfully, running his hand through his hair and standing as she rose. “May I?” He offered his arm and she accepted, the two making a long overdue exit.

The grass was still damp as they walked the grounds, the morning sun hinting at a warm day to come despite the slight chill that had Emma leaning in close, basking in the warm line of contact with Killian. “So, what was it you held back up there?” She broke the silence and watched the arch of his brow as he glanced at her. “I’ve always known when people are dishonest, or not fully honest in this case,” she explained. “It’s a feeling, sort of like a rock settling into my stomach. I don’t know if it’s part of my magic or something else,” she shrugged at this and watched his expression shift from curiosity to contemplation. No doubt he was thinking up a way to explain whatever was plaguing his mind.

He remained in that state as they passed her mother’s bed of crimson roses and all the way through the lilies that always made her nose twitch, their heady scent overpowering. Spotting the bench she and Henry had sat on—was that only yesterday?—she took the lead, turning to face him as they sat.

“There are some strange coincidences,” he began. Their knees brushed and she leaned into the contact, hoping her touch might ground him in the present. His past included darkness, and here in the bright morning sun amongst the flowers she hoped to keep those grim memories at bay.

“The tower is the first of them, and I’ve no idea which came first. Given Gothel’s numerous deceits, I’m not inclined to believe any of her tales nor any of Belfry’s—the woman who claimed to be the missing princess, Rapunzel,” he clarified when he saw her puzzled look. “Did you know the witch?”

She shook her head, “Only what my parents told me: that she was interested in my magic and had a reputation for taking what she desired by force.” He expressed clear agreement, and when his focus became distant Emma took hold of both hand and hook. “Whatever it is, that doesn’t change who we are to one another, Killian.”

That must have heartened him, for it earned her a gentle smile. “Aye, love, I suppose you’re right. You see, the other strangeness was Gothel’s impersonation. I’ve never given it much thought, but why should she play at being a princess? I’d no notion who the woman was, yet she changed her appearance, her voice, her name. Why?” He hypothesized then that either Gothel bribed the fortune-teller, planting the man in Killian’s path with a bogus story about happiness in a tower, or that she somehow knew Emma would be important and hedged her bets by occupying her own tower and putting herself in Killian’s path.

“You see, I’ve considered the strangeness of these overlaps and in part I wonder if one of the gifts she or a fellow witch of her coven acquired was prophecy. She seemed to know far more than anyone ought to, and perhaps thought to entrap me and use me to get to you.

“If she knew we were, uh,” he gulped, and flushed a charming shade of pink all the way to his ears. “Destined for one another, then it would be well within her character to exploit that. To make me think she could lead me to my happiness, then snatch you away for her own nefarious purposes. As well, I’m starting to suspect the unaccounted year the townsfolk allude to may well have been a longer span of time than any of you realize.”

It made sense in a way, and while they couldn’t be certain of Gothel’s intentions, Emma was definitely grateful the woman was gone and could do them no further harm. As far as The Gap was concerned, she supposed there was no real way of knowing how much time had passed, only that it seemed like a year. Had she slept as Aurora once had? Every answer seemed to lead to more questions, but Emma resolved herself to focusing on what mattered most first: reuniting Killian with his Alice.

“Despite her purposes, Killian, whatever they may have been,” she reached up and cupped his cheek. His eyes were blue as the sea and she let herself fall into their depths as she brought him back to the present. “Last night, Killian, True Love’s Kiss is potent magic and I think—I’m almost certain, actually—that we broke your curse. We can find Alice, and you can finally hold your daughter in your arms again.”

“We?” He grinned at her, nuzzling against her hand before turning to kiss her palm. “Then you’ll accompany me, love?”

“Of course! I know we’ve only just met, but I think it’s more than obvious how I feel about you given the fact we broke a witch’s curse with our first kiss.” They shared a laugh, shifting so she could rest her head against his shoulder as he draped his arm around her.

“She’s a bit different, my Alice,” he cautioned.

“And we aren’t?” she challenged. “Tonight at dinner, let me handle my parents. We’ll tell them what happened and make plans to seek out Alice. Henry said she’s with someone called Robin—does that name mean anything to you?”

“Aye, that’s Alice’s love. I know where to find them.”

“Then that’s our next course. Reuniting you with your daughter is the first step toward, well, I guess…” she paused, pulling back to meet his gaze again. “I guess toward becoming a family, right? I mean, my parents will have questions and all things considered, I guess we have other planning we’ll need to do in the future, but—“ he cut off her monologue with a kiss. It was sweet and slow, like he was trying to memorize the feel of her lips on his. His tongue flirted with her bottom lip and she twined her fingers in his hair.

Pulling back to meet her eyes, Killian smiled. “I love you, Princess Emma Nolan,” he whispered.

She felt warm all the way to her toes, grinning as she replied, “I love you, Captain Killian Jones.” The two shared a lingering kiss, the spell suddenly broken by a loud whoop of excitement.

“I told you both!” Henry hollered, emerging from his hiding place behind a large oak tree and performing some bizarre dance Emma had never seen. The three laughed, Henry congratulating them on their newly blossoming relationship while Emma and Killian thanked him for the unlooked-for but welcome help.

“What can I say except: you’re welcome.” His smile was bright at the sun and he slung an arm over both their shoulders, walking between them as the three returned to the house and, for Emma and Killian, toward the start of a new life together.

Tagging the usual suspects: @kmomof4, @teamhook, @veryverynotgood, @caught-in-the-filter, @hollyethecurious, @laschatzi, @donteattheappleshook, @lonelyspectator12, @the-darkdragonfly, @zaharadessert, @winterbaby89, @jrob64, @wefoundloveunderthelight, @ultraluckycatnd, @stahlop, @alexa-fangirl-forever, @superchocovian, @monosalvatore16, @snowbellewells, @batana54

[katblu42]

The Hug Shirt

So my tiny snippet of dialogue has grown into something bigger than I expected, which is why it has taken me weeks to write.  It’s 2:30 in the morning, but I couldn’t wait to post it because it’s my first Thunderbirds fic!

Thanks @janetm74 for reading through it and giving me feedback, advice and encouragement!

(It’s also on AO3)

John opened up the Space Elevator capsule and retrieved the care package from Tracy Island.  The long awaited supplies and spare parts were largely ignored, his sights firmly set on the small box containing the cheeseburger. When Scott was willing to detour to the mainland in Thunderbird 1 for take-away on the way back to the island you knew it had been a long and difficult day.

The first bite was devoured before he even had time to think about it, the second he savoured a little. As he took his third bite something in the care package caught his eye and he felt a slow smile spread through him. He reached down and slowly traced his free hand across the soft fabric.  Setting the burger aside a moment, he lifted out the flannel shirt and draped it across his back, letting the sleeves hang over his shoulders so he could loop them together.  As he resumed eating it seemed EOS was studying him intently, analysing this new fashion statement from numerous angles.

“Why has your family sent you an unlaundered item of clothing, John?” EOS asked, sounding puzzled.

“It’s Virgil’s way of telling me he knows today was rough and he’ll listen if I want to talk.”  John also believed it to be a not-so-subtle reminder that it had been a while since he’d been down to the island.

“How does a shirt convey such a message?”  EOS persisted.

John sighed, chewed and took a moment to consider how best to answer his curious AI companion.  He wasn’t certain he had the energy for the explanation he was sure would be required, but he knew EOS would keep pressing for an answer if he didn’t respond.

“It’s kind of a long story, EOS.  You might have to ask Virgil exactly how it all started, but this particular shirt – or one like it – has become somewhat of a Tracy family institution.”  As he spoke he realised that this simple piece of clothing had come to mean so much more than an easily explainable concept.  “It’s kind of special.  It even has a nickname – the Hug Shirt.”

EOS remained quiet, the lights surrounding her camera slowly tracing clockwise circles of white as John finished his cheeseburger.  She was watching him think, a process which always fascinated her.  Traces of various expressions flickered across his face as he recalled memories of each of his family members interacting with the Hug Shirt. There had been previous discussions with EOS about the family’s tendency to express things through physical contact rather than words, but this went a step further.

“Do you remember asking me what a hug feels like?” he finally asked.

“Yes.  You told me a hug is most often initiated as a sign of affection, but in reality it is a complex mixture of physical and emotional sensations, and can also release dopamine, serotonin, endorphins and oxytocin; that an unwanted physical embrace can elicit discomfort or fear, but being held close by a loved one can feel warm, safe, comforting, or calming - sometimes all at the same time.  You also said that Virgil has a hug for every occasion, and that he is very, very good at them.”

John stifled a chuckle, having not recalled using that phrase.  “Yes he is. And he has an uncanny way of knowing just when you need one. I guess that’s why the Hug Shirt gets dragged out anytime we deem someone needs one of Virgil’s hugs and he can’t be there in person to deliver one.”

“So, the Hug Shirt is used in place of physical contact with your brother?” EOS’ lights briefly flickered through the colour spectrum before returning to white.  “Why do you not keep the shirt on Thunderbird 5 with you all the time?”

“The Hug Shirt is used by all of us, not just me. There’s an old photo of Alan in it, somewhere – possibly in the family photo archive?  He would have only been about 8 years old.  It’s a screenshot from Virgil’s computer.”

A few seconds of whirring processors was all it took for EOS to search the archive.

“This one?”  EOS projected the image of a tiny Alan dwarfed by the far-too-big flannel shirt draped over him, sitting up in bed cuddling against his father’s side, but smiling in the general direction of the camera.

For a moment John just stared, transfixed.  He hadn’t seen the picture in a long time and he’d forgotten his Dad was in it.

“Yeah,” he managed to quietly answer, “that’s the one.”

********

“Dad?  Dad!”  Gordon called from the top of the stairs.  “Allie’s had a bad dream!”

“Alright, Gordon. I’ll be right there,” Jeff said, sighing heavily as he set aside the spreadsheet he’d been working on. Glancing over at his mother as he passed, he forestalled her suggestion that she take care of this with a smile and a gesture of his hand.

“I’ll warm up some milk,” she suggested, heading for the kitchen.  “It might help him settle back to sleep.”

Long before he reached the bedroom door he could hear the sobs and ragged breaths from his littlest, and the soothing tones uttered by his second youngest.  He walked in to find Gordon trying desperately to console Alan, who’s face was buried against Gordon’s neck, too shaken by the nightmare to do anything but cry.  As Jeff approached the bed wide brown eyes looked up into his.

“I heard him all the way from my room.  He was screaming, calling for Virgil.  He won’t tell me what he was dreaming about.”

Jeff sat on the side of Alan’s bed and coaxed him out of his brothers arms and into his own embrace, stroking his hair and reassuring him that everything was alright, it was just a bad dream.

“B-bu-huh, but Vir-Virgie,” Alan sobbed and hiccoughed, shaking his head.  “Heh he sno-not okay.  They hu-hurt him.”

He dissolved into tears again and it seemed nothing Jeff or Gordon said could erase the images of the nightmare.

“I promise you, Allie, Virgil is just fine.”  Jeff tilted Alan’s head up so those bright blue eyes were looking into his own.  “I spoke to him this morning.  He’s coming home next weekend for a visit.”

“No, no!”  Alan continued to protest.  “The bad guys got him, and, and he ne-needs us to . . .” The last few words were swallowed by more sobs.

Jeff turned his gaze on Gordon thinking he might have to have words with the teen about the kinds of movies and video games that were appropriate for an eight-year-old, suspecting gangsters and zombies might be some of the bad guys in question.

“I know something that might help,” Gordon said quietly, then ran out of the room.  He returned moments later with one of Virgil’s flannel shirts and started tucking it around his little brother, slipping his little arms inside the long sleeves which had to be folded back on themselves to reveal his hands, and pulling the back of the collar up under Alan’s chin.  “Just like one of Virgie’s hugs!”

Alan gave his brother a weak smile, but his eyes still glistened with tears.  In the meantime Jeff had rummaged his phone out of his pocket and initiated a video call.

“Hey, Dad,” a familiar, but tinny voice rang out through the small speaker.  “What’s going on?”

Alan shuffled himself against his father’s side so he could see the screen Jeff held in front of them.

“Virgie!” he exclaimed in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Hi Allie.  What are you doing awake so late?”  He decided to momentarily ignore the fact that Alan was wrapped up in what appeared to be one of his favourite old shirts.

“You’re okay!”

“Of course I am, Squirt. Even better now I get to see you.”

“But, but I saw them hurt you,” Alan babbled.  “The bad guys took you away and they were being really mean and they hurt you really bad and made you cry and . . .”

Seeing the rapid succession of shocked and confused expressions displayed on Virgil’s face, Jeff decided he should interrupt.

“Alan had a bad dream and was convinced that something had happened to you.  I’m sorry to interrupt your study, but nothing we could say would assure him you’re okay.”

“That must have been some dream.” Virgil’s eyes searched his Dad’s for a moment, full of concern and unasked questions, then he turned his attention to his little brother.  He made sure to look straight at the camera on his computer so Alan would see him looking directly at him.  “Alan, look at me.  I’m okay. No bad guys.  I’m not hurt.  No one’s being mean to me, and the only thing that makes me cry is when I think of how much I miss being home with you and Gordon and all my family.

“Did Gordo loan you my shirt?” Alan nodded. “Here’s what I want you to do – close your eyes, pretend that I’m inside that shirt and my arms are wrapped around you and I’m giving you the biggest, warmest, tightest hug ever, because I’m sending you that hug all the way from Denver.”  Virgil watched as Alan did as he asked, screwed his eyes tight shut, clutched his arms around himself, relaxed against his Dad’s side and began to smile.  “Better?”

Alan opened his eyes and nodded to Virgil’s image on the phone screen.  Suddenly his eyes were drawn to something Virgil couldn’t see, in the direction of Alan’s bedroom door.

“Grandma, Virgil just gave me a hug all the way from Denver,” Alan explained, excitedly.

“That sounds wonderful, dear.”  She handed him the mug she’d carried in.  “You know what goes really well with long-distance hugs?  A nice cup of warm milk.”

“Thanks Grandma.”  He clutched the mug in both hands, warming his fingers as he took a large sip.

Jeff pressed his baby boy a little tighter against him and suggested it was time they let Virgil get back to studying, but Alan was reluctant to let his big brother out of his sight just yet.

“No, wait!  Can Virgil play me a song?”

“Sorry Sprout, no can do. My keyboard’s out of action at the moment and it’s gonna take too long to open the computer program without ending the call.”

“Can you tell me a story then?” Virgil looked at his dad, who gave a one shouldered shrug and a smile. “Pleeeease?”  Alan whined.

“Alright.  Just one story.”

Alan finished drinking his milk as Virgil recited the first half of one of their favourite bedtime stories from memory. Grandma took the empty mug, gave him a kiss on the forehead and made her exit.  Before the story reached its climax Alan’s eyelids were drooping closed and his head rested heavily against Jeff’s chest.  Gordon, thinking his baby brother was asleep, suggested that the rest of the story didn’t need to be told, but a mumbled protest was made.  Gordon sighed, said goodnight and headed back to his own room knowing that the drama was over.  Virgil dutifully finished the story knowing full well that Alan was asleep before the end. He and Jeff whispered goodnight to each other and ended the call and Alan was finally tucked snugly beneath the covers, still clad in his big brother’s shirt.

********

“That’s the earliest example I know of, but certainly not the only time the Hug Shirt has seen one of us through nightmares, illness or plain bad moods over the last ten years or so.”

“There are other examples?” EOS prompted.

“Plenty.”  A quick succession of memories flickered through John’s mind again, and he latched onto a few specific recollections.  “The shirt spent a lot of time with Gordon when he was recovering from the hydrofoil crash.  Much as we all wanted to be there with him through every minute, it was just impossible.  Having that simple, physical reminder that even when we couldn’t be with him in person, we were there in spirit gave him some comfort. It also helped Virgil through his guilt every time he had to leave the hospital.”

John took a moment to begin stowing some of the provisions before continuing.

“I guess Gordon and Alan have made the most use of the Hug Shirt.  Both of them are still inclined to seek it out if they need a little extra comfort, particularly when they’re sick.  I guess it’s something that’s tactile and familiar – a bit like a favourite teddy bear, or a security blanket.  It can also be an almost unconscious invitation for one of their older brothers to ask if they’re okay and offer some emotional support.”

EOS remained silent, watching John check each component and tool off the list before storing it away for later use, listening as he let memories form into words.  She didn’t always understand humans and their emotions, so any chance to hear John talk about his family was an opportunity to learn.

“There was that time a couple of years ago when Virgil was injured . . .”

********

“Are you sure he’s okay here, Grandma?  Maybe we should have taken him to a hospital.  He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Have a little faith, Scott. I know what I can handle, and we have everything we need to look after him here.”

“But he still hasn’t woken up yet.”  Alan’s voice sounded small, and his eyes glistened with tears he didn’t want to let fall.  “That’s a bad sign, right?”

“Two’s all squared away. John’s on his way down.  How is he?”  Gordon asked, breathless from running all the way from the hangar.  He leaned a hand on Alan’s shoulder trying to see past both him and Scott to the still, pale figure on the infirmary bed.

Grandma was all business. Steady hands inserted the IV line and then began cutting away the bandage on Virgil’s leg so she could begin cleaning and stitching the wound.  Her eyes constantly flicking to the readouts of the monitoring equipment to check vital information.  The head injury was a concern, but not an immediate danger.  Likewise, the cracked ribs could wait.  She largely ignored the concerned looks and hushed chatter of the other boys, occasionally asking one of them to hold something, call out a reading, or fetch things that were out of reach.  None of the boys minded when she had to push one of them out of the way so she had more room to work.

“Grandma?”  She turned towards the new voice coming from the infirmary door and her gut twisted at the worry in those turquoise eyes.  Worry that was mirrored on the faces of her two youngest grandsons, and barely concealed in the eldest’s.

Sally gave the boys a smile that felt a little weaker and wobblier than she’d intended.  “He’s going to be fine, boys.  It’s just going to take a little time and some TLC.  In the meantime, this room is getting a little crowded.  I suggest you all head upstairs, get cleaned up, get some rest.  Virgil’s not going anywhere, and his condition is stable.”

The suggestion that they should leave was met with resistance.  Protests were made vocally and through stubborn reluctance to move. Finally, Sally took Scott’s hand in both of hers and met those intense blue eyes with a determined plea in her own. Scott sighed, dropped his gaze, his shoulders sagging slightly, and nodded his acquiescence.  He stepped over to the side of the bed and leaned close to his incapacitated brother, stroking his hair, squeezing his shoulder, softly speaking close to Virgil’s ear.

“Hang in there, Virg. Come back to us soon.  We’re all here for you.”  He stepped away, looked over at Grandma who smiled fondly, looked back at Virgil, then slowly left the room.

Gordon and Alan took their own turns at reassuring their fallen brother that whilst they had to leave they would not be far away, and reluctantly followed Scott.  John was more hesitant.  Sometimes monitoring a situation from Five felt so far away. Being right here in the room and still being helpless almost felt worse.  All he could do was squeeze Virgil’s hand, gently trace his fingers down his pale cheek and whisper, “I’m here, Virgil.  I’ll be here when you wake up.”

John headed upstairs to the lounge, certain in the knowledge that Grandma had everything in hand and would notify them if there was any change in Virgil’s condition.  He arrived to find Alan and Gordon in the middle of an argument, and an exasperated Scott trying to keep the peace.

“But I thought of it first!”

“No way, Alan!  You didn’t want it until I got it out.”

It was then that John noticed the two blondes each had both hands on a certain plaid shirt held between them as they yelled in each others’ faces and tugged back and forth.

“I can just get another one of Virgil’s shirts and you can have one each.”

Scott’s suggestion was immediately shot down in flames with some of the most violent, angry death stares he’d ever seen and loud protests that only one shirt was the “real” Hug Shirt, and neither of them would accept a replacement.

The tug-o-war continued, both boys determined not to let go despite the increasingly dirty tactics being employed to gain the upper hand.  Sensing the structural integrity of the shirt was in danger if the wrestling match continued, Scott and John stepped in to try and put an end to the fight. Somehow the addition of two more brothers only increased the tangle of limbs, fabric, furniture and cushions. Shouted insults and arguments gradually gave way to little more than guttural grunts.

By the time Kayo returned from her mission and wandered up from the infirmary with an update on Virgil’s condition she found all four brothers crashed out in a tangle on and beside the couch each draped in or clutching part of the Hug Shirt.  She snapped a photo (which she would give to Virgil later) before settling herself on the floor next to Scott, her head resting against the flannel sleeve draped over his shoulder.

********

“Kayo says she has photographic evidence of that, but I’ve never seen it.”  John smiled up at EOS’ camera unit.  “I did catch Kayo in the shirt late one night, though.  Don’t ever tell her I told you this!  It was at the beginning of one of my dirt-side rotations, so I was still getting used to the day/night cycle.  It was around 3am and I was headed for the kitchen because I couldn’t sleep.  I nearly ran into Kayo on her way back to her room with a mug of hot chocolate in her hand. She was wearing the Hug Shirt.” In fact, if he recalled correctly, she wore only the Hug Shirt and little else.  “I suspect she might have had a nightmare, but the look she gave me did not invite me to ask.  I’d go so far as to say the look was a warning to never speak of that moment to anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me, John,” EOS reassured him.

All items from the latest package from home were now appropriately stowed.  EOS followed John as he headed back to the com centre to check for any developing situations they might need to keep an eye on.

“Does Scott require the use of the Hug Shirt like the others do?” EOS enquired, thoughtfully.  John turned to face her camera unit and used a support strut to arrest his momentum, coming to a stop as he considered his answer.

“I have my theories about Scott.”  John could have sworn EOS’ camera unit adopted a slight tilt that equated to an expression of curiosity.  “Scott always seems to know exactly where to locate the shirt if someone’s looking for it. My suspicion is that it ends up in Scott’s room when he’s being too stubborn to admit to anyone that he needs to talk through his emotions.  Maybe he’s just getting in first, before Virgil can threaten him with it.  I can’t begin to guess how many times I’ve heard Virgil say ‘If you tell me “I’m fine” one more time I will use the Hug Shirt to tie you down until you talk to me!’.  Scott uses a similar tactic on Virgil, though.  He’ll literally throw the shirt at Virgil as a reminder that even he needs to give in to the smothering every once in a while.”

John chuckled to himself, shaking his head slightly and letting himself get lost in the images of his big brothers fighting about which of them was worse at accepting their need for emotional support.

“John?”  EOS tentatively broke through his thoughts.

“Yes, EOS?”

“Is there a reason Virgil thought you might need the comfort of the Hug Shirt at this time?”

“Well,” John sighed heavily, “today was . . . difficult.  One of the busiest we’ve had in a long time.  There was a lot to keep track of, a lot of priorities to be assessed, split-second decisions to be made.  With our resources stretched as thin as they were today there were situations we just could not attend.  There were people who lost their lives today because International Rescue were unable to assist.  Virgil knows – all my family know – all of those things take an emotional toll.”

The lights surrounding EOS’ camera illuminated in a purple semicircle as she emitted a sound that was something between a sigh and a hum.  She seemed to pause in thought, lights tracking clockwise and changing to green.

“Shall I prepare the space elevator for you to make a trip to Tracy Island?”  she offered.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” John said, softly.  “But maybe we should put in a call to Virgil.”

EOS placed the call and John was not surprised to find his raven-haired brother sitting at the piano when he answered.

“Hey, John.”  Virgil didn’t stop playing, but he raised his head to look up at his brother’s projected image.  The piece was one John recognised but couldn’t name.  “I had a feeling you’d call.”

“Right,” John’s raised eyebrow and mock scowl was met with the slight upward curve at the corners of Virgil’s mouth.  “It had nothing to do with certain items sent up to Five in the elevator. Do I have Scott to thank for the cheeseburger?”

“Scott brought it back to the Island for me to put in the elevator, but Gordon was the one who suggested take-away, and Alan’s whining possibly helped convince Scott to make the detour.”  Virgil gave a soft, low chuckle then cocked his head slightly, regarding his space-bound brother.  “You know, I was about to give up waiting and call you.”

“Sorry, I would have called sooner but I had to explain my fashion accessory to EOS.”

A smirk worked its way across Virgil’s face.  “And how’d that go?”

“Let’s just say it’s an interesting conversation to enter into. One I wasn’t expecting to be quite so involved.”  John paused as Virgil finished the piece he’d been playing and sat looking back at him with a quizzical expression.  “Actually, it’s given me an opportunity to ask you . . . How did this all start? Where did the Hug Shirt concept come from?”

Virgil lifted his hands off the piano keys and placed them on his knees, sitting up a little straighter as an expression of nostalgia gave his features a far-away look that somehow made John think of their mother.

“It was Gordon.  A few weeks after I started college.”

********

“Hey Gordo!” Virgil greeted his brother as his image lit up the tablet screen.  

“Hi,” the despondent reply was mumbled back.

Virgil had only called because of the three messages he’d missed while attending classes earlier in the day.  He’d known something was bothering Gordon, but hadn’t expected the sullen silence from his usually exuberant brother.  That spoke volumes, and had Virgil a little worried, but he couldn’t help addressing the image that he saw before him.

“Is that my shirt?”

“Yes.”  There was no point in denial, but Gordon felt uncomfortable answering, particularly under the scrutiny of those inquisitive brown eyes and the quirk of the raised eyebrow.

“And you’re wearing it because . . .”

“It’s soft and warm and smells like you.”  His voice squeaked on the last word and he shrugged himself deeper into the checked flannel, feeling small.

“And it’s back-to-front because . . .”

“It’s the closest I could get to one of your hugs.  Not as good as the real thing, but this one doesn’t let go.”  Gordon watched as a smile began forming on his big brother’s face, then fell, replaced with a look of hurt and then concern.  He felt guilty, but he was hurting and the brother he needed was so far away.

“Gordon?” Virgil’s voice was quiet but still commanded attention. “I might be 500 miles away, but you know I’d never let you go. Not where it counts.”

Gordon found it difficult to meet Virgil’s gaze, even through the filter of technology where the cameras and screens didn’t make it easy to look eye to eye. He knew the inability to reach out and hug a brother who was literally crying out for one would be like a dagger in Virgil’s heart.  And he didn’t begrudge his brothers leaving home to follow their dreams.  He just needed something that had always just been there . . . until today.

“I’d hug you if I could, little brother.  I can see how much you’re hurting, and I’d give anything to be able to fix that.”

“I know.” Gordon swallowed hard, his mouth feeling suddenly dry.  “And I honestly didn’t mean to make you worry.” His hands brushed at the soft flannel fabric and he looked up at the screen with a shaky smile.  “To be honest, the shirt works better than I thought it would, especially now I hear your voice.”

He was rewarded with a smile that quirked the left side of Virgil’s mouth upward, and sparkled in those deep brown eyes.

“You’d better keep the shirt then, Squid.  At least until I get home.  Wear it when you need it and know that I’m not as far away as it seems.” There was a brief pause as Virgil reached around to grab something off the bed.  “You know, I have something here that I use to stop me feeling like I’m far from the people I love, something I needed to do so I could keep you all close.  You’ve seen me wear this jacket, right?” Virgil held up his well-worn jacket as Gordon nodded, then he turned it so Gordon could see patches sewn onto the upper part of the right sleeve.  Six carefully arranged cloth patches stitched onto the denim. “Well, I added these.  Now you’re all with me wherever I go.”

Gordon’s eyes widened as he recognised the significance of each of the six designs.  Virgil was talking him through each one, but he didn’t need the explanations.  Virgil had designed them himself and had them embroidered at some little shop in town, then sewn them on by hand.  At the top was a patch that combined the logos of dad’s Mars mission and Shadow Alpha One and next to that a patch with a purple background that depicted the Rod of Asclepius superimposed over Grandma’s old Cessna.  Beneath those were a patch that looked a lot like Scott’s Air Force unit logo with the addition of a futuristic jet plane that Gordon recognised from a poster on Scott’s bedroom wall, and one that was a modified NASA logo that included John’s favourite constellation.  The final two patches included one with a crescent shaped moon, a big yellow star and a giant, bright red rocket ship which Gordon recognised as an exact replica of a drawing that had spent an entire year stuck to the refrigerator, and the final patch that Gordon stared at in amazement.  The stitching around the outside was bright yellow.  The design on the patch depicted an underwater scene with a large purple squid in the lower section, a couple of tropical fish above that and lane markers striped across the top of the water line.

“They’re amazing, Virgil.”  Gordon’s mood had brightened and he smiled.

“Thanks, Gords.  But the best thing for chasing the homesick blues away is seeing that smile of yours. You had me worried for a while. You wanna tell me what chased the sunshine away from your face earlier?”

Gordon took a deep breath and sighed heavily before launching into the story of the worst day at school ever.  The details all came tumbling out.  Virgil listened silently to the tale of woe.  He agreed that it could be difficult getting hold of Scott because of Air Force protocols. Together they lamented the fact that calling John meant dealing with time zone calculations, and while John was great for homework help he sometimes struggled to really engage with personal problems.  Virgil discovered that Gordon felt he couldn’t talk to Dad because he was always so busy with the Pacific Project, and Alan, well, Gordon wasn’t about to dump his problems on his little brother even if he thought it would do any good.

“Hey, Squid, I really gotta go.”  Virgil looked apologetic as he checked the clock in the bottom corner of his screen.  “I can call back a little later if you like?”

“Nah, I’m all good.  Thanks for listening, Virg.”

“Any time, little bro.  Give Allie and Dad a hug for me.”  He waved and waited for Gordon to end the call.

********

“So, what was so traumatic that Gordon had to invent a way to simulate one of your hugs?” John asked.

“You remember that girl with the strawberry blonde curls that he used to talk about all the time?” Virgil answered with a chuckle.

“The one he had a crush on for about two years?  Sophie something?  No, Cindy!”

“Yeah, Cindy Tollerman.  He was totally smitten with her, but she was going out with some meat-head football player.”

“I remember.”  John nodded, curiosity causing him to lean closer to the holoprojector.

“Well, Gordon found out she’d broken up with the football jerk over the summer.”

“Don’t tell me.  He finally got up the courage to ask her out and she rejected him.”

“Laughed in his face,” Virgil confirmed.  “Poor kid was heartbroken and mortified, but it didn’t end there. Apparently he was so distracted during afternoon classes he ended up with a detention.  Something about a teacher calling on him repeatedly to answer a question and thinking he was ignoring her on purpose just to get laughs.  Detention made him late for swim training, which in his mind was going to set him back leading into a big meet the following month.”

“Poor Gords.”  John’s eyes twinkled with laughter despite recognising how miserable it would have been for his brother at the time.  “I can certainly see why he’d need one of your hugs after that.”

And thus the Hug Shirt was born.

[sondepoch]

An Angel’s Sin (Simeon x Reader)

There’s more to the relationship between demons and angels than being simple opposites, but after an afternoon with Simeon, it becomes clear that their interpretation of sin is a pivotal point in their differences. Spurred on by the conversation, you teasingly encourage Simeon to sin, but you quickly find that you’ve asked for more than what you initially expected. Though, with this particular angel, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

~Oneshot

MASTERLIST

They got it wrong.

Well, not entirely. But whoever discovered the concepts of angels and demons definitely didn't get it all right.

You shuffle in your seat, trying to keep your head out of sight so that your teacher can't see you openly ignoring his lecture as you stare out the window. Hey, it's not like you even need to pay attention. You're in Human Studies right now. Yeah. You, a human, actually have to take this class. And the teacher is currently going over what you learned in fourth grade, so you can afford to slack off.

But anyway, you think, mind drifting back to your previous train of thought. They definitely got it wrong.

You suppose you should commend your human ancestors for even figuring out that demons and angels exist in the first place. According to Solomon, it had been discovered through a trail of clues left behind from witches when they forged pacts with demons. Considering the obscure nature of casting sites, it's almost a wonder that people managed to understand anything at all.

Well, most of it was speculation. You muse, absentmindedly twisting your pen in your fingers. The same speculation that caused them to get everything so horribly incorrect.

You sigh.

For one, demons aren't evil.

You'd sensed it when you first arrived in the House of Lamentation, and the feeling persisted as you continued to bond with the various brothers, but there's no denying it now.

Demons are a lot of things: chaotic, messy, obnoxious, and rude, but they're not inherently evil as all the holy texts say.

Just last night, Satan cornered Lucifer in the dining hall with a plate of spaghetti while Belphegor threw meatballs at the firstborn, the two demons teaming up in the first demonstration of their "Lucifer Sucks" club while Beelzebub cried in the background over all the food wastage. Reckless, yes, and somewhat amusing to watch. But evil? Not even a little bit.

You smile at the memory, glancing at the clock.

There's barely a minute left in this period before you get to head to your next class: one of the only classes you have with Simeon. And while you usually look forward to Angel Studies, today you're excited for another reason. Someone like Solomon might be better for an objective analysis, but you want to hear what the angel has to say on the topic of demons and their innate nature.

The bell rings, and a smile blooms on your lips as you practically jump out of your seat.

You normally walk quicker to this class than all the rest, having developed a mild (read: intense) crush on the chocolate-haired boy, so no one bats an eyelid when you dart out of the classroom, practically skipping your way through the halls.

I wonder if he brought food today. The thought causes your stomach to grumble in anticipation. The two of you bonded long ago over your shared boredom in Angel Studies—Simeon, because he knows the subject better than the teacher, and you, because the Celestial Realm really isn't all that interesting. Conveniently seated next to each other from the very first day, you'd caught on early that Simeon was sneaking snacks into class. When he caught you staring, he'd offered you a cookie with a sheepish smile.

Everything after that point is history.

That single cookie had been the catalyst for conversation, laughter, and more food. Almost every day, Simeon now strolls into Angel Studies with half his binder stuffed with various treats prepared by Luke, ready to share them with you. What's not to love about the arrangement?

A soft smile blooms on your face as you enter the classroom, pleasantly surprised to find Simeon already seated in the back.

"Hey," You call, tossing a notebook onto the desk. Simeon turns to face you, a warm smile etched on his lips.

Typically, you two would take advantage of the beginnings of class to make plans for later in the day, like to review the material for Demon Studies (the hardest course for both of you) or to simply chill at Purgatory Hall; but today, the teacher walks in and immediately begins ranting about the lack of effort students are putting into his class and how upset it is making him.

From the corner of your eye, you glance at Simeon, who's shooting you that mischievous smirk of his, subtly sliding you a container under the table. You gasp in delight when you glance down, seeing the unmistakable outline of four delicious lemon squares through the glass covering.

You almost want to open the box and try a piece now, but your teacher's ranting has finally subsided, and it's too quiet for you to do such a thing without being noticed. You watch as the elderly demon finally sighs and crosses his arms, evidently ready to actually assign you your work for the period.

"So, to showcase your efforts, I want you to teach yourselves this next unit. You are to open your textbooks and read the passage: The Angel Trials of the Seventh Archbishop. I then want you to complete an analysis of the contrasting moral arguments that led to such controversy, and a concluding paragraph pointing out your personal beliefs on the matter. This is due next week, and this time I will not be accepting late papers."

You let out a sigh of relief when the teacher finally sits down, a silent instruction for all the students to begin their assignment. Where the other demons open their textbooks, though, you turn to Simeon. He's better than any book could hope to be. Not just in his natural gift for explaining, but with those abs? Nothing else stands a chance.

"So," You begin, voice low so that your teacher won't hear the whispering. "The trials of the seventh archbishop. Wanna summarize?" You ask with a giggle.

"Oh, please. You'd tune me out in my first sentence." Simeon chuckles. He has the truth of it. Since birth, you've been gifted with the rather unhelpful habit of zoning out whenever people begin explaining things you're not interested in, whether you want to or not. But after two study sessions with the angel, he'd quickly figured out the one way to keep you drawn in: food. Specifically, Luke's homemade chocolate chip cookies. "I'll explain it to you at Purgatory Hall this afternoon. Luke was planning on baking cookies anyway, so he won't mind."

You smile at the angel, thanking him for his offer.

You don't know what it is about having a cookie in your mouth while someone explains, but something about the deliciousness of the treat silences all the background noise in your mind, leaving you fully able to focus on Simeon while he explains whatever. In fact, Simeon is pretty much the only reason you're not failing your classes right now.

You sigh in contentment.

He truly is an angel.

A smart angel, at that.

"Hey Simeon," You say, suddenly remembering what you'd spent all of last period thinking about. "Why do humans depict demons as beings of pure evil and angels as beings of true good?"

The angel's eyes widen. He stares at you in pure surprise, lips forming a small o-shape before you awkwardly cough. "Sorry, sorry!" He apologizes, instantly snapping out of it. "It's just...I'm surprised. Solomon said it took him years before he realized the truth about the three realms... it's amazing that you're questioning it after only having been here a few months."

You shoot Simeon a questioning look. "The truth about the three realms?"

You have no clue what this boy is on about.

"Ah, sorry," He apologizes again, taking a second to gather his composure. You've learned that he can be quite a good teacher when he tries, so you know that he's about to go full explanation-mode on you. "Your question is valid, little lamb. When humans discovered the concepts of angels and demons, they didn't fully understand the meaning behind those ideas, which led them to make their own conclusions about our nature."

"And?"

"And those conclusions were wrong." Simeon chuckles, stealing the container of lemon squares off your lap to break one in half, offering you a piece while he continues. "It's something that people don't usually notice on their own. That's why I was so impressed that you'd picked up on it."

You smile at the boy, taking a bite of the treat in your hand. "Well, it's not like I noticed it very early. Up until now, I think I mostly bought into the whole idea that demons are evil."

"And now?"

"Well, I live with seven demons. How can I dislike them? They have their flaws, but I've seen more good than evil in them."

Simeon smiles at you, the same beaming grin that lets you know that he's proud of whatever deduction you've reached. "You're right. The human interpretation of angels and demons has never been very precise. We angels tend to love it, since it paints us in a good light...but a part of the reason why demons in the Devildom are so biased against humans is partially because you began it all, by depicting demons as emblems of pure evil."

"So then, what's the difference between an angel and a demon, if your supposed differences don't lie along the lines of good and evil?" There it is. The question that you've been thinking about this whole time.

Simeon smiles, taking another bite of the lemon square in his hand.

"Angels and demons...are merely two sides to the same coin. Two journeys to the same destination. Two halves to a whole that remains incomplete without both. We're nearly identical, in truth. Anatomically speaking, angel wings and demon wings are no different. And the way that demon horns materialize out of nowhere is akin to a halo's appearance. It's just that where angels believe in light, demons believe in dark."

"But isn't that it? That light is good, and dark is bad?" Simeon was making sense at first, but now you're more than a little confused.

"Not at all," Simeon says. He laughs his usual cute laugh. "Assigning moral values to natural features like light and dark has always been a human construct. A flawed construct, at that. Whether you're in the Celestial Realm or the Devildom, light and dark are two things that cannot exist without each other. They are entirely unrelated to good and evil."

"But isn't it natural that darkness is associated with fear, and things that are generally bad?" You pause for a minute, trying to find your words. "Light is comparable to sunlight, which directly supports life and growth. Whereas too much darkness will lead to deficiencies and...um...a worsened mental state?"

"I see your point, but the analogy is flawed. Just as not enough sunlight will kill a plant, too much sunlight will do the same. How can light be inherently good? Or the dark inherently bad?" Simeon pauses, letting his words sink in. "A blind man lives his entire life knowing only the darkness, but does that make his existence one shrouded in evil?"

Simeon pauses, letting his words sink in. By the time they have, you're left awestruck.

How have you never considered this before? It's always seemed so natural that halos and sunshine were equated to good, and horns and darkness were a sister to evil. But if what Simeon is saying is true...

"So there's no real difference between angels and demons, then, is there?"

"Not quite." Simeon hesitates, seemingly uncertain of how to put his thoughts into words. "I told you before that angels and demons are like two different journeys to the same destination. Our lives end with the ultimate purpose of serving the rulers of our respective realms, but the way we do it is where our differences come in."

"Elaborate?"

"Demons believe in more strongly in self servitude. They believe that by giving oneself their innate desires, that will result in a more satisfactory life and will better enable them to serve the demon lord. Angels believe in serving the realm before themselves. We devote ourselves to principles like virtue and servitude in hopes of reaching personal happiness."

"So then, if all that is true..." You hesitate, not sure if Simeon will laugh at your next words or not. "Then, does that mean that angels can sin, too?"

"Of course." A devious grin crosses Simeon's face. "The level of sin that an angel may allow themselves is different than what a demon would do, but certainly."

"I don't believe you," You say, smiling. Simeon? Sin? Yes, the angel dresses like a stripper, but the sheer notion of him doing anything bad seems so impossible. "I can't imagine you sinning."

"Well," Amusement flickers through Simeon's eyes, the teal-eyed boy, staring at you through a pause pregnant with thought. "Why don't I show you today? Let's skip Demon Studies today."

"Oh my god," You murmur, trying to choke back a laugh. "That's your big idea of sinning? Skipping class?" You flash the angel a grin as the bell rings, but honestly, you're surprised that he's even willing to go that far. You've yet to see any demons skipping class, so for an angel to play school delinquent? That's quite something.

"Oh hush," Simeon murmurs, gathering his things. He breaks off another piece of a lemon square before gathering his materials in preparation for the next class. "Just meet me in the courtyard, alright? I'll show you just how much an angel can sin."

"Alright," You agree, turning to gather your own materials.

The rest of the day passes quickly. Lunch is entertaining, but given that you sit with the demon brothers, lunch is never not entertaining. Today, Mammon managed to convince the lunch she-demon to double his meal portion. He then attempted to sell his extra foodstuffs to Beel, whereupon the secondborn was instantly shut down by Belphegor. Lucifer caught wind of the situation and threatened to string Mammon up for a hundred years, only calming down when you stepped in to deescalate the situation.

You couldn't fully focus on the demon brother's antics, though. Because across the lunchroom, at a table not too far from your own, sat Simeon, quirking his eyebrows mischievously as if to remind you of your plans for ditching Demon Studies.

The courtyard, he seemed to mouth out. You nodded at him, a confirmation that you'd be there. And at the time, he'd nodded back, his usual reassuring smile on his face, the entire exchange going unnoticed by any of your tablemates.

So where the heck is Simeon?

You glance at your D.D.D., checking to see how many minutes have passed since Demon Studies began. Six. Six whole minutes.

It can't take that long to get here from Simeon's previous classroom, right? What if the angel got cold feet over ditching and decided to go to class? What if he's not coming? What if Lucifer finds you skipping and strings you up for a hundred years?

"Little lamb!"

The voice unclogs a dam of relief that floods through your body. "There you are!" You exclaim, turning around to face Simeon. "I thought you'd decided not to cut class, after all."

"And leave you all alone?" Simeon asks, walking over to the bench you're on. It's comfortably under the shade of a nice, leafy tree, so the sunlight doesn't obstruct either of your eyes when you look at each other. "Why, that's a bigger sin than ditching in itself."

You smile at the angel's words, the boy never failing to bring a fresh shade of pink to your cheeks with his endless compliments. If they were to come from anyone else, you might assume them to be a form of flirting, but you doubt the angel knows the true effect of his words on you.

"Alright, so let me hear it. Tell me about all the sins you've committed!" You exclaim, clapping your hands together in excitement. You haven't forgotten the primary reason why you agreed to skip class in the first place.

"Oh, little lamb." Simeon pats your head. "Have you ever written down every single thing you've done that could be considered celestially questionable?"

Your silence says more than words can.

"I thought so." Simeon smiles. "It would be impossible for me to tell you of my every wrongdoing, or all my sins. But if you want to know a more recent example..."

"Yes!" Your voice is eager, anticipation lifting your spirits like the cool breeze of wind that rustles Simeon's fluffy hair. What kind of sins does an angel commit? Simeon told you earlier that angels consider sin differently from what demons and humans will consider sin, so you're dying to know what this mystery is. Your voice rings out clear in the courtyard: "Tell me!'

"Well," Simeon begins, angling his body toward you so that he can look at you as he tells his tale. "I'm sure you know that the Archangel Michael was the one who decided upon sending Luke and me down here as envoys of the Celestial Realm for Diavolo's program."

You nod.

"What you may not have realized is that my purpose here lies exclusively in guiding Luke, and ensuring that his exposure to demons at such a young age is not corrupting his angelic beliefs. I'm sure you can tell that we don't need to worry about that, but Michael made it clear that those were my only duties." Simeon frowns lightly, casually lifting a lock of your loose hair with his fingers and examining it as he speaks. It's a gesture he's always done, but it's never felt as intimate as now. "Michael made it especially clear that he did not wish for me to allow myself to be involved with anyone."

"Involved?" You ask, wondering if the word carries the same connotation in the Celestial Realm as it does in the human world.

"Involved," Simeon responds, and the way he says the word is enough for you to know that yes: it very much does mean the same thing.

"And...did you?" You ask. You try not to let it show, but inwardly, your brain is going wild. If Simeon is already with someone, you may as well just give up on your feelings now. No one would give up a man as perfect as him—with those godlike abs and naturally charismatic personality, and he's too good to break anyone's heart.

"Not yet," Simeon says. "My orders were clear. Though, as of recent, someone has been encouraging me to sin." His eyes are twinkling.

You feel your ears grow warm at that. "Hey!"

"So I think I might just disobey that order. What do you think, hm?" Simeon asks. He turns his gaze away from the lock of hair between your fingers, looking you straight in the eyes. Hair dropped, he uses his index finger to tilt your face towards his when you try to look away. As you stare into his eyes, you notice that the rich sapphires seem to be hiding a darker blue. But...the darkness isn't akin to evil. If there's one thing you've learned, it's that.

No, the deep blue of Simeon's eyes is speaking a different message entirely: desire.

"Should I 'involve' myself with the person I so want? Should I..." Simeon leans forward, letting his next words out softly into your ear so that you alone can hear this angel say these words of blasphemy. "Should I sin?"

You're left wordless. Or is it breathless? You can't tell. Simeon's close proximity to you no longer feels innocent. The finger he had on your cheek is now under your chin, keeping your gaze locked onto him as he awaits the answer to his question.

And you know.

You know he's aware of what he's been doing to you all this time, with his little touches and lingering looks and sweet smiles. And you can't even be embarrassed that he's so openly been pulling you further into the arms of your attraction for him, because with the way he's looking into your eyes, there's no denying that he feels it, too.

"Yes," You whisper, the wind gently carrying the word to his ears. And the second he hears your response, his restraint vanishes, and his lips are on yours.

Soft. That's your first thought. Soft, and gentle. Chaste, and beautiful.

The kiss is calm, serene as the boy himself. There's no unnecessary movement, no dramatic moaning, no senseless biting. It's just his lips, on yours, letting you feel the soothing wave of emotion and affection he has for you. His lips, on yours, and the tender hand that reaches up to cup your cheek. His lips, on yours, and the quiet pull of the moment, with the tranquil breeze dancing around you two as it touches every spot in the courtyard but where you stand, leaving the two of you blissfully alone in the moment of intimacy.

And then Simeon pulls away, and you feel the wind flitting in between you two once more. A light laugh escapes the angel's lips as he smiles down at you, gently moving to rest his forehead atop yours.

"Was it worth sinning?" You ask cheekily, interlacing your fingers with Simeon's other hand, savoring the brief squeeze he gives them.

"Absolutely," He whispers, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "Would you let me do it again?"

"Yes," You murmur, and then the distance between you two vanishes, the world stopped once more.

When he pulls away, all either of you can hear is his quiet whisper as he asks your permission to do it again, to steal just one more kiss from your lips, and your immediate reply that grants him the sin.

Only when you finally tell him that he doesn't need to ask does he stop requesting your explicit assent, and then the moment truly never seems to end, the brief breaths of air you take between kisses forgotten and replaced by new touches, new affection, new warmth.

How much time passes by before you gain the courage to cup Simeon's cheeks, touching the smooth skin you've spent so many hours daydreaming about? How long is it before his spare arm snakes around your waist and pulls you even closer to him? You cannot keep track. Even time seems to have stopped as Simeon embraces what he's spent so long denying himself, granting himself the rare mercy of an angel's sin: the most beautiful sin of them all.

You pull him closer, lips pressing against his, a quiet message to not let this stop: not just the moment, but the act. The closeness. The intimacy.

And the way Simeon squeezes your hand, it's as if he's responding. Telling you that the kisses won't end today, or tomorrow, or anytime soon. It's a quiet promise to stay with you, to be with you, to sin, and to do it all as long as it's with you.

You smile into his lips.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

MASTERLIST

Word count: 3.9k

Notes: My favorite part of this entire fic was the beginning where I described Satan cornering Lucifer with spaghetti and Belphie providing backup via meatballs - it really took all my restraint not to abandon this and write a crack fic about that 

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