#i'm thinking. chewing. mulling things over if you will.

[korrasamibottles]

Lots of similarities between ATLA Sozin's Comet and TLOK Light In the Dark actually....giant laser battle, avatars learning that nothing on earth is strong enough to withstand their own spiritual power, the deus ex machina accusations.....

[pomefioredove]

i crave angst and hurt/comfort/fluff maybe something like that with vil? maybe reader gets hurt pretty badly or something and vil gets upset?? hehe angsty scenarios>>

on my hands and knees rn... vil... save me vil...

summary: anger is an ugly emotion type of post: fic characters: vil additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, angsty..... mentions of bullying/abuse etc?? very open ended you can interpret that how you please, GOD this is indulgent

Anger is an ugly emotion.

So much is true even for Vil Schoenheit. If you asked him, there is nothing more undignified than losing your composure in front of others, especially those under your care.

No, Vil keeps such emotions to himself. If he feels the need to get a point across, or to settle a conflict, he will do so with grace and dignity. He won't even break a nail.

This is different.

This is seeing you turn away from him with tears in your eyes, and feeling as if the very world itself is crashing down around him.

He cannot stand it.

He cannot stand seeing you like this.

It shakes him to his very core. You've had bad days, evenings where you come crawling into Pomefiore looking as if the world had chewed you up and spit you back out at his feet, and he's tended to it.

He's combed your hair, cleaned the dirt out from under you nails, bandaged your paper cuts with a sort of gentleness he doesn't even reserve for himself, made you look new and whole again.

Vil can't help with this.

It drives him mad. It makes him feel like he's stuck inside his own ribcage with nothing but the sound of his beating heart, trapped in a flurry of confusion and anxiety.

He wishes you would just talk about it. It would make everything so much easier if you would let him help.

But he won't pressure you. He couldn't bring himself to. And, quite frankly, if he knew even the slightest detail about whomever had been making you feel this way, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to stop himself from finding them and mincing them to shreds.

As they deserved.

But Vil is not one to rush into anything. He is patient, cordial, taking his sweet time to understand a problem from all angles before enacting a solution.

And so, he doesn't ask.

He holds your chin between his delicate fingers and dabs at the corners of your eyes, hoping to brush away your misery along with your tears.

You sniffle. It's not a pretty sight- you're certainly no graceful crier.

He couldn't care less.

The only thing that Vil can think of now is how only one measly person could be your undoing.

After everything you've been through without even breaking a sweat, all it took were a few too-familiar words to melt you into a pool of bad memories and misery at his feet.

Sevens help whichever poor fool had done this to you.

"Now, now. That's alright," he coos, wiping your cheeks just as a new barrage of tears runs down them. "Don't worry about a thing."

You just barely manage to choke out a response. "I'm sorry, this is- this is embarrassing,"

"Nonsense. You have nothing to feel bad for. I promise I won't utter a word of this to the others,"

He cups your face in his palms, giving you a moment to compose yourself.

"Deep breaths," he instructs. "Seven seconds in, hold it, for just a moment, and then seven seconds out. There. Excellent job."

It's quiet. The sound of sobs and his own heart pounding seem to fade into quiet breaths shared between the both of you.

"Good," he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. A repetitive, soothing motion. "How do you feel?"

"Guilty," you say. "I didn't mean to ruin your evening."

"You've ruined nothing. You're very important to me, you know. I would never want you to think I'm too busy for you," he offers a smile. "Now, how do you feel?"

You're quiet for a moment, likely mulling over his words. Your voice is softer when you reply. "Tired,"

"Oh... you poor thing. I can't have you dead on your feet tomorrow, now, can I?"

You shake your head.

He stands, pulling you up with him. "Come along, then. Let's get you to bed. I'll help,"

He begins guiding you away from the couch you'd spent the better half of the evening sobbing on. You respond in a quiet voice.

"Vil?"

"Mm? Yes?"

"You promise you won't say anything about this to the others?"

A look of utter softness crosses his face at your request, and he smiles again. "My lips are sealed,"

[anotherstudtouse]

What Are Friends For?

CHAPTER 1

SUMMARY: When your coworker, Lex Foster, asks you to pretend to be her girlfriend, you agree against your better judgement.

WARNINGS: None that I can think of?

Toy Zone -- As many complaints as you have about the place and its owner, it was one of the only places hiring seven months ago when you desperately needed some extra cash to help pay for the online classes you were taking. It wasn't much -- and still isn't -- but it's enough to get by. Sure, there are other (arguably better) places hiring now. Sure, your boss, Frank, can be a bit of a jerk at times.

     You've definitely thought about applying elsewhere a couple times, but the urge is always squashed not long after starting another shift. You can't imagine working somewhere else and no longer seeing Lex as much as you've grown accustomed to. If you could go back in time and tell your past self that Lex Foster, of all people, means as much to you as she now does, your past self would've checked you for a head injury or several. Although the two of you had attended the same high school (until she dropped out), the circles you'd each ran in had never intersected. As she affectionately teases you now, you've always been a bit of a nerdy prude.

     Seven months into your job at Toy Zone, though, you've grown to really know -- and really like -- Lex. You love her dry humor, strong heart, and love for her sister. You love the way you can see her lock eyes with you over Frank's shoulder as he rambles on about the newest toy that's sure to fly off the shelves if you could just stock them faster, rolling her eyes before launching into a ridiculous imitation of him that you have to bite your lip not to smile at. You love the way she always waits for you to take your breaks together so that you can stand out back with her as she smokes, always making sure to blow it out away from you. You love the way her eyes light up when she talks about her sister, you love the way she cares so much about things even if she tries so hard to act like she doesn't, you love how strong she is, you--

     You need to focus, and you definitely need to stop thinking about your coworker and friend so much, because the more you think about her, the more you realize your feelings are becoming more than simply platonic, which is a problem. It's a problem not only because Lex only just broke up with her boyfriend a month ago, but also because she's, as far as you know, straight. The risk of ruining this friendship you've grown to cherish is just too high. Besides, it would make working here too awkward when she inevitably rejects you, and then you really would have to look for another job.

     "Come here often?" a playful voice sounds off behind you, the only warning you have before the owner of it is sliding between the stack of 'Sugar-Gliders' toys beside you and yourself. There's not a lot of space, however, so as Lex leans her shoulder against the shelf, you can feel her Toy Zone vest brush against your arm.

     You glance at her as you finish straightening some of the boxes in front of you, an amused smile spreading across your face. "Considering I'm here almost every day, you'd think I would've made an impression by now. Now my ego's bruised."

     "I'll kiss it better if you go on break with me now." The comment is an obvious joke, delivered as offhandedly as the multiple other flirtatious comments Lex has made toward you in the past couple months. Even if she doesn't mean it, it momentarily makes it harder for you to breathe nonetheless.

     You laugh it off, trying to ignore the warmth you can feel in the tips of your ears. Picking up another box, you mull over her request. "I should finish stocking these first or Frank'll chew me out."

     Even as you speak, she's plucking the box out of your hand before placing it back on the stack. "I'll tell him I made you do it; he already thinks I'm a bad influence on you."

     "And you don't?" You raise your brows at her, your gaze lowering pointedly at the box she'd literally just taken out of your hand.

     She scoffs, her hand flying to her heart. "You wound me, Y/N. Now I'm the one whose ego needs kissing."

     Shaking your head, you step back out of her space. All this talk of kissing, joking or not, is making the close proximity way too overwhelming. Maybe a break would be a good idea after all. "Come on before I change my mind, drama queen."

____________________________________________

     As you lean back against the wall out back, Lex doing the same a few feet away with a lit cigarette between her fingers, you can tell there's something on the shorter girl's mind. She's been unusually quiet, and you can see her glancing at you every few seconds out of the corner of your eye. You click the side of your phone, turning the screen dark as you slip it back into your pocket. "You okay?"

     She almost seems startled when you speak, apparently not realizing how obvious she's been. "Oh, yeah, yeah. Just -- I've got this favor I gotta ask, and I'm trying to figure out how to ask it."

     Well, now you're really curious. Lex has never asked you for anything other than occasionally covering a shift for her before. You turn to face her, leaning your shoulder against the wall. "People usually start by saying what the favor is," you joke in an effort to lighten the mood. It seems to work, the corners of Lex's lips quirking upward as she mirrors your movement and turns to face you.

     "Okay, smartass." There's a pause as she takes a hit of her cigarette, the movement drawing your eyes to her mouth. You swallow, gaze quickly returning to her eyes. She doesn't seem to notice. "I need a girlfriend."

     What the fuck? You didn't hear that right. You couldn't have. Your lips part but no words come out for a second, then two, then three. Then, "I-- And that's-- Huh?"

     Apparently your stammering has put her at ease or something because she's chuckling now, taking another hit of her cigarette, and Jesus Christ does she have to be so hot when she smokes?

     "Relax, Y/N. I know you're not into girls; I'm not really asking you out. It's just -- You remember Ethan, right?" There's another pause to take another hit, as if she's giving you time to remember him, as if you could forget the guy you'd been jealous of for months leading up to their break-up. "He keeps trying to get back together. He thinks if he just keeps trying, I'll come back to him eventually or something. I just thought maybe if he sees I've moved on, he'll give up."

     Okay, so there's a lot to unpack there. You don't know where she got the idea that you're not into girls, but considering the one relationship you had in high school was a secret one with a girl deeply in the closet, you suppose you can't fault her for the assumption. You try -- and fail -- not to feel disappointed at the explanation that Lex isn't actually, truly asking you out for real.

     She looks a little anxious again, watching you, waiting for your reaction. You know you should say no. This could really only end one of two ways, after all -- Either it ends in a fake break-up and you have to learn to live with the knowledge of how it feels to be loved by Lex but without the reality of it, or it ends with your real friendship becoming too awkward and loaded to survive.

     But if you say no... If you say no, this guy keeps bothering her. If you say no, maybe she asks someone else, and as wrong as it would be for you to say yes, you don't want her to ask someone else.

     "... Okay," you finally answer with a resolute nod.

     "You totally don't have to," she's quick to reassure, dropping her cigarette and stomping it out before stepping closer to you. Despite her reassurances, she looks relieved with your answer. "I can ask someone else; I just-- I dunno, I don't really trust anyone else."

     You give her a smile that you hope is just as reassuring to her as her words are to you, trying to ignore the way your heartbeat has begun to pick up speed. This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea. But it's for a good cause, right? That's why you're saying yes. No other reason. "Lex, it's fine. I'm happy to do it."

     "Thank God." Another step closer brings her into your space, and before you know it, she's tugging you into a hug. You can smell the cigarette smoke sticking to her leather jacket coupled with the faint scent of the forest. It's got to be some kind of cologne or something, you think. The forest scent, not the cigarette smoke. "I really didn't want to have to ask someone else."

     With one of Lex's arms firm around your waist and the other wrapped around your shoulders, you relax into her embrace and return it. Hopefully she can't feel the pounding of your heart against your chest as you reply, "Of course. What are friends for?"

[vraisetzen]

Hi V! How’re you? 💕

After reading ‘Notte Stellata’, I keep thinking about it ❤️ I honestly think you did a really good job writing it 😘

I just had a couple of questions 🙋‍♀️

How do you think Tengen would react meeting the now-human Michikatsu? And vice versa.

Also, what was Mitsuri’s relationship like with our leading lady?

Of course you’re not obligated to answer them!! 🧡

Hi Anon — I'm doing very well, thank you! And I hope the same for you too.

Thank you for reading Notte Stellata — I'm really happy that you enjoyed my fic, and decided to drop by my Tumblr! I'm always happy to answer questions regarding the story.

"How do you think Tengen would react to meeting the now-human Michikatsu? And vice versa."

This is a fantastic question, Anon! And definitely one that took me some time to mull over.

Uzui, owing to his past as the oldest in a family of nine siblings, very likely saw the Reader as a surrogate sister — this meant that despite his frequent teasing, he kept those closest to him with a watchful eye, and the Reader was no exception.

Hence, when the Reader eloped with Michikatsu (they had no living relatives after all, and both of them wanted to bask in their newfound marital bliss ), and did not reveal her marriage for about six months until before the new year — casually, and as a footnote in a letter — Uzui understandably did not take things well. In fact, no sooner had the crow deliver the letter, did he rush over to her house, demanding an explanation:

"Uzui," you winced as he glared daggers across the low table and tray of tea and senbei to where Michikatsu sat, unmoved and undisturbed by Uzui's histrionics. "Calm yourself!"

"Calm myself?" Uzui retorted, crossing whatever was left of his arms. "You disappear for half a year, show up married with a man whom I have never seen, and you expect me to calm down?"

But Uzui was nothing if not a man of flamboyant, generous extremes. Prone to fits of pique as he was to forgiveness, the creases in his brow softened as he sipped from his teacup, and helped himself to the biscuit.

"And to think I believed that after all this time, there would be no secrets between us," he declared, shaking his head dramatically and taking a bite of the senbei. Chewing thoughtfully, he added: "It appears that I was the more decei- wait, this senbei is pretty good. Where did you buy them?"

"Isn't it delicious?" you beamed, the corners of your lips lifting in a gentle smile as you pushed the small plate closer to your friend. "Michikatsu made this!"

At your words, Uzui lowered his biscuit, a forced grimace marring his handsome face. He gave Michikatsu a pointed glare, and said: "No, I take that back — it's pretty terrible."

"Uzui!"

Eventually, you had to ask Michikatsu to leave the room simply because of how juvenile Uzui was behaving. Your husband was more than happy to oblige, and Uzui watched his retreating back with a sharp glare from his eyepatch and a petulant twist of his lips.

As the doors closed behind Michikatsu, Uzui picked up his senbei once more and continued munching on it.

"I thought you said they were terrible," you remarked as Uzui helped himself to a second one.

"That I did," Uzui affirmed, before adding: "But saying and thinking are two different things, aren't they?"

You scoffed, refilling your own teacup. Nevertheless, Uzui did have his reasons for acting in this manner. Though you would never admit it, and he might never find out the full story from you, Uzui knew that this was the man who caused you so much grief and was behind your suspension from the Corps.

And if Michikatsu's unusual hair, his sharp canines, and those scars on his forehead and cheeks were any indication, Uzui also knew your husband wasn't just any other man. He sounded different too, to the former shinobi — you could not hear it, but Michikatsu's heartbeat raced at twice the rate of a human being, the same as that of a wolf in the midst of a hunt. What other creature on this earth would share such characteristics, besides those he once swore to destroy?

But Uzui, brazen as he was, knew better than to ask. His eyes settled on you as you looked at Michikatsu, whose silhouette along the shoji door told you he had retreated to the engawa to continue his study of Honinbo Shusaku's Go game records. The softness apparent in your gaze, the curve of a smile that lingered on your lips — these were things Uzui could have never imagined on your face when he met you all those years ago. You have always been the mopey, melancholic kind, and there were times when it seemed you would never find what he had found for him, with his wives and children. And if there was one thing he ever wanted you to have...

"Are you happy?" he asked.

Your eyes never leaving Michikatsu, you answered: "I'm the happiest I've ever been, Uzui-san."

After Uzui left — but not without a whole charade of him pretending to be thoroughly unimpressed with Michikatsu, you finally heaved a sigh of relief and returned to your painting that you had been working on before Uzui's untimely arrival. Michikatsu sat down you as you ground the inkstick.

He was silent for a long time, content with observing you at work. You had a feeling, however, that he had something to say. Still, you waited for him to speak first as you busied yourself with choosing the right brush. It was only when you poised your wrist over the paper that he spoke:

"Perhaps we should have served him something you made."

The suddenness of his words threw you off guard; a drop of ink lands over your paper as you regarded him with wide eyes, a little loss for words. So he did care, was the first thing you thought; and why would he not? It was not lost on you that Michikatsu had known Uzui even before he became human, though only as a retired Hashira; back then, they would have viewed each other as enemies — but now, drawn together with you as a common denominator, Michikatsu had to contend with the prospect of dealing with Uzui as a brother-in-law.

"Or, we could invite him back again next week," you offered.

There was a moment's pause as Michikatsu stared sidelong at the splotch of ink, mulling over the words. It was the same pose he did when he contemplated his next move on the Go board, as he laid an elaborate trap of stones for his opponent for which they would most definitely fall. Because you knew that despite his silence and that steely, distant exterior, there was nothing that Michikatsu desired more than victory — especially one that was hard fought.

Eventually, he said: "Then I ought to make more biscuits."

You gazed at him wordlessly, noting the hint of playfulness that tugs at the corner of his lips. Taking the brush from your hands, he waved it in a single flourish, and turned the black smudge on the paper into a tomoe.

Also, what was Mitsuri’s relationship like with our leading lady?

This is also a wonderful question, Anon!

I think our Reader — as someone who lost her family to demons, and joined the Corps out of obligation and service — would have initially been puzzled by Mitsuri's decision to join the organisation. Mitsuri's family was still alive, and she was surrounded by so many wonderful younger siblings; why would anyone trade that for swordsmanship and risk their lives to protect others?

More than that, Mitsuri's sunny, outgoing disposition intimidated the Reader, even though the latter was a few years older than her. The first time they had met, Mitsuri marvelled over the Reader and how she was the oldest female member in the Corps, and asked her all sorts of things — how long she had trained, when she passed the Final Selection, and where she lived so that they could hang out after their duties. Needless to say, the Reader felt that Mitsuri was a little overbearing.

Over time, however, the Reader came to appreciate Mitsuri's presence. As someone who was naturally mopey (per Uzui's words), she understood Mitsuri's outgoing nature was simply her way of perceiving the world around her, and giving back to the Corps. There was already so much death, injury, and uncertainty in their line of work, and she respected Mitsuri's commitment in staying true to herself and giving all her love and appreciation to the people around her. And while she still struggled with catching up to Mitsuri's voracious appetite, she enjoyed the time they spent together, especially when they chatted about the latest clothes and foreign imports — it made the Reader feel like a normal young woman.

Eventually though, their conversations would swing towards marriage, and the prospect of finding a man who would appreciate their past and accept them for who they were. The Reader could tell that Mitsuri had a soft spot for Obanai, and would encourage her to confess her feelings for him. Mitsuri would however only blush and deny things by saying she loved everyone in the Corps.

"But what about you, senpai? What sort of man would you like to marry some day?" Mitsuri would ask, once the pink in her cheeks subsided.

You shook your head with a smile, and toyed with the knot of your obijime. "Whoever he is, I can only hope he's just a simple man from a normal family."

Thank you for your lovely questions, OP! And my apologies they took a while to respond — I wasn't sure if Tumblr would allow to post such a long reply, and I might have trimmed a few parts, but I certainly did enjoy coming up with answers!

xoxo, V ♥️

[ange1sang]

a little to the left

2.6k words, gallavich + brief appearance from liam

; canon compliant/post season 11, domestic gallavich, hurt/comfort, trauma, dissociation, vomiting, gentle mickey milkovich

Most days Ian doesn't notice them. The blanks, the disconnect in his mind, the gaps in his memory like potholes in a road filled with oil slick and rainwater. They've been there since his late adolescence, weaving their way into his consciousness and embedding themselves into the membranes that separate his brain from his skull, so that he's used to them. He doesn't have to notice them, not when he can get by just fine without acknowledging them. But that's only on most days. 

Some days the blanks are deep and pitch black, tripping him up or even swallowing him whole. His mind becomes a black hole, everything in disarray and stretched, twisted, deformed until it's all unrecognisable. His childhood is a jumble of scenes from a movie watched on a drunken night, parts of it covered with lumpy, expired Wite-Out and others blotted with blood, smeared and dirty. The confusion makes his head pound and bile rise in his throat. For the longest time he didn't connect the two things. He's been having depressive episodes since he was seventeen, always accompanied by aches and nausea, and it was easy to lump the blanks and gaps in with everything else the depression brought on.

But he's older now, taking medication and watching his routine so that the depression rarely rears its ugly head anymore, yet the days of darkness, confusion and agony persist. They come when he least expects them, when he has a day full of errands to run with his brother or a day he's promised to spend babysitting his niece or nephew. He goes through the motions the way he's taught himself to do on even the hardest days, but it feels like wading through raw sewage in nothing but his boxers, grime and filth splattered against his thighs and clinging to the inside of his nose. He barely survives it, throwing up everything he eats, sometimes before he can reach a toilet bowl, and crawling into his bed deaf to the worried murmurs of his husband. 

It takes him years of survival, white-knuckled and tense-jawed, before it begins to make even a little sense to him. 

"Hey, Ian."

Liam's voice pulls Ian's attention from the comedy rerun he and a sleepy Mickey are watching on the TV. He looks to where his youngest brother is sitting at their kitchen table, school laptop illuminating his face and an old, chewed-up pen in his hand. 

"What's up?" Ian asks, lifting a hand to run his fingers through Mickey's hair. His husband grunts softly, pressing his face down against Ian's shoulder. Liam takes a breath, hesitating before he speaks again.

"You know the club you worked at?" he asks. Ian feels Mickey tense against him, and has to stroke his thumb against his forehead to keep him from cussing at the kid.

"Yeah, what about it?" Ian asks, trying to keep his voice lighthearted. "You aren't thinking of getting a job there, are you?"

"No," Liam says quickly, grimacing at the suggestion. Ian feels something in his chest relax. "I'm writing a paper on CSA for my psych class - you think it'd be okay if I interview you? Interviews get us extra points."

"CSA?" Ian asks, raising an eyebrow. Liam hesitates again, looking sheepish and guilty all of a sudden. 

"Childhood sexual assault," he clarifies after mulling it over for a long minute. The second the words leave his mouth Mickey lifts his head from Ian's shoulder and glares at the teen.

"Write a paper on those fuckin' drooling dogs or something, man," he says, which would be funny if it weren't for how his jaw clenches once the words have left his mouth. "Leave your family outta that shit, we got enough people lookin' at us like social experiments already."

"Right," Liam mumbles, but his eyes don't move from Ian, who feels his face stiffening like concrete. "Okay, sorry."

"Nah, it's fine," Ian whispers, his voice barely audible even though he tried to speak normally. He turns his head away from his brother, back to the TV. The blue light of the screen suddenly takes on a purple tinge, spotlights moving against the inside of Ian's eyelids and illuminating dark, dirty floors soiled with bodily fluids and pills that had been crushed beneath someone's shoe. His veins throb in his arms, skin suddenly too tight for his flesh, like he's waking up with a bad hangover, dry-mouthed and disoriented.

"Ian."

He feels his lips forming a frown on his face but they don't belong to him, invisible fingers pulling down the corners of his lips to turn him into a sad mime. Mickey's hand, warm and rough cups his cheek. He blinks and the dirty floor disappears, replaced with worried blue eyes and dark, furrowed brows.

"Hey. Baby."

"I'm fine," his reply comes, automatic and without thought, before he even thinks the words. Clearly, this does nothing to soothe Mickey, eyes darting around Ian's face. His thumb rubs Ian's temple, stroking the vein that feels like it's about to burst. "I'm... I'm fine."

Mickey draws in a sharp breath, looking like he's ready to scold him, but he doesn't say anything. He shoots Liam a brief but withering look, before leaning in to kiss Ian's forehead. 

"Okay," he mumbles, and slumps back against the sofa, but not without guiding Ian's head to rest against his shoulder. 

Ian's chest is tight and aching, but he's fine. He's totally fine.

When he wakes up the next morning it's to Mickey yelling from the kitchen.

"Ian! You want coffee?"

He stiffens in their bed, his husband's voice sounding foreign. 

"Ian?"

No, it isn't his husband's voice. It's the name. Ian. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to recall the last time he heard that name, but all his mind can offer are broken, fragmented memories of strangers whispering Curtis or Clayton or Benjamin in his ear, their breath hot against his skin. The familiarity of the names is soothing and torturous all at once, and before he knows what's happening his stomach is squeezing, pushing. He sits up but barely manages to lift his head from his pillow before a stream of weak, beige-green liquid pours from his mouth, puddling on the sheets and dripping down his chin. He stares at the pool of vomit, gears moving in his head like he's looking at an old friend. 

"Hey, man, you want coffee or-"

Mickey's voice stops just as abruptly as his movements, the man standing in the bedroom doorway like a statue. Ian turns his head to look at him, the small movement dizzying, and feels that same squeeze in his stomach. This time he has the foresight to move his hands, catching the little mouthful of hot, caustic stomach acid in his palms. 

"Ian, c'mon, don't do that," Mickey whispers, approaching slowly and taking hold of Ian's wrists. He allows himself to be manoeuvred, watching as the vomit sloshes from his palms and lands on the bed sheets. The name on Mickey's lips makes Ian's skin prickle, and he curls into himself. He's too big for it to really work, but he must have been small enough once. Must have been small enough to fold into himself like an ashen baby bird, all skin and bone and ruffled feathers. He tries to curl into himself further, trying to remember where the instinct comes from, but all he sees is a bottomless pit. Panic curls around his throat like barbed wire. "Come on, you gotta wash your hands. I can help you."

"No, I..." Ian mumbles, his own voice startling him. He stares down at his palms, feeling fabric against his skin. Expensive fabric, yarn woven into fine cotton with 2% spandex, fabric he's never been able to afford, not even on his wedding day, but that he must have touched at some point. Blearily, he looks at Mickey, meets his worried gaze through thick tears that refuse to pour down his cheeks even as he blinks over and over. His breath catches in his throat. "I don't feel right."

"That's okay. I got you," Mickey reassures him. Lips press against his forehead in a sweet kiss. "Come on, babe. It's okay."

Mickey takes his hands, not recoiling or frowning when the still-warm vomit touches his skin. He smiles, soft, small, scared, and helps the redhead stand up. 

"You're fine. I got you," he repeats, and kisses the dense patch of freckles on Ian's shoulder. The touch is familiar, and this time the familiarity is comforting without also being nauseating. He holds on tight to Mickey until their hands are under the running water of their bathroom tap, and as soon as their palms are separated he finds himself leaning into the other man, curling up again, trying to make himself smaller. He can feel Mickey watching him, gauging his condition, taking in his expressions and reaction to every little touch. "You're okay, Ia- baby."

Ian looks up, looks at Mickey's wet lashes when he bites back the name on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't understand why or how, but Mickey always knows what to say and, more importantly, he always knows what not to say. He drags in a deep breath that doesn't really reach his lungs and drops his head so he can hide his face against Mickey's shoulder. Hiding. Even if he can't seem to think of much right now, he knows he's good at hiding.

"Sorry I threw up," he mumbles into Mickey's shoulder, which makes his husband chuckle.

"I've seen you puke before, man," Mickey says. "That fuckin' sushi Debbie made us all eat last year? Playing drinking games with Sandy?"

Ian recognises the memories like the face of a quiet classmate in a yearbook - he can place them in the right environment, but can't picture them doing anything, not even opening their mouth to say 'present' for attendance. He winces, the effort of  trying to pull forth images he knows are there making him dizzy.

"C'mon," Mickey whispers, turning off the tap. "Let's get some breakfast in you. Pepto Bismol with your meds maybe."

"Wait," Ian pleads, not ready to open his eyes and face the world yet. Not when he can't remember his place in it. Again, Mickey takes it in his stride. He pulls Ian into a hug that's firm enough to ground him and gentle enough to remind him that Mickey loves him. The reminder is enough to ease the jelly feeling in his joints just a little, Mickey's thumb moving back and forth against his shoulder blade like it's all he's ever wanted to do, and Ian takes a deep breath. The just-woke-up smell on Mickey, a smell that he knows he's always loved, even if he's never been sure why.

"I love you, man," Mickey murmurs sincerely. Ian relaxes just a little more.

"I love you too."

The day goes by slowly, every bit of it like pulling teeth. He downs his medication and food Mickey gives him even though his stomach twists nervously with each swallow. They watch cartoons on the sofa and Mickey smokes through a pack of cigarettes before dinner, his eyes flicking back and forth between Ian and the TV so often that he must not be getting any of what's on the screen. The vigilance is comforting, a reminder that he really is sitting on their sofa and not just dreaming up the four walls around him, so he doesn't mention it to Mickey. 

By the late afternoon he's falling asleep, tired just from keeping his eyes open and his food down. He lays his head on Mickey's lap, nose pressed into his husband's thigh and shuts his eyes when fingers immediately find their way to his hair, running through his curls and brushing stray hairs from his forehead. 

"You wanna head to the clinic tomorrow, check your meds?" he asks.

"Maybe," is all Ian can muster the energy to say. Mickey hums, thumb rubbing his brow bone.

There's a long pause, long enough that Ian almost falls asleep, before Mickey speaks up again.

"You did good, Ian."

Ian. The name finally sounds familiar again. No bile rises at the sound of it and there's no ache in his chest as he tries to place it. Relief washes over him, icy and overwhelming, and pulls him under. 

The next day he wakes feeling disoriented but not nauseous. His head is on Mickey's chest, his heartbeat steady and reliable where it thumps against his cheek. He takes a deep breath in and lifts a hand to trace a fingertip along the tattoo of his name on his husband's skin, his heart fluttering the same way it used to when they were kids and Mickey would show up at the corner store looking for him. His body feels like his own again, every organ, capillary and freckle back in its rightful place. 

He makes coffee while Mickey sleeps in. He knows after a day like yesterday that Mickey must've been up half the night, watching him sleep as though his next breath might not come, and feels a little guilty at the thought. When he carries two mugs of coffee back to the bedroom and a pack of Oreos pinched between his teeth, Mickey is waiting for him, a smile on his lips.

"Morning, mister," he grumbles, voice sleep-rough in a way that makes Ian giddy. Ian drops the Oreos on the bed and leans in for a kiss, hungry for Mickey's touch more than anything else.

"Good morning," he replies, handing Mickey his mug and settling in next to him.

"You feelin' okay? Wanna hit the clinic after breakfast?" Mickey asks cautiously, watching Ian's expression for any telltale signs that he's hiding something.

"Nah, I'm... I'm okay," Ian mumbles, shrugging. "I don't know what was up yesterday, it was like everything was a few inches to the left or something. I couldn't remember shit."

He looks at Mickey and smiles at the crease between his worried brows. 

"I'm okay now, Mick. Seriously."

Mickey grunts, frowning in a way that lets Ian know he's sorting his thoughts into words that make sense. They're halfway through their coffee before he's ready to speak, but Ian doesn't mind the waiting. He doesn't mind much when it comes to Mickey these days, at least not as much as he claims to.

"Y'know, Svetlana had days like that," he says, slow and unsure. "She'd get pukey and shit, couldn't hold a conversation... It was weird, 'cause she was always so fuckin' headstrong y'know? Seein' you like that..."– Mickey pauses, reaches out to cup Ian's cheek for a moment and rubs his thumb over the freckles on his temple. –"Maybe you should see a shrink, talk about the stuff that happened at the club."

Something clicks in Ian's head at the mention of Svetlana, all of the blanks, disconnects and gaps in his mind making a little more sense now.

"Yeah. Maybe," he sighs, and turns his head to press a kiss to Mickey's palm. "Thanks for not freaking out."

"Anytime," Mickey says with a small, worried smile. Just a couple of years ago Ian would've felt guilty for being the cause of his worry, but he understands it now. They're husbands. They're always going to worry about each other. 

"I love you," he tells Mickey, which earns him one of those shiny-eyed smiles he adores with all his heart. 

"Love you too, Red."

Maybe tomorrow he'll book himself an appointment at the clinic. Today though, all he wants to do is make up for the time he lost yesterday.

[applepiesupreme]

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 31

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/149765467

Chef Ecco had arranged for them to be picked up from the restaurant in the morning and they were driven to Bronte’s mansion in several horse carriages. She watched her colleagues, each looking more nervous than the other and she herself felt nervous, too. This kind of job was a career changer – evil or not, Angelo Bronte was an important man and he had invited a plethora of important guests, the biggest names in the city. It was the perfect opportunity to make an impression. But...somewhere in the very back of her mind she had begun to wonder if she really wanted to make one. 

She had barely slept the night before, anxious about the frutta martorana she had crafted, anxious about being around Chef Ecco, and (despite putting up a brave face about it to Arthur) anxious about being around Cosa Nostra. But there was a splinter in her, somewhere deep and hidden, that she felt now itching, needling her and she picked at it relentlessly, curious what she was concealing from her own self.

For a while now she had been struggling with doubts regarding the direction of her career. As much as she enjoyed crafting food at Antoine's, a part of her was listless about it. For one thing, her experiences at Antoine's had soured her ambitions to climb up the ladder of social strata. Food was her passion but this kind of food - expensive, fine food inevitably pushed her closer to folks that were...well you could say of a certain kind. Most were nice enough, true, but some were also inevitably people like Bronte and Ecco: men who could build you up or erase you with a flick of their wrists. Was it really possible to stay out of their orbits, stay out of their influence and still make a career in this field, especially as a woman of her background? It seemed less and less likely.  

The second reason was more complicated, more subtle and evaded her grasp for a long time. She had grown aware that something was missing from her work at Antoine's, something vital and essential. Like salt from a meal or cold missing from ice cream. Then last week she had taken a bowl of spaghetti with meatballs over to Jack and he had jumped with joy and it had hit her: no matter how masterful, how creative, how stupendous her food would be at Antoine's, nobody there would ever be as excited to eat it as Jack was. She had walked back to their tent mulling over this and sat watching Arthur slurping the noodles like some savage and had asked him if he liked her food or he simply ate it because it was there. 

He gave her an incredulous look. "Course I like yer food," was the flowery prose of a retort. And then, as he was piling himself an enormous second plate: "Gonna ask me if the sky is blue?" She contemplated that until he forked one of the meatballs she had been pushing around on her plate to get her attention and threw it in his mouth. "Ya spinnin' in yer head again?" Savigne shrugged. "I'm just...wrestling with some things." His eyebrows shot up with amusement. "Ya keep poutin' like that, gonna have to wrestle me later." "God, you're insufferable," she snorted. "Settle down." "Don' look so damn fine then," he chewed with a grin.  "That's the last thing on my mind right now," she grumbled.  "What ya said yesterday," he drawled. "Think I changed yer mind on that." "Seriously, Arthur?" "The day before, too." She pursed her lips and ignored him.  "And before that," he said smugly. "Christ on a cross! I'm thinking about my career right now." He hummed and slurped his spaghetti. "Why, don' like yer fancy job no more?" "I wouldn't call it fancy," she chuckled. "I'm just a cook. Dime a dozen," she mumbled and winced when the phrase made her skin crawl.  "This ball makin’ ya twitchy?” "No. Maybe. I don't know," she ran her hands over her face.  Then she rose to stand behind him, flapped open his napkin and tucked it into his shirt. She squeezed his shoulders before she took the fork off his hand and the untouched spoon. “Observe, my love.” His head swiveled slightly in her direction with the endearment but he watched her twirl the pasta on the fork against the spoon without splattering it. “Just in case it’s served in a posh place. Or…you know…you want to eat it without wearing it.” He took the cutlery from her and gave her a scrutinizing look as she came around to sit on her chair again. "Gonna tell me what's goin' on with ya? Been goin' on with ya?" He said as he practiced the move. She thought of Arthur telling her to look away and striding to the Murfree, a blade at hand and a storm in his eyes. Nobody cared about a Murfree, but Chef Ecco? The whole city would go wild; it might even make the national news! Maybe he could evade the law regardless as he had done all his life. But maybe this would be the time he bit off more than he could chew and it would be her fault. You can never tell your boyfriend Sarah whispered in her mind. "Maybe I'm tired of Saint Denis," she sighed and cupped her chin, watching him eat. "Maybe that cabin needs to be far, far away from here." "Fine by me. Long as it ain't Tahiti," Arthur grumbled.  "Tahiti? What's in Tahiti?" "Rest of them fools," he said, jabbing his head to the gang behind him.  She laughed at that. "That's the plan? Even for Dutch, that's crazy."

But that night she had lied in bed, thinking about their conversation and it occurred to her how many people were pulled in the wake of the nonsense of charismatic men. How easy it was to laugh at Dutch and all the fools who would follow him off a cliff when she herself was allowing herself to be dragged into ever deeper waters by Ecco. I can't let this happen, she thought. I didn't come this far and work this hard so I can be humiliated and hurt and discarded by some monster. If Arthur has broken free, so can I. 

She pushed these thoughts away as the carriage slowed and they arrived at the mansion. They were guided to the kitchen like baby ducks in a row and she gawked around, stunned by the wealth. It felt like she had been transported into a different world. The kitchen was almost the size of Antoine’s and spotless. There were a number of cooks running around, preparing lunch and dinner for Mr Bronte. They weren’t assigned to help with the food for the ball – that was the job of Ecco's team. 

They were introduced, familiarized with the kitchen and the available tools and where everything was, then they had to wait a bit for lunch preparations to be over before they could go in and start the food for the evening. 

Savigne didn’t have much to do on her end – her frutta martorana had to be prepared ahead of time and she had done most of the work. She just had to put in the finishing touches so the colors would stand out vibrant when the time came. So she helped others with their assignments.

Chef Ecco arrived a lot later, towards late afternoon and she spotted him walking about in the garden with Mr. Bronte from afar. They seemed to be having a jovial conversation and she soured on him even further. It was unclear if he was just being chummy with Bronte for his own career advancement or if he really liked the guy, but there was no doubt in her mind that they were more alike than apart. 

It was her first time seeing Mr. Bronte and maybe it was knowing what he was and what he had done regarding Jack, but she immediately grew to dislike him. He had that grandiose, bellicose air to him that most men of his stature did but he also seemed to be overdoing it. His mansion was a reflection of him – big and showy but to the point of drifting into tacky, self-aggrandizing, everything for the distinct urge to impress others. She recognized the fellow immigrant in him always trying to compensate for the fact that he had arrived on a stinking ship like everyone else and was now obsessed with proving to folks that he was just as good, if not better than them.

She startled when Sarah chirped next to her: "Are they arguing?"

She turned to the two men, gesticulating in Italian. "Unfortunately no," she said drily.

A moment passed as the women watched the two men. "Are you okay, Savigne?"

"Not really," Savigne said, unable to look at her, feeling that weird shame again as if somehow what was happening was her own fault. 

Sarah didn't say anything but inched closer until their shoulders touched. 

"Some men," the blond girl sighed, looking out the window, "just want to take something from you and that's all they want. Then they're done. They move on to the next thing and they let you be."

Savigne watched the jovial back patting as the two men headed down the garden path. "Not everything is theirs to take," she droned. 

"If such men are told no, then they want to take everything from you," was the careful response. They both looked on even though the garden was empty now.

Savigne shrugged as if to say 'so what'.

"Did you hear about Estelle?"

"No, what happened?" Savigne blinked out of her stupor. 

"Heard she couldn't find a job in Saint Denis. Not even as a dishwasher. A few places accepted her but then...she was mysteriously let go the next day."

Savigne thought on this. "America is a big country."

"Sure. But some men have a long reach." Sarah turned to lock eyes then. "Don't think less of me for saying it. You're an excellent cook, that's why I'm here talking to you. Be careful."

She went back to the kitchen and focused on her job and before she knew it, it was evening and the buzz in the kitchen intensified. Savigne was used to it – there was always stress in the kitchen with the arrival of mealtime. Things had to be pre-arranged so everything could roll out smoothly and on time, because if there was an cardinal sin in this business, it wasn’t so much the taste of the food they were serving, but the nerve to waste some important person’s time. 

She pondered if she would run into Arthur and the rest and dismissed it as unlikely – they were going to be with the guests and she wasn’t going to step out of the kitchen for the most part. Still, she was curious. And apprehensive. Whatever the Van der Linde gang was up to, it could be safely surmised that it was no good and she hated the fact that Arthur, in his ripe old age still hung around this nonsense. She knew at this point he had his doubts about the whole thing, she knew he harbored some resentment for what the gang was doing and she knew he meant to leave it all behind, but he sure as hell was taking his sweet time about it! They all were. Even Hosea, who was the most vocal about the state of things, was still hanging around, idling about in Dutch’s shadow instead of putting his foot down. 

She eyed the time. The ball was going to start soon but the general air in the kitchen was collected. Things were moving about quickly and the staff Chef Ecco had brought over was used to the hectic pace of a kitchen and nobody was running around like their head was on fire. 

She went to the fridge and looked over her frutta martorana. It looked excellent to her, especially that mandarin that she had constructed, half peeled and looking as real as the fruit itself, but self-doubt was always close to her heart and she bit her lip, eyes crawling over the pastry with apprehension.  

“They look magnificent!” Chef Ecco proclaimed behind her and made her flinch. 

His arm swung around her back, patting affectionately. Savigne scurried out of his reach, trying to be subtle about it but he saw her panic and rather than surprised or angry, he was amused. 

“They’re excellent, Savigne. You have outdone yourself. Don’t be surprised if you get some calling cards delivered to you after tonight.”

She nodded politely and closed the fridge door. 

“How are things upstairs?” she managed to break the awkward silence that set in.

“People are arriving. It’s going to be a big one.”

“Where do you want me?” she cleared her throat, eyeing the kitchen. 

“You’ll find something to do,” he mused, smiling at her. “I know I don’t have to order you around.” His tone implied that he enjoyed doing it anyway.

She was about to step away when he said “Tell you what,” and glided into her personal space, “why don’t you take a break at some point and just go up and see what they think?”

“Would that be…appropriate?”

“Sure!” he waved his arm about dismissively. “Why not? You’re not a servant, you’re a cook! My cook,” he said eyes hungry. “Take your cap and apron off and go up and walk about the tables, see what folks are saying.”

She looked down at her pristine uniform. With or without a cap, she wasn’t really dressed for the occasion. 

He guessed what she was thinking and laughed. “Don’t have to attend the ball!” he grinned. “Just go about and see what it’s all like. If anyone tries to usher you out, you better take their name. Nobody pushes my staff around." Another pat on her back, the palm on her shoulder blade lingering a tad too long, and he was gone. 

Savigne exhaled with relief and rolled her shoulders to shake off the residue of his touch.

A few hours later the ball was in full swing and the kitchen was even calmer than before. Everything that was to be served had been prepared and was now just being carried upstairs. Bronte’s own staff was handling the serving, so there wasn’t much left to do for the cooks themselves. Ecco was right – this kind of event was in a way easier. It was front loaded and required a lot of preparation, but once that was done, the pace dropped off very steeply and there was a lot of time for rest. 

Having tasted food all day she didn’t feel hungry, but she was now eager to stroll upstairs and see what a ball was like. She removed her cap and her apron, smoothed her dazzlingly white, clean uniform and decided to take the offer. 

Upstairs was a a completely different world. The entire mansion had come alive with light and laughter. She walked among the guests, a little stupefied, absorbing the splendor. It was as if every beautiful person in Saint Denis was here today. Tuxedos pristine, dresses sublime, hair shaped meticulously, just the right amount of make-up, voices tuned to that polite, low tone interspersed with the tinkling of laughter here and there… She glided through the crowds, feeling invisible and, in a way, liberated because this way she was able to observe people she rarely encountered as if they were an exotic species while they hardly noticed her. She grew a little bolder and snatched a glass of champagne from one of the tables and strolled along the long laid out table, checking on the food to see what had been eaten the most and what remained relatively untouched. 

The buffet tables were regularly visited by the patrons and her frutta martorana was in the center of the spectacle, displayed like a work of art. She saw several people looking at it, pointing at it, almost afraid to touch it. It put a grin on her face and a surge of pride swept through her. 

“Miss Ricci?”

She turned to her name and for a moment had no idea who this man was. He looked very different dressed up, hair slicked back, beard trimmed down. Then it came to her: “Mr. Dunham?”

He grinned, showing his perfect white teeth. He stepped closer to extend his hand. His aftershave was excellent – noticeable but just the right amount of subtle. 

“Well at least I made an impression,” he said. She laughed and shook his hand, looking him over. 

“You would have made one today if you hadn’t already,” she complimented him. A light shade of pink dusted his cheeks and she thought it cute. 

“Should have known the excellent food meant you were in the kitchen,” he said. His grey eyes were twinkling, reflecting the lights around them. 

“I only made the frutta martorana,” she responded, brushing her skirt and taking a sip from her champagne. “Can’t claim ownership of the excellent food.”

“Which one is that?”

She pointed to the display with her champagne glass and almost chocked on a mouthful of it when she spotted Arthur there, staring at her with the ghost of a grin. He looked…well immaculate. She had to admit he cleaned up extremely well, and somehow a tuxedo looked even better on him than his usual clothes did, which was saying something. His hair was shorter and slightly combed back with pomade and the beard was trimmed professionally. The way his broad shoulders sat within the sharp corners of the stiff jacket and his trousers hugged his slim hips did something funny to her stomach. All in all, he looked like one of the heroes Mary Beth’s stupid books fawned about for pages. She stared at him, mesmerized all over again by that animalistic quality, that magnetism he had, the way he filled space and had a weight to his presence and thought no wonder I fell for him. Even if she hadn't known who he was, seeing him here in this setting where he stood out like a tiger among cats, it was near impossible to not notice him.

“My my,” she heard Dunham and felt his shoulder brush against hers as he walked around her to approach the display. She blinked away from Arthur’s gaze, closed her mouth and followed. 

“Well this is quite something!” Mr. Dunham said, circling the pastry table and Savigne tried to concentrate on him and ignore Arthur who was standing just a few feet away. “What is it?”

“Oh,” she said lightly, wetting her lips and trying to get her pulse rate under control, “it’s sweets made of marzipan. It’s very popular in Sicily. Traditional. We thought Mr Bronte would enjoy something from back home.” The way her heart was speeding up with his silhouette in the periphery of her vision, you’d think she wasn’t sleeping next to this man every night. 

“Miss Ricci?”

“Hmmm? I’m sorry. My mind went…”

“…somewhere else for a moment,” the lawyer finished, grinning again. “I remember.”

She chuckled. “Sorry. I do that.”

He waved it away. Somehow even his wave was elegant. 

“I was asking how you made it. This looks…well, spectacular!”

“Oh,” she grinned. “Thank you. It’s just…more sculpting than baking to be honest.” In the corner of her eye, Arthur stepped closer to them and her heart did a jolt. 

“But see here,” he pointed to the mandarin she had crafted, half peeled, the peel standing away from the fruit to show the inner slices, down to the detail of white flesh webbing, “you’re telling me this is desert and not a fruit?”

She laughed and shrugged in humble confirmation. 

“Well I can’t eat that!” he protested with mock outrage. “It would be a crime!”

“But…” she objected, the compliment shading her cheeks. It had been a long time since a man had earnestly complimented her. Sure, flattery was a simple and effortless thing, but there was a reason why it worked - everyone liked to be buttered up a bit now and then. Receiving it from him now so abundantly when she rarely got any from Arthur or Luther made her head spin a little.  

“Oh no I couldn’t,” he said, enchanted by her shyness.

“‘Scuse me,” came from beside them as Arthur’s big hand closed on the mandarin and retrieved it to plop it on his plate. 

She froze with surprise. Mr. Dunham was about to turn around to assess whose hand that had been when Savigne quickly spoke up: "You know," she said, giving Arthur a 'what are you doing?' look as he shot back a 'what are you doing?’ one of his own. "In some cultures food is served just as a spectacle, not even meant to be eaten."

"Interesting.” The lawyer followed her as she stepped down the line. 

"Yes. There are formal Japanese meals for example that are insanely pretty. They're paraded around and served but are meant to just be looked at. Sort of to show off the skill of the cook and, by association, the wealth of the host who can afford him."

"Why, that's fascinating," Mr. Dunham said, his grey eyes locked on her. 

"Try the grapes," she suggested. 

Arthur advanced and plucked the grapes away to stack them on his plate, too.

She gave him an incensed  'Seriously?' look. He responded with that brash and unfazed azure gaze. 

Mr. Dunham turned again to see who it was but before he could, she quickly touched his arm to divert his attention back to her. "So you're back in Saint Denis!"

Savigne was relieved when it worked. "Oh yes! I actually travel back and forth quite a bit now. Lots of business here and business is good for us lawyers."

She took a sip from her drink, gave Arthur a withering gaze over Mr Dunham's shoulder which was promptly ignored. She moved down the table further and the blond man followed and, to her chagrin, so did Arthur.

“How’s New York?”

“New York is New York. It’s the heart of this country and I daresay, the world. But…there’s a charm to Saint Denis I’ve grown quite fond of.” His eyes danced with bold mischief.

She feigned ignorance, bowed her lips and hummed. “How about that.”

They glided down the long table but he barely sampled anything, intensely focused on her.

"You didn't call on me, Miss Ricci," he said at last, voice a little more somber. "I have to say I was disappointed about that."

She smiled. "I was busy. I remember warning you about that.”

He grinned as if caught in a lie. "You did. But, guess I was hoping anyway. Are you still busy by any chance?"

Before she could respond, “So Miss,” interjected Arthur from behind him, his tone denoting that he had enough of the playful banter between them, “heard ya say you made these.”

Savigne blinked at him, caught off guard. She managed a late “Yes.”

Mr. Dunham turned and scrutinized Arthur, who stood at least a head taller and twice as broad. “Brilliant, isn’t it?”

Arthur threw one of the grapes in his mouth, chewed on it thoughtfully, then gave Savigne a long, intense look while he ran a tongue over his teeth.

She cocked an eyebrow. “Well? Do you like it? Sir?”

“Reminds me of somethin’,” he said. “Tryin’ to remember where I ate it.” He licked his lips. “Think I had somethin’ similar…”

She sipped her champagne, amused.

“…in the Bayou.”

The champagne shot out of her nose as she coughed violently. Mr. Dunham quickly came to her side to politely pet her shoulder which, of course, did nothing. 

Arthur broke into a grin and shouldered him aside. “Here, lemme.” His big hand slapped on her back not quite hard but hefty enough to dislodge the champagne that had gone into her airway and she wheezed and swallowed, recovering.

“Thanks,” she croaked, eyes watery. “It’s an…acquired taste,” she coughed, placing her glass on the table to brush the droplets off her skirts. His palm remained on her back.

"In the Bayou, you say?" the lawyer picked up the conversation. "I really can't imagine they have anything there that can compare.”

"There's this little bird..." Arthur began.

"Please, try one!" Savigne hastily urged Mr. Dunham, voice still raw.

Mr. Dunham picked a peach. She tried to inconspicuously push Arthur’s southward gliding hand away as they watched the lawyer carefully slice a piece off, fork it into his mouth and chew with narrowed eyes. 

“It’s marzipan and sugar,” she explained.

The blond man hummed, thoughtful. “Very…interesting.”

Savigne carefully slapped at the hand that had resumed its journey to her butt. “It’s a little old fashioned, I know.”

“Very unique, I must say,” the lawyer stated. Then his eyes glided up to Arthur at Savigne’s side. “I’ve never been to the Bayou, Mr…?

“Kilgore,” Arthur said smoothly.

What a name, Savigne thought and bit her lip.

"What's to do over there?"

“The fishing is good. Gotta use the right bait of course.”

The grab on her butt cheek made her jump and dance away as she shot Arthur a glare of warning.

“You, Miss Ricci?”

"Me what? Sorry."

"Have you been to the Bayou?"

“Once,” she said curtly.

“If ya ever wanna go again…” Arthur said to her with a smug grin. “…’m yer man. Would be a…” his eyes crawled over her body, “…pleasure.”

It was inexcusable, the way he was looking at her - so bold and unapologetic that even Mr. Dunham noticed it and took a step closer to her. 

“Would you like to take a walk in the garden, Miss Ricci?” he said, offering his arm.

This displeased Arthur greatly and she saw the amusement drain from his eyes.

“I should probably head back to the kit-” she started.

“What time ya done?” was Arthur’s drawl as his eyes flicked to her.

“Excuse me sir, that’s awfully direct,” the lawyer said frostily.

“I care ‘bout what ya think, I’ll ask ya,” was the hard response.

“You’re making the lady uncomfortable. I feel obliged to-.”

“Oblige somewhere else.”

The speed with which the amicable interaction dissolved rendered her speechless for a moment. A tension shot up between the two men as she looked from one to the other, nervous where this was going. It was very unusual for Arthur to act this brash but there was no doubt in her mind that he had recognized Dunham from the train station and had a bone to pick because of it. Mr. Dunham, on the other hand, had barely noticed Arthur back then so the odds of recognizing him in his current attire were slim to none.

"I think it's time I head back..." she tried, but the men had advanced to a stage of the duel where she was merely a prop for their stupid power play, so they ignored her.

“You're quite forgetting yourself, Mr. Kilgore," the blond man huffed with indignation and offered his arm to her again. "Miss Ricci?

“Ya stick that twig out again, ‘m gonna break it.”

Both Dunham and Savigne gaped at Arthur for a moment.

“Gentlemen…” she sputtered when she found her voice again.

“There’s clearly only one of those here!” was the lawyer's smooth interjection.

“Ya got the ‘gentle’ part right, tell ya that,” Arthur growled as he drew himself up and gave the other man a dismissive head to toe.

“You sir are a brute. That’s no way to behave around a lady.”

“Lady ain't complainin', is she? Go on, take yer fancy ass outta here.”

“Ar- Mister Kilgore!” she gasped, scandalized.

“How inappropr-” tried the lawyer.

“Bag it.”

“Sir, I’m about to call someone.”

“Who? Yer mommy?”

“Jesus!” Savigne muttered and nervously ran a hand over her forehead.

“That’s it! I invite you to step outside with me!”

“Thought ya’d never ask,” Arthur said and roughly threw his plate on the table.

“Absolutely not!” Savigne stepped between them. For a lawyer, Dunham seemed surprisingly stupid. Arthur could crack this man’s skull with one hand while playing cards with the other. She glared at Arthur. “I will be very cross if there’s a fight,” she hissed, pressing on each word.

He never looked away from the other man as he rolled a shoulder. “Won’ be much of a fight. Miss.”

“Erik, please!" She was hoping that the use of his first name would compel the lawyer but all it did was irritate Arthur whose eyes now blazed at her.

“Miss Ricci, I assure you, I’m not a meek man.”

“Pushin’ them papers made ya this big?” was Arthur’s tease.

“I'm quite good at boxing!”

He got a snort as a response. “Might wanna have these then,” Arthur fished his black velvet gloves out of his pocket and flung them at the other man’s chest. “So ya don’ crack yer pretty nails.”

“Gentlemen!”

She never thought she’d be this happy to see Dutch stroll over and almost sobbed with relief. 

“What’s going on here?” was his smooth question.

“This...man was bothering the lady,” spat the lawyer as if leaving the 'gentle' out was some great insult. “We were about to step away.”

“Nobody was bothering anybody,” Savigne seethed, giving both men a heated look. “And I don’t think either of you gave a damn about me.”

“Tacitus, shame on you,” Dutch drawled. “We can’t brawl here, this is not a saloon.”

Arthur flexed his fingers. “Man here wonders what Saint Denis cobblestone taste like,” he said mildly, “‘m obliged to help.”

“Really unfortunate how all manner of folk get invited to these events now,” sniffed the lawyer.

“Ya hear this mewlin'?” Arthur asked Dutch.

“I think we have more important things to attend to,” Dutch said and glared at her as if she was responsible for this nonsense. He gripped Arthur’s arm but the bigger man refused to move.

The hiss of “Tacitus” was ignored.

“Goodbye,” was Dunham’s gloat and Arthur’s face darkened.

“You know what - I’ll see myself out. Good night to both of you,” Savigne spat and practically stomped off. Before she walked back indoors she looked over and Dunham was watching her with disappointment while Dutch had managed to wrestle the bigger man away.

“Unbelievable,” she hissed to herself. Silly peacocks, all of them, strutting around and sporting their tail fans at any given opportunity. 

Things tapered off and Savigne changed her clothes and headed out so she could sneak away before Chef Ecco turned up. The hour was late and even bustling Saint Denis was somewhat empty. She cringed at the idea of riding back to camp this late, through all those dark forests and deserted paths. Maybe it was better to stay in a hotel in town today. But she hadn't told Arthur and if she didn't turn up he would surely come looking for her. She crossed the street and a dark shadow detached itself from the rest of the darkness under a store awning and glided closer. 

She waited, apprehensive, until she recognized his gait and relaxed.

“Was just thinking about you,” she said as he walked closer to stand in front of her. He smiled and placed a hand on her lower back. “Maybe we can stay at a hotel.”

He jerked her forward roughly and she stumbled into him, next thing she knew he was kissing her. Not a chaste kiss on the cheek either - a passionate, full on one that she would never expect from him in the middle of a city street - regardless how sparsely populated it was at the moment. She reflexively pushed against him and of course putting up that kind of fight just made Arthur more eager to overpower her. He swung her around and her back was pushed against the wall as he deepened the kiss, boxing her in between his arms, his body flush against hers.

Breathless, she relented, retrieving her hands and placing them on the wall in a show of surrender. It worked, he softened the kiss and eventually pulled back, but his hands glided down her chest and palmed her buttocks, implying that his reprieve was temporary.

“What was all that nonsense earlier?” she panted.

“Should be thankin’ me,” he sighed into her neck as he left a trail of kisses. “For savin’ ya from that prick.”

“Thank you for saving this helpless maiden,” she sighed dramatically.

“That’s better,” he kissed her. “Now to my reward.” He took her hand and walked her through the dark streets of Saint Denis, to the background music of drunken yowling, ranting and peals of laughter.

They arrived at a hotel that was still lively with lights blazing and music drifting from the main hall.

“Gimme yer best room,” Arthur slapped his billfold on the desk. She cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Certainly sir,” the man flipped the book around for Arthur to sign. “We have a room with a double bed and extra large private tub ensuite.

Arthur grunted in approval as he grabbed the key. Then he paused and asked “The bed have a headboard?”

“Of course,” the clerk scoffed as if the alternative was unthinkable.

Arthur grabbed her hand again and pulled her up the stairs behind him. Several of the rooms had chatter and laughter drifting out as they walked past them. And a few of them lusty moans and cries of pleasure.

“Wow,” she cleared her throat.

“Ya can sing better than these fools,” he grinned at her. She opened her mouth to argue but he was faster: “And, believe me, ya will.”

She shook him awake early next morning. “Arthur.”

He grunted to say he’s awake.

“I need you to get me something.”

His brows furrowed. “What ya need?”

“There is this thing called beigel, I need one.”

“The hell is that?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s like a pastry, but savory.”

He cracked open an eye. “Ya want breakfast, we can order room service.”

“No I want beigel with lox.” He took a deep breath and rose on his elbow to look at her as if she had spoken in tongues.

”Please?” she pleaded, pulling the covers up to her chin.

“Fine,” he sighed and rose to sit up at the edge, the covers pooling around his waist and exposing his naked chest. “Ya dream ‘bout it or somethin’?”

“I guess. I’m craving it something fierce.” He paused and gave her a look over his shoulder. “Think it’s because I’m going to bleed soon,” she explained, a little abashed.

He cracked his neck and got on his feet and started to get dressed. “Where they sell this thing?”

“The Jewish quarter. Three blocks up, an avenue over.” She watched him dress in his tuxedo from last night. “I want extra onions.”

He hummed as he reached for his satchel. “Ya sure they open on Sunday?”

“Yeah, it’s the Jewish quarter. It’s this round thing with a hole in the middle, they sell it on sticks. Don’t get the wrong thing!” she called quietly as he headed to the door. “With lox! And extra…”

“I got it, woman,” he grumbled and added “Don’ take a bath without me,” as he exited the room and headed for the stairs.

Saint Denis was calm and quiet under an overcast sky and the drizzle of rain. He decided he liked the city better like this. He passed people walking by quickly under the mist of rain and missed his hat. It was chillier now that Fall was here but perfect weather to him. He strolled up the avenue as the city slumbered around him, not yet ready to recover from the lively Saturday celebrations and he wasn’t the only one stumbling around in their nice clothes from the previous night, either.

Once he arrived at the neighborhood which was livelier than the rest of the city, he asked around and was guided to a small hole in the wall shop and proceeded to buy three, curious what this food was. 

As he was heading back to the hotel a store window caught his eye and he crossed the street to look at the jewelery on display. It surprised him to see a man behind the counter at this early hour but he took it as a sign and entered.

Arthur walked in, rolled his shoulders and looked around. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior and glided over the assortment of pendants, necklaces, tiaras, brooches, swaying and clinking softly in the wake of the breeze that followed him in. It had started to rain in earnest and he was the only customer. It was, by all accounts, too early for this kind of shopping.

The man behind the counter didn’t push and merely glanced over before he dived back into his newspaper. There was a strong, warm smell of coffee in the air.

“Late night?” observed the man, looking over his tuxedo when Arthur approached the counter.

He grunted and dug into his satchel and retrieved the slender ring and carefully placed it on the counter.

“Don’ need this no more,” he sighed.

The man placed an oversized lens in front of an eye and picked it up and took his time inspecting. “Charming,” he nodded thoughtfully before the big owl eye behind the lens blinked at him and a polite “I’m sorry, son” was added at the implication. His tone was more neutral when he continued: “I can take it off your hands.” He went to the cash register but he saw something in Arthur’s eyes and shuffled back over. “Anything else you need, young man?”

“Need another ring,” was the gravely response. 

The man hesitated. “She didn’t like it or…?”

“No. That business is over. Need a new one.”

“Ah I see. Well…what did you have in mind? Something similar?”

“Different.”

“Anything specific she likes? A certain color…a certain gem?”

He thought on this for a moment.

“Somethin’…Italian.”

The man hummed and scratched one oversized ear. “That’s not a request we get every day. But I do have some interesting rings.”

He went to the back and was gone a while and Arthur watched people through the store window running around under their umbrellas, trying to jump around puddles. Horses clopped by, their legs and underside splattered with mud. 

When the man shuffled back in, he had a tray at hand. The navy velvet underlining was old and dusty. On it, two dozen rings displayed like artifacts.

“We have old, we have new, we have diamond or white gold. Anything catch your eye? I have more in the back.”

Arthur bent over and gave the rings a cursory inspection. They looked like any other ring to him. He staightened, dissatisfied. 

“Something more…unique.”

The store owner gave him a narrow eyed hum and took the tray back, then returned with another. He wordlessly places the tray in front of him and withdrew a little.

The blue eyes carefully glided over each, then paused on one. “What’s this?”

“That there is a cameo,” the man said, pulling it out of its clasp and dropping it into Arthur’s large palm. 

“What’s that?”

“A carving of seashells. It’s very Italian. Romans used to wear these.”

“Ya got more o’these?”

A nod and the man shuffled off again. Arthur held the ring against the dim light from the large store window. Rose colored background, on it the ivory profile of a woman with gentle lines and wispy details. It looked very pretty and quite different from the rings he had stuffed into the camp box over the years.

“How about these, son?”

The tray held only five rings but that was four too many. His eyes immediately snapped to the second to last on the row. “That one,” he pointed.

“You have good taste.” It was dropped into his palm and he returned the other ring. An oval head, about the size of a corn kernel, deep blue background. The band slim and elegant. On it the ephemeral white image of a lady and a horse, the mane of the horse flowing and her skirts slightly blowing as she was reaching out a tiny hand to pet it.

“This one,” he said, voice raspy with fascination. “Perfect.”

The man nodded, pleased. “I’m obliged to admit that it’s not very valuable,’ he said. “In case she…gets disappointed. Cameos rarely are unless they’re antiques. But it’s very pretty and unique.”

“She won’ care,” he said, turning it between his fingers. “Seashells, huh?”

“Seashells. The value is the craftsmanship.”

“Italian. Horse. Ocean blue. Seashells…” he noted and looked up to the jeweler to clarify: “She came on a ship.” He was astonished at his luck and at this point, tempted to call it fate. “It’s made for’er. I’ll take it.”

The man nodded and produced a small box and placed the ring in it. “I still owe you the difference,” he said and moved to the cash register.

“It’s fine,” Arthur said dismissively and pocketed the ring. 

“How about a ring for yourself instead then?”

“I got one. From before.” He hesitated. “But…thinkin’ might be better I get a new one.”

“I agree,” the man said. “It's a new journey. Requires a new vessel.”

The store owner offered his congratulations when he left and headed back to the hotel, grinning for no apparent reason. He marveled a little how that elusive thing he had thought was forever beyond his reach was here now, so close he could almost taste it:

Family.

And not one cobbled together out of circumstances or convenience, but a proper family - chosen. Asked for and accepted. After thirty-six years of living and doing, it was maybe the only mark he would leave in this world, the only deed he could point at and boast about. Six months ago he was telling Hosea it wasn’t in the cards for him and today he had bought a ring. Sure, some of it was luck. But this was no whimsical luck of a bullet missing by inches - he had chased it, fought for it, clawed at it, so it was as much an accomplishment as it was luck and yes, he was proud of it. Don’t fuck this up, he thought. Not again. Just hold the course. Don’t do nothing stupid. If he held steady, surely she would accept.

He was superstitious about counting his chickens before they hatched, wary that allowing himself to daydream about it would invite the ire of the universe and with it, all the bad luck he was owed for the life he had led, but couldn’t resist the temptation today and very carefully, almost shyly allowed himself to revel in the feeling of being loved and wanted. Of being needed. Someone in this world loved him, wanted him - the concept seemed absurd. Not because he was a skilled shooter or a loyal enforcer, not because he added money to the box or took risks - someone loved him despite those things and didn’t expect anything from him but his company. 

When he entered the room she was standing by the window, bed cover draped over her naked shoulders like a cape.

”You were gone for a while. Did you find it?” she said, running over. 

”Did,” he said as she practically ripped the bag off his hands and scrambled to sit at the table.

She fished out one beigel and bit into it, moaning with pleasure.

”The hell gotten into you?” he chuckled, peeling off his jacket.

”Dis ow yu luk wen yu eat,” she mumbled around her food and comically scrunched her face and chomped with exaggerated fury.

He laughed and sat across from her and they ate to the sound of the rain on the windowpane. The hotel started to wake up but slowly, lazily.

”Oh my god,” she groaned, caressing her tummy and leaning back on the chair when she had devoured the beigel, for the first time finishing a meal before he did. “That hit the spot. Thank you.” Then she found the third one in the bag. “You’re going to eat this, or…?”

”Go ahead,” he grimaced. “Think ‘m good.”

He got up and went to the connected room and started to fill the tub while he undressed, hanging his clothes on the hooks on the wall. When it was done and the temperature of the water adjusted, he sank in with a groan and she came in, threw the covers off her shoulders and gingerly sat between his legs. He sat back and lit the complimentary cigar placed on a tray beside the tub and she groaned with pleasure and leaned back into his chest. There were no windows in this room but there was a skylight and they listened to the rain drumming on it as he smoked and she dozed off and woke up intermittently.

“Quiet Sunday,” she mumbled at last. “Must be the rain,” and shifted to settle more comfortably between his legs.

His free hand untangled her locks and glided over her shoulders and her breasts as he smoked. He thought of the ring in his satchel and all the quiet mornings in the future. The sense of loss and rudderless drifting that always used to fill him at the idea of the absence of the gang, of Dutch and Hosea and Grimshaw and the conversations at the camp fire didn’t come. Maybe because he had been gradually weaned off it these past six months, or maybe because it felt due, earned like a deserved retirement after a lifetime of work, but he was ready for it - eager even.

Eager for peace and quiet and days spent in the unhurried pleasure of simple tasks. Eager to watch the sun set on his porch somewhere and listen to her preparing dinner inside. To set his own agenda instead of following one set for him. To come up with little chores around the cabin to keep himself busy. 

For as long as he could remember, he had coasted like a log in the river of life. Always moving, carried by the current. Sometimes caught in an eddy, a little enclave for a while, but eventually pushed out again to be rolled along. Always living off crates, sleeping in tents. He tried to imagine actually having a place of his own that was permanent and worth getting attached to. He tried to imagine waking up in the same room, looking at the same view out of the same window every single day and watch the seasons change. He tried to imagine things being in cupboards and shelves, hung on walls, his clothes in closets. He tried to imagine having a routine not for a week or a month but for years. To meet people in towns and to actually expect to meet them again.

Dutch always said there was freedom in the nomad life and there was. But he had been doing it for over twenty years now and it didn’t feel as illustrious as it did when he was younger. Hosea was right - this was a young man’s life. Maybe there was freedom in drifting, but there was comfort and peace in growing roots and he was ready, hungry to grow roots.

“This is nice,” she sighed, hands gliding up the incline of his thighs to settle on his knees. “I think you’re right - we do need that large tub in the cabin.”

He wiped the hair off her shoulder to kiss it. The rain intensified and they sat there until the water became tepid. Then they drained some of it and refilled it with hot water and sat some more. The cigar smelled woody and toasty, the soap bubbles fresh and floral. 

“Wish this day would never end,” she whispered. "It's perfect."

There was a quiet, delicious heat in his chest that he didn’t recognize.

"Wish that, too," he sighed. 

[bisexualchaosdemon]

A New Bet

Andrew had been mulling over his theory for long enough. He needed a sounding board of some kind — And Neil was the most objective person he could think of for this.

"I have a new bet to propose." Andrew broke the silence as they sat on the roof, wasting away their Wednesday evening.

Neil wasn't one for bets, but Andrew introducing one was enough to pique his interest, apparently. "A new bet? What about?"

Andrew waved the hand that held his cigarette, feigning nonchalance. "It's about Coach and Abby; I think they're together."

Neil tilted his head in confusion. Andrew did not think it was cute. Absolutely not. "How is this a new bet?" He asked, a small furrow between his brows.

"Because it's not just them." Andrew elaborated, trying not to sound pleased with himself. "It's Bee too."

Neil didn't answer for a long time, seeming to chew that over. Andrew had been visiting Bee weekly for almost three years now and had been piecing together this theory for quite a while. But he was sure of it — Abby, Bee, and Wymack were some sort of thruple. A polycule, or whatever.

It seemed glaringly obvious now that Andrew had finally said it. Pretty much the whole team was in agreement about Wymack and Abby being together. Even those who had put money against it had eventually changed their minds, from what Andrew could tell. But no one had considered how the team's psychiatrist fit into the equation.

Eventually, Neil said, "I'm not taking that bet."

Andrew almost groaned. Of course this Exy obsessed fool wouldn't be of any help. "Seriously, are you still not doing bets? Even with me?"

Neil huffed a small laugh and stole Andrew's cigarette. The little shit. "Oh, no, I'm not taking that bet because I agree with you."

Oh.

"Damn," Andrew would have laughed, if he were the type to do such things. "Guess I'm going to have to find some other idiot on this team to swindle."

[baxtershairdye]

Fathers Day Dance ◦This takes place in step 2. In where MC attends a fathers day dance without bringing a father. Cliff steps up and takes them instead. ◦Just some wholesome father child action. ◦Gn! MC

◦Part 1/2 .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. You sat at your desk chewing the end of your pen as you worked on your homework, your best friend Cove sprawled out on the bed nearby. Of course he wasn't really doing his homework. Cove never was much for school. Instead he talked on about whatever seemed to suit him at the moment. The conversation bounced from one topic to another before he brought up how he got volunteered for the upcoming dance committee by his teacher, despite his protests. You could feel your shoulders drop as you seemed to almost visibly deflate at the subject mater. It didn't take cove long to notice before he sat up, his legs hanging off the edge of your bed watching you carefully for a moment before speaking up. "You okay?" He questioned his voice wavering as he spoke. You weren't sure how to answer him. Would he even understand if you explained it to him? You didn't want him to feel sorry for you either. "I'm fine." You lied not even having to look at him to know he wasn't buying it. "Come on Y/N... I think I know you well enough by now to know when somethings bugging you." He pointed reaching over to pull your chair so you could face him. "Seriously Cove I'm fine. It's no big deal." You attempted to convince him only gaining a unconvinced stare from your green haired companion. You groaned slouching in your chair running a hand over your face. "Fine. Maybe I'm a little upset about the dance." You admitted stressing the 'little' part of the statement. His expression shifted from one of determination to one of understanding. "Do...do you wanna talk about it?" He offered his eyes having not left you since the sudden shift in tone. You stayed quiet mulling over the thought before sighing. "I just...I don't know I guess I feel left out...like I'm missing out on the dance because I don't have a Dad.." You shrugged staring down at your hands. "Not that I wish I had a Mom and Dad instead of two Moms. I wouldn't trade them for the world.." You felt bat that you even felt that way. You wondered what your Parents would think if they'd heard you. Cove sat there quietly as you spoke waiting patiently for you to finish. "No I understand." He assured leaning forward propping his arms on his knees as her thought. "Do you Want to take my Dad?" He finally asked looking up from his spot on the bed. "I'm sorry what??" You Blinked, having not expected the suggestion in the slightest. It took a few seconds to register the offer before you shook your head. "What? Cove no I couldn't. What about you? Besides Would he even want to go with me?" Cove shrugged in response. "Well I mean...I'm not really into this kinda thing and you are. And I'm sure he'd want to you're basically family anyway."

"You're sure about that?" You spoke softly as cove stood. "Yeah of course I am, i wouldn't offer if I wasn't okay." He flashed you a friendly smile as you stood up from your chair. "Anyway lets go ask him, better now than never." He stated heading for your door, you following closely behind him as he lead you down the stair, and out your front door.

You felt a wave of nervousness wash over you the closer you got to the Holden house, part of you wondering if you should just turn around. By the time the thought crossed your mind Cove had already swung the front door open holding it so you could enter first.

The house smelled of cooking food. You weren't sure what was being made but whatever it was smelled delicious.

Cove's Dad had glanced over hearing the front door, assuming his son had returned back from your study date but being pleasantly surprised but also not at all surprised by the familiar face that had followed his son home.

He flashed the two of you a bright smile as he wiped his hands on his baby blue 'Kiss The Cook' apron. "Hey kiddos, done with studying already?" He inquired. "Uh... not entirely no." Cove shook his head. "We wanted to ask you something.." He admitted as Cliff quirked a brow at his son.

"If this is about a sleep over you know we agreed not on a School night." He warned knowingly. You and Cove tended to be attached at the hip after all.

"What? No Dad we know, It's not that." Cove dismissed the thought looking over to you as if willing you to just ask. You swallowed thickly the nerves of asking him such a simple question giving you cotton mouth. Cliff seemed to catch on some what shifting his full attention to you as you psyched yourself up. He wore a kind smile not rushing you in the slightest while simultaneously hanging off whatever you might say.

You took a Breath looking up at the blonde finally willing yourself to speak. "Would you.. Will you go with me to the Fathers day dance?" Your tone was quieter than usual as you waited for his response. He seemed frozen for a moment a shocked expression on his features as he processed the request. You waited for what seemed like forever but in reality was only a few seconds. You looked up as a loud sniff brought you out of your thoughts seeing the man in front of you desperately trying to keep himself from tearing up then and there. He must have assumed this was Cove's suggestion seeing as how he was the one to start the conversation. Especially since his reply was almost immediate after that. "Of course I will. I'd be honored to."

You felt a wave of relief wash over you at his answer the choked feeling in your throat vanishing as you rushed forward pulling cliff into a hug, hearing a quiet "Oof" as you made contact with him.

"Easy there, you're gonna take us both down." Cliff joked lightheartedly as he placed a hand on your back giving you a gentle squeeze before you could pull away.

"Thank you. You have know idea how much this means.." You thanked him sniffling as the nerves died down leaving you just a bit emotional. He gave you a kind look ruffling your hair gently in a fatherly fashion. "Of course, I wouldn't dare to miss it." He assured letting you pull back fully as you reached up to fix your hair.

You glanced over to cove who was standing by watching the display receiving a thumbs up as he noticed you look over at him. You smiled at him sweetly before looking back to cliff. "Well now that that's sorted...I guess we should get back to studying..." You explained not sure how to gracefully leave the situation.

Cliff laughed but nodded nonetheless. "Sure kid, don't let me stop you." You gave him s final smile and another quiet thanks before leading cove out and back across the street. You were actually excited for this event now.

[crimson-calligraphyx]

Tag List: @cheyfi @kingdomof-omens @daylightlvrs @blade-in-red @jay02bo @itsmrsfuentes @cncohshit @catj422 @lma1986 @chels3a-smile @kiwi475 @cookiesupplier

"Can we name him Nicholas?" Noah asks before shoving another large bite of pasta in his mouth. I rolled my eyes at his lack of etiquette and shook my head lightly. "No, we're not naming him Nicholas." "Why not?" He pouts, whining. I chuckled at his childish behavior, pushing my food around with my fork, shrugging. "We already have two Nick's in our lives, it's just gonna get more confusing, don't you think?" He mulls it over for a second, then agrees with a defeated bob of his head. "How about Nicholas as his middle name?"

I watched his lips curl upwards as he chewed—I knew how badly he wanted to name him after his best friend, but I just knew the confusion that would ensue.

"I like that idea," he says with a smile after finishing his bite of food. "But what about his first name?" "We got time. It'll come to us," I grinned, shrugging lightly, and went back to pushing my food around leisurely. He agrees and lays his hand out on the table, palm up. I quirked an eyebrow at him and he nods towards his hand, silently asking me to place mine there.

I do just that, his large hand warm as it encases mine with a gentle squeeze. "You okay? You've just been pushing your food around, not eating it," Noah inquires, tilting his head slightly with worry on his face. "Oh, yeah," I sigh lightly. "Just tired," I grasp his hand lightly in return, hoping to reassure him.

Truth be told, I was anxious. He and the guys were set to leave in a week for the makeup shows, and even though he would only be gone for about two weeks, I was nervous as all Hell. What if something happens and I need to be rushed to the hospital? Or, god forbid, I get so stressed out that it leads me to have a drink?

I'd hate myself for that, and I'm sure he would, too.

"Hey," he shakes my hand a tad to gain my attention. I must've zoned out. "You'll be okay, Liv. It's only two weeks that I'll be away." I huffed out a saddened chuckle, averting my gaze to my plate. I'm telling you, this man had a sixth sense. "How can you be so sure?" I asked with a slight tremor in my voice, my emotions beginning to make their way out the longer I thought about it. "Because you're strong, Olivia." I scoffed and shook my head 'No'. "I mean it. You said yourself that the second you found out you were pregnant, you stopped drinking. That's not easy, and you know that. And we both know that you wouldn't do anything to hurt him."

I took a deep breath and nodded in agreement. Noah may be right about these things, but I still couldn't help the negativity from looming over me, and I didn't finish my lunch because of it. We decided to pack the rest of our food up to go home and relax; staring at it only made me feel nauseous, given the anxiety that was already running rampant within me.

He takes our bag of leftovers and stands, holding his hand out for me to take. I scoot out of the booth after taking his hand in mine and stand, his chivalry causing a light blush to coast across my cheeks as I smile at him, and he grins down at me.

Neither of us were paying attention as we started to walk out of the restaurant, and straight into another person. Noah apologized right away, and I began to follow suit until I locked eyes with a familiar pair of sharp green eyes.

They trail down my body, and I watched a smirk spread across his face once they landed on my belly. My breath gets caught in my throat, and I squeeze Noah's hand with apprehension. "Liv, what's wrong?" Noah asks quietly, and I can feel him looking at me with concern, but my eyes are still trained on Steven's.

"Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise?" Steven greets us with disdain, looking between me and Noah. "This is your husband, I presume?" I cleared my throat. "Yes, this is my husband." "Does husband have a name?" "Noah," he bites out an introduction before I'm able to tell Steven to fuck off, letting go of my hand to stick his out for a handshake. They exchanged what seemed to be a firm shake.

"I see you certainly didn't hop off the bandwagon, but instead on it," Steven jeers, motioning his head toward my belly. "Excuse me?" I jerked my head back at his rash observation, my eyebrows scrunching together as I scowled at him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I can practically feel the anger radiating off of Noah, seeing his body tense when I glance over at him. I can see the muscle in his jaw tick as he grits his teeth, and I know he's biting his tongue.

Steven laughs dryly, waving his hand as if we were friends who hadn't seen each other in ages. "Oh, lighten up, Liv. I'm just trying to be funny. It appears you've made up, no?" "Alright, that's enough out of you," Noah snaps, taking my hand again. "It was great to meet you," he seethes, "but Liv and I were on our way home. Excuse us."

He smiles down at me, though I can still see the irritation hidden behind said smile, and gives my hand a reassuring squeeze. We step around Steven, beginning the short trek back to our house. "What a charmer you've got there, Liv," I hear him call after us. "You really think having a kid with him is gonna solve all your problems and miraculously fix your marriage?" he quips.

We both stop dead in our tracks, and I feel my heart sink from his words. Immediately, there's tears welling in my eyes, and I tried with every fiber of my being to hold them back. I know I shouldn't listen to what someone so insignificant has to say, but those words certainly cut deep knowing that our marriage was on the brink of collapsing only months ago.

This baby is our saving grace. Maybe Steven was right.

"Don't listen to him, Olivia," Noah all but whispers to me. He takes my face in his hands, swiping his thumbs under my eyes when the tears finally spilled over. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. Things aren't perfect, I know that, you know that, but we're fine. Everything's fine." I sucked in a choppy breath and nodded in his hands, gazing into his chocolate irises that were beginning to soften. "In sickness and in health, til death do us part. Remember that, Olivia."

I choked on a sob—that nearly happened. I had almost killed Noah.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Liv. He might put the music in front of not only you but even the baby. Unless that's what you want..." Steven taunts. "That motherfucker," Noah hisses under his breath. There's fire burning in his eyes, and he's gone within the blink of an eye. I turn around and he's towering over Steven, shoving him back.

My heart is in my throat and I'm frozen in place as I watched them yell at each other. The panic is settling in, I can't hear what they're saying. I think I'm shouting at him to knock it off, but I can't even hear myself; my heartbeat is too loud in my head.

Noah stumbles back briefly, covering his face with one hand, and within a second Steven is mirroring him, only on the ground. Noah had swung back, and this time I'm positive that I'm yelling at them to knock it off as I run over to the scene.

"Noah, stop!" I shriek and yank on his arm just as Steven stands, hindering the possibility of Noah swinging at him again. As much as he deserved it, I couldn't stand to watch them fight, and Christ was the baby kicking the shit out of me from my hysteria.

His arm was trembling with rage and adrenaline, and there's tears running down my face while I tried my best to hold him back. He shakes himself free of my grasp as Steven gets closer—I feel like I can't breathe when they meet again, Noah's fist tight around the front of Steven's shirt. I had no choice but to get in between them, pressing a hand to each of their chests.

"Please stop," I cried, looking up at the fierce expression on my husband's face. There's blood trickling from his nose, painting over his swollen lips. "I-I can't deal with this. Please, Noah." I feel his chest rising and falling against my palm as he pants, glancing down at me, and with a gruff breath, he tosses Steven away. "Get out of here," he growls and swipes his thumb under his nose, doubling back to clear his mouth of the blood. "I don't ever want to see your face again."

The air was thick as they glowered at each other. I didn't move; I had to make sure fists wouldn't fly again. After what feels like an eternity, Steven spits a bloody mess at our feet and stalks off, and I pray I never have to see him again.

"What were you thinking?" I turn towards Noah, fresh tears of aggravation stinging my eyes. "You could've been seriously hurt or arrested!" His face softens; his eyebrows are cinched and lifted, his lips turning down at the corners. He reaches out, cupping my face with his clean hand. I push his hand away, shaking my head at him incredulously. "That was the dumbest thing you've done in a long, long time, Noah."

I brush past him, headed back towards our home once again. I'm trying to keep my composure, but I'm so shaken up, so angry that he would be dumb enough to do something like that over a few choice words. Especially since he was the one who told me not to listen to what Steven had to say.

I barely make it up the street when Noah catches up to me, placing a hand on my shoulder gently. "Olivia," he says my name quietly. "I'm sorry, I couldn't let him say those things—" "But punching him wasn't the right thing to do, Noah!" I shouted and threw my arms out. "You know stress isn't good for him, right?" I remind him with a tight throat, trying not to cry while glancing down and running a hand over my belly. He sighs heavily, combing back the front of his hair with his clean hand. "I know, I'm sorry," he murmurs.

His eyes lower to my stomach, and seconds later his large hand is engulfing the side of my bump. A calming warmth radiates through my belly; I feel the baby kick, and Noah gasps shallowly, his eyes flashing to mine. I watched his lips curl at the corners, slowly spreading into a wide smile that reached his eyes, the crinkles I adored prominent.

"I haven't been able to feel him kick yet," he whispers. "I know," I sniffled. "This isn't exactly how I pictured this moment happening." I tried to laugh, but it came out as a choked-up sob instead. Within seconds, my heart sinks and I'm crying—I wanted a more intimate setting for this moment. "It's okay, love," he consoles me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and bringing me into a tight embrace. "I'm ecstatic that I got to feel it. Believe me."

He cradles my head against him, his other hand running up and down my back. I only wrapped my arms around him and sobbed. I knew that my hysterics were unnecessary over something so silly, but I couldn't contain myself. Fucking hormones.

Eventually, Noah manages to calm me down and we walk home. He immediately runs me a bath when we get there, and I thank him with a kiss before settling into the tub. I didn't bathe for very long; I was exhausted from the events from earlier, and the warmth of the water was beginning to lull me to sleep.

I dressed into my pajamas for the evening, though it was still early. Noah was in bed and lying on his side, propping himself up by his elbow and resting his head in his hand. He smiles at me softly, his eyelids hooded with what seemed to be exhaustion as well, and pats the mattress with his opposite hand. I join him in bed with a sheepish grin.

"I'm so sorry for earlier today," Noah apologizes as I mirror his position. "I'm just so defensive over you," he reaches out and grazes his thumb across the apple of my cheek. "And him," he moves his hand to the swell of my belly, giving it a gentle rub. "I know, and I appreciate all that you do." I put my hand over his, lacing my fingers through his and giving him a light squeeze. "But I'm not raising him alone because you got thrown in the clink for assault," I chuckle. He snorts, letting his head hang for a moment. "I promise that won't happen, love." "Good."

We stay like this until my arm gets sore, and I lie back against my pillow after propping it up. Noah shifts; he's nearly face-level with my stomach, now tracing his fingers over my bump, and I grin when he presses a kiss against it.

I hear him whispering, and I realize as I watch his eyes start to droop further that he's actually singing to my belly. His eyes are shut when the baby kicks, and I giggle knowing Noah felt it by the subtle curl of his lips as he continued to sing to my belly. "Seems like he likes his daddy's singing," I muse. He hums in agreement, his eyes remaining shut. "Yeah, I think so," he says, sleep heavy in his voice. "I hope so, anyway. It's kind of my profession." "He's gonna love it," I reassure him, running a hand through the front of his hair, scratching lightly as I went along. "I just know it."

|Chapter 23|

[bisayawa]

mama & friend ; alejandro vargas/fem! reader

― fluff

desc: crush shenanigans through the eyes of a dog.

note: there is a first part.

most days, alejandro vargas exuded an air of poise & grace ― as expected of a rising commanding officer of the special forces.

however, this was not one of those days.

"what do you mean it went well enough?"

today, like the day before, his insides felt like scrambled eggs.

"we only just met a few times. what would you like me to say?"

"you met a wonderful, beautiful woman in the park & it only went well enough?" rudy went on, the silence of the barracks bringing his voice louder. "you don't expect me to believe that, hermano."

at that, alejandro sighs. there was one thing.

"well..." his voice splinters until he picks it back up. "i ― i don't think her dog likes me that much."

rudy almost laughs. almost. he swallows it down & brings his voice to an even tenor.

"her dog, hermano?" says he. "that's what you're worried about?"

"no, listen. her dog goes with her everywhere. that dog is her best friend, and if he can't... you know, feel okay around me then how would she feel?"

alejandro takes a pause, looking away from his friend, mulling it over in his mind. "maybe i am over reac ―"

" ― then i guess you gotta start reading up!"

"huh?" reading up? "what do you ― ?"

"read some books about dogs, watch a video, try to understand him." rudy adjusts a buckle on his chest, shrugging. "i don't know, maybe something will come out of it."

the man, alejandro, feels a light switch flick on in his chest.

"...rudy," he says. "you're sharp as a tack, you know that?"

― ― ―

"what do you think, bruno? do you think alejandro actually likes me?"

your place on the sofa quickly slides down to the cold hardwood floor. your hand is on bruno, combing through short-cropped black fur.

bruno huffs.

―

alejandro again, mama? always talking about him! it's getting so... so much. his name is too long, too! a - le - jan - dro. so many sounds in one name. my name is better. bru - no. just quick sounds, not long.

―

"hm? bruno?" you rub into the fur of his stomach, the spot he likes most.

in a second, he's kicking & preening.

―

well, mama, i think he's a big... hmmmmm... yeeeee ― hey, what? what, huh.

―

just as quickly as you started, you stopped rubbing the soft circles onto his tummy, choosing to lie down on the floor altogether. your hair billows out under your head. you're staring at the ceiling, a tight frown upon your lips.

"how do you feel, boy? am i thinking about it too much?" you say into the air. "hm, i don't know."

―

...mama? are you sad?

i will... move, closer. yes, that will help.

―

"big boy bruno, bruno boy." his ears perk up, eyes staring back into yours. dark pools of loving brown, affection in one colour. it makes you smile, and your heart sings.

―

mama is saying my name. mama usually keeps saying my name until she focuses. maybe she needs to unfocus today. too much thinking about the alejandro upset her maybe. all about if he likes her or not, if he is true about it or not...

well, for me, i think mama has nothing to worry about.

― ― ―

i'm worried for mama. humans are always weird but today, she's even weirder.

it started when she came out of the shower. her legs were suddenly so bare, not full of fur like mine. i wonder what happens during their wash because that doesn't happen to me when i do it. hopefully it wasn't painful for mama's fur to get washed away.

the next was mama putting some... grey? brown? on her face. some on her mouth, some on her cheeks. she looks... like mama but now with grey.

maybe this is another human thing that i do not understand. i know the doctor said dog eyes are different with the colors.

ah, well, mama always looks nice, with or without the grey.

ooh! mama is wearing the frilly blanket now, the one with pretty flowers on it. ooooooh, mouth on the frilly blanket. mouth on the frilly blanket.

maybe mama won't get so mad if ―

bruno! no chewing on my dress, please!

ah, well, i tried.

ay, wuh ― hey! mama's using the funny blue bottle again, the one that sprays stinky water everywhere. she sprays it on herself & the big smell clouds around her. i do not think i should get near, or else my nose will get funny.

now mama is wearing the tall, clicky shoes. the shiny ones. not good for chewing, too squeaky & sharp on my tongue. i do not see colors the same as mama but i think it matches her blanket.

mama is in front of the... looking window thing ― i do not know the name. it is a window, but it looks like mama when she is in front. whenever i go near, another dog just appears ― i cannot hear them or smell them. they just appear!

now, mama is turning around & around, looking at the window. she has the blanket, and the grey and the shoes.

she looks like mama, and mama is always beautiful.

huh, mama?

mama is going to the door now, with a bag and a jacket. it is too late to go to the outside for a run day. are we going to play?

or... no, is it work day again? work is for morning.

what is happening, mama?

―

you turn around before you reach the door. the dress dances around your knees.

bruno sits in front of the hallway, darling & dear with a curious tilt of his head. your best friend has no idea what your plans are. you wilt for him.

"bruno," you kneel & he pads closer. "i'm going on that date, remember? it will just be for a few hours, okay?"

―

mama is using slow words, soft words. she is leaving for a few hours.

not forever... but a few hours.

is a few hours a long time? hm, mama...

―

"you'll be okay. you won't be alone. mister arrañeta will come by & check, hm?"

you do not know if he can understand a smile but you do anyway. upon seeing it, his tail thump-thumps on the floor, a hopeful sign.

his eyes are wide. you stare before you kiss him on the forehead.

rising to your feet, you look to him one more time. he's sitting still, obedient as ever.

a little dismayed, you open the door & step out.

― ― ―

mister arrañeta comes by once or twice. he gave me water & sat down with me on the porch for a while. it was nice.

i hear mama's shoes before she arrives. she's laughing, too, that weird but nice mama sound. there's a window by the front door. maybe i can sit there to see her come close.

there she is!

the alejandro is with her? he is talking with her, walking with her to our door!

woh, did he keep her safe? is she hurt? what did they do? ooh, maybe mama will tell me all about it.

mama sees me & she shows her teeth. it's not a bad sign when she bares her teeth. mama shows teeth when she's happy.

she saw me, and she's happy.

they're at the door! mama is home. why isn't she opening it though? huh?

they are speaking. mama has hands on the alejandro. her little nails are holding his, kneading them together like a cat.

wait, haah? their mouths are on each other now?

it's a strange way to clean someone... the inside of the mouth? weird place to lick but eh, maybe that's a human thing i do not know about.

it happens quickly. must be a fast kind of clean but mama is inside the house again, and the alejandro's heart is too fast when he walks away from our door.

mama is squeaking to me. i do not know what she is saying, but i think, if mama had a tail, it would be wagging right now.

― ― ―

mama & the alejandro are friends now. mama goes on more of those dates. sometimes i do not join, sometimes i do.

the dates i like are the ones to the outside. sometimes it's a run day. sometimes it's a sit down day. sometimes it's both!

mama likes the sit down days but friend likes the run days. he likes running around, likes having me chase him. sometimes the wind makes a mess of the fur on his head. he looks funny like that.

we take turns rolling in the grass. he pats my head, just like mama does. it feels the same. he feels like a friend to me, now, too. he gives me treats, and when he is happy, i notice that he shows teeth, just like mama.

now, mama has two friends to keep her safe.

―

today's run day is finished, and mama & friend are sitting down at the tree. must be tired from the running. they look like little dots from here.

the wind is cold now and the sun is going down. it will be night soon, and mama likes going home before night.

they are leaning back and... staring down each other? is this a bad stare down or a good stare down? oh, they're baring teeth. that's ― i need to get in there. i gotta ―

wuh ― hey! they're putting their mouths on each other again! nobody told me we could clean each other in public!

don't leave me out!

[softquietsteadylove]

Here to say I’m missing Thenamesh Rus AU and this is in fact a prompt 😅 (sorry I have two brain cells and neither of them are working to formulate a real prompt but I appreciate anything u give us!!!)

Gil strolled through the crowd. He was coming off watch duty, although now that winter was over and spring was approaching, it wasn't quite so agonising. Even so, he was still volunteering to cover Thena's watch when at all possible for her.

He only relented when Thena herself insisted on him staying inside and resting in the warmth of his room.

The humans called it Maslenitsa, or some form of it. They were celebrating, and the sizzling of hot cakes could be heard all over the place. People had cast iron out over the fires, flipping the fluffy, sugary confections.

"Hot cake, Strong One?"

He tilted his head at the offer. There were plenty of other fires making hot cakes, and he had to admit he was curious to ask about how the technique and recipes varied between them all. But this one was already being held out to him; it seemed rude to ignore it. "Oh, uh, thanks."

The woman smiled, leaning on her knees and resting her chin in her palm. "You and your merry band should enjoy Maslenitsa. The nights will become shorter and the sun will be strong."

"That's good," Gil murmured, even looking up at the sky to admire the colour of it. Thena could do with a little more sun, after all. He chewed the hot cake. He thought it could do with a finer grind on the wheat they used, but it was tasty (hot butter and melted sugar would, of course, do that for anything). "This is good."

"It's a newer technique, the old ones don't always add the sugar," the woman smiled, flicking a long train of dark hair over her shoulder. "But I quite like to try new things."

Gil took another bite; the sugar did a lot to add to the light texture, he thought. Surely adding only butter would just be eating a flat biscuit, or soft hardtack.

"Where is the Warrior?"

Gil blinked, surprised she was asking. But he supposed he was rarely without Thena. Many of the people in this country had light yellow hair--more here than anywhere else they had stayed. But Thena's hair was the envy of many of them. It was great hair. "We all shift the responsibility of looking out for trouble. I'm sure she's around here somewhere."

"I see."

Gil licked his fingers finishing off the cake. "Thanks--it's-"

"Have another."

He was going to refuse politely. There were more he could try if he wanted to. But she was already extending another one. His insides squirmed. "Well, okay then."

"The attacks on our walls are lessening," the woman continued to make light conversation as he ate. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips pursed faintly. "Will you and your ilk disappear again?"

Gil thought about his words. They had been here long enough that most had accepted that they were part of the royal party, as it were. It was a sign they were assimilating effectively if people didn't think of them as temporary presences. The more they could muddy the waters around their connection to Deviant attacks the better.

Greece was all but convinced for three whole generations that Thena had fallen from the sky like an angel from the moment Athens was built. Most had forgotten that they had simply showed up one day.

"Your presence would be sorely missed."

Well, that was nice of her to say. Gil mulled on things with his mouth full of hot cake. What to say? They would, in fact, disappear sooner than later. "Uh, I guess we'll see what the Queen decides."

"Of course," the woman lowered her eyes. Sankta Olga's rule was beyond question, after all. She peeked at him coquettishly. "Would you like to know how to make the bliny?"

Apparently that was the hot cake sizzling in butter. He was curious. "Hm, I-"

"There you are."

Gil's face broke into a grin, "there you are--been looking for you."

"Is that so," Thena purred in a funny tone. She let him pull her closer to him, but her eyes were on the stranger. That was common for the Warrior Eternal though.

"Warrior," the woman curtsied to her.

"Have you had these?" Gil asked, gesturing with the half-finished hot cake in his hand. In truth, he had eaten this one slowly, wondering if he might find her and let her have the rest of it. "They're pretty good."

Thena observed the cake briefly before eyeing the woman again. "Tempting, are they?"

The woman shrank back some, letting more than just the fire separate them. Gil wasn't sure what had spooked her, but he held up the cake for Thena to try. "I think you'll like them. Try it."

Thena dragged her eyes away from the woman. She looked at the cake, but ultimately moved his hand out of her way, albeit gently. Her hand remained clasped around his larger one as she smiled, "I shall."

His eyes slid closed as she raised her lips to his. It was a simple peck at first, but she lingered, waiting for further access. Her tongue slithered past his, tracing around his mouth for the hot butter and syrup lingering there. His other arm came up to wrap around her waist completely.

"Hm," Thena moaned pleasantly. She leaned back, licking those perfect lips of hers. Her eyes had a mischievous sparkle in them, "delicious."

Gil blushed, although the woman had needed to look away from such a display.

"I quite like it," Thena added, continuing on as if the kiss had not occurred. She looked at the woman who was now too embarrassed to look at either of them. "I would like one as well."

"O-Of course, Warrior," the woman stuttered, her earlier smoothness and charisma leaving her. She handed over a fresh one from off the iron.

Gil swept it up into his free hand. Thena looked at him, pouting cutely. But he grinned, "it's hot. I'll hold it for you."

Thena rolled her eyes at his chivalry; it was not as though she were human, she could hold something as hot as that. It was no raw, molten iron straight from the fire, like he could. But she allowed it, bending her head to take a delicate bite of her fresh bliny.

He took a bite of his remaining one to finish it off. He raised his brows at her, curious if she wanted the last of this one straight from his mouth, but she shook her head, taking his arm and leading him away from the mortified human.

"You must get better at perceiving when women are hinting at you."

"Hinting what?" he asked. He thought he was pretty good at reading people, actually. He could read a room, he was quite sure. Maybe sometimes a few things might go over his head, but that was what he had her for--to watch his blind spots.

Thena just smiled, dusting some crumbs out of the fur on his shoulders. Soon, they wouldn't need to be draped in furs all the time. "Had I not arrived when I did, I do believe she would have asked you to sample more--the way I did with you?"

He furrowed his brows; that seemed impractical. But oh!--she meant the woman was trying to flirt her way into his arms! She was right, he was terrible at picking up those kinds of signals. He pouted right back at her, "you know I don't pay attention to how mortal women communicate that...stuff."

Thena must have been feeling the good weather. Rather than glare at him, her energy crackling and sparking in her palms, she let her amusement show. She ran her hand down his chest again, tilting her head to peck right at the corner of his lips. She pulled back, licking her lips again; he must have had crumbs there. "Indeed."

He chuckled; if she was happy, then he was too. He nuzzled the tips of their noses together, "sorry, Solnyshkuh."

She sighed cutely, feigning some maidenly distress. "I suppose it is not your fault you are so desired."

"Hey, speak for yourself," he grinned, continuing to lead her through the festivities with their arms wound together. "I witnessed several proposal attempts at that last ball we went to."

She laughed. "Those entertain you as much as they do, me."

That was true; they always had a good chuckle about it later. "And will you laugh about this with me later?"

Thena eyed his lips for a moment. "Later."

Fine with him, she could stake her territory all she liked with him. He would resign himself to it happily.

"I would like to know how they make them," he murmured, looking around at the various other offerings of bliny and flatbreads and cheese.

"I'm certain you need only ask," Thena also looked around them. Several women waved at them; she scowled again. "Perhaps the royal cook--the old one with the moustache."

He chuckled again. He tilted her chin back to him, using her good mood to sneak yet another kiss. "Whose am I?"

She lit, like the sun itself. "Mine."

"Whose?" he repeated, kissing her cheek as reverently as a goddess deserved.

"Gil," she laughed, chiding him lightly, although it came out airy as he tickling below her jaw with his teeth. "Mine."

"All yours," he swore, even canoodling in the middle of an open market. "Besides-"

Thena drew her brows together at his significant pause. Although they shot up as he snuck his hands under her heavy cloak to give the behind of her dress a pat.

"Your hotcakes are still the best."

"Gilgamesh!"

[degloved]

i'm an absolute FIEND for outsider pov. would love to see a bit of that with chainshipping, or really any ship of your choosing. coffinshipping even! -T

this has been sat in my inbox for about two days now, and i'm almost glad for the fact i sort of put it off, as a friend and i had the most illuminating conversation about (among other things) perez's perception of hoffstrahm at work. with that fresh on my mind, things sort of fell into place really easily. also......... um i did make this hoffstrahm i hope that's okay ! i'm just honestly. really no good with chainshipping </3

‼️SAW REQS STILL OPEN‼️

Special Agent Lindsey Perez wasn't prone to entering such thorough states of confusion that doing much else beside standing rooted to the spot and staring blearily seemed an insurmountable venture—and yet.

She knew Special Agent Strahm—she knew Pete—better than she knew her own mother. Even somebody as difficult to get a read on as him couldn't remain an enigma forevermore, namely not to his mentee-turned-best fucking friend. Their understanding was utter and implicit. They were a unit not liable to persevere through separation.

She'd come down with something last week, taken the days off at Erickson's urging. Hadn't anticipated much of anything different in returning to the office. Way things have been going for them lately, honestly, she'd half expected to find everyone exactly as she'd left them—poring over the exact same files, chewing on the exact same half-baked theories that would never hold water, beating the exact same dead horses.

Strahm had been, at least, happy to see her. This she'd inferred by the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his lips, a subtle fondness in the crinkle of his eyes as he thrust a cup of coffee in her direction.

And, Perez couldn't tell you exactly when she'd first noticed something wasn't right—but about halfway into the workday, the realization had struck and was yet to let up, a couple of hours later.

Outwardly, nothing seemed to be amiss. Strahm was Strahm and thus unpleasant and snappy. Hoffman was Hoffman, and thus unpleasant and smug. Perez watched them (covertly, she'd like to think) do the usual song and dance—the posturing, the barb-trading, the sneering as though they might pounce at each other at any moment. (All because of some incorrectly filed evidence; but, she supposed, they'd argued more viciously for much less.)

She didn't think anyone else might think much of the picture they painted, it appearing no different from their normal. To her trained eye, however, it was anything but; the relaxed slouch to Strahm's shoulders, the glaring lack of a frown, the occasional grin he'd let play about his lips for half a second, all his usual insults lacking all the usual bite… and most damning of all, perhaps, the way he'd been braced against Hoffman's desk, gently swaying in an uncanny mimicry of a puppy with its sights set on a toy. (Was that a bit of a mean comparison?)

But, you know what, benefit of the doubt. Perhaps that was a one-off, something's-for-sure-contaminating-the-water-supply kind of occasion. Didn't have to mean a thing. Perez could let it go, honest.

She was about to let it go, mulling over the scene playing on repeat in her head while packing up to go home. Or, well, to the hotel, as it were. She slung her bag over her shoulder, wrapped a thick scarf around her neck, all the while strutting towards the exit. The door of Hoffman's office was cracked open.

It was difficult not to look.

The scene within brought on that state of utter confusion, a certain speechlessness. She slowed to a stop, peering through the gap in the doorway. To tell the truth, it would've been perfectly normal had it been anybody but Hoffman and Strahm As it was, Perez took in the sight—the two of them wearing creepily similar expressions of unwavering focus, eyes narrowed and locked on the screen of Hoffman's computer. Strahm hovered above the sitting detective, one hand resting atop the man's shoulder.

The hand, perhaps, was the biggest culprit. A tell, a giveaway. Perez couldn't tear her eyes away, and in that blatant staring, she didn't miss the subtle movement of Strahm's fingers, the way they dug into the fabric, the swipe of his thumb uncannily alike a stroke, a caress. Hoffman shifted, as though in response, causing the hand to slip nearly down to his neck. Strahm's fingers tapped a rhythm against bare skin.

She'd stood there a second too long. The next thing she knew, Strahm was looking up—and in doing that, his eyes landed squarely on her. Their faces flushed in tandem for different reasons entirely, though before the moment could stretch any further, Perez bolted for the exit.

Well, in any case, tomorrow seemed to brim with the promises of awkward conversations to be had over lunch break.

[melmedarda]

tell us more ur thoughts on marcus arcane? i can send more specific qs if that helps

thank you :)

hello anon! feel free to send any questions, because at this point, marcus arcane is my chew toy, and i mull over him likely the most after mel. i simply cannot be normal about him.

so i just reblogged the character motivation sheet for jayce, and i really believe that marcus is parallel to jayce. how so, gentle, you may wonder. i'm so glad you asked. what marcus wants most seems to be the ability to keep piltover safe, and to fill the shoes that grayson left behind. we see this in act one, where he follows her religiously, acts in ways for HER best interest because that is how much he loves and respects grayson. AND LET ME PAUSE HERE BECAUSE!!!! WHEN EVERYTHING GOES DOWN AND GRAYSON DIES IN FRONT OF HIM AND SILCO THROWS HIM THE MONEY... and he says this wasn't the deal. JUDAS ISCARIOT!!! iykyk (and if you don't know i will soon be making a set so you see. so you understand). also... the fact that he kept the coin that was encrusted with grayson's blood. as a reminder. marcus,,,,,, baby boy... anyways. let me continue.

I think it's also important to realize that this is likely when he becomes sheriff, seeing as he was grayson's protege. AND THIS IS ANOTHER THING. he and caitlyn were both proteges of grayson. and i believe part of him hates caitlyn, because he realized, in the end that he was a fool, just as grayson had said. that caitlyn was somehow bringing more change/peace than he could. and here's where i strongly believe that if grayson had been around longer, died later, marcus would have been completely passed over as sheriff and the job would have gone to caitlyn, if it had been up to grayson.

ANYWAYS. so then, timeline's a little fuzzy, but i think the year grayson died was the year marcus became a father. after the time skip, i estimate ren to be about 6-7 years old, which means that marcus' main motivation had switched from continuing grayson's legacy to keeping his daughter safe. again, how can we tell? during the funeral for the enforcers, where he's talking of the enforcers protecting mothers, fathers, sons. the camera zooms in to focus on marcus as he mentions daughters.

AND THEN. when he meets with silco, sees the bomb and envisions himself pulling the trigger, and killing both himself and silco. yeah, that scene lives in my head rent free. marcus has always been ready to be the marytr, and i believe, already he considers himself one. the only reason he does not, i think, because then his daughter, ren, would have no one else. i think silco sees he is losing marcus that day, and that is why he turns up to marcus' house, ren's room. and marcus' face when he sees her with him.... people died. (it's me, i am people). it breaks him because the only reason he has remained under silco's thumb, is his desire to protect this daughter, despite the fact that doing so corrupted him.

and then when he holds the gun at caitlyn, he cannot bring himself to pull the trigger. why? WHY can't he pull the trigger? perhaps because of grayson's memory? or perhaps does he think of his daughter in that moment. does he remember that she is someone's daughter too. like, marcus isn't a killer. it's not what he does. he had the opportunity to kill vi, but didn't. he could have killed cait, but again, he didn't. in any case, she does not end up dying, and it is marcus who dies instead.

WHAT ARE HIS LAST WORDS?????????? "Tell my daughter..." I love her. we never get to hear him say it, but we know. we know because after all, everything marcus has done is protect his daughter. to give her safety, and a home. she was his reason for living, and she becomes his undoing, too. he's just a man who was doomed by the narrative before he'd even begun. and in the end, he failed to protect his daughter. i really hope that next season, we get to see marcus' daughter, that caitlyn tells ren that her father loved her.

anyways. if you read this far, kudos to you. if you have any further questions about him feel free to drop them on me.

[anxious-witch]

Also ANOTHER prompt because I'm unwell

Jance fic inspired by "What happens after we die?" dialogue in Midnight Mass

Robin you are killing me, oh my god. That's beautiful ajd heartwrenching. I love it.

Okay so I know this is tehnically not your first but the second prompt but I was having a lot of feelings about jance today so. Here it is. Very loosly inspired but I still hope you like it.

CW for mentions of death and religious musing in general

Jan really wasn't planning on ending up in Nace's apartment today. When he tugged him into the alley for a kiss, he wasn't planning on it turning into a makeout.

He definitely wasn't planning on a heavy rain, either. It just happened.

Nace's apartment was close and since neither of thek had an umbrella...well. Jan wasn't particularly keen on getting soaked to the bone.

So that's how he ended up on Nace's couch, sipping tea. Nace made him strip out of his wet shirt and threw firstly a towel and then a blanket at him. Usually, Jan would snap that he didn't need babying, but things between them felt more fragile lately.

What was meant to be a simply friends eith benefits-if they could have even been called friends at that point-was quickly turning into something else. And Jan didn't know how to behave towards him.

They didn't talk about it. Neither wanted to break the precarious balance their whole...thing was leaning on.

Jan stared out of the window, at the pouring rain. It didn't seem like it would stop anytime soon.

Nace sat on the opposite end of the couch. He sipped his own tea, but his eyes were fixated on Jan.

"Can I ask you something?"

His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. Jan didn't like the sound of that.

"Sure. What's up?"

"What do you think happens after we die?"

Jan stared at him. Was this some sort of joke? He out the cup down on the coffee table a bit too hard.

"I didn't mean-I know you don't believe in God or anything like that. I'm just...curious, I suppose. What do you think happens?"

He mulled it over for a moment. Nace looked genuine in his question, and he never tried to impose his views on Jan before.

He supposed that if there was ever a way to test if he ever would, now would be a perfect opportunity. So Jan answered honestly.

"I can't say I know what happens. I don't think anyone knows. I'd even say you are bullshitting if you say you know what happens for sure."

He gave Nace a pointed stare, waiting for him to disagree. When he stayed silent, he continued.

"What we know from science is that medical death happens first. The heart stops, you stop breathing, all that. And few minutes later, your brain dies too. But before it does, it releases a bunch of chemicals used for dreaming. So we dream the way we never had before."

Nace watched him intently and Jan, who usually always held his gaze, looked away. Beliefs weren't something he liked to talk about. In his mind, he had this one life to do what he wanted and be the best version of himself he could. That was it. No one held you accountable after.

"But what happens after?"

He shrugged.

"I suppose that depends what you believe in."

Jan looked over to him. Nace's brows furrowed.

"But what di you believe in? What happens when you die?"

Jan sighed, drumming his fingers against the couch.

"I think perhaps I stay at those five minutes forever. Living my life through memories and hopes and dreams. Sleeping. My body simply goes on decaying. Becoming...part of something bigger. Part of the earth. Just like it was before."

Nace's gaze turned soft, and his mouth fell open a bit, in what Jan could only describe as wonder. He looked like he was about to say something wonderful that would shatter their little balance.

So, Jan did one thing he could think of to cut him off.

"What do you think happens?"

And-shit. He wasn't planning on asking that. He could see shock flicker over Nace's face, too. They both knew Jan didn't give too fucks about God or Heaven and Hell.

He almost takes it back. But the way Nace thoughtfully chewed on his bottom lip, trying to form his thoughts in words changed his mind.

"Speaking for when I die...I think there is a light. You float up and you are surrounded by love, even before you see anything else. Just, that feeling you used to have as a kid, y'know? Of simply feeling loved."

Jan swallowed. He supposed that didn't sound too bad. He nodded.

Nace trailed his eyes to the window. There was a faint sound of the rain in the background. Other that that, silence.

"Then you look at you see everyone you ever lost. Everyone you ever loved. They are there and they are whole and healthy and just...they love you. There is a sense of belonging. True belonging. That's what I think true Heaven is."

He bit his lip as he met Jan's gaze.

"I know you don't...see it that way, but I find it easier to believe than in just...nothing. In dreams."

Jan wasn't sure what made him reach out and touch Nace's face. There was no real reason. He just wanted to comfort him.

"I just thought it'd be peaceful. Dreaming. And then nothingness. Relief. Being useful for other things that don't come with the burder of consciousness."

Nace turned his head and kissed Jan's palm. Jan's heart skipped a beat. No matter how suspecious he was and how much he tried to push his feelings away, Mace kept surprising him.

"I suppose not all dreams are bad," Nace whispered.

Jan kissed him, just so he wouldn't say anything else. Nace melted under his touch and pulled him closer. He was so trusting. He gave in so easily.

He pushed and Nace let him lay him down on his back. Even when Jan pulled away and sat back on his thighs, he didn't even try to get up. He simply lazily reached for him.

"Do you think there is Heaven for people like us?"

The question caught him by surprise. He tensed, waiting for a cliché, "God forgives everything", answer. But Nace didn't answer immediately. He took Jan's hand in his and played with his fingers for a moment.

"I don't know. I hope so. I don't see how feeling like thos could be wrong. But if there isn't, well. I hope I dream of that there is one."

I hope I dream of you, the thought came to Jan, passing through his mind before he could stop it. He leaned in, almost close enough for a kiss, so his lips brushed against Nace's when he spoke.

"In this specific case, I suppose I can agree."

Then he kissed him again and for a moment, he was sure there was a Heaven. Right in that moment in time, cocooned in Nace's living room. If he could take that one memory for whatever happened after, well. He'd be okay.

After that, he thought of nothing at all.

[nihilnovisubsole]

oh, right, shadowbringers! i'm overdue for another ffxiv bullet point vibe check. i actually finished it a couple of weeks ago, and then my sink exploded [long story] and i wanted to chew on it for a while. it's clear that this expac is an overwhelming fan favorite, so i figured i should formulate some more intelligent thoughts about it.

part of me worries that my shadowbringers experience was colored by how badly i missed the people and places on the source. more than the aether and gods and soul transference and all that stuff, what i really took away was a sense of loneliness. the first isn't my world. its citizens are strangers to me, though i recognize on a philosophical level that i should help them. even the scions - in theory, my closest comrades - have lived for years in the blink of my eye and become very different people. when did thancred become responsible? when did the twins grow up? i wondered what other NPCs were doing without me. all i wanted was to go home.

on the other hand, i read a theory that this is the point. the story wants you to feel cut loose from everything you know. are you still a hero in an emotional vacuum? will you still put yourself on the line to do the right thing? sure, your world will be doomed if theirs falls, but that possibility seems so huge and far-off that it doesn't register in your gut. i don't think that's the writing failing to connect with me or anything. if that's the intent, it's an interesting feeling for a game to evoke.

i may have also exacerbated that feeling by keeping my actual avatar isolated on norvrandt for so long. i mentioned earlier that i play around the game's day-night cycle, running missions based on when they'll feel most immersive. that extends to maps, too: if the story says i'm stuck in a place, i stay around that place until the story carries me elsewhere. i mean, i'll dip out for wondrous tails and daily cactpot and stuff, but i don't take big story vacations to jet around eorzea. i didn't "come back" from the far east in stormblood until doma was free. that's a lot of MSQ to just spend alone with your thoughts.

there's a storytelling paradox at work: the first's problems are so large and so bad that it's smaller and more personal when you become invested in someone's plight. i expected to care a lot about liberating ala mhigo because i'm so fond of raubahn as a character, and i did. i didn't expect to feel the pity that i felt for, say, kai-shirr, or runar's unrequited crush on y'shtola. it comes on slowly and quietly.

i don't know. it's a curious story. it's a melancholy story. it's a lot more experimental than the expacs that came before it. it'd probably be worth it to new-game-plus it at some point to pay closer attention to the individual character arcs.

same goes for emet-selch. he's a curious villain. i don't sympathize with his methods, and i obviously have no romantic interest in him. but i keep mulling him over. he keeps lurking in the back of my mind, which means that his writing succeeds by virtue of being memorable.

to my mind, everything around amaurot contributes to that success. amaurot is where it all starts to come together for me. it's a beautiful, odd place - art deco in final fantasy? who knew? - and the pinnacle of the arc's surreal "this is a dream, but tangible" tone. you can tell the team wanted to go all out with the ascian reveals they'd been building up to for years. i wonder if they had fun designing it.

even if it is. i. hm. no i shan't say it

all right, i'll say it

I AM EMET-SELCH AND I AM HERE TO ASK YOU A QUESTION

there, it's out of my system. on a less ridiculous note, i finally got royce's canon armor! now i can gpose freely. i wish there were an in-engine way to pose with NPCs, but them's the breaks. who knows? maybe we'll get it eventually. it is a live service game.

[wisteriasymphony]

I Can't Be Your Boyfriend And Your Therapist.. But I'm Sure as Hell Going to Try!

(The Adrinette Yes/No Hands Thing but with Claudrien and I make it better and perhaps even cute)

Adrien tugged on the collar of his sage green sweater-vest as he mulled over how to properly introduce the exercise. His girlfriend, in all fairness, had commented once before on how his usual sense of style made him look like a psychologist, and whether she knew it or not he was probably going to live up to that notion quite soon.

"So, I know we had a fight very recently," is how he started it off. Probably not a particularly brilliant choice, but it set the foundation as he needed it to.

"Yes." Claudia knit her eyebrows together as if she was wondering just how stupid Adrien was. "We did."

"And-! Because that fight was, erm..." He gestured with his hands for a moment as if trying to pull in the latter half of his sentence with a length of twine. "...Borne of- er, brought about- by a miscommunication in our respective wants, I thought we should find a way to alternatively communicate that bypasses your usual hangups of not wanting to tell me things!"

As always, as Adrien got more anxious, the more he peppered in hyper-specific and fancy words into his speech. It clearly didn't help his case for clear communication much, now did it? Claudia had to take a moment to parse what he meant, but she was usually better at the 'listening' shtick than she was at the 'speaking'. That was in part what brought them together so quickly, he supposed. His desire to be heard and her tendency to listen.

"Okay," she finally agreed, a touch of reluctance in her voice. "And what is this 'alternative communication'?"

"Well," he said, chewing on his lip, "I'm going to ask you a few questions, and I want you to raise your left hand if your answer is 'yes' and your right hand if your answer is 'no'. Like this." And Adrien raised his left and his right hands one after the other.

Claudia, sitting directly in front of him, mirrored his movements exactly.

"Uhm-- Your left hand."

She raised her right. "I mean, from your perspective, this is my left, so I was going off that," she said. "This is left to you, right?"

"Right— Er, wrong- I mean—" Adrien paused for a moment just to tussle with his own perception of which hand was which, making an "L" with his left hand for good measure to confirm it was what it said it was. "My left and right doesn't matter, it's yours that does."

"But then you might think I'm saying the opposite of what I am if you mix them up."

"I'm not going to do that!"

"Adrien, I fucking saw you mix them up a few seconds ago," Claudia sighed. "Let's just go with your left and right, and I'll do the math in my head to reverse it."

Adrien felt it necessary to capitulate—Jung, Maslow or Spielrein he clearly was not. Not just because those were all psychologists and what he was doing here was closer to leading his girlfriend through a therapy session (...Better than leading a patient into his bed, he supposed).

"Alright." Adrien took a deep breath, before taking out a piece of paper with all of his questions for her written on it. "Question One: Do you feel trapped in this relationship?"

Claudia paused. Raised one hand halfway, then raised the other. Then both were raised at about shoulder height, and then she dropped them both entirely.

"See? This is another issue with this whole yes-no thing. It's more than that."

"Well then tell me. Why is it 'more than that'?"

Claudia seemed to hold her breath, letting her words dissolve in her mouth like a bitter pill rather than saying them out loud.

"No, I'll play your little game," she muttered, raising both hands and averting her eyes from his. "Ask me if I feel like you are trapping me in this relationship."

He didn't have that as a question, actually. He thought that was what 'Question One' meant.

"Okay.. Do you feel like I'm trapping you in this relationship?"

Again, both hands were raised, but it was at a skew: If the height was a factor, it seemed like her answer was 75% "No" and 25% "Yes". Still, her eyes were turned away.

"Do you feel like I'm intentionally trapping you?"

100% "No". Adrien thought about it for a moment, and what he got was probably a clearer picture than if he'd just stuck to the original first question outright. She did feel trapped or obligated in some way, but it was slight and she didn't think he was doing it on purpose. She probably didn't even see his proposal as anything malicious moreso than as something impulsive. Claudia probably understood—and he did too, to be fair—that when he had proposed to her, Adrien had been blinded by his own hopes for the future that he sort of disregarded what would have to happen to get there. What Claudia would have to potentially change about herself to make that work.

"Do you feel like you're trapping yourself in this relationship?"

100% "Yes". ...That was interesting.

"How?" Adrien set the paper down on the floor entirely. "Is there something else to it, or—"

Claudia had closed her eyes entirely. "That's not a 'yes' or 'no' question," was all she said.

"...Do you think you're trapping me?"

200% "Yes". She even used her other arm to support it, stretch it up further. Adrien just nodded, and continued to think of similar sentiments or questions to try and get to the bottom of it that way.

"You think you're trapping both of us in this."

Still a "Yes".

"...And you think you're doing it.. more intentionally than I am?"

Even more of a "Yes".

"Are you worried that I'm unhappy in this and I don't know it?"

"I can't raise my hand any higher than this," she joked. "Hell, Do you want me to stand up? Jump?"

"No, we can stay seated," he said. "...Here, my turn. Ask me if I'm worried that I'm unhappy in this."

Claudia finally opened her eyes, and Adrien noticed they were initially shut to hide how watery they were. She looked to his crossed legs, then to his shoulders, and then right as the top of his head—the closest she could probably manage to eye contact at that point.

"Are you?"

He raised his left—her right.

"No," he said, keeping his hand raised. "Not at all. I feel like if I was unhappy and didn't know it, it would at least be something eating away at me or whispering in the back of my mind, but it's not. You know what I'm talking about, right?"

Claudia nodded.

"And- If we really need to look at it in this way— I enjoy myself more when I'm with you. Quite literally—I think I'm a better person because of you. It's been really nice to have someone to open up to like this," he confessed. "—And I know I'm hiding things, just like you are, but I hope we can work through that together. I really do have just as many issues as you do, Claudia. You're not any more of a burden to me than I am to you."

"It's not really a 'burden'," Claudia sighed. "I feel like I'm trapping myself in this because I want to take care of you so badly. It's kind of ruining my life, and it'd be better to let it go... but I still want to because I love you."

"Exactly," Adrien said. "So why can't the same be true for me?"