#long fingers kind of rounded at the end bitten nails

[f1crecs]

Fic Rec List - Sex Worker AUs

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Lando/Oscar

nsfw: dancing on quicksand by @tearstrung | E | 3.3k Lando is outrageous, and Oscar struggles to understand what's a joke and what isn't - until he sees a link on Twitter. This fic is red hot, very funny, and perfectly characterised! Oscar's special brand of bamboozlement is especially wonderful here, as he comes to terms with Lando's job on the side. The ending is like a beautiful punch to the gut. Love it!

'Though, the guy’s skin is similar in color to Lando’s—olivey, the natural tan Lando wears year-round, even if he’s barely been in the sun with his shirt off. The same big hands, which don’t really match up with his small stature, rippled with lithe muscle; followed by a wide ribcage that slips down into a tiny, tapered waist. Nipples, shades darker and always hard from what Oscar can see from a long scroll. At the tips of the guy’s fingers, Oscar notices leftover chew marks, the skin pulled back, nails bitten short into nubs.'

Carlos/Lando

nsfw: when the time comes by @venerat | E | 7.6k Lando asks his friend Carlos, an escort, to arrange an appointment with another male escort for him. Lando has never been with a man and wants to have the experience. When Pierre falls ill and has to cancel, Carlos decides to go in his stead. Only one problem, though - Carlos is in love with Lando. Will he be able to keep his emotions in check? This situation could have been awkward but Lando is nothing but sweet and kind with Carlos. The encounter results in a lot of revelations for them both, and although they seem to start the next phase of their relationship a bit backwards, they clearly have a future together.

Time doesn’t seem to be very real. Carlos thinks. He thought it would be different than this, that’s all. Different from the way it’s—happening. Because the way it’s happening feels like sex. Real sex. It doesn’t feel like work. It doesn’t feel like a transaction. It feels like—trite; cliche, of course, but—it feels like passion.

Charles/Pierre

nsfw: pièce de résistance by @capsize (copenhagenborn) | E | 14.5k Pierre, a sex worker, is approached one night by the assistant of someone calling himself Marc. Marc, it turns out, is really Prince Charles of Monaco and is looking for an arrangement. This is quite low-angst for a royalty AU (don't get me wrong, I love my angst) but this fic just has them slot together so easily. Pierre is rather happy as a sex worker, which is actually a nice change when it comes to sex work fic. The relationship side of things is slow burn and even the inevitable miscommunication part of the story is done so well I enjoyed it.

'Pierre does spend the night. He sends Charles a picture of his gateau marcel and soaks in the tub as he finishes the bottle of wine they were supposed to share. The house is predictably a mess when he gets home: George is crying on the couch with his eyes glued to the television, a small Union Jack pulled from somewhere and now proudly displayed in front of him. Alex is sitting by his feet, badly hiding his laughter as he scrolls through what Pierre can only imagine being memes. Lando is passed out in the corner, a bottle of vodka close to his hand, while Oscar stares at him with an oddly closed-off look in his eyes. Pierre isn’t quite up to date on the current geopolitical relationship between Australia and the rest of the commonwealth. Pierre sits down next to Max at the dining table, sips his water and goes, “What does it mean if someone has to be summoned after the death of dear old Lizzy?”'

nsfw: cause baby, I'd be satisfied forever by @wolfiemcwolferson | E | 88.5k Pierre, retired from racing after a career-ending injury, is closer to 40 than 30 now and has reinvented himself as a designer. He's also venturing out of the closet. He is put in touch with Charles, who gets by as a sugar baby, and decides this is a perfect way to get some experience dating another man. Pierre finds himself developing feelings for Charles. I'm at a point now with @wolfiemcwolferson fic where I just gesture wildly at whatever they've written and make vague noises but in the interests of trying to sound like the sane person I pretend to be, this fic is a perfect distillation of the Pierre/Charles relationship. What if they didn't meet until later in life? What if Charles never went beyond karting? What if the age gap was larger? All of these, and yet, it's still them. There is a "soulmates in ever universe" theme in the Piarles fandom and this story absolutely embodies it.

'He’s beautiful and he smells like cologne and something fresh and he’s still not let go of Pierre’s hand - the cool leather underneath Pierre’s hand seems so…foreign. So flipped. Pierre considers all the time he touched other people’s hands while wearing leather gloves. “I hope I am not late,” Charles smiles at him still. “I missed my train and I -” “Charles,” Pierre says, realizing that Charles seems a bit nervous - a bit ruffled. “I only just arrived. “Come and let’s go inside. We can get warm.” His smile makes his perfect face less so - a mere mortal instead of the god he is and Pierre gets it immediately.'

Charles/Sebastian

nsfw: Be Snoozing That Lust In The Morning by @sebchalex & @meova101 | E | 14.5k When Formula 1 decides to clean up their sponsors, teams are left scrambling to find money. Ferrari finds an unconventional way to get more budget – Charles starts an OnlyFans. The initial premise of Charles having to get an OnlyFans to help Ferrari is just unhinged enough that it could be real – but this fic has a lot more to offer than just comedy. The way it follows Charles personal growth from not believing he could actually make money of OF, being embarrassed when Seb subscribes, to them working together to produce record breaking content and falling for eachother in between – its like a modern day fairytale, if Cinderella had to sell nudes to help the evil stepmom with money.

"This was the only way," Charles says. "I know this could tarnish the Ferrari legacy and everything, but I want to help my team. I will do anything to make them stay on top." Once he finishes his sentence, he looks straight at Sebastian. It's already disgraceful enough that he had to do this in the first place, but this type of rejection coming from Sebastian is making him feel worse. Finally, Sebastian raises his hands in a yielding gesture. "Fine," he says, sending a breath of relief through Charles. "I still have a problem with it." "Seb, I know. I wish there was another way as well, but—" "It's not about that," Sebastian says, looking even more pissed. "Have you realised that your pictures are terrible?" Well. Charles certainly hadn’t expected that. "What?" "Charles, if you are charging that much in the first place, then you should at least put in a little bit more effort," Sebastian explains, extending his hands out. "Your lighting was horrible, and it was blurry. Why did no one offer help?"

nsfw: With you I'm in real danger by @jean----ralphio | E | 55.5k Charles, a well-known porn actor, shelters from a mob of fans by hiding in a rare books shop. The bookseller recognises him but is too considerate to say anything about it. Charles notices and they strike up a friendship, and more. Charles and Seb are from such very different worlds. Charles is accustomed to sometimes being judged for his line of work but Seb treats him with utmost respect at all times, which should be a low bar but isn't. Things get a bit rocky for them in true romance story fashion, but all is well by the end.

Sebastian feels himself go bright red, as Charles’ mischievous smile turns gleeful. “I can tell the instant I meet someone whether they know who I am or not,” he explains. “So I knew right away that you know of me.” “Ah. Sorry.” Sebastian feels foolish, guilt settling over him for not having been honest about it from the beginning.

Pierre/Yuki

nsfw: your mouth makes me reconsider where my heart lies by @yukierres | E | 10.4k Pierre, still an F1 driver, discovers a streamer who plays video games while using sex toys and is immediately fascinated (and hugely turned on). He lavishes gifts and money on the man on his screen, and finds himself falling in love with someone he hasn't even met. The guys are so well characterised. Yuki is unashamed, he loves what he does, is brilliant at it and gets well paid for it too. You can see why Pierre couldn't resist. Pierre is confused and ashamed as hell to begin with (that darned Catholic guilt again) but can't stay away. The author grows the relationship to a point where it seems inevitable that Yuki will one day feel comfortable enough meeting Pierre in real life.

"That was -" Pierre says around breaths, a laugh in his voice, disbelief in what has just happened. Yuki himself has flopped back on the bed, laptop now beside him as he lies against the pillows. His eyes are wet and pink looking, a content sheen in them. "That was something else." A pleased cat-like expression forms on his mouth. "You enjoyed that Pierre?" He says with a blissed-out face, attempting to bat his eyes temptingly at the camera before yawning tiredly, the whole face scrunching up. It is more cute than seductive in the end, but it doesn’t matter because Pierre is head over heels either way.

Daniel/Max

nsfw: chemical highs and clear blue skies by @yekoc | E | 43.5k Daniel is a porn actor, which is where he meets newbie Max. Max, along with his cats, crash on Daniel’s couch whilst they continue to shoot various scenes together. They get to know each other and get to miscommunicate on the way to comfort. The pacing of the plot was really pleasant to read, as was the dialogue. Max is flippant but also careful and cautious at the same time. Daniel is self assured and kind and perhaps a little too trusting. Both of them keep their cards close and all of it makes for a very gratifying read.

'Max laughs, just a little bit, something that in someone else you might call a giggle. Daniel hasn’t seen him laugh before. He’s seen him come—in person, and then over and over again on video that one night, which he should probably forget about really quickly. Max laughing is oddly similar; it breaks something hard about him all to pieces.'

nsfw: Fly Fast (With Broken Wings) by @mysticalbreadcollective | E | 44.2k (ongoing) Max is an escort who turned to sex work due to lack of options. Daniel is an F1 driver, and Max's first ever customer. Daniel quickly becomes obsessed with Max - but the Max that Daniel first knows is a construct - the real Max guards his feelings out of necessity and can't afford to go all in with Daniel. Daniel doesn't understand the precariousness of Max's situation, or why Max would choose to keep working and earning his own money - keeping his independence - rather than agree to become Daniel's kept man. This fic digs deeply into the power imbalance and dubious consent issues of sex work, the necessary artifice of it and the need for emotional armour and distance on the part of the worker. Daniel, sadly, proves Max right with some of his behaviour - he can be selfish and spoiled, and sometimes outright cruel. There is love on both sides, but this relationship is a minefield they each misstep in more than once.

'“You think you are saving me, but it will be someone else. And maybe they will not be so nice.” Emilian says, and oh fuck, his voice is cracking a little at the end and Daniel can’t stand it. Because Daniel knows. He knows the types of clients, can imagine them, the ones that would pay extortionate amounts of money for Emilian. He feels sick hearing Emilian’s voice shake a little, wonders how nervous Emilian has been for this. What he was expecting, who he was expecting. When the agency told him that he was meeting someone who’d pay extra for him. If Emilian had built it all up in his head what he’d be asked to do. And then to say he’d been hopeful that it had been Daniel. Shit.'

Daniel/Lando

nsfw: asunder, asunder by @ladyeggplant | E | 53.3k Lando is very socially awkward, highly intelligent and cashed up. He decides the best way to lose his virginity is to hire an escort. The progression of the relationship here from transactional to something more is not smooth. Lando really doesn’t have much of an understanding about how a relationship should work and makes a few big missteps, especially later in the story as the emotional stakes get higher. Daniel is professional and gentle as he gradually figures out exactly what Lando needs. Lando is physically inexperienced and emotionally awkward and nothing about it is easy.

Silence settles over steeping tea and half-eaten fruit, and he wishes he’d left the music on, because at least it would make this awkwardness bearable. He’s had super wealthy clients before, but none of them this young, and none of them this achingly insecure where it was practically bleeding out of them. Everyone who has ever booked him as wanted him there, obviously—it feels like Lando would rather eat glass than sit in the same room as him. Daniel clears his throat. “So, first time, huh?” Lando chokes mid sip.

Carlos/Charles

In for a penny, in for a pound by @f1-stuff | M | 7k (ongoing) Charles, smarting after being unceremoniously dumped by his girlfriend, hires an escort to take as his plus one to Arthur's wedding. A dashingly handsome man turns up to the rendezvous, and they figure out Charles checked the wrong box when he was making the appointment. He's spent the money, Carlos is easy company, so he decides to roll with it. This fic is amusing and sweet. Carlos is wonderful at his job - perceptive and empathetic and kind, and is probably way ahead in understanding of Charles's sexuality than Charles is himself.

“Charles...listen,” he says, shifting slightly in his chair. He looks self-assured and confident with one leg crossed over the other, hands loosely clasped over his knee. Charles is annoyed and jealous of him all at once. “I probably shouldn’t say this, considering why you hired me. But you are trying to prove to your ex that you aren’t sad and lonely by hiring someone to pretend to be in love with you...” The man raises his brows at him. “You do see the irony, no?” Charles scoffs, shaking his head down at his lap. But he can’t deny that this guy sort of, possibly, has a point. Great, even the escort he’s paying to not make him feel so pitiful is calling him out.

Mark/Seb

nsfw: pleaser by @alltimecharlo | E | 34.6k Seb is a student struggling to make rent, and Mark is a very successful lawyer. They enter a mutually beneficial agreement. This story is fantastic - the author characterises them both beautifully, and they are the perfect balance of sweet and hot and funny. I particularly loved Sebastian's first trip to Mark's house... A gorgeous story, with lots to love.

Mark’s sitting right there. Like, directly in front of the changing room in one of the extremely comfy-looking armchairs, his eyes latching directly onto his form once it’s revealed and lingering there so heavily that Sebastian almost feels the need to hide his entirely clothed body. The older’s green eyes flick up and down his lithe frame so intensely that Seb can feel his stomach doing flips and a burning heat instilling under his skin. It only worsens when he watches Mark’s tongue dart outwards to wet at his lips.

In order to keep this list organised we have chosen to categorise it as 'Sex Worker AUs'– note that we understand that some tropes here are not always sexual in nature nor are they always categorised as sex work. We respect any and all sex workers and non sex workers alike!

[littlemarianah]

How do you think Katniss and Peeta look like? Like, details about their appearances that aren't mentioned.

I kind of love this question because I have a lot of thoughts about it.

Peeta has hair just long enough to fall over his forehead, but he always makes sure to keep it neatly trimmed around the ears. His sparse eyebrows, light, almost the color of his skin. Almond-shaped eyes, small for his round face. The color is light, sweet blue. Completely kind. Flat nose, cheeks that rise when he smiles. He has broad shoulders to carry the heavy sacks of flour; thick arms, to knead the bread dough; He takes after his father, body practically made for the bakery. Not exactly athletic, but very strong. Hands with short, thick fingers always seem too big to manipulate brushes with such precision or to make such perfect drawings. He is full of moles and freckles on his body, due to his fair skin.

Katniss has thick long straight hair. Always escaping the braid, she always ends keep putting her hair behind her ears, she hates anything in her eyes. That's why she never cuts her bangs. Her long hair ends up framing her face even longer than it already is. She has thick eyebrows and right in the middle of them, even though she's so young, an expression line. Big eyes, alert, dark greyish color, like the color of a very heavy rain cloud. Katniss's eyes are easy to read. From fury, to sadness and joy. Everything is written on her face. Thin nose and deep cupid's bow, with a thin mouth. She doesn't have a lot of cheeks, like her father. When she smiles there is just one dimple on the left side. His fingers are long and thin, nails are always bitten. Her knees and elbows are bony.

None of them are particularly attractive, or stand out for some reason. They are normal, people you would see in any crowd. I love them so much 💞🌟 Looking forward to writing the toast babies' appearances lol.

Bonus: Appearance of Gale Hawthorne.

He's handsome, that's the first thing you see. Hair so straight it's always pointy on top of his head. Thick eyebrows, almost meeting in the middle. Complementing his long, gray eyes, always suspicious. He has prominent cheekbones and a slightly crooked nose. His lips are thick and match his prominent chin. He has strong shoulders, even if thin arms and legs. His hands were covered in calluses and scars, as were his forearms. His smile is sweet, even though he almost never smiles, when he does he seems to be a boy again.

[honeymaki]

I think it’s so hot that when Hange gets some new, thick, heavy silver rings; they have to see how they make their fingers look by using you as a model. First with all their fingers closing teasingly on your throat, black stone glinting in the light; then two dragging from your mouth with spit shining on the intricate engravings on their forefinger; and then spending a little too much time grinning at how the big beaten one on their thumb looks hidden between the lips of your gooey cunt<3

[two-red-lungs]

Hands (Eddie x Reader Drabble NSFW)

He had… really nice hands. It was one of the first things you noticed about him. You couldn’t help it. You were a girl who knew what she liked, and you liked those.

They were long. Slender, pale, and strong. Broad-backed but not hairy, with rigid lines of uniform tendons making regular appearances from his wrist to his knuckles when he gesticulated.

Long fingers, too. Each knuckle defined by the pale length of smooth finger between it, ending in round tapered fingertips. His nails were boxy and short. Blunt. The skin around them usually in some state of bitten.

Sometimes he’d slam down at a table next to yours and launch into conversation at its occupants, and all you’d be able to focus on were those fucking veins, the soft powder-blue veins that stood out like velvet against alabaster. Veins that jumped when he flipped someone the bird.

And a guy like Munson was always using his hands. Infuriating, really. Gesturing with them, steepling them under his chin, running them back and forth energetically over the ripped jeans on his knees. Worst of all was when he ate: he’d fiddle with and break apart food with those phenomenal fingers, tapping his lips idly with his knuckles and popping bits of broken chips onto that soft, waiting tongue.

Rings glittered in the light. They clung to his knuckles like they belonged there. It was a new low, for you, to admit you were jealous of them.

Because late at night when the crickets were loud and you could fall asleep, you couldn’t help but imagine how good those strong fingers would feel inside you, teasing and exploring and constantly moving in that borderline ADHD-way of his. Just playing with your spongey walls, scraping and fidgeting and crooking until you were drooling fluids into the palm of his hand pressed against your entrance.

You KNEW he could fuck an orgasm out of you with two fingers, you sitting pretty in his lap. All it would take would be watching those lithe digits disappeared and reappearing out of your hungry, noisy pussy, slick and shiny.

“….llo? Hello? Uh, excuse me?” That fucking hand, the hot one with the rings and the veins, was waving in front of your face. You startled, and looking up.

Eddie Munson. Wild hair, permanent smug, anarchistic look on his face. “Hi. Yeah. Uh, kind of hard to get into my locker when you’re standing right in front of it.”

You flushed. Scooted to the side. “Sorry.”

And then those stupid sexy fingers were fiddling with the dial and you were scurrying away like he was venomous. Like if you walked fast enough, you could forget that every time you saw him you wanted to feel those fingertips trail up your thigh and sink into the heat that had been building there since you first laid eyes on him.

[hxlyhead-harpies]

Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You (R.L.)

Requested: Yes

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: The reader can’t stop staring at Remus and he doesn’t understand why

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Mentions of injury and bullying, cursing

Title from: Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You by Franki Valli

The library was full and bustling with students. You sat near the back, your assignments sprawled out in front of you. And while your quill floated above your parchment, dark ink sliding off of the tip, your eyes were trained on someone across the room, your essay forgotten.

Remus Lupin sat on the other side of the library, surrounded by books and his friends. You watched as his eyebrows drew down in concentration and how he flexed his hand as he thought. The habit was familiar to you as you watched Remus quite often. It wasn’t in a creepy way but in a sad lovesick way. You were a Slytherin and the boy who had garnered your affection was a Gryffindor so it seemed as if the only way to know him was to watch him. The old house rivalry stopped most Gryffindors and Slytherins from ever interacting, so you soaked up Remus in any way that you could. So you found yourself watching him at meals and during class. You almost felt bad for how often your eyes were on him, you were almost surprised that you hadn’t burned holes into him from your stare. But to be fair, with Remus, there was a lot to look at.

Remus was tall and lanky with surprisingly broad shoulders. He was often slouched and when he was tired he’d roll his shoulders back and stretch. His hair was a golden brown with slight curls spilling from his head. It often flopped in his face when it got long and he was constantly running his fingers through it. His fingers were long and nimble with the nails bitten down and callouses against his fingertips. You often found yourself imagining what it would feel like if he slipped his hand into yours and if they were as rough as they looked or if the skin was soft. 

At this moment, you found yourself staring at his scars. The way they zigzagged across his exposed skin; one down his neck, one down his cheek, carving out his high cheekbone, and one running through his left eyebrow. You thought his scars were beautiful, adding a hint of ruggedness that juxtaposed his soft nature. You wondered how he felt about them and you wished from deep in your soul that he didn’t hate them. 

You knew how easy it was to hate scars. You had a nasty one that ran from the back of your knee down to your ankle, gently curving around your calf. You had gotten it when an older student had pushed you down in the courtyard in your third year. You had fallen back into a bush and your skin had gotten caught on a branch. While the pain of the injury faded, the pain of the memory had not. You wished, however naively, that the memories of his scars didn’t cause him too much pain.

He looked up from his book and caught your eye. The second he noticed your staring he glowered back at you. You flushed deeply and looked away. You had been caught staring a few times now and you had a feeling that he had found out about your feelings towards him. You nervously tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and continued with your essay. 

The next time you saw Remus was in potions class. His friends had dragged him over to the table next to yours and you could only assume it was because Lily was your partner. You heard them bickering quietly as they came over.

“Do we really have to sit by them?” Remus hissed under his breath. James huffed.

“Yes, we do, Lily is over there. Now’s my chance,” he muttered back. Remus made eye contact with you and you pretended not to notice when he rolled his eyes despite the pang in your chest. James gave Lily an exaggerated wave and she just scoffed before turning back to you. 

You had met Lily through Severus since he was in your house. He wasn’t your favorite person, you found him a bit creepy and his crush on Lily seemed to be a tad obsessive, but you were grateful that he had introduced you to the redhead. The two of you became fast friends, you loving her sharp wit and her loving your ambition and drive. 

Lily started talking to you about the upcoming Hogsmeade trip when James called out her name.

“Oi, Lily,” he said with a smirk, “are you really consorting with the enemy?” he asked, gesturing towards you. You felt your cheeks burn and you ducked your head. 

“Oh sod of James,” she replied, “Why must you always be so immature?” You smiled slightly at her words. You turned to look back up at the boys. James’s face was flushed with embarrassment at Lily’s words and Peter and Sirius were laughing at him. You stole a glance at Remus to see him glaring at you. You frowned and looked away. 

You sat in the Gryffindor common room with Lily while you worked on your potions project. It was getting late but the two of you wanted to finish the project early. Lily had offered that you spend the night in her room and you had agreed. You weren’t a fan of your dormmates anyway and would jump at any chance to spend a night away from them. They were loud and brash and had no issue with loudly proclaiming their thoughts on blood supremacy. It made your skin crawl.

“Ugh I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” Lily said, setting aside her book. You sent her a quick smile as she got up. When she was gone you continued working on your assignment. The portrait hole swung open and Remus walked in, seemingly coming back from his rounds. His eyes narrowed at the sight of you. 

“How did you get in here?” he asked harshly. You shrunk under his gaze. 

“Lily invited me. We’re doing school work,” you explained, gesturing down at your work. He crossed his arms.

“Where is she then?” he questioned. You shrugged.

“She’s in the bathroom,” you replied. 

“I think you should leave,” he responded. Your eyes widened.

“What?” you exclaimed.

“You should leave. You shouldn’t even be in here in the first place,” he pushed. 

“Now just wait a minute, Lily and I-”

“I really don’t care. Just get out of the common room and go back to the dungeons,” he said, practically sneering. Your mouth hung open in shock.

You had liked Remus because of how soft and kind he appeared to be. Everyone loved him and it was because he always wore a compassionate smile and had understanding eyes. But it appeared that you clearly would never be on the receiving end of his kindness.

“What is your problem?” you asked, feeling anger building in your chest. He rolled his eyes.

“You’re breaking the rules, you need to leave,” he retorted. 

“I’m not talking about just this, what is your problem with me? You always treat me so poorly and I can’t seem to figure out why,” you answered. Remus scoffed. 

“I don’t have a problem with you,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. 

“So you just have a problem with Slytherin’s then?” you spat, venom filling your voice. Remus’s jaw clenched. 

“I don’t particularly like blood supremacists and Voldemort sympathizers so I guess I do have a problem with Slytherins,” he said. You laughed. 

“You can’t honestly think that we’re all-”

“Do you know how many dark wizards have come out of Slytherin?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you. “Because it’s quite a large number. And the way you seem to always be snooping around and staring makes me think you might be one yourself.” You gaped at him.

“You can’t actually be serious?” you sputtered. Remus shook his head.

“Just leave before I deduct any points,” he said quietly before turning towards the stairs. You stood up from your seat on the couch.

“Now wait just a minute, Lupin,” you practically yelled. He turned around with a clenched jaw. 

“What?” he spit out.

“There is nothing about Slytherin that is inherently evil! There is nothing evil about ambition or determination. Just because you have some twisted idea of what my house represents doesn’t mean that you’re right. I reckon that every house has the same chance of fostering evil. Blind bravery can be evil can’t it? And loyalty to the wrong person? And intelligence can be incredibly dangerous,” you shouted at him. Remus stared at his shoes. “And let’s not forget all the good wizards that have come from Slytherin! Professor Slughorn may be a bit odd but you can’t tell me that he’s not a good man. And for Godric’s sake! Merlin was a fucking Slytherin,” you yelled. Remus looked up at you.

“What about you then?” he asked with his arms crossed, “Where do you fall?” You swept a hand through your hair exasperatedly. 

“I’m not a dark wizard you dimwit! I don’t stare at you because I’m a spy or whatever dumb idea you came up with! I stare at you because I think that you’re bloody handsome,” you yelled. Remus’s eyes widened. 

“You- you what?” he sputtered. You groaned and began to gather your stuff. 

“Nothing, never mind,” you answered, shoving your parchment into your bag. Remus came up beside you and grabbed your arm.

“Wait,” he said, trying to get you to stop. You pulled your arm away. You turned to storm out of the portrait hole when Lily’s voice rang out into the room.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowed. You turned to Remus angrily. 

“Ask him,” you responded before storming off towards the dungeons. 

A few days later you were sitting by the black lake with a book in your hands when you felt a presence beside you. You looked up to see Remus with his hands in his pockets. You rolled your eyes. 

“What do you want Lupin?” you asked with venom lacing your voice.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said softly, digging his shoe into the grass. You sighed.

“And what do you want to apologize for, exactly?” you questioned with a raised brow. 

“I’m sorry for being so rude to you and for insinuating that you might work for Voldemort,” He answered sheepishly. You nodded. 

“Thank you,” you responded before turning back to your book, assuming that he’d walk away. Instead, he sat down beside you.

“I just- I saw you staring at me all of the time and I was confused as to why you’d even do that,” he began, “And you’re a Slytherin and I just assumed that you had some motive or something. It didn’t even cross my mind that you thought I was handsome,” he said with a slight smile. You blushed and looked away. 

“I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable,” you murmured, “I didn’t realize I was being so obvious.” You stared anywhere but him. 

“If I had known why you were looking at me, I wouldn’t have minded,” he said softly. You furrowed your eyebrows and looked up.

“Huh?” you said. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“If I had known that you fancied me I would’ve just talked to you instead of coming up with an idiotic conspiracy theory,” he admitted. You looked at your lap. 

“Oh.”

“And I feel so stupid for thinking that you could be so terrible. I had no grounds for it other than a dumb stereotype. I’m really sorry,” he said. You turned to him.

“It’s alright I suppose. I just don’t understand how you jumped to the conclusion that I was some sort of spy because I was looking at you,” you said with a slight chuckle. Remus ducked his head.

“I don’t know, it never crossed my mind that you might like me. I’m not exactly much of a looker,” he replied. You furrowed your eyebrows.

“What are you talking about? I think you’re quite good-looking,” you admitted with a blush. A small smile played at Remus’s lips.

“Didn’t think that anyone would ever think that of me,” he said softly, his hand absentmindedly rubbing the scar on his cheek. You frowned and reached up to remove his hand from his face. You lifted your finger and traced along the scar, causing Remus to gulp and avert his eyes. 

“Well I think that you’re beautiful, every part of you,” you said as you finished tracing the pink line. His amber eyes were back on yours, a deep vulnerability shining in them. His eyes flickered down to your lips for a moment and you held your breath. Slowly, he began to lean in. 

He kissed you just as softly as you always imagined he would, though it felt better than you ever could have thought. His rough hand cupped your face while you tangled your hands in his silky hair. When the kiss broke you were breathless. You watched as he ran a hand through his hair and sent you a shy smile, his freckled cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink. Even now, you couldn’t take your eyes off of him.

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

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[jetaime-jespere]

I Was Enchanted To Meet You

This is a long time in the works, and a gift to my dear friend @cmhotchniss-blog, who sent me her idea of how Aaron and Emily met. Most of the ideas are hers, and I am forever grateful she let me connect some of the dots. 💓

"I’d like to think this is how we were supposed to meet. For a brief moment in time, that’s all. To steer one another in the right direction, if you will.”

One night for Aaron and Emily has a lasting impact on them both, twenty-four years later.

A mess of metal is what’s left behind on a dusky stretch of Route 66. Shattered glass sparkles like diamonds along the wet asphalt in the darkening sky as night meets the last moments of the day. Smoke curls and hisses around the mangled frame of the SUV, the stillness of the air a juxtaposition to the chaos that wraps around them - a slew of first responders, a few ominous rumbles of thunder, the mounting traffic on the other side of the highway. It’s a cacophony of sounds and sirens, shrill and relentless, that bring them all back to the reality that it can’t get much worse than this.

Read the rest below or on ao3!

There’s shouting - so much shouting - the frantic and panicked voices from the normally imperturbable team as one of their own is pulled from the passenger seat, limp and unresponsive. It only took seconds for things to go horribly wrong. Accidents were never supposed to happen, and yet here they were, helplessly surrounding a team of paramedics who were just a little too quiet in their intense focus, their faces stretched a little too thin, a little too grey, as they bent over Emily.

Her speech is slurred; her eyes flutter and blink weakly as they fight to keep her conscious and alert, rattling off blood pressure numbers with thinly veiled concern. They abruptly push JJ to the side, curtly demanding the need for more space to work, bark directions to the hospital, and start preparing to move her into the ambulance.

On the other side, a hand with a set of bitten down nails grapples for purchase at Dave’s shirt, fingers wrapping around the folds of expensive fabric to pull him closer in one last moment of semi lucidity. With a fading grasp Emily drags him down close enough to whisper something inaudible in his ear, words meant for only him to hear. The older man frowns, eyebrows furrowing with confusion as she falls unconscious, the last lick of light disappearing behind the trees.

____

“Dad, are you sleeping?”

Aaron’s eyes snap open a little too quickly, the bowl of popcorn nearly spilling into his lap when he jumps to attention. The voice, a familiar one, is insistent, as if it’s not the first time he’s said his name in the last few minutes. “No,” he says quickly and he’s not entirely sure who he’s reassuring. “No. I was just -”

“Let me guess,” Jack scoffs, taking a large handful from his own, much larger bowl of popcorn in his lap. “Just nodded off.”

“I’m paying attention,” Aaron attempts weakly as Jack laughs under his breath and shakes his head.

“I’ve heard that before.” His son reaches for the remote to rewind the last ten minutes of the scene he’d missed, still laughing. “This is what … the third week in a row?”  While he’s right, Jack doesn’t seem bothered. The years away have made him wise beyond his years, with a patience not often possessed by hormonal teenage boys who spend most of their time with a screen in their face. Aaron often thinks his son inherited the best of Haley - her patience, for starters. He resembles her too, and every now and then, looking at Jack is like looking into a window of the past. A past that could have been a fantasy, for now it seems like so far gone.

“Something like that,” Aaron mumbles. It’s true. In the four months they’ve lived in the quaint Philadelphia suburbs of Chester County, an idyllic place without the Main Line housing prices, adjustment has taken on a new meaning once again. Gone are the fake identities, the constant checking and double checking of doors and windows, the frequent looks over their shoulders, the unsettling notion that it might not end - that this might, unfairly, be their reality. He knows they’d go to the end of the earth to find Scratch - they’d done it before to find Foyet, then Doyle. They fought monsters before, but somehow, this was different.

There had been a finality in his decision to take Jack and go into Witsec. His final act to name Emily as Unit Chief was an easy one, and while it didn’t lessen the blow of the circumstances in which he and Jack left, in a flurry of panic, reminiscent of one his son experienced once before, it gave him a semblance of peace he wasn’t expecting. A little bit of reprieve, the ability to sever ties that may never be rebuilt, to no fault of their own. The cruel and unusual situation was one that they always risked with the nature of their work, one that was always a distant possibility.

In the quiet moments, he thinks of her. The what ifs and the whys. Everything between them that was said, and what never was. What he’s never told anyone is just how long he’s thought of her in one way or another, the one night they shared together, years ago, tucked neatly away in his mind to save for nights when he wondered just how things got to be this way.

“Come on, Dad,” Jack laughs. “At least try to make it through this movie. You said you wanted to see this one.”

With a hint of guilt as his obvious disinterest, Aaron sits up a bit straighter on the couch, grips the popcorn bowl in his hands, locking his eyes on the television. The plot of the movie is already lost on him, despite it being a topic of conversation for the last several days. “Just play the movie, Jack.” He stifles a yawn into his fist and valiantly attempts to focus his attention on the screen.

Aaron is dozing when he’s interrupted again; this time by his phone vibrating on the table. He doesn’t miss Jack’s eyes flickering over to the phone. “It’s just like old times,” he sighs. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

The name on the screen is the very last he expects to see at such an hour in the middle of the week. Aaron frowns, the phone cradled in his hands as the phone vibrates insistently. It’s the familiar push and pull of guilt he feels when his eyes shift between his son and the phone again, an unexpected window into a life he long left behind. The phone keeps ringing, immediately following the first unanswered call. Not a good sign, he thinks.

“Dad?”

“I need to take this, Jack,” Aaron says quickly. It’s late enough that this is anything but a casual phone call. The blanket is tossed aside and the popcorn already forgotten. He barely hears Jack’s half-hearted protest as the phone crackles static and then connects. The voice on the other end speaks first, his tone clouded with thinly veiled fear.

“Aaron.”

“Dave.” His tone is equally clipped, even and steady even as the phone is held tightly in his hand, waiting for whatever news is about to come.

“Aaron, you need to get to Prince William Medical Center as soon as you can.” It’s the urgency in Dave’s voice that unnerves him; it sets off every warning bell in his head. His normally unflappable, at times annoyingly rational friend sounds harried and exhausted, as if it’s already been the longest of nights, as if making this very phone call was a last resort. “It’s Emily.”

Emily .

The words reverberate through his head, the implications tear through his chest like a series of spears. He knew it wasn’t good, but he didn’t expect this. “What happened?” But years of experience and unbridled heartache have steeled his nerves, tested his resolve time and time again. He should be used to this by now - bad news that haunts those he loves. But the fear is like a vice, a cold stab that wraps itself around his mind and back again.

“There was an accident.” Dave begins. It’s been a few years since he’s seen him, but through the phone Aaron can see the lines on his forehead that have certainly deepened by now, perhaps a few have been added over time as the years add up.

“Accident? What kind of accident?”

He barely listens as Dave recounts the last few hours in excruciating detail. They were on a case - local - Reston - on their way back to Quantico. A poorly timed summer storm made visibility terrible, rendering driving nearly impossible. They were sideswept by another SUV, the impact sending them careening into the median on 66 just outside of Woodbridge. It sounds like anyone’s worst nightmare - airbags deployed, the windshield shattered upon impact, the entire hood a mangled mess of metal as the car careened to a stop, the threatening hiss of the engine.

But the totaled car was the very least of their problems.

“She’s in critical condition, Aaron,” Dave says carefully, as if it’s only part of the truth, as if somehow it’s even graver than this. “She’s unconscious.” It doesn’t sound good - her head hit the window on impact, the rest of Dave’s news confirms his worst fears - a likely head injury, the extent of which they don’t know.

It doesn’t make sense. It seems like some kind of sick, ill joke - a nightmare he’ll wake up from, only to find Jack having devoured both bowls of popcorn and the credits of the movie he never actually watched rolling. “What aren’t you telling me Dave?”

“I think you’d want to be here, Aaron. It … it could go either way at this point.” Dave’s voice is so heavy, something Aaron isn’t used to. His friend was typically the voice of reason, the one he went to for assurance when things seemed to be spiraling out of control - something he did many times over. And now the tables were turned to their side, a cruel twist of fate. It takes no convincing; he’s already reaching for his jacket on the hook by the door, grappling for an umbrella shoved unceremoniously in a closet somewhere closeby.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

…

“Mendoza is on his way.,” JJ says quietly as she rounds the corner with two cups of coffee in her hands. “ He just called me.”

“That might complicate things.” Dave wrings his hands and paces the tiny hallway. “Who told him?” He asks curiously. It hadn’t been long since Emily had shown up in his office one night, shoulders heavy as she relayed the news of their breakup. Dave is no stranger to the failures of love - having been thrice divorced himself. Sometimes timing was to blame, other times it was priorities. In their case it was commitment, or lack thereof, things fizzling out and hasty goodbyes, half-hearted assurances of keeping in touch, that one will call the other. Yet Dave isn’t exactly surprised to hear the news. Despite their challenges, Mendoza had been all but enamored with Emily, in awe of her at times. He wasn’t a stupid man; he wasn’t surprised when she didn’t follow him to Colorado. There was always something else that stood in her way. He just never knew exactly what.

“Word travels fast.”

“Aaron is on his way.” After a long pause, Dave scrapes a hand across his face, exhaustion bleeding through the cracks of age. “I just called him.”

JJ only nods and stares into Emily’s room with a pensive expression. “What do we tell them?”

“We tell them what we know. Hope for the best. That's all we can do.”

...

The storm takes the humidity with it, a soft chilly breeze spreading through the darkness. Aaron hurries through the hospital doors, charging past the triage nurse towards the elevators. He’s only vaguely aware of the other man that wedges himself past the doors just in the nick of time. He looks just as distracted as Aaron feels, eyes distant -worlds away - and lost in his own thoughts as he offers a quick smile, fists shoved in jacket pockets.

“What floor?” Aaron offers with a tight smile.

“The ICU.”

He nods and pushes just one button, indicating that they’re in fact going to the same place.

“I’m sorry.” The other man nods his head in solidarity, noticing the single illuminated circle on the panel, shuffles his feet, checks his watch and hangs his head. The phone in his pocket buzzes; he checks it with a resigned sigh. Aaron feels a touch of sympathy for him, wonders just what brings him there.

Except he doesn’t have to wonder much longer, because not only is Dave waiting when the doors open, but he clearly knows whoever Aaron just shared the elevator with. And judging by the way Dave’s eyebrows lift just enough at the sight of them both, practically side by side, something tells him there’s more to the story than just a simple coincidence.

“I see you’ve met?” Dave cocks his head to the side, scrubs his chin with his hand thoughtfully. “I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”

“What the hell happened?” The man beside Aaron demands, a little more forcefully this time.

“So you haven’t met.”

“What the hell is going on, Dave?” Aaron snaps first, his patience starting to wane. The last three hours of travel have already started to catch up with him. It’s been years since he’s had to channel his feelings into something more stoic and taciturn. It doesn’t return as easily this time. He tells himself it’s because of age and time, yet the nagging voice in his head says it’s something else entirely.

“Andrew Mendoza, meet Aaron Hotchner. The former chief of the BAU. Hotch, this is Andrew Mendoza. Mendoza was the Special Agent in Charge of DC’s Field Office. He consulted with the BAU on a few local cases about a year ago.”

“Was?” Aaron questions, quickly putting together what Dave doesn’t tell him about Andrew Mendoza. There’s only one reason why he’d be there - a reason he didn’t anticipate. He has to swallow the bitter pang of regret that rises in his throat. It shouldn’t exist at all, but a familiar feeling that has lingered just within his reach whenever he thought of Emily. The chances they never took, the timing that seemed to elude them for one reason or another. Time. It had never been on their side.

“The Denver Field Office offered me a promotion last month. My daughter and I are moving out to Colorado in a few weeks.”

“Congratulations,” Aaron says stiffly as he offers his hand. It’s obvious why he’s here - the same reason Aaron is. “I’ve heard good things about Denver.” There’s something about the news that satisfies him.

“I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances.” Mendoza glances at Aaron, then Dave, then back at Aaron again. “But what the hell happened tonight?”

“JJ didn’t tell you?”

“Just that there was an accident.”

Dave presses his mouth into a thin line, relaying the story with such tact that Aaron knows it’s an abridged version, a slightly less terrible rendition of what happened back on the highway. “We were right outside of Woodbridge. On our way back from a case in Reston. Visibility was awful. It happened so fast. Emily must have hit her head on impact. She lost consciousness shortly after the ambulance arrived. They’re considering surgery to relieve the pressure in her brain.”

Dave pauses, letting the news sink in, taking a deep breath of his own to compose his frayed nerves. “There’s a chance of brain damage but they won’t know more until after she regains consciousness.” His gaze shifts between them both, gauging their reactions.

“When will that be?”

“There’s no easy way to tell. Could be hours after the surgery. Or days. She’s not breathing on her own. It’s going to be a while before we know anything.” He repeats the doctors’ words as calmly as he can. Dave’s typically unflappable demeanor is strained; the weariness laces through his voice.

“How did this happen?” It’s Mendoza who speaks up this time, clearly distraught and searching for words of his own. He almost looks embarrassed by his uncharacteristic show of emotion.

“It was an accident,” Dave repeats as calmly as he can, as if he’s practiced this speech in his head before giving it. “No one is to blame.”

The air seems to thicken around them, the reality setting in that while it’s already been a long night, it’s only just beginning.

“We’re here because of Emily. It’s a waiting game now, as long as it might be. May as well make yourselves comfortable. There’s a waiting room just down the hallway and a cafeteria on the sixth floor, if you want some coffee. It might eat a hole in your stomach, but it’s something.”

The room around him starts to spin. Aaron can’t remember the last conversation they had - something hasty by phone, he suspects, in the days of time differences and small talk. Never awkward, but something always lingering beneath the surface. Their conversations were all about what wasn’t said - subtext, layers of awareness only they possessed.

“One other thing,” Dave adds, as if on afterthought, a fleeting thought he nearly forgot, nothing more than a passing thought. “Before she lost consciousness, she was rambling incessantly about apple pie.” Dave adds, as if on afterthought, eyes narrowing in confusion. “The best apple pie in DC. Any idea what that could be about?”

Aaron stiffens, his jaw flexing at Dave’s seemingly innocuous mention in the midst of everything else. It’s been years since he’s last seen her and another fifteen since that night, one he’s never actually spoken of out loud. It could have been a lifetime ago, a distant memory. It feels so foreign at this point he could have dreamed it. Surely he misheard - there’s no way she’d be thinking of that. He pinches the bridge of his nose, stifles a yawn into his fist. It’s about to be a very long night. “Where is she? Is she in surgery yet?”

“Not yet. She’s just down the hall.” In the distance a monitor beeps then an alarm starts to go off, punctuated by the efficient scramble of nurses. It reminds him just how much he hates hospitals, and Aaron breathes a heavy sigh of relief when they don’t go into Emily’s room.

“You can see her, you know.” Dave offers gently, sensing the growing tension. “One visitor at a time.”

It’s somehow decided, without officially being decided out loud, that Aaron will go in first. Mendoza quietly mentions something about needing to call his daughter. Not for the first time this evening, Aaron is actually grateful Jack can hold his own at home for a little while, that they’re long past those years of constant check-ins. A simple text will do in a few hours’ time. And he steels his nerves with a few deep breaths before slipping into the room, the silence punctuated by the staccato beeping of monitors and a ventilator.

She’s like a ghost, translucent almost - amidst the machines and wires. He remembers a time, years ago, when the roles were reversed. Aaron wonders if she felt the same clench of fear in her gut, the awful feeling of helplessness that came along with being at someone’s bedside in a hospital. He wonders if she felt the same desperation clinging to every nerve in her body that things would be okay.

“Hey,” he says, sinking into the hard plastic chair at the side of the bed. “It’s been awhile.” Deep down he knows she won’t - can’t - respond. But there was a moment of hope - a tiny one - flimsy and built on nothing - that maybe she would move or something to indicate she heard him. There isn’t one.

Aaron swallows the rising lump in this throat, thick and pressing right down into his lungs. “I really need you to wake up, Emily.”

...

“When’s the big move?” Dave presses Mendoza gently, asking all the questions Emily never gave answers to. He folds his arms across his chest, unable to tear his gaze from the scene before him. From his place behind the window, he watches Aaron lower himself onto a chair on shaky legs, taking a few steadying breaths as he settles beside her. He rests a weary head on his fist.

“Two weeks. Keely wanted to finish her soccer season.” Mendoza crosses his arms over his chest as his eyes follow Dave’s.

Dave nods without really comprehending the words. “You’ll have to let us know when you’re both settled out there.”

“Yeah.”

Dave breaks an awkward silence. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you two.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t.” By now, Mendoza’s full attention is on the scene before them both, face solemn and stiff. “What’s the story between them?” His eyes narrow ever so slightly, shades of suspicion cloud his features and his shoulders tense. Years of profiling make Dave keenly aware of these subtle changes in his behavior. He’s questioning it .

Dave shrugs. “Friends? Colleagues?” By now, Aaron is brushing Emily’s arm with his thumb, and if he isn’t mistaken, swears he sees his lips moving too. “Anything else and your guess is as good as mine.”

It seems to smooth things over for a few moments, even as something else is planted in his mind. Something he never considered at all.

…

“Have you been to Boathouse Row yet?”

It’s an attempt to make small talk as they sit down; it doesn’t get past Aaron, who stays silent, completely ignoring the question.

“So what is it you’re not telling me?” Dave passes a flimsy styrofoam cup over the small table.

“Now might not be the best time, Dave,” Aaron retorts, rolling a tiny cup of creamer in his fingers.

“We’ve got nothing but time, Aaron. Surgeon says things could take hours. She might even be conscious immediately after. And you’re not driving back to Philly anytime soon.”

He has a point . “She was talking about when we first met.” He sighs heavily as he spins the cup around in his hands. “It was a long time ago.”

“At the BAU?” Dave knits his eyebrows in confusion.

Aaron rubs his eyes tiredly. By now any movement feels like effort, the space behind his eyes starting to throb with an oncoming headache and exhaustion. “Before that.”

“You mean you knew - “ Dave stops, his coffee ignored and interest piqued. “You two knew each other before?”

“We met years ago. Would be at least twenty now.” He’s too tired to do the math of exactly how long it’s been. “We met when I was working for her mother one summer in DC.”

“I certainly had no idea.”

“No one did. It never really came up.”

“By choice or on purpose?” Dave quips, his eyes just a touch brighter than they were moments before. He chuckles when Aaron just stares right back, the hint of a smile hidden in his eyes. “So what’s the story?”

His expression is wistful, as if he were dusting off a long held memory. “It was kind of an accident.”

__

Twenty-Four Years Ago

DC

Not for the first time that evening, Aaron checks his watch discreetly and sighs into his fist. It’s only eight-thirty; who knows how long this thing will last. It wasn’t that he agreed to this. It’s practically a rite of passage when working for an Ambassador, or so he’s been told -working one of the many extravagant parties and benefit dinners that were practically part of her job description. The ballroom is full of DC’s political elite - congressmen and senators, the Secretary of State and the Attorney General. Rumor had it the Vice President would be making an appearance. For that reason alone, security was heightened, every egress monitored, yet he’s never felt more invisible in a room full of people.

Aaron spots her accidentally, but something tells him she’s not trying to blend in. The tall figure on the opposite side of the room is entirely too young to be one of them , yet she mingles easily with a champagne flute between her fingers. She’s wearing an elegant black dress with a high neck and open back. It shows off delicate shoulder blades that jut out like wings when she moves. He isn’t the only one staring.

She’s the Ambassador’s daughter - Emily . Aaron has only heard of her from the others, her name being uttered in exasperation when one of the agents finds her breaking protocol yet again - sneaking out and in at all hours of the night, slipping an endless parade of friends past the entrance logs without proper verification. He’s never spoken a word to her; he knows almost nothing about her except that she’s a student at Yale, supposedly speaks multiple languages, and has a knack for causing trouble.

They haven’t spoken a word to each other, but her eyes meet his across the square in the middle of the room that is supposedly a dance floor. His mouth goes dry and he immediately looks away when Emily excuses herself from whatever conversation she’s immersed in, only to look back seconds later to find her sauntering directly towards him , effortlessly maneuvering through the crowd.

Aaron nods a polite hello, attempting to keep his expression neutral when she’s finally closed the gap between them both.

“You know,” Emily says with amusement, eyes flicking over him. “You could at least try not to look so miserable.”

“Who said anything about being miserable?”

“It’s practically part of the job requirements if you work for my mother. Besides, you’ve been wearing the same expression since this thing started.” When she catches his look of sheer bewilderment and mild annoyance, she laughs softly. “Trust me. I’ve been to enough of these things to know what I’m looking for.”

“Are you spying on me?” He glances around, wondering just where the Ambassador even is amidst a sea of black suits. He should be keeping a close eye, after all. He strains his neck a little, scanning the crowd purposefully until he sees the woman that strongly resembles the miniature version of her in front of him.

“No. I’m just observant.” Without missing a beat, Emily waves to someone - a Congressman Aaron immediately recognizes from the news - something about a scandal involving a rather young intern under a desk - but he hadn’t been paying too much attention to remember all the details. “He’s such a scumbag,” she adds quietly without any elaboration.

He senses her reticence immediately; he wonders just how she knows all of this, if he should push, if at all “Isn’t that part of their job description to a degree?”

“Some of them,” Emily mutters. “But he’s one of the worst.”

“So I’ve heard,” Aaron murmurs, tearing his eyes away from the crowd to get a better look at her. Up close she’s even more stunning, with sharp cheekbones and a perfectly symmetrical face, her smile wide and eyes like dark orbs. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“I’ve seen you around. You’re the new guy.”

“New-ish. I started in March.” It comes out a bit more dejectedly than it should, but it’s hard to hide the disdain he feels for it all. Things have been far from easy over the last few months. It’s a mindless shuffle of one foot in front of the other, days that blend together similar to the ones before, with the slightest hope that a few more weeks of patience might wield a change.

“New to me.” She’s only been home for the summer a few weeks at most, so he can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually seen her. “So what’s your story?”

“My story?”

“You stick out like a sore thumb.” She cracks a grin at her own remark. “You’re too tense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Agent …”

“Hotchner,” he fills in quickly.

“Agent Hotchner, you certainly wouldn’t be the first security detail to use this as a stepping stone to a different career. You’re all just biding time until something better comes along.” She’s so matter of fact, so assured, it’s as if she’s had this very conversation with every other agent in the room at one point or another. “It’s usually the quiet ones. They have less to prove.”

“Are we that transparent?”

“Some of you. And I can’t say I blame you. This place surely isn’t a means to an end.”

“What does your mother think of your beliefs?”

“My mother knows exactly what I think of her career and everything that goes along with it. It’s what’s gotten us to this point, actually.”

“And what point might that be?” He’s only heard of some of the epic arguments between the two of them, the harshness of their voices reverberating around the Ambassador’s office or some ornately decorated living room. The bitter clashes of two strong wills, hidden behind the fact that just maybe they were more similar than different.

“A story for a different time,” Emily says smoothly. “Can’t exactly talk about it here.”

“You’re full of stories, aren’t you?” Aaron deduces but she isn’t even paying attention anymore as she scans the crowd. He can see the wheels start to turn in her head, the flicker of an idea materializing somewhere. She turns back, this time a grin stuck to her lips. “What?” He asks reluctantly.

“Let’s get out of here.” Emily bats her thickly lashed, heavily lined eyes. “This thing is going nowhere fast. Besides, you look like you could use a break. “How long have you been on?”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere,” she says casually with a wink as she plucks a champagne flute from a nearby tray, downing it quickly. “I probably shouldn’t drive, but you can.” It’s accompanied with a flippant toss of hair over her shoulder, an expectant purse of her lips.

It’s certainly not the smartest idea or the most prudent, but something tells him Emily could care less about prudence and image. “I could be suspended for unauthorized use of a government-issued vehicle.” Not to mention, having his boss’s daughter in said government vehicle with him, or completely leaving his assignment altogether. He remembers skimming over the terms of employment months ago, specifically the section about fraternization with members of the Ambassador’s Family.

“Who said anything about one of theirs?” She looks almost bored now, tapping her fingers against the empty flute. “That’s no fun anyway. They have trackers on them. For security purposes.” She forms air quotes with her fingers. “We wouldn’t get far.”

He’s about to ask her how she even possesses that knowledge when he feels her hand on his waist, dipping into the creases of his jacket like a lover would. It doesn’t phase her, and while normally his reflexes would spring into quick action, he’s glued into place.

“You have a car don’t you?” Emily unabashedly pats his pocket, feeling for keys.

He opens his mouth to object, but she’s too fast. She grins with satisfied smirk, a triumphant click of her tongue as he stiffens awkwardly when they jingle against her hand. “You aren’t a great liar, Agent Hotchner.”

“Aaron,” he says somewhat stiffly, resignedly. He’s doing his damn best to keep his eyes centered on the ballroom but it’s getting harder and harder to concentrate on the task at hand. The scent of perfume - something undoubtedly expensive - lingers and it makes him dizzy even if he hasn’t had a sip to drink. “And I didn’t lie.”

“Aaron.” His name rolls off her tongue thoughtfully. “Aaron,” she repeats, as if it’s the first time she’s ever heard it. “I never understood why there were two A’s. What do you do with the second one?”

His head spins to keep up with her, how her mind somehow bounces from one thought to the next with seemingly little direction. “Never gave it much thought myself, actually.” From the corner of his eye he catches one of the other agents giving him a quizzical, perhaps slightly jealous, eye roll. It’s a bad idea to entertain, but one he can’t ignore. Emily is staring at him, eyes sparkling, with the slightest touch of longing. Longing for what he isn’t sure, but whatever it is, it wouldn’t be found in the middle of the opulent ballroom.“What do you have in mind?”

“I’ve been told of a place not too far from here,” she begins slowly, a smile on her face at his gradual acquiesce. “A diner that supposedly has the best apple pie in DC.”

“Apple pie?” Just how much has she had to drink?

“I’m starving ,” she offers with a hand pressed to her flat stomach. Aaron’s eyes follow, lingering up and down on her narrow frame.

“They’re about to serve dinner,” He says lamely, shaking his head to ensure he heard her correctly. Waiters have started to circle the room with large serving trays balanced precariously above their heads, passing around the plates that he guesses must cost a few hundred dollars a head, maybe more. The crowds have thinned as more guests take their seats.

Emily shrugs with disinterest. “Once you’ve been to one of these things you’ve been to them all. Besides, this is when things start to get really insufferable.”

“Is that so?”

“Someone will start talking,” Emily drawls sardonically, surveying the crowd starting to take their seats at previously assigned tables - tables he could probably rattle off by name if asked. “Make some big speech promoting their campaign trying to get reelected or whatever. Then they all will. They love hearing themselves talk.”

“Part of the job, I guess.” He stares, unsure of what to say next. Her attitude towards politics is the complete opposite of that of her mother. His interactions with his boss have been somewhat limited; he doubts if she even remembers his first name. Yet he’s seen the way Elizabeth Prentiss revels in a world seemingly dominated by men, a woman in a league of her own. He wonders just how much the Ambassador has sacrificed; wonders if her daughter might be amongst that list. It would certainly explain their tenuous relationship.

“So what do you say? Surely you don’t want to sit around listening to a bunch of old guys spout a bunch of half truths to line their pockets?” She seems unbothered yet again, almost amused by the sight in front of her - as if her premonition of how the night would go is coming true.

There’s nothing he wants less. “How do you suppose I get out of this? I’m still on the clock, you know.”

“I’ll leave that up to you.” Emily sets the champagne flute on a nearby serving tray and spins on her heel, sauntering back towards the center of the ballroom. “I’ll be outside of the South Gate when you figure it out.”

…

In the end, he makes up an excuse to leave. It’s not exactly convincing and the agent in charge doesn’t exactly believe him when he feigns an emergency - food poisoning. But Aaron has always had an exceptionally good poker face, grimacing just enough to make it look questionable, and the other agent curtly nods, grunting something about having enough security for the evening, and making up the hours later in the week. It falls on deaf ears - he’s already out the doors of the security office, a small grin playing at the corners of his lips as he strides across the asphalt driveways with his back toward the house.

Sure enough, Emily is waiting for him, finishing the rest of a cigarette when he pulls around to the South Gate. He keeps his taillights off; the less attention he draws to himself the better.

His car has seen better days, the leather seats worn smooth and the stereo outdated, the steering wheel permanently indented from the grip of his own two hands, scuff marks and faded carpets. But it’s well maintained, and Emily smiles appreciatively when he holds the passenger side door open, then explains how to adjust the seat, just in case . She doesn’t seem to notice at all, just unceremoniously tugs her long skirt out of the way of the door and kicks off her heels.

“Fucking things,” she grumbles. The heels are sharp as knives, ridiculously impractical yet Aaron can’t help but picture her wearing them in a dress much shorter than the one she currently has on. He shakes his head, reminding himself not to go there, because the reality is, she’s still his boss’s daughter, and if anyone were to see them, he’d most definitely be written up, maybe worse, for taking her off property without following protocol. But she’s close enough to touch, her arm a gentle weight against his own on the center console.

“So,” Aaron asks, his voice barely audible. He shifts the car into reverse, breath hitching when his knuckles brush against her hand. “Just where is this diner you speak so highly of?”

“Silver Spring.”

“I thought you said DC.”

“It’s close enough.” Emily tucks a long piece of hair behind her ear with a roll of her eyes. “Just trust me.”

It’s the way she says it that makes him wonder if she would do the same for him. Aaron grips the wheel in silence as the cool night air seeps through the open windows. He catches her shiver and is about to offer his jacket when she breaks the silence.

“Make a right up at the light, and then it’s a quick left.” Emily shifts in the passenger seat. Her fingers twitch as if she were still holding a cigarette between them; she tucks her hand against her cheek daintily. She’s very much aware the passenger side is nearly spotless - nothing to indicate someone sits there frequently. No wayward sunglasses or a forgotten piece of jewelry belonging to a significant other. She straightens the wrinkled fabric of her dress and lowers her eyes.She’d had him pegged wrong - certainly he’d had it all figured out, the well intended nature that comes along with a mostly idyllic existence. She imagined a naive wife or girlfriend completely enamored with him, both parties working to make ends meet for bigger and better things - not happiness, for one. That they had in spades. But maybe a white picket fence, a dog and a baby or two one day.

Instead, he seems lonely and guarded, a choice he was forced to make. Circumstances, maybe, she thinks as the traffic light ahead blinks from a glowing green to yellow, to red. It shines a little brighter than usual, a universal warning everyone should understand . It makes her shiver again.

“Here. Take my jacket” The red light gives him the chance to shrug out of the confines of his suit jacket, which he hands over. He palms the wheel a little tighter when she wraps herself into it, the fabric draping over her like a shield.

“This is the place?” Aaron studies the gaudy exterior of the diner, hard to miss and yet, the type of place you wouldn’t give a second thought. The fluorescent lighting nearly blinds him, and he’s somewhat surprised to see through the windows that multiple tables are full despite the late hour. He can hardly conceal his disbelief. “How’d you learn about this place?”

“Word gets around,” Emily says lightly as she slips her shoes back on, wincing slightly when she stands upright, nearly enveloped by his jacket. “I’ve learned not to judge a book by its cover. Maybe you should do the same.”

They find a booth in the back, tucked away from the clamor of the bustling kitchen and constant jingle of the doors. Again they’re left with nothing but silence, a few wayward glances, and two plastic coated menus between them. The haggard waitress only nods abruptly at their order - two black coffees, one with splenda and one without, one slice of apple pie, and two forks.

“You think she thinks we’re a couple?”

“I’m sure she has a lot more on her mind than us.” Aaron twists the paper straw wrapper between his fingers and studies her across the table. What he’s not expecting is to realize she’s doing the same thing - analyzing his body language with a degree of precision that matches his own, an expression that hides what she’s thinking. He wonders if she’s practiced it over time. She wears his jacket like a coat of armor yet she’s curious, the mundane quietness of the diner a stark contrast to their initial surroundings a short time ago.

“How does someone like you end up working for my mother?” Emily asks out of nowhere, direct and forward without an ounce of hesitation. It could be mistaken for an interrogation, he muses.

“Someone like me?”

“Decent. With manners. Not some macho guy with a little man complex or some baggage like that who gets off swinging his gun around.” She blows the straw wrapper across the table; it hits him square in the shoulder and stays here until he flicks it off. She doesn’t seem to notice as the waitress sets down their much anticipated order amidst a promise to come back with some cream for the coffee.

It’s his turn to laugh; he knows exactly what type she’s referring to. He could name more of them than he has fingers. “Trust me, it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way.”

Emily carves out a large bite of apple pie with her fork, eyes closing with delight as it disappears between her lips, along with a delicate moan. “This is so good.” She pushes the pie plate towards him. “So then what was it?”

“Bad timing, for starters.” Aaron stabs his fork into the jagged slice of pie, cuts off a bite for himself. His stomach growls; it’s been hours since the early dinner he’d scarfed down behind the wheel on his way back to work the shift he just abandoned. “You’re right,” he says around a mouthful of apple and pastry crust. “That’s really good.”

“Told you.” She proudly lifts her shoulders, momentarily triumphant before she digs in for another bite. But she also looks expectant, ready for an answer, even with another forkful of pie. He supposes he owes her one.

“I wanted to join the FBI,” Aaron begins slowly. It comes to him that she’s only the second person he’s ever told any of this to. He supposed talking about it would make it real, take it from a pipe dream to something that could irrevocably fail right in front of his own eyes.

“The big leagues, huh?” She waves her fork in a circle, and it takes a moment for him to realize she isn’t totally shocked. “I could see that, actually, now that you mention it. You have the poker face for it, at least.” Emily gives a little grin, one that meets her eyes. “But that didn’t happen?”

“Had the application filled out and everything. Was going to send it in.”

“So what happened?”

“My girlfriend … She didn’t like the idea. The recruitment process takes months and basic training even longer. Close to a year sometimes. Haley wanted me to do something a little more traditional. Wanted me home at 6 for dinner and around on the weekends.” He takes another bite of pie, partially to gather his thoughts, and to let Emily give her own.

“Girlfriend, huh?”

“Well.” The fork in his hand feels heavy all of a sudden; he sets it down with a clatter. “We’re taking a break right now.”

She takes in his words, chuckles a little bit. “I’m a little disappointed in myself. I definitely had you all wrong.”

“You keep saying that.” It’s more of a question than a statement, a curiosity he can’t contain.

“I took you as settled. Happy. With Haley. ” His girlfriend’s name rolls off her tongue; hearing it sounds strange, like she’s saying something she shouldn’t.

“I’m ... figuring things out. We’re figuring things out.”

“Do you love her? Does she love you?” Emily asks directly without hesitation. “If you do, there shouldn’t be much to figure out.”

He stiffens. “I don’t … not love her. But we want different things. At some point, you have to be honest with each other, right? When you can’t make it work, what do you do?”

“I’m definitely not the person to ask.” She laughs but there isn’t any humor in it, more of a resigned sadness if he looks close enough through the rough edges hidden by carefully curated appearance. “Relationships aren’t something I’ve had a ton of luck with.”

“Maybe you’re dating the wrong people.”

“Maybe.” She looks around the diner, rests her chin in her hands. “I’m pretty directionless myself at the moment, if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t, but thank you.” He takes a sip of coffee, more for something to do with his hands than a need for it. He wants to know more, wants to ask just what could possibly make her directionless. Someone who seemingly had it all.

“Sounds like we’re both lost.” There’s a dreamlike tone to her voice, as if they’re sharing a secret.

“We don’t have to be.”

“If I keep going at this rate, I’ll be a bored socialite by 30 throwing cocktail parties every night and getting drunk by the pool by day.”

“Who says?”

“No one has to say it. It’s … expected of me, I think?”

“Is that so?”

“I’m certainly not following in my mother’s footsteps into politics.” She scoffs. There’s contempt in her voice, for what he deduces is years of being put second, something she never asked for but received over and over again. “What else is there for me to do? Someone has to carry on the family tradition somehow.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Emily says, dragging her fork through some of the remaining bits of pie on the plate. She flicks a crumb into the air.  “I’ve never really had a home , you know. Most of my life has been spent overseas. Just staying in one place for a while would be nice.”

“I always wanted to get away.” Aaron laments. “From Manassas at least.”

“Well, that’s understandable. You aren’t missing much there, or so I’ve heard.” She stirs a spoon into her coffee to work in the mess of splenda packets she’s dumped in.

He watches the liquid swirl, her mezmirzation at it. Something comes to him - something he’s always wanted to know. “Is it true you speak four languages?”

Emily looks up from her coffee, temporarily distracted by his question. “Six, actually. French, Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Greek, and some Russian.” She ticks them off on her fingers nonchalantly as if she were counting inanimate objects.

He does a double take. “Six? I can barely handle English.”

“It’s always been easy for me. I just wish I knew what to do with it, you know?”

“When I applied, I remember seeing that the FBI needs linguists. People with language experience to work overseas.” He takes his own fork to the last remaining bits of the pie, watching her face carefully for a reaction. She’s almost unreadable; he can’t discern just what she’s thinking.

She laughs - not the reaction he expected. “You know, applying for the FBI would absolutely piss my mother off entirely. She would hate it if I did that. Kind of makes me want to do it.”

“She and Haley should meet. I’m sure they’d have lots to talk about.”

“You want to hear what I think?” Emily says after a few long moments, the coffee and the pie that once sat between them are now gone. “I think you should go for it. The FBI. Do it and don’t look back. And call your girlfriend. Let her talk, but tell her how you feel.”

“And?”

“If she comes back, then you know it’s meant to be.”

...

“Never even knew this place existed,” Aaron says, lingering at Emily’s elbow as they pick their way across the pebbled driveway of the diner. She’s a little unsteady on the heels now, not unsurprising given the late hour and the time they spent sitting down.

“Who knew a diner in the middle of Silver Spring Maryland would have such great pie?” Dangling from her wrist is a to-go bag with an extra slice of pie for the morning - the waitress had kindly given her one on the house - the leftovers from the day before.

“I thought New Jersey was the diner capital of the world,” Aaron muses. “New Jersey is all about their diners and traffic circles.”

“And Bruce Springsteen,” Emily adds pointedly. “He’s from New Jersey.”

“Him too.” Aaron laughs quietly. The tension in his shoulders mounts; he doesn’t want this to end. He wants to talk to her, wants to keep her there. But the moment feels final. Emily catches the wrist of the hand that reaches out to cup her cheek, wraps her fingers around it. “If things were different -” he starts quietly, looking almost embarrassed.

“I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to go, is it?” Emily leans into the weight of his calloused palm, into the touch of a man that isn’t her own. It feels foreign, like she’s taking something that isn’t hers. “I don’t think that’s in our cards, Aaron. Maybe in a different life.”

The ride back to DC is again silent, save for the crinkling of the paper bag in her lap. Aaron skips the main entrance and the long paved driveway, taking a shortcut around the massive property to the South Gate entrance. Emily side eyes him, looking slightly impressed. “Trying to remain inconspicuous?”

“I think that’s for the best.”

“I’d like to think this is how we were supposed to meet,” she offers as he pulls up to the outside of the South Gate. “For a brief moment in time, that’s all. To steer one another in the right direction, if you will.”

“Maybe.” He tells himself to pull away, curling it back around the steering wheel protectively. “Remember what I told you, Emily.” He watches her reach for her shoes, their moments together dwindling down to seconds. “Don’t live your life on the terms of someone else. Especially your mother. If our paths cross again and you’re a bored socialite throwing cocktail parties, we’ll have to talk.”

She loops some hair behind her ear, gives him a small smile. “If our paths cross again in ten years and you aren’t leading some FBI unit somewhere, I’ll have some words for you as well.” She draws a breath, carefully slips on her shoes. “Thank you for the pie, Aaron.” The creak of the passenger side door is the only thing he hears as she slips away like a ship in the night, not to turn back around.

Aaron watches her disappear across the grass, blending into the deep blue of the early morning, the sky not quite awake but out of the depths of night. She’s a shadowy dark figure amidst the promise of a new day. The clock on the dashboard nears 6:00 AM. The little red numbers glow are a reminder of the inevitable crash that will most definitely come later on. He isn’t 20 anymore, after all. But when he drives away, there’s a sense of renewal, one he can’t explain, but deep down understands.

He hands in his resignation before he can work another shift, and he never does make up the time he promised. Three days after that, he mails a thick packet of papers in a standard manila envelope to the FBI Headquarters in Quantico.

A week after that, he takes out his phone and dials Haley’s number. About thirteen years later, his son comes into the world, wailing and screaming with healthy lungs and a head of dark hair. Haley is tired and beaming, his pride is obvious as the tiny bundle is placed in his arms.

They name the baby Jack.

In some ways, the stars aligned.

He’ll sometimes wonder if Emily’s did too.

…

Present Day

“Why didn’t things ever work out between the two of you?”

Dave’s voice brings him back to reality, out of the daydream he’s held so close to his heart for so many years. It’s jarring at first, a confusing limbo of then and now, past and present blending together for a few long moments. He glances around, the harsh overhead lights glaring bright, the low hum of hospital sounds reverberating through his ears. Along with it comes the reality of why he’s there, and the bitter rush of fear that floods his consciousness.

“Timing.” Aaron spins his now empty coffee cup in his hands. “Even after Haley and I got divorced, it was never the right time.”

“You’re going to blame timing ? That’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“I never wanted to take the risk.” It’s the closest thing he can think of as truth. They built a tentative friendship after a rocky start, something built on mutual respect. His divorce brought new challenges - co parenting amidst a ridiculously stressful career, supporting and leading his team. Emily had always been one to hold her own, a silent backbone of their team, a friend to all of them. He’d relied on her, never wanted to lose what they had in hopes of something else . Ian Doyle had taken her from them all; her return was tense and it didn’t take a profiler to understand that Quantico just wasn’t home to her anymore. He let her walk away, encompassed by a fragile shell of his own tentative happiness, and in the years after she went to London, there was a permanent hole in his heart that never quite mended itself again. “Maybe I should have.”

“Love is a choice, Aaron. It doesn’t just happen. You have to choose to make things work.” Dave leans back in his seat, checks his watch, an eyebrow arching just a bit. “I thought you would have known that by now.”

“You and Krystall made a choice?”

“We still do. Every day we have to choose to love each other. Some days it’s easy. Others, not so much. But you know the best part?”

“I think you’re going to tell me anyway, Dave.”

“It’s never not been worth it, Aaron.” There’s a subtle gleam in his eye that wasn’t there before. “Something tells me you might just feel the same, if you gave it a chance.” Dave fumbles for his phone, patting the pockets of his jeans and then that of his blazer before finally pulling the phone from his breast pocket. He flips it open, his eyes widening at whatever message lights up the tiny screen.

“What is it?” Aaron asks with baited breath.

Dave looks up from his phone. For the first time since all of this began, he looks full of hope. “Emily’s out of surgery.”

…

The surgeon is pleased with the outcome of Emily’s procedure, and the air around them seemingly lightens with each minute he explains the procedure, and its success. The three of them hang on every word he says, asking questions and seeking assurances.

“She should be awake within a few hours. We’ll know more then, but her brain activity is good, and her vitals are strong. Agent Prentiss got very lucky. I have patients who often have a very different outcome.”

The relief is palpable, as if the tension was cut with a knife as they all exchange optimistic smiles and tentative handshakes, while profusely thanking Emily’s surgeon. Aaron excuses himself to call Jack - something he should have done hours ago. “I’m not going far,” he reminds Dave, his words a warning of what to do if anything changes in the next few minutes.

“We’ll be right here.”

Mendoza is shrugging into his jacket and digging for his keys with a look of resignation on his face. He catches Dave’s sideways glance. “I think it’s time I head out, Dave. Please give Emily my best wishes on a quick recovery when she’s discharged.” There’s a change in his voice, one that wasn’t there earlier.

“You’re leaving?” Dave asks curiously. “You aren’t going to stay and see Emily? It shouldn’t be much longer before we can go in.”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

Mendoza shakes his head, runs a hand over his scalp. “I learned something tonight. You know when it’s just not meant to be, but you can’t find the reason why?”

Dave nods, a glimmer of understanding appearing in his eyes. “I do. I know it very well, actually.”

“I think I found the why.” His eyes roam around before they finally land on Aaron and Dave’s do too. The phone is still pressed to his ear but he’s still staring right into Emily’s room, never once looking away, even as his mouth moves in conversation to Jack on the other end. “I tried to deny it, so did Emily. But I don’t think her heart ever belonged to me. I think it belonged to him.”

—

Emily finally wakes up a few hours later. Aaron and Dave wait outside the room as she’s tended to by a horde of surgeons and nurses, testing brain function and vital signs, spattering off medical terms with ease. It’s a language only they understand, one Aaron never wants to learn. But their voices are hopeful, they have smiles on their faces as they talk to Emily, assessing her cognition and running tests. She’s a little confused and extremely tired, but awake and alert . Dave is just as relieved to see things appear normal; they’re both very aware of just how lucky they got.

Eventually, they’re finally allowed to see her.

“Do you mind if I … “ Aaron trails off, except he doesn’t need to finish the question.

“Go, Aaron. I take it you have some things you want to get off your chest,” Dave quips. “I’m going to call the others and give them an update. They’ve been waiting awhile.” He departs with a pat of encouragement on the back, a shared moment between them.

Moments later, he’s back in her room, at her side on the same uncomfortable chair from earlier. Her eyes flicker open once again, widening almost impossibly when she sees him. Years of unanswered questions are written on her face in seconds, a shared history fraught with more than what most people experience in a lifetime. But there’s something oddly content there too, as if she woke up from a dream that has somehow materialized in front of her.

“Hey,” Aaron says softly, reaching out with a nervous hand to touch her for the first time in years . He dodges wires and IV lines, finds her fingers with his own and gives a gentle squeeze. “You’re up.”

“You’re here?” Emily blinks with confusion, still making sense of just how she got there in the first place. “But I thought you were .. you and Jack are in Philadelphia. What are you doing here?”

“Of course I’m here,” he says soothingly, ignoring her question. They can talk about that later. “How are you feeling?”

Emily gives a wry grin, slightly distorted and weak, but there. “They asked me who the President of the United States was.”

It’s his turn to smirk. “What did you tell them?”

“To ask me after 45 leaves the Oval Office,” she says without hesitation. “I think I made at least two of them laugh.” But then something comes over her face, the reality of it all setting in. “You came all this way,” she croaks, throat raw from the intubation tube. “How did you know about all of this?”

“You were there for me, remember?” He’s not only talking about Foyet, but all the years she spent at his side. The years they spent doing a dance around one another,  their steps never quite aligning. This time feels like a second chance he never thought he’d get, one he can’t mess up.

“That was a lifetime ago, Aaron. So much has happened since then.” Emily tries to sit upright, pushes herself up about halfway before exhaustion overtakes her. She grumbles in frustration; he shouldn’t smile but he does. It means the Emily he knows, the Emily he fell in love with years ago is somewhere in there.

“Take it easy,” he soothes, adjusting the pillows so she’s more vertical than horizontal. He uses the opportunity to press a kiss against her forehead. He touches his own to hers and murmurs, “That’s something I should have done a long time ago.”

A smile spreads across her face, just as brilliant as the night he met her. She remembers it all, just as well as he does. “Funny how it always seems to take one of us dying to figure things out.”

“What are you talking about?” It’s a morbid thought, one he can’t entertain for long because despite his question, there’s an element of truth to it. He brushes some hair from her eyes and tucks it behind her ear. It’s matted in his fingers and dirty yet he doesn’t even notice. His heart swells, the hand in her hair trails down to her cheek, a thumb against the blush that spreads there. “And by the way, that’s not funny.”

“I’m saying maybe after I get out of this place,” she gestures to the mess of monitors and wires and tubes, “You can ask me out on a date. Finally.”

“Anywhere,” Aaron agrees. He would go anywhere, if it meant he could be with her.

“I know a place in Silver Spring. Supposedly they have the best apple pie in DC.”

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Foiled Intentions

Russingon, 2215 words, M

On Ao3

Maedhros was behind the door, which at the moment appeared more impenetrable than the gates of Angband. Fingon stood and waited, a tiny part of him still hoping that Maedhros would open the door without him knocking. Maedhros knew he was there, Fingon was certain. But he wouldn’t, he would never open the door. He would pretend he couldn’t feel Fingon standing on the other side, his heartbeat loud enough to count as knocking. He would put another brick on the wall he had started to build between them almost as soon as he was able to think coherently.

If Fingon didn’t talk to him now, there was no telling when he would have another chance. Maedhros would leave for his camp, which was in the middle of packing, then they would ride to the East, so Maedhros could put physical distance between them too. Fingon couldn’t let it happen, not without trying to talk to him. He knocked.

The moment of waiting stretched as the endless night had over the Ice, and then Maedhros said: “Come in.”

He was getting ready for bed, leaning against the headboard with a book in hand, his hair bound in a bun on top of his head, the sleeves of his nightshirt loose and flowing. There was a sudden tremor in Fingon’s knees, so he bit his lip and centered his gaze on the headboard to avoid distractions.

“Were you looking for something?” Maedhros asked mildly.

“For you,” Fingon said, already frustrated by the dismissive tone.

“Well, you found me.” He didn’t sound very pleased about it. “What did you want? But make it quick, please, I am tired and I still have a council and a ride to my camp ahead tomorrow.”

He didn’t even offer Fingon to sit. He intended to do what he always did – to offer empty phrases, to feign weariness, and to send Fingon on his way. But not this time, Fingon wouldn’t let him.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said, slowly lowering his gaze from the headboard to Maedhros’s eyes.

“I presumed we had discussed everything at the meeting with your father today.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What else is there to talk about?”

“Drop the pretenses. You know what I mean. I am not going to leave until we have talked about us.” 

Maedhros gave him an indulgent smile. “Oh, Fingon. Are you still on about that? I thought we had agreed that it was a bad idea.”

“We haven’t agreed on anything. You decided that it was, and even that I had to guess because you never told me. You just started to distance yourself from me, and you did it so stealthily that at first I didn’t notice.”

His voice didn’t quiver, but from the way Maedhros’s smile faded, Fingon knew his cousin had noticed the effort it took him to hold steady.

“I hate seeing you so miserable,” Maedhros said.

Those must have been the first sincere words Maedhros had spoken to him in months. Fingon decided to answer him in kind.

“You hold my happiness in your hands,” he said.

“Not a very secure place,” Maedhros said, raising his right arm.

Fingon didn’t flinch. “You know what I mean,” he repeated.

Maedhros ran a hand over his face. “You are determined to get what you want, aren’t you? All right, then.”

Without waiting for Fingon to confirm or deny the claim, he rose smoothly and stood before Fingon, too close for comfort. Fingon made to step away, but Maedhros’s hand was suddenly at the hem of his breeches. 

“What are you doing?” Fingon asked when it was already too late, when he was naked from the waist to the knees.

“Can’t you guess?” Maedhros asked.

The only indication that Fingon wasn’t the only one affected was the color that rose along Maedhros’s neck. 

“Sit,” Maedhros said.

He put his palm on Fingon’s chest, and Fingon dropped down on the bed. He opened his mouth to say something. He didn’t know what, but surely he had to. But then Maedhros knelt before him, squeezed his knee, lowered his head, and Fingon forgot all the words.

It lasted for an eternity, and simultaneously it was just a moment not long enough to blink. Fingon was hyperaware of everything – the coarseness of the woolen blanket under his fingers, Maedhros’s bun brushing against his stomach, Maedhros’s mouth on him – and at the same time, he was lost, absent from his own mind, drifting somewhere unreachable. He was nailed to the bed, he wouldn’t be able to move even if the world broke right at that moment, and yet he was rushing upwards with dizzying speed; or perhaps he was falling down; there was no way to tell, no sense of direction, nothing.

Someone was patting his thigh. He opened his eyes and saw Maedhros sitting on the floor in front of him, a teasing smile on his red lips. Fingon’s own lips were smarting. He must have bitten them to pieces. A few strands of Maedhros’s hair had been freed from his bun and had fallen down his face. Fingon must have done it. He recalled the softness of Maedhros’s hair in his hand but couldn’t remember the action of touching it. 

He found himself smiling back carefully, still not willing to trust this sudden turn of events but hopeful that it was for the better.

“Happy now?” Maedhros said. 

Even sinking underwater after stepping on a treacherous piece of ice hadn’t frozen him so swiftly and suddenly. If only Maedhros’s words had been taunting or resentful. But they were genuinely meant, and it was worse.

Maedhros’s face fell. “You are not happy,” he said. Slowly, he moved back on the bed, sat on it cross-legged, and stared at Fingon. “Tell me, then. Tell me what will make you happy, and let's finally be done with it. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” Fingon said shallowly, mechanically, as if compelled by an external force. "I want all of you. I offer you all of me. I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours. But...”  He licked his lips, cracked and wounded from biting. “If you do not want it, then neither do I. I don't just want you to make me happy, I want you to be happy too.”

“Fingon,” Maedhros said in a voice he hadn't used since Valinor, the one he saved for when Fingon said something endearing but entirely impossible.

I wish there would be a way to grow wings and fly like a bird, Fingon would say, I wish I could hold a star in my hand, I wish we could go away together, I wish your father would accept mine. And Maedhros would smile and say Fingon in that voice of his. And even though it was a denial of his wish, it was still a tender and fond one, so Fingon would sigh and bask in the particular flavor of tranquil happiness he felt whenever he was with Maedhros. It didn’t make him happy now. Now it made him livid.

“Fine!” he said, scrambling to his feet. “If you are so determined to make your own existence miserable, who am I to stand in your way? Wallow in your guilt and self-pity as long as you want. I will disturb you no longer.”

He turned to leave, but Maedhros caught his hand. A startled gasp left Fingon’s lips, and he stood still, heart pumping a furious, knife-sharp hope through his veins. 

“What?” he said.

“Don’t leave angry.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to leave here still angry with me. It was not my intention to antagonize you. I hoped you would understand.”

“What is there to understand?”

“Fingon, you have seen as clearly as I have that our closeness brings you nothing but misery. To chase that closeness again is counter-logical, suicidal almost. I cannot allow that.”

“So our closeness just now that you initiated, incidentally, was what, a hallucination, a fluke?”

“I hoped that would be enough for you, and we would put an end to this.”

Fingon snatched his hand away and rounded on Maedhros. “Are you serious? Who do you think I am? Do you even realize how condescending, how insulting that sounds?”

“That wasn’t—”

“Your intention, I know! Nonetheless, it was what it was. Stop it. Just tell me you don’t want this, and I will leave. I will understand. I will know it’s not what you want, and I will adapt. No reasons, no justifications, no explanations of why it would be a bad idea. Just tell me your heart doesn’t want me. Can you? Can you do it?”

“Fingon,” Maedhros said patiently, as though Fingon was a child and not even a particularly bright one. 

“Stop it!” Fingon exclaimed. “I know what I want. I know what it means. Did you really believe that you could throw me a bone and be done with it? Is that who you think I am? Is that all I am to you? I just want to talk to you about us, not even about us, about anything except strategy and politics without you pushing me away in that infuriating way of yours that screams for everyone to hear that you know better. For all your humble act, that’s awfully arrogant. I did what I did knowingly. I want what I want knowingly. You didn’t force my hand in Alqualondë.   

“No,” he cried before Maedhros would interrupt him to object. “You didn’t. I did it by my own free will. I crossed the Helcaraxë because I wanted to. I reached Thangorodrim because I wanted to. Not everything is about you, you know? Can’t you respect me enough to treat me as anything else but a reckless youngster chasing after his fleeting desires? Even now, after everything that happened? Why does your opinion in this matter prevail over mine when it’s about my feelings and my desires? Why are you so sure you are right, and I am wrong? Why do you think I don’t know what I am choosing and you do? If I asked you if you truly believe yourself so wise, you would spare no ugly word to disparage yourself. And yet here you are, acting as if I know nothing and you know everything.”

His voice was threatening to break, so he stopped shouting. In the silence, the only sound was his harsh breathing. Maedhros had his eyes shut tightly, and Fingon worried that he had gone too far. Then Maedhros sagged against the pillows and raised his head to look at him.

“You are right,” he said.

The shock of those three words almost knocked Fingon out. “What.”

“You are right. I treated you irreverently. I was condescending and insulting, and I am sorry.”

Fingon hated that he couldn’t tell if Maedhros spoke true, or if Fingon had just bullied him into surrender. He had done that before, during Maedhros’s recovery. Had had to do that for Maedhros’s own sake, had pestered him to eat, to sleep, to accept medicine so stubbornly that Maedhros often had just said yes, so he would be left alone. 

He couldn’t ask, though. If he did, Maedhros would just deny it, even to himself. 

“I am sorry for shouting,” he said instead, sitting on the bed.

“You had a point.”

“Still. I shouldn’t have.”

Maedhros smiled weakly. “Apology accepted. Do you accept mine?”

“What does it mean for us?” Fingon asked cautiously.

“What do you want it to mean?”

“What do you intend it to mean?”

“Fingon,” Maedhros laughed. “After your impassioned speech about knowing what you want, I would think you would be bolder.”

“Fine,” Fingon said. If he wanted Maedhros to trust him, he had to extend the same trust to Maedhros and accept that his words weren’t just the weary response of someone who didn’t want to be yelled at anymore. “I told you what I want. I want you not to push me away if your heart desires me. No matter what you believe is sensible or right, if your heart tells you so, I want you to let me be yours.”

“All right.”

“All right? That’s it?”

“Well, I still don’t think trusting my heart is a good idea. But that’s what my mind is telling me, and I don’t trust it either. So I will trust you as I should have done from the beginning. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

Fingon sighed. “Not really, but I’ll take it.”

Maedhros thought for a moment. “Good enough,” he said. “Well? Do we have an agreement then?”

“We do.”

“And if my heart wants to have you in my arms, should I listen to it?”

“You should.”

“I’m going to trust you on that.”

Fingon tried not to smile, still disoriented from the sudden change and not a little angry, but it was so hard when Maedhros was smiling, when Maedhros was reaching for him, when Maedhros was wrapping his arms around him, leaning his head against Fingon’s temple and pressing his lips to his jaw. He stopped fighting, releasing a breath and with it all the remaining anger and worries, and then turned his face to catch Maedhros’s lips. 

[iwannaseeyainakia]

The Moonlight Circus

This was a story I was commissioned to write by an anonymous tumblr user. Thought it would be good to show my writing and see how it changes over time!

trigger warning: gore, smoking, religious and supernatural themes, death, minor profanity

The heel of Morgan’s boots clicked against the checkered flooring of the circus. She made her way to the center of the stage, her stride casual. She readjusted her gray beanie as she climbed up the steps. The plastic name tag below her collarbone wobbled with each step. The words “Moonlight Circus” in Courier New font rested above her first name.  The floor of the stage was filthy; ash and soot smeared into the once pristine black and white pattern. Her pale green eyes followed a line of ash leading to a rusted cast-iron cannon. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air.  

She exhaled softly, reached into the pocket of her ‘Metallica’ pullover, and pulled out a lavender lighter and a worn pack of Newport cigarettes. She yanked one out of the box and shoved it in her hoodie again. Her black bitten nails struggled to start a flame before she victoriously held it to her cigarette, finally lighting it. A pewter gray smog released from the very tip, emitting a bitter comforting scent. She lifted her hand to her face, the cig clenched between her middle and pointer finger. As the paper touched her pale lips, the once vermillion embers shifted to a startling violet and the musty gray smoke suddenly turned a mauve tone. Morgan took a long drag of the strange purple cigarette while taking in her surroundings.  

The massive tent surrounding her was a striped pattern of burgundy and eggshell white.  The fabric was contrastingly cleaner than the stage of the ‘Moonlight Circus.’ The seating for guests was discolored bleachers; the aluminum being stained and scratched away by years of usage and lack of cleanliness. Many hot dogs drenched in mustard and bags of popcorn must have been dropped on it. There were multiple stacked on either side of the tent. The elevated stage had an outer ring surrounded by dark crimson foam. A round indoor pool was 15 feet away from her, the bottom of the pool a dirty yellow tint. Scales and confetti floated at the surface of the tainted water. 

 Large LED stage lights were set up at the ceiling of the canvass. Each was about the size of a child and contained a lens of different hues. They dimly lit the stage white. The tent was held up by dozens of rods with a singular large black pole at the center. The fabric bunched together and pulled up; it looked almost as if the very top of the tent was a tunnel that led nowhere, the stripes creating a dizzying optical illusion.  

The circus itself was located in a cheap amusement park; the locals treasured this place. It was affordable and held plenty of memories dear to their hearts. The Moonlight Circus was the main event, the park's pièce de résistance if you will.  

They had crowds of people flood the show every day. Bright smiles beamed on the faces of children and content parents awaited a trip down memory lane, nostalgia a pleasant high. After all, who wouldn’t be entranced by real-life monsters? 

Morgan released a puff of amethyst smoke, gently laying the cigarette between her lips again and keeping it there. She proceeded to stuff her hands in her pockets before an elegant voice called out to her, disrupting her daze.  

“Are you ready for the next show Morgana?” The feminine voice was gentle and motherly. She spoke each word with a grace that held centuries of wisdom. Her thick French accent was gorgeous; her voice matched exactly how she appeared. Morgan casually turned around and sent the woman a closed smile. Guinevere was a being of beauty, a true spectacle to behold. She was a small woman, approximately 5’2, petite but with a stance that conveyed raw strength. Her billowing pitch-black gown strewn behind her as she sashayed her direction. Her arms gently swung at her hips, an opera-length cigarette holder between the dainty fingers of her left hand. The skin of said hand was a pale blue-gray. The center of the long pipe was a silver fading into an intense black; a cigarette burning blood red at the end of it. Morgan glanced at her long dark hair. It was bone straight and swung behind her waist. The fringe of her locks covered her right eye, but Morgan could still make out a piercing iris a startling shade of red.  

“Hey, Gwen. Yeah, pretty much. Is everyone in the dressing room right now?” She inquired as the monster woman stood in front of her. Gwen gripped the edge of her large ebony sunhat, cigarette holder still between her fingers. The brim of the apparel was big enough to cover most of her hauntingly beautiful face. Lace hung half an inch off the seams and thin royal purple sticks of dynamite adorned the outer ring. While the entire hat was an eye-catcher; a nod to her part in the circus, the true emphasis of the hat was the large skull littered with cracks and yellow stains from tobacco. 

“Yes, and they’re taking damn long if I do say so myself.” The skull quipped judgmentally. Morgan chuckled. Gwen was not so amused by her husband’s comment. 

“Hush Pierre. No need to be snippy.” Guinevere jutted her hip out and placed her right hand on it to convey her sass. The skull instead, haughtily laughed at his wife. She rolled her eyes but could not contain the fond smile that grew on her lips, exposing her sharp fangs.  Despite all the time that’s passed, she still couldn’t fight how easily Pierre made her grin ear to ear. “Don’t mind him, Morgana, we’d best be on our way to prepare.” Gwen gripped Morgan’s wrist and tugged her along in the direction of the dressing room. 

Guinevere was the owner of the Moonlight Circus. A wonderful boss indeed, she felt more like a friend she’d known all her life than her superior. She also was a woman with a dream: to unite humans and monsters through entertainment. Humans used to fear the supernatural, loath it with their very being, but in this day and age, they take great pleasure in the abnormalities of the differing species. Harmony is built in this circus; humans come for entertainment and to admire the beautiful, violent specters, and the monster women give it to them. Gwen, a vampire, found joy in making others happy with her performance and her performers. 

 She often sat with Morgan under the night sky, gazing at the stars with a fond expression, spilling her life story to her. 

As a young girl, Guinevere was dazzled by monster kind. Born human, she felt there was so much to be discovered in magic and mythology. She felt it a shame that humanity was so quick to turn a blind eye to something so beautiful due to its differences in appearance. Her inclination in performing arts made her dream of a world where she could use performance to change a deep-seeded ideal within the societal structure. She’d sit next to her window sill, eyes twinkling with delight, wishing upon stars that someday her dream would become reality.  

For a woman such as herself, an objective of that nature was unheard of; impossible even. Nonetheless, she persevered. She wanted to tell the world that as a woman she would create art like no other and she would make a change for the supernatural of all origins. With a cigar between her lips, she rolled up the sleeves of her dress and got to work. She specifically sought out other women of mythological backgrounds for her acts. By 1890, she’d created the “Moonlight Circus” with the help of supernatural people she’d met along the way. In a small corner of Paris, France, it stayed. Given that monsters were still looked down upon by mankind, they’d been spit on, leered at, and dismissed by the public. As decades passed without much luck, her hope slowly began to dwindle. 

Gwen spent many restless nights wandering the streets of Paris, desperately trying to spread word of the big top containing wonderous spectacles to no avail. Just as she was close to giving up an aspiration she’d clutched tight since childhood, an American traveling carnival approached her. The owner, a large man who was only ever seen adorning a velvet suit, believed there was promise in her bazaar. He saw something no one else but Guinevere considered possible: an opportunity for change. In a society where her family within the tent were nothing but social rejects, outcasts; they along with everyone like them could be so much more. The man, kinder than Gwen could have ever hoped, opened up about his beliefs and desire to have her circus as an attraction in his fair. And she accepted with insurmountable glee.  

So, a new chapter for the big top began. With this foreign carnival, she traveled and built up her crew from nothing but sheer will. She continued her exploration and found many monstrous beings with the same ideology to join as performers. Word soon got out of the fantastical bazaar that made its way around the world. As opinions of the inhuman began to evolve with new generations, so too did their desire to know more. And eventually, they had a crowd; an adoring audience astounded by the display of otherworldly figures. Now, the carnival has made its permanent home in New Mexico, USA, and the circus by extension.  

“Think it’ll be packed tonight, Gwen?” Morgan already knew the answer, but figured it would be polite to make small talk.  

“Yes, absolutely my dear.” Guinevere continued to drag her to a slit in the circus tent. She placed her cigarette holder between her lips and used her palm to gently spread the opening, revealing a backstage area. It was renovated to be a dressing room; gothic aesthetic to match the theme, for all the performers pre-show. It was a much smaller canopy structure installed into the side of the main show tent. Despite the ground being grassy terrain, the room itself was well done. Dark oak vanities covered the walls, steampunk and alternative costumes littered any free space, and makeup laid atop every flat surface.  The spherical bulbs lining the mirror of the vanities were all lit a dim white light, illuminating the room enough so it was not pitch black.  

Light chatter and giggles filled the room as everyone who performed in the circus continued to get ready. 

The first person to notice Morgan’s sudden appearance was Gwen’s daughter, Victoria. Her eyes instantly brightened and a large Cheshire grin grew to meet her eyes. Vicky’s poofy raven black dress bounced as she sprinted towards her. The ivory petticoat underneath made the lace skirt fuller and frilly. The undead theme seemed to run in the family; Vicky being the zombie to her mother's bloodsucker and her father's skeletal remains. Her skin and teeth were rotten and oozing. Her hair was almost floor-length, and unbelievably matted. The knots at the base of her skull were so large you could have mistaken them for golf balls wrapped inside her tresses. A pair of filthy copper goggles rested on her forehead, the lenses murky and caked in blood. Between her toothy smile was a large cigar. There was no way to pinpoint the brand, as it was only labeled with a strange rune Morgan had never seen before.  Apparently, she had been taking a drag from the cigar, because smoke began to leak out of the holes in her skin.

Vicky launched her small form into Morgan’s arms. Morgan struggled to grip her as the foul stench her rotten flesh emanated was near unbearable. Swallowing down an audible gag, she smiled at the little girl before placing her gently back onto the grass.  

“Morgan! You’re going to love my act tonight.” Victoria loudly claimed, holding her fists to her chest with a grin still plastered upon her lips. Morgan couldn’t help but return the expression. Vicky was a sweet girl. A demented undead one, but sweet nonetheless. “I’m sure I will, Vicky. You’ll kill it tonight.” She seemed to have chosen the right words, because Vicky’s grin only got wider as she bounced up and down, skirt floating with her movement. She made gestures referencing explosions and tried to explain how her act tonight would go, but her words were so jumbled they were not understandable in the slightest. Her enthusiasm continued to increase alongside her violent movements before her mother placed a hand on her small shoulder.  

“Now, now Victoria, you’re talking so fast no one can understand you, dear. She’ll get to see your performance soon anyway, so let's keep it a surprise.” Gwen chided her daughter sweetly. “Ok, mommy.” Vicky heeded her mother's words and scurried to the side to search for her favorite lighter, cigar bouncing between her decayed teeth.  Cigar smoke trailed behind her figure. Gwen shook her head at her daughter’s antics, gripping the cig holder between her lips to take in a puff of nicotine. 

Victoria was the product of forbidden love between Guinevere and Pierre, a formerly vampiric man she’d encountered while searching for spectacles to join her circus. The traveling carnival had traversed Europe and decided to take camp for a while in the French countryside. Gwen had been overjoyed to be in her mother country again. She languished in the smell of the air and the sounds of nature like music to her ears. On a particularly stormy night, a vampire man with hair as light as wheat and skin as pale as snow knocked at the door of her bedroom within a quaint little inn. She opened the door to see him drenched in rain. The revenant, Pierre, gave her a goofy smile and asked for a part in her monstrous sideshow. 

While puzzled, she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. Pierre and Guinevere grew close the more they worked at the fair together. They both had a passion for performing and magic. Romance blossomed; eventually, they eloped and she became pregnant. It was uncommon for vampires to conceive children, let alone with one of mankind. Guinevere was a woman of adventure and risk, so she took this new development in stride. In the excitement of her family growing larger, she decided to have Pierre turn her. Neither realized the possible problems that would arise from changing her into a vampire while bearing a child.  

And so, when Victoria was born, she was sickly and frail in every sense. Her genetics were corrupted by the change her mother took on while carrying her. Her personality, though, could be described as nothing but robust. Vicky as a toddler would often act as if she were not terminally ill; watching the acts in her mother’s circus with enraptured eyes, even participating in the choreography herself from time to time. 

Guinevere often spoke of a time in which Vicky had climbed into the cannon without anyone noticing and failed in trying to light it with one of her old cigars. She had rushed over in a panic, tearing her from the barrel before the flame grew closer. She checked over her body and, once assured she was not injured, inquired what she had been thinking. Victoria, the overzealous little girl she was, could only laugh with a large smile plastered on her face. “I wanted to fly mommy!”  

As she grew older, her body deteriorated. By age five she could barely walk. By six she couldn’t at all. At seven, she no longer had the energy to speak. At the young age of eight, she could only watch the performing women with a blank smile before she passed. For days they grieved over her. They left her cadaver laying on her satin bed sheets as she was before her death, in anguished hopes they could find a way to bring her back to them. After tirelessly searching for any form of necromancy that could revive her, Guinevere entered Victoria’s bedroom to adjust her as she did every day. Only to be startled by her daughter sitting upright and speaking to her.  

“Mommy, can I go play at the circus now?” Victoria bounced off the bed with newfound strength in her rotten limbs. Gwen could only rush to hug her baby who was with her once more. Undead, but with her despite everything. From that day on she allowed Victoria to become a full-time member of the bazaar. The human (zombie) cannonball. With a body that could be put back together, no working pain receptors, and a passion for explosives and theatrics, she fits the part flawlessly.  

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The smaller tent was filled with a variety of supernatural women, the circus only having female staff. While most continued with their activities, some turned her direction and welcomed her. The parts in the circus were relatively small compared to most other acts, but the integration of monsters and mankind made up for it.  

Every single person handpicked by Guinevere herself, the cosmetologists, background musicians, and stage crew were all fairies. They each had varying sizes and shades of iridescent butterfly wings, and tight thigh-length dresses made from leaves and spider silk. While not as small as fae are typically depicted in human literature, they reached only about 3 feet and hovered above ground with a light flap of their appendages; they had the grace of hummingbirds. Faes are known for their artistic and musical capabilities. There were twenty-three pixies on set, all of them being gentle girls with a heart of gold. Their love of all life made them a wonderful asset to this circus promoting coexistence. Currently, they fluttered around tidying the room and freshening up the faces of the main performers.  

The ‘clowns’ of the act were all young shapeshifters. All fifteen of the women were from different cultures, shapeshifters being in a large majority of mythology; making them unique despite the similarities in capacities. Their abilities were used to shift them from playful clowns to dangerous animals to be used in other’s acts. While their personalities were all very different, each of them loved performing at the Moonlight Circus. Some spoke amongst themselves, shimmying into tight leotards and fixing their updos. A few of them, though, struggled to keep Victoria from swallowing handfuls of gunpowder. Especially with a lit cigar in her mouth.

“VICKY NO-” A wet splat hit the wall and a giggling head rolled at their feet. The shifters looked in disgust at their blood-stained clothes and scolded the decapitated head of the little girl. The others just laughed at the normally terrifying sight. 

 Morgana turned her eyes away, cringing internally, but knowing full well she’d be back on her feet in a few minutes. 

The main acts were very typical of a circus; the women enacting them were anything but. The designated tight rope walker was an Arachne woman named Magnolia. Her form was that of a tall human, her body could only be described as pear-shaped. Despite her form being humanoid, she had skin that was a smooth charcoal black and a spider abdomen attached to her lower back. The abdomen was a sunshine yellow covered in symmetrical white spots on either side. The pedicel connecting it to her body was the same tone as her skin. She also had eight spindly appendages protruding from the middle of her spine, each striped black and yellow. Magnolia had shoulder-length wavy hair a banana color with frayed strands of spider webs tangled within. Despite the frightening six extra eyes lining her temples, she was a kind eccentric woman. As the aerialist, the tightrope she walked during each performance was a magnificent braided rope made of her webbing. Magnolia was sitting on a cushioned stool, twisting her thread into a complicated bracelet, only glancing up to grace Morgan with a polite smile and greeting.  

Delane and Clio, however, wasted no time in rushing to make conversation with her. 

“Yo, Morgan! We’ve been looking for ya. Can you help me into this wetsuit?” Clio loudly proclaimed, simultaneously carrying her lover, Delane, in her arms bridal style. The duo is the aquatic performers of the show. Clio is a water nymph with connections to the Greek god Poseidon. She willingly took on a human female’s appearance, but that could not hide the divine aura that radiated off her very being. She had a lean build but still held all the strength a creature with holy connections such as herself should have. Her head was bare of hair and her ears pointed in an elf-like fashion. She stumbled around in a limp bedazzled wetsuit pulled up her hips halfway, the skin of her upper half an olive tan.  

“Seriously dude, I’m struggling here.” 

Delane was a mermaid, a perfect match to Clio’s Nereid. Her Prussian blue scaled tail hung limply over her girlfriend’s arm. The trawl half of her body closely resembled a koi fish. The caudal fin was long and thin, like fine silk flowing with the movements of Clio’s jerks. A dorsal fin ran down the back of it, getting smaller as it reached the end of her tail. She also had multiple pelvic fins running down the sides; the fins at the top were much larger than the ones at the end. They were all light cyan. The scales from her tail ran up her stomach, becoming much more scattered as they reached the dark skin of her breasts. Her hair was a short black pixie cut with a shaggy top, ending at the gills just below her chin.  

“Yeah, uh, maybe hurry before she drops me, please.” Delane nervously spoke. She wore a necklace composed of seashells and stones from the shore of her home, matching Clio’s own as a symbol of devotion between them. Together, they enacted a beautiful water-based act that captivated every audience we had.  

Morgan laughed at Clio’s predicament before moving to help her into the suit. Just as she got a grip on the neoprene material a strong voice halted them.  

“You could’ve just asked me, Clio. Here I got you.” Large calloused hands assisted her in her efforts. Morgan turned her head to Anastalia. Anastalia was the strong woman act of the circus. Like many of those hired here, a part of her resembled that of mankind, but she was very obviously not human. Her upper half was the build of a shredded woman: pulsing muscles, large bulging breasts, defined abs, intimidating biceps. She looked as if she was carved by the gods themselves. Her bottom half, while just as muscular, was that of a black stallion. Her four large hooves clapped against the ground in a deafening display and her dark tail broke the sound barrier like a whip. The hair atop her head was a dark brown with a sheen that made it glint in the light. Her long straight locks cascaded down the flesh of her shoulders a similar shade, reaching the small of her back.  

Anastalia peers up from the suit to bicker teasingly with Clio. She galloped gracefully in circles around them, admiring her handy work. “Eh, to be honest, I think it needs to be a bit bluer at the hips.” She quipped thoughtfully. Clio and Delane exchanged a glance and giggled in unison. Clio responded, “You’re one for detail, but let me tell ya, you don’t look it.” She lets out a boisterous laugh, keeling over slightly, causing Delane to screech in fear of being dropped and grip her shoulders tighter. Anastalia only rolled her eyes.  

“Har har, laugh it up, I’m not just a brute. I’m also an artist.” She struck a pose that had Clio cackling harder and Delane protesting louder. Morgan shared a laugh with them, her sides aching. Loud footsteps behind her turned her attention away for a moment. “C’mon Lanira, hurry!” Vicky, seemingly back to normal after spontaneously combusting, ran and jumped in a very abstract dance with her friend. Lanira, an incorporeal little girl resembling that of a cartoon witch floated around her at a much slower pace. “I’m going as fast as I can Vicky.” Lanira’s tone was much less enthusiastic. She had a slight cockney accent. 

Her dark flowing gown had no shape to it, more like a sack made of cotton. Her sleeves puffed out and tightened below her palms that gripped onto a translucent 19th-century broomstick underneath her. She twirled around with Victoria, who was still jumping around and flailing in her interpretative art form. Her wide-brimmed hat had a large peak at the top that dipped down at the very point. It was navy blue and held a wide variety of jewelry and trinkets that dangled down. Bits of cloth hung off the edge with pearls woven into it.  

Lanira had become a ghost after a ‘mishap’ with one of her spells backfiring. As the magician of the big top, she experimented with plenty of dangerous enchantments. One moment she was but a mangled corpse of a girl with crippling insomnia, and the next she was a spirit with large eyebags, continuing with her act as if death had not just occurred before everyone’s eyes. As the specter of a young talented sorceress, she must have expected this possible outcome and kept a few “tricks” up her sleeve. She kept with her act even after her untimely demise, even increasing the intensity now that death was no longer a possibility.  

Morgan took a long drag of her cigarette and continued to gaze in amusement. Lanira half-heartedly attempted to keep up with Victoria, the zombie child still lost in her own little world.  

“Alright, everyone! It’s time to get this show on the road once more, as they say.” Gwen chuckled at herself lightly. The room erupted in conversation and scrambling to get in costume in time. The pale woman approached her once more. “Will you please start allowing entry, dear?” She nodded at her, cig between her lips bobbing. “Of course.” She smiled and made her way out of the dressing room.  

The flap quietly closed behind her form as she made her way to her ticket booth. She could still hear the loud conversations and shuffling from inside the room. Her steps echoed throughout the stage. The entrance to the inside of the show floor was a large rectangular cut-out with a flap hanging to the side that could be zipped up. The outside of the tent was the same striped colors as the inside, illuminated by the setting sun. The tent performed almost all day, but their largest and most spectacular show was always right after the sunset. It was also the most packed of all their performances.  

The ticket booth was a wooden structure painted red and white. A gigantic sign in the shape of a ticket was placed on the roof displaying the name of the circus. It sat in front of a zig-zagging gate that led to the entrance. She opened the door and stepped inside, admiring the long line that had already formed. The crowd was a diverse amount of people. Some were singular people showing up alone for the show. Some were human couples on a date or parents with their ecstatic children bouncing with joy. There were even some couples that were interspecies; a human and a not-so-human person lovingly interlocked their hands.  

She opened the window of the booth and started accepting tickets from each person. One by one they approached the stall, handing in their crisp voucher, and making their way through the gates to pick up snack food and be seated. The sound of kids giggling and adults speaking with a grin in their voice was heartwarming. Memories were being made here time and time again; the atmosphere never changed. She never got tired of seeing happy faces coming to experience the wonders of the Moonlight Circus. A small crescent moon adorned each ticket that she received and stashed away in a box beside her.  

It took a good long while before each person who had previously bought a ticket was granted entry. She let out a sigh and sucked in some more smoke. She released a lilac cloud into the evening air. The sky was a dusty orange making way for the black of night. She continued to smoke while idly wondering if a storm was brewing. It seemed as if their best shows were when it was pouring rain and thunder broke through the cheers. The sound of Guinevere’s muffled voice over a speaker broke through the silence she’d been basking in.  

“Ladies and gentlemen! I thank you for coming to see our fantastical performers tonight! We hope to amaze you just as every crowd before.” Her words were a cue for Morgana. She laid the cigarette between her lips once more and strode her way into the tent. The tips of her fingers graced over the edge of the tent fabric for a split second. The control panels for the lighting were tucked into another miniature tent attached to the side of the main structure. She could see the sprites flying above and moving the large spotlight from the cameras beside the panels to follow Gwen’s moving figure. The stark white luminescence made her look more ethereal than before.  She continued on, cigarette holder still wedged between her thin lips. 

“We have an awe-inspiring act for you all!”  

“This beautiful lady here did most of the work.”  

Her husband quickly added to her dialogue. “Hush my love.” The crowd quietly chuckled.  

“It’s true.”  

“Pierre!” 

“Sorry, sorry!”  

The audience roared with more laughter.  

Under the dim lighting of the rest of the stage, she could make out the two fluffy skirts of the little girls waiting for their first part in the choreography. One was fidgeting and prancing around in the dark, not only disguised by the lack of light but the cloud from her cigar. The other floated just above the ground, flying around the other body in circles. Morgan placed her fingertips on the switches and pushed them up very slightly. The area brightened enough for the stage to be somewhat visible but kept the two hidden from their awaiting audience.  

“Each of our performers is a woman with grace, power, and most of all, a love for their part here.”  

Recovering from her husband's unethical interruption, she made her way up to the round platform on the stage. The spotlight followed in sync. She turned suddenly to face the stands, her skirt twirling above her feet.  

“We give you our best and only our best!” Gwen spoke into the microphone with glee, her visible scarlet eye piercing the crowd. “The Moonlight Circus has been our pride and joy for many decades. Tonight, we strive to show you exactly why!” She gave them a beautiful motherly smile.  

“Now please.” 

“Stay seated and enjoy the show!” She and the skull of her husband atop her head spoke in unison. She extended one arm behind her, bent the other in front of her middle and bowed.  

“Hey, hey! Careful please!” Pierre screamed as he slipped down slightly. The audience responded with laughter as before. The spotlight shut off and the stage was dim once again, other than the shine of Guinevere’s red cigarette. The crowd went silent. Her footsteps echoed on a different part of the stage. She could very faintly make out dainty shoes running up the steps and hopping into the cannon. One of the two figures was missing from their spot to the side. 

Morgan’s fingers danced on the panel, letting excitement coarse through her. She couldn’t fight the adrenaline rush before each performance commenced. She hadn’t been working there for more than two years, but this circus had become her family. Her home. Each person here has proven to her that the impossible is only so if you believe it is. And each show was a testament to how far they’d come. This circus act alone has been a large part of the progression that’s been made between the supernatural world and human society. They’re more than just a tent of sideshow freaks; they’re artists embracing their bodies and talents to better their lives, and many others.  

She grips the lever with resolve. She knows that to an outsider they may be passing entertainment. But that was progress by itself. This place is a part of her now. And she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Morgana pushed the handle forward. It clicked in place. The stage lights flicked on in a magnificent spectrum of colors. Gwen’s right hand is extended to the wick of the cannon, holder lighting the end. Her daughter’s tangled mane of hair is just barely visible from the lip. A deafening boom shatters the atmosphere and the show begins.  

[commander-hanji-zoe]

Hey I got a request can you do one where mike is going rough on the reader then someone interrupts them and then the reader has to muffle their moans 🙈👀

Hey, you most certainly can! I went for gender neutral reader so it’s up to the reader which ‘hole’ is being occupied by Mike. Why does that sound worse than it did in my head? I added a little bit of hand porn, oops. Warning I Smut 18+ only

Mike’s grip on you was firm, his hands both large and sturdy were reassuringly held onto your hips holding you safe against him. A romantic, heated and intoxicating moment, the kind that came often now you were dating Mike.

You’d fallen for him the first moment you laid eyes on him and then when you heard him speak, watched him sniff the air around him you were enamoured. His hands were another of the first things you’d noticed, large and with long fingers, a little rough from fighting and bruised knuckles which he later told you came from a drunken fight while defending a friend of his. Blue veined & big-knuckled that was how you thought of them, yet the first time he’d stroked your face you realised how the appearance was deceptive, they couldn’t have been more gentle. Still though, you imagined what those fingers would feel like inside you especially from the knuckles down, or what his hands would look like wrapped round your throat or pining you down. 

These fantasies were all too frequent and if you were around Mike when you started to day dream about him he would know. You’d hear him sniff the air and approach you with a wicked smile. 

That was how you ended up in your current situation, in Mike’s office, back against the wall with him fully sheathed inside you. 

Your head was thrown backwards in ecstasy, one hand holding onto the coat hook above you to help take some of the pressure off Mike and to steady yourself a little. Though steadying yourself was nearly impossible due to rough & deep pace that Mike was fucking you at. 

His face was buried into your neck inhaling your scent as your fingers dug into his back. Sometimes you felt you’d pass out with his size and just how exhausting your ‘after-hours’ sessions could be, this one was no different. As he pressed his lips to your neck and peppered it in kisses before picking a spot near your pulse where he started to suck you let out a cry. Unable to continue moaning quietly or letting out small gasps, the closer you came to orgasm the more difficult it became not to unleash all emotions and scream his name. 

Mike knew exactly what he was doing to you, though it wasn’t only you suffering and with tears in your eyes from the exquisite mixture of pleasure and a little pain. Mike too tried to stifle his groans into your neck as he broke the kiss and tried to muffle his animistic grunts. 

But there was no use, you both knew this. When you had a hold on one another and when you were caught up in the moment there was no stopping you. 

As he changed the angle of his thrusts and hit your g-spot you couldn’t help but cry out his name and a string of swear words which followed. You clenched round him wishing to elicit a similar stream of curses from him and it worked. 

He looked up from your neck, one hand now resting against the door by the side of your head while the other still held on tightly to your hips, nails digging into your flesh and likely to bruise like a peach. Your legs still wrapped round his waist only you squeezed your thighs tighter round him, your eyes never looking away from his. 

He kissed you unexpectedly, lips rough against yours, teeth and tongue and it was never enough. When he parted his lips from yours you let yourself go, finally unable to keep the noise to a minimum. Every time he drove into you, you panted loudly, moans and cries and Mike…yes, yes, fuck me, harder…..

“God I love you,” Mike panted in return, there was something so erotic about him saying such sweet words all while you could hear the sound of flesh slapping flesh and witnessed him practically drooling. 

You knew Mike was close to orgasm when he’d wrinkle his nose and scrunch up his eyes. The hand that had been by your head now reading between your legs to try and bring you to orgasm at a similar time. 

Just then you heard footsteps outside of the office, they approached quickly in a manner that seemed urgent. Loud and important, yes, two sets of footsteps. 

Your eyes widened as you heard Erwin’s voice, he appeared to be talking to Levi. There was no where else they could be heading apart from Mike’s office. Your cheeks flushed red, although they knew you were dating they’d never interrupted you or heard you sleeping together to your knowledge. This was one of the many downsides of Mike’s office also having his bedroom, bathroom. His entire living quarters with an entrance that was his office, convenient but also likely to be interrupted by others. 

Panic-stricken you looked at Mike, yours eyes begging him to stop for a moment so the others wouldn’t hear, so he could answer them and say he’d join them later. But instead Mike’s expression became one of a curious nature, if anything the sound of the others outside the door seemed to encourage him more. 

A wide smirk spread across his face as he buried himself in you once again, you went to cover your mouth to stifle your moans but Mike got there before you, his hand covering your mouth hard  as he continued to fuck you. 

A knock on the door, “Mike?”

Mike, still inside you, still with his hand over your mouth, stopped moving for a moment. 

“Erwin, give me 10 minutes would you?”

There was silence for a moment, the others must have heard the sense of urgency in his voice, the slight lack of control and increased heart rate. 

“We’ll wait for you.”

You didn’t know whether to giggle or cry, the thought of them being in ear shot of the two of you was both mortifying and exciting. 

Mike continued to move, slow at first but increasing his rhythm quickly. His hand was still over your mouth and you found yourself holding your breath, clenching and unclenching around his large length, wishing for climax.

Mike removed his hand from your mouth seconds before orgasm so he could return it back to between your legs. But so your sounds didn’t escape the room he bent down a little and pressed his shoulder into your mouth, your lips parted and your teeth found a home on his skin, biting down a little as you rode out your orgasm in time with his. 

A few moments of ecstasy, your grip on his shoulder loosening, sweaty foreheads then pressed together. You could feel Mike smiling without even looking at him.

As he grew soft and pulled out of you. You unwrapped your legs from round him and he gently placed you onto the ground. Your legs were so wobbly and shaky it was hard to walk so Mike guided you to the bathroom where he’d drawn a bath for you already. Steam rose into the room, the scent of lavender and vanilla heady in the air. 

“I won’t be long my love,” he said, kissing your cheek. 

“Then round 2?” You asked. 

Mike touched his shoulder where you’d bitten into him causing you to look away a little ashamed, but he responded with laughter, “Anything you say, though next time shall we try to keep it down a bit?”

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: Tea Rose

Prompt: Positions; every day the same. 

Group: B

-

Queen Takes Knight

Life in Storybrooke had a pattern, a routine that Mr Gold followed without deviation. Every day he would wake before six, shower and shave, and drink coffee while looking out over his rear garden. After breakfast, he would dress in a fine silk shirt and three-piece suit and drive into town to open his pawnshop. Every day he would study the precious objects he hoarded, cleaning each item, dusting his collection. Every day he made deals with the townsfolk, exchanging his money for their treasured items, his sarcasm for their desperate pleas.

Every day, he was in love with Belle French.

He had been in love with her for as long as he could remember: from the first moment she had knocked on his door on a stormy evening in October and asked if he had a place to rent. Her coat had been soaked through, tendrils of dark hair plastered to her shoulders, the cold air making her pale cheeks flush and rainwater glistening on her lips. Lightning had flashed behind her, a purple afterglow in his vision as it faded, and Gold had stared at her tongue-tied, the heart he had almost forgotten he possessed pounding hard in his chest. It had felt as though something momentous had happened, a seismic shift in the path his life was to take.

Of course, nothing had shifted in his life, at least nothing as far as Belle was concerned. He had offered her a small two-bed house at a ridiculously reduced rate, and drawn up a contract for a property he would lose money on as long as she lived there. His days remained the same, his life continuing its familiar routine. Except that he was utterly, completely in love.

In the dark of the night, he imagined telling her: marching into the diner where she worked, declaring his love and asking her to dinner. The dream never lasted long; his own insecurities would burst gleefully into life and feed him their predictions as to how that might go. In the best of the scenarios his mind conjured, she simply stared at him before walking away. In the worst, she laughed nastily and denounced him in public, inviting all of Storybrooke to laugh with her at the crippled pawnbroker twice her age. After that one, he let his demons drag him back down into the darkness, taunting him for daring to think he might ever be worthy of her.

His own mental torture aside, Gold was convinced that Belle thought him a total idiot. He had the unfortunate tendency to go non-verbal in her presence, and had caught himself staring at her with what was no doubt a vacant, cow-eyed expression of awe. She was too kind to mention it, of course, but all the same he tried to stay out of her way, and so he avoided the diner as much as possible. It was for the best. She would no doubt be charmed by one of the many infuriatingly rugged men that Storybrooke could boast before long. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand seeing it, as much as he wanted her to be happy.

It was October again, and a day that had been bright and clear was fading into the evening, the sun sinking below the horizon as he paced his shop. It was rent day, and he needed to finish his rounds, but he had been holding off on heading to the inn, leaving time for Belle to finish at the diner and head home. A coward’s way out, of course. A chess board sat on top of a small walnut table, its pieces carved and polished wood, light and dark. He had been playing a game against himself for some time, and stepped back to eye the positions of the pieces. Queen takes knight.

The shop bell tinkled, loud in the silence, and he turned too quickly, bumping into the table and making his bad leg throb and the chess pieces topple, rolling in curving circles on the board. Cursing under his breath, pain shooting through his leg, he started to right them, trying to remember their positions. Where was the white queen? Queen takes knight. Or was it knight takes queen? Where’s the bloody knight?

Shaking his head at his own clumsiness, he spied the black knight rolling on the floor at his feet, and bent to pick it up.

“Check.”

He glanced up at the sweet sound of Belle’s voice, taking a hurried step backwards and almost falling over his own feet. One hand flailed in the air, the other gripping the handle of the cane tightly before he could get it under himself and prevent an embarrassing and painful tumble. Belle had moved the white queen, taking a bishop and putting the king in check. She was giving him a quizzical look, a crease between her eyes, and he swallowed. No doubt she thought him a stumbling old fool. Lame. Weak.

“Sorry, Mr Gold, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, and he nodded stiffly.

“Okay.”

The word was bitten off, cut short, swelling in his mouth and flattening his tongue. He stared at her helplessly, and there was an awkward silence. Belle smiled briefly. There was a cardboard box in her hand, one of the boxes that the diner used for takeout cakes and pastries.

“I know you said I could leave the rent with Granny for when you do your rounds,” she said, “but I thought I might as well stop by on my way home.”

“Right.”

Rent was something he knew how to deal with, and so he managed to move, striding behind the shop counter. Belle turned in his direction.

“Did you hear there was someone new in town?” she said. “Henry Mills’ birth mother, I heard. Can you believe it?”

“Oh?” Well. Regina won’t like that.

“Yeah. Apparently he ran away to Boston to find her, and she brought him back.”

Gold brought up his rent ledger, setting it on the counter with a thump, and Belle moved closer, one hand resting on top of the polished wooden edging. He could see her painted nails, a dark red colour that suited her pale skin. In a moment of madness, he imagined how she might look in his bed, all that milk-white beauty spread out for him to worship and devour. She slid the cardboard box onto the counter, fingers brushing against his, and he shied away as though she had burned him.

“Are you okay?” she asked, a hint of a laugh in her voice. “You seem a little agitated.”

“Fine,” he said stiffly, and opened the rent ledger, the spine creaking as he flattened it out. “Cash?”

“Yes. Oh!” Belle rummaged in her bag, bringing out a roll of notes. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

He counted the money and wrote out the date, her name, the property address and the amount paid. Her perfume was distracting, drifting in the air around him, and he gritted his teeth as he tried to concentrate.

“Thank you,” he said again. “All paid up.”

“Great.” Belle seemed awkward, fingers tapping on the counter. “Oh - this is for you.”

She pushed the cardboard box towards him, and Gold frowned.

“What?”

“It’s for you,” she repeated. “Devil’s food cake. Granny made a fresh one, and it was almost gone, and I remember that chocolate cake is maybe the only thing I’ve seen you eat before, and - and so I thought maybe you’d like it.”

Gold looked at the box, then at her. She was smiling at him, blue eyes wide and with a hint of the nervousness he was feeling. He reached for the box, opening it up to reveal a thick slice of dark chocolate cake, topped with rich frosting. It smelled almost as good as she did.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s kind.”

She hesitated.

“It’s just that you don’t really come into the diner that often.”

“No.”

“But I think you’re lonely,” she added. “So I guess I wanted to say you don’t have to be. And maybe cake seemed like a way to do that.”

She was still smiling, and he stared at her, struck dumb by her beauty. The silence grew, and her smile faltered a little. She nodded, as though in confirmation of something, and took a step back.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” she said. “I’ll see you around, Mr Gold.”

“Yes.” He tried to force himself to speak in words of more than one syllable. “Undoubtedly.”

She nodded again, walking to the door. The bell chimed, and he wanted to pick up the ledger and beat himself to death with it. Still, it was rent day. He should do his rounds. Perhaps it would take his mind off the perfection of Belle French.

-

Emma.

Incredible, how a simple name could unleash a raging torrent of memories, dreams and nightmares. All his long, dark years, pouring into his head like poison. Bae. Belle. Every one of his deepest regrets vomited up for him to weep over. He had done that already, crouched in the back of his shop with his arms wrapped around his head, sobbing like a child. It hadn’t helped.

He had to see her, had to check whether she was real, or a hallucination, a dream born of his own guilt. He had to see her.

It started to rain when he left the shop, and a light shower quickly became a deluge. Gold walked on, letting the cold and wet pour over him, soaking his fine suit and flattening his hair. He knew the way to her home by heart, although he had never set foot in there since giving her the keys. The rain hissed in the growing puddles that formed, thunder rumbling, as it had been when they first met in this land. The tail end of the curse, he realised that now; the town had been forming around them, most of the inhabitants asleep, unaware that they had been transported to a new land, with new memories. A land without magic, and lives without meaning. Until now.

Lights were still on in Belle’s little house, warm and welcoming as he made his way up the path. He hesitated before knocking, praying that she would answer, that his mind hadn’t played another cruel trick. Movement behind the door gave him hope, and it opened, light spilling out and blinding him. Belle was staring at him, blue eyes wide, perfect lips forming a deep pink circle.

“Mr Gold!” she exclaimed. “You’re soaked!”

He reached out with a trembling hand, gently squeezing her shoulder.

“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re alive.”

“Last I checked.” She took his hand in hers, her warmth almost searing. “You’re freezing. Come in.”

He stumbled into the hallway, and she shut the door behind him. Water was dripping from him, drumming on the floor in a rapid, insistent rhythm, and Belle turned to face him. She was very close, close enough that he could feel the heat from her, and she lifted a hand to push a sodden lock of hair away from his eyes. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to step closer and cup her face with shaking hands. Belle inhaled sharply, staring into his eyes, and he bent to press his mouth to hers, swallowing her tiny moan as his tongue stroked, wet lips sliding. Belle tugged him closer, hands sliding up his back as he pushed her against the wall. Pain shot through his leg as the kiss grew harder, a deep groan rumbling up from within him. Eventually their lips parted, and he pressed his forehead to hers, tears streaming over his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he wept. “Oh Belle, I’m so sorry!”

She nuzzled his nose with hers, smiling slightly as her fingers sank into his wet hair.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she whispered. “Kiss me again.”

[krisseycrystal]

rated: t

fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist

prompt: “I’ve Got Your Fower, Babe” w/ Ed/Ling

requested by: @greecllings

my next fluff bingo prompt!!! THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE AH bless made me realize how much i need to write more of these two. damn they’re so fun. hope u enjoy !!

also feel free to request anything you see open on my fluff bingo! card!! 

- o - o - o -

Your Fool [Read on AO3]

Or, five times Ling held Ed’s proverbial flower while he threw himself headfirst into a fight, and one time Ed returned the favor.

- o - o - o -

The first time it happens, Ling isn’t prepared for the red jacket unceremoniously dumped in his arms. He is hardly prepared for the sight of Edward rolling his flesh shoulder, either, swearing up a storm as he strolls up to a stranger, shouting, “Hey! You wanna go? Yeah! Then let’s fucking go, bastard!”

This is why you let me be in charge, sneers the voice in his head. You clearly can’t control him.

“I don’t want to control him,” Ling confesses quietly, mesmerized as he watches Edward suplex a fellow automail wearer two or three times his size. “I wouldn’t get to see this happen.”

Whatever chaotic majesty of mud-wrestling the shit out of a random nobody this is. 

Why was Edward fighting this guy again?

Greed doesn’t answer until the brawl is nearly finished. Ling can practically hear a smug, knowing grin in his voice. Why, your highness…enjoying what you see?

Ling smiles. 

Despite what the homunculus likes to pride himself on, Greed hasn’t managed to know Ling inside and out yet if he thinks he’s going to get a rise out of him with that kind of poking-and-prodding.

“Of course I am,” he hums as he watches Ed once again drop the giant boulder of an ex-soldier into the dirt with a squelch. Ed is covered with the brown muck; it soils the golden shine of his braided hair and smears pale bronze of his sun-warm skin. It sticks the white button-up he wears close to his form. But the toothy grin the alchemist sends the prince’s way over his shoulder afterwards is still, somehow, pearly white. 

Ling’s fingers dig into the scarlet red of Ed’s jacket.

“Wow,” Greed and Ling say at the same time, but for entirely different reasons.

- o - o - o -

It’s funny to watch the ones who underestimate Edward. Sometimes, it’s the alchemist’s height that throws people off. The fools pick a fight because they think it’s an easy win. They say something uncalled for and Ed, inevitably, rises to the bait. 

Ling’s favorites are the ones that assume Ed is weak or slow because of his automail.

They are hunkering on the outside of an already-pretty-outskirt town up north that’s not north enough to be covered with snow year-round, but north enough to be hilly and craggly and with one of those neighborhoods that’s considered “historical” or some shit like that. It’s Greed and Ling’s turn for a supply run but Greed never does any actual chores so it’s Ling that sets out after guilting a sour-faced Ed to follow him as the pair of arms that will carry their bags back to camp. 

Except it’s somewhere along the way from the pharmacy to the grocery that Ling realizes he’s lost Ed and he’s not entirely sure how or why until he finds him in an alleyway between two dilapidated glasswork buildings. His flesh shoulder is pressed to the wall. Three burly men surround him.

The bag of medicine is held loosely in his hand.

“Well?” one of the idiots presses. The ringleader, if Ling had to guess.

Ling half-wonders if he should wait but then thinks what Ed would say if he knew he just stood there, so he puts a flat hand to the side of his mouth. “Yo, Ed! I’m open!”

“What?”

The muggers’ split-second of confusion ends the instant the white plastic pharmacy bag lands in Ling’s open hands and Ed’s metal fist collides with the jaw of the one pinning him to the wall. 

The fight is, rather unfortunately, over in a matter of seconds.

“Bastards.” Ed rings the wrist of his flesh hand with cool, metal fingers as he stands above them.

“H-how…?” the one now missing a tooth and eating snow to pay for it, rasps. “The hell’s a kid with automail so fast…?”

“You haven’t ever actually met someone with automail, have you?” The frown on Ed’s face is heavy and thick. Disapproving.

There’s something about the silence of the shamed privileged that Ling, who is undoubtedly yes, another privileged, will never tire of.

Ling’s chest is warm with pride. There’s a thousand and one more words he thinks he’d like to say to thumb-tack on to the end of this conversation. Something that will nail the idea into these thick knuckleheads that they are fools to have ever thought people who go through something like automail surgery are weak prey. 

But the words never make themselves out of his mouth because he must have a pretty dumb look on his face.

Ed’s giving him a weird stare. “What?”

“What?”

“Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Play it cool. Play it cool. “Like what?”

Ed’s nose scrunches up. He shakes his head. The ends of his golden tail dance against his shoulder-blades. “Whatever. We’ve got groceries to get, right?”

“Right.”

- o - o - o -

They reach the slums of Kanema and for the first time in who-knows-how-long, Edward sees his father, which is precisely when Ling prompts Greed to stick out their arm.

Ling can feel the question on Greed’s tongue that doesn’t surface. Maybe he’s already figured out the answer, because for the first time ever, the homunculus listens to him and outstretches one hand. Nearly immediately, the sleeping roll Edward had tucked under his arm flies into it as Ed flies at his father.

Oooo. Nice sucker punch. And at his old man, too. 

He’s holding back, Ling hums. 

It’s perhaps the only time Greed has ever willingly held something not his own.

- o - o - o -

For as many strengths as Edward Elric has, he has just as many weaknesses. Chief among them is his prioritization of Alphonse at the cost of anything and everything else, especially of his person. Though Ling supposes these faults are a given when said younger brother was the reason Edward had, for so many years, only one arm.

There is a period of time in between the Promised Day and when Ling ought to return to Xing that both Elrics are hospitalized as their bodies recover from their selective transformations. It is during these days that Edward, just as Ling predicts he will, doesn’t leave Alphonse’s side.

Ling, in turn, for some reason, though he tells himself over and over again it’s not because he misses the constant company of the damn voice in his head, hardly leaves Ed’s.

Riza Hawkeye convinces Ed to step away once Alphonse has gotten used to sleeping. The boy falls to slumber at odd, random moments, but he loves every minute of it. Edward, as Riza points out, can’t make water boil any faster by watching it.

So Ling oh-so-generously follows on Ed’s heels to the cafeteria because if there’s one thing Ed could be productive at while his brother is resting, it’s feeding himself and the future Emperor of Xing who really should be halfway across the desert by now but who’s keeping track.

Their trays of food are in their hands when they catch wind of a joke from a nearby table. Something about the amount of food on someone’s tray and that “twig kid” who could probably use it and oh, speaking of which, have you seen that guy? Supposed to be one of those amazing alchemists Mustang likes? He looks like something out of a horror movie--

--and Ling takes Edward’s tray out of his left hand without Ed even needing to ask.

Briefly, Ling wonders if it’s any use warning Ed he shouldn’t be using the arm still in its sling, but then he sees the look of terror on the military visitors’ faces and he doesn’t think of it again.

- o - o - o -

After months of separation and penned “I miss you’s” scribbled out to be replaced with, “How’s the winter in Creta?” Edward finally finishes his westward travels and returns home. And after he’s in Resembool for a month, or maybe it’s two, he relents to Ling’s persistent, annoying letters and agrees to visit Xing.

Alphonse warns Ling over and over again that Edward will be grumpy when he arrives. 

“He wasn’t kidding,” the young man says with earnest eyes that look so much like his brother’s, “when he said the reason he wasn’t going to travel east was because of his automail. It’s not going to be easy for him to cross that desert.”

Ling promises it will be fine. He will arrange for every comfort; Ed will want for nothing and know no pain during his journey.

Edward arrives on Ling’s palatial front doorstep with burns up his left thigh and a crick in his back and two sun-bitten ears and with a new straw hat Ling has never seen him wear before clenched tight in his hand. The instant Ed sees Ling, he launches into a train of expletives about the abysmal care that had been afforded to him and if Ling really wanted to see him so bad how come he didn’t give him a car instead of a horse and damn it he’s thirsty.

One of the horsemen handling his luggage mumbles something Ling doesn’t hear and immediately, Ed is on him.

It is second nature to grab the crumpled straw hat as it flies through the air.

Alphonse makes a strangled noise of distress, exhaustion, and maybe a little of, “I don’t know what I was expecting.” He launches himself down the steps at Edward to pull him off the attendant. “Brother!”

Ling has never seen anything more wonderful in his life. 

He plops the straw hat on his head and smiles.

- o - o - o -

It shouldn’t have to be said that an emperor does not fight.

It is assumed and understood that an emperor has trained assassins and warriors for a reason: that they handle his battles for him. He does not throw down his gauntlet or undo his robe. He is above the dirtying of his hands. He should not have to stoop to irrational, emotional displays. He is detached. His will is executed, while he can remain unchallenged.

But before he is an emperor, Ling is Ling.

And Ling is a lover.

And there comes the day he and Edward share a secret kiss behind the orchid tree in his palatial gardens and their fingers intertwine and that is the day that changes everything.

Edward has changed over the years.

So has Ling.

But Ling cannot and will not change his loyalty.

They are walking in the gardens together, again, as they have found that they like to do after they changed from two “I’s” to a together “we.” Ling idly spins an orchid they had found fallen on the stone pathway. Edward walks at his side, hands folded behind his back. Ling looks to him and smiles and thinks how badly Edward would hate to hear how much he looks like his father, now.

Then they hear the murmurings of a handful of court scholars who are also, at this early afternoon hour, taking refuge in the gardens. 

They hear Edward’s name.

It’s either “fucking ex-alchemist” or “fucking an ex-alchemist” and “for what?” in the same breath but Ling doesn’t want to nor need to hear the rest.

Edward’s dark scowl is replaced with confusion at the orchid dropped in the center of his palm. When he sees Ling’s face, however, even that melts away into a handsome, devilish smirk that Ling would hungrily press against his mouth if his hands weren't busy rolling up his robe sleeves.

“All right,” Ed says and twirls the orchid stem in between fingers that were once metal. “I’ve got your flower, babe.”

Ling does not round the hedge corner as an emperor. 

[takivvatanga]

review.

It’s ok to ask for help!

says the poster on the wall, in a room like so many others. Assire is no longer intimidated by rooms like this one. Two chairs, sometimes three. A table. The carpet patterned, a little bit threadbare. Water cooler in the corner. Sometimes there’s even plastic cups. Today, there’s none. It doesn’t matter. She’s not thirsty. A box of tissues on the table, right in the centre. In case you need to cry. Assire has set herself the challenge to never, never cry in one of these rooms, in front of one of the endless strings of people whose names she never remembers, but who are always so glad to meet her. Why do people say that, she wonders. Why say that when everyone knows that this is work, that she is work,nothing more than a name and a number written on a government form, an entry in a database, a bunch of papers in a file.  

“Assire? Are you listening to me?”

The teenager looks up, startled. There are dark circles under her eyes. Assire nods briefly, folds her hands in her lap.

“You look very tired.”

“I’m fine.” 

She tries to fake a smile, fails miserably. She’s never been good at pretending.

“I’m just… it’s hard. To be alone.”

It is, in fact, the hardest thing she has ever done.

Assire is not used to being alone. Back in the Community, there were always others. Her sisters, her parents, the other families. She remembers having meals at the big hall, the children at their own table, separated from the adults. She remembers the noise, the cramped space, sitting shoulder to shoulder between Jovanna and Cecilia, with Eviva curled up on her lap, a curly-haired toddler with chubby cheeks and sauce stains on her shirt. She remembers standing up, way up on the stage, holding her sisters’ hands while their voices soared, remembers the people below growing misty-eyed, their hands raised towards the skies. Like angels, people used to say. Those sisters sing like angels.

There’s a pub across from the boarding house where she now stays. They have concerts sometimes. In the summer, they open all the windows, the music drifting across the road and into her room. They are popular songs that people in the pub sing along with, rowdy and out of key, more shouting than singing. Assire doesn’t know the words, doesn’t recognise the melodies. Sometimes she tries to hum a harmony but she can never find the right key.

The woman’s name is Penny. At least Assire thinks so. Or is it Jenny? She has short blonde hair and reading glasses on a colourful lanyard. Her nails are painted red, perfectly shaped, not too long, not too short. Assire is ashamed of her own hands, dry and cracked, nails bitten almost to the quick. Penny’s (Jenny’s?) hands move quickly, clicking the pen, writing something down on an official looking form.

Assire can just make out the words Unsupported Youth - REVIEW printed along the top.

“Young people like you often feel lonely. You’re dealing with a lot, Assire. I want you to know that you don’t have to do it all on your own.”

It’s ok to ask for help!

But I do. I don’t have anyone else.

She nods again, smoothing out the folds in her sweatshirt. It’s too big for her, the colours are dull, washed out. The hem is starting to fray. She’s going to need to apply for a clothing allowance soon.

“Tell me about school.”

Assire’s eyes light up at the word, even though her body language remains guarded. She loves school and at the same time she loathes it. It is another world, full of discoveries, of surprises, but it’s not without danger. It is here that the feeling of not belonging, of being somehow displaced in a world that she can never quite make sense of is the most acute.

“It’s fine.”

“Your grades are very good.”

“I just like learning things.”

It is an understatement. Every day there is something new, another layer of lies that she used to believe peeled back. The earth is round, and it wasn’t created in seven days. Assire marvels at history, at geography, at biology. Literature made her feel guilty, at first. She never thought that such books, dealing with such matters could exist and that people should not only read them but discuss them so openly. Of course, she never joins the discussion, for fear of sounding stupid, of going red in the face, of stumbling over her words, of giving away the fact that she is, for lack of a better way of phrasing it, not from this world.

But it isn’t at literature that Assire excels – it’s mathematics. “Maths will likely be a struggle for you”, she was told when she started. “Given that you’ve always been a homeschooler. On such a restricted curriculum, too. You have a lot of material to catch up on.” In the end, she did much more than just catch up. She can’t explain how exactly it happened, it is as if she is being strung along on an invisible thread that runs between the numbers, the operations, a delicate web that Assire delights in untangling. Numbers don’t care where you came from, what you know of society, of people, of human nature. Numbers are absolute, perfect, logical. Numbers are black and white. Assire is good at black and white. She’s always been taught to think in absolutes.

“I’m trying for a scholarship. For university.”

As soon as she has said it, she feels stupid. The teenager looks up, furtive, half expecting Penny (Jenny?) to laugh at her. But she only smiles before writing something else down on her form.

“That’s fantastic, Assire. A really, really good idea. What do you want to study? Have you thought about that?”

Assire shrugs, feels her cheeks start to burn with embarrassment.  

“I really like… I don’t know. IT. I’ve been teaching myself a few things, just in the library.” ”What kind of things?”

Assire inhales sharply, her eyes growing wide. Is she in trouble? Should she have said that? Is this something bad, something wrong, something forbidden? She shifts in her seat, suddenly on edge.

“Just a few things nothing bad I swear! Just… a bit of C, Basic, Java. Languages. Honestly I’m not doing anything wrong I’m just-“

“Assire. It’s fine. I’m glad you’re doing something productive in your spare time. Something you enjoy.”

Penny (Jenny?) smiles a reassuring smile, reaches out to touch Assire’s arm with a reassuring gesture but thinks better of it when she sees the way the girl’s face closes, the way her body seems to fold in on itself as she flinches away from the touch.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’re safe, alright?”

“I’m okay.” Assire repeats. “I’m okay.”

“I don’t really know much about computers”, Penny (Jenny?) shrugs, twirling her pen between her fingers. An attempt to lift the mood. “It’s all a bit too complicated for me. Nothing wrong with pen and paper.”

“I think technology is important. Like, really important. For everyone.” Assire covers her mouth with her hand as soon as she says it. “Sorry. I… That was rude of me.”

“Not rude in the slightest. I think it’s really important that you speak your mind. You know. Have an opinion, and not be afraid to express it.”

It’s Assire’s turn to shrug. She wants to know why this is important. It’s not like she talks to anyone anyway. Beyond the people she meets in rooms just like these, of course.

“How are you getting on with, you know. Making friends. What we talked about last time.”

Of course. Of course it had to come down to this. Making friends. All Assire knows is that making friends is most definitely not her forte. She never knows what to say, how to behave, who to be. She is endlessly awkward, her mind full of thoughts that she doesn’t dare voice, ideas that she doesn’t dare share.  

“Good. Yeah, really good.”

Penny (Jenny?) gives her a look, over the rim of her glasses, sharp and more than just a little annoyed. She’s been working with young people for a long time and knows exactly when she is being lied to.

Better than you have tried, sweetheart.

“Don’t lie, Assire. Please. You’re better than that. Listen, you’re not in trouble. This… this talk isn’t about getting you in trouble. I’m not sitting here expecting you to answer my questions a certain way. All I want to know is how you’re getting on. Honestly. So I can find a way to support you. Do you know how many kids we get trying to get onto Unsupported Youth every month? A hell of a lot. Do you know how many can maintain it? Bugger all. Because it’s a lot to ask of a teenager, all these rules and all these appointments, keeping a roof over their head, keeping up with schoolwork, budgeting… I mean, you know how it is. And most kids, well, they don’t have to learn how to do all of these things first. They’re not trying to understand what is basically another world on top of everything else.”

“I’m not lying I’m just… I’m just…” This is a losing battle, and Assire knows it.

“I’m… I just need some time. I want to focus on school. And work. Other people… it’s too much.”

I’m too different.

“Can I… can I please go now? I got a paper due that I need to finish, and I got work tonight.”

“Sure. Would you like a ride home?”

”No. No thank you. I’ll walk.”

“Alright.”

Assire, visibly relieved, pulls on her jacket, picks up her backpack. The weight of the books stashed inside is solid, comforting. Something real, something to ground her. The girl takes care to push her chair close to the table, brushes a strand of greasy curls off her face as she makes her way to the door. She stops with her hand on the handle, casts a quick glance back over her shoulder.

“... Penny?”

“It’s Jenny. But never mind that, I been called much worse I can assure you. What is it?”

This time, Assire’s smile is genuine. It’s small, timid, tightlipped, awkward as anything, but it is there and it is real. 

“Thank you.” 

[megalony]

Bring him here

Another dad! Roger Taylor imagine that is part of my Loving Charlie series, this is a flashback part which I hope you will all like.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @luvborhap @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez

Series masterlist

Enjoy.

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

Roger watched the two band members in front of him as he slowly nodded his head to the lyrics Freddie was singing. A slightly crumpled piece of paper clasped int he singers right hand that he was reading from, trying to find a good beat to sing to. Twirling the drumstick between his fingers, Roger continued to nod his head to Freddie's singing before he started to tap out a beat on the snare drum. Doing a quick three-beat rhythm, hitting the drum harder on the third beat as he watched Freddie smile and nod as he continued to sing.

Brian adjusted the headphones hanging around his neck before he started to strum a riff, changing a few notes here and there until he was happy with it.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Roger looked down to his drumkit as he started to get more creative, adding a few beats of the bass drum before clashing his foot against the pedal for the cymbals. His head continued to rock back and forth in time with the beat as he got more experimental with the beat to see what else would work.

Just when they seemed to be making some progress, each of them stopped what they were doing when a sudden round of tapping burst through the room. Picking his head up so he wasn't looking at his drumkit, Roger stared ahead of him and saw John tapping on the glass separating the controls from the recording room. He was hitting the glass gently but enough to make a noise, tapping the window with the end of the telephone that was clasped in his hand.

Reaching over with his left hand, John pressed the intercom button on the control panel in front of him when they all looked at him, needing to know who was wanted on the phone.

"Rog, it's (Y/n)... sounds urgent."

Setting the drumsticks down in front of him, Roger pushed himself to his feet as he hurried for the door followed by both Brian and Freddie. Now was as good a time as any to take a break especially if something seemed to be wrong at home for Roger. Things had been hectic for Roger over the past two years with him and (Y/n) having Charlie. The band had taken a break when Charlie was born so Roger could be at home but when they found out about Charlie's disorder things had to change.

There were times Roger needed to head back home quickly or come in later because it was hard for (Y/n) to look after Charlie on her own. All of the band had been in a state of shock when (Y/n) came into the studio a few weeks back with Charlie in her arms who had knocked over a cup of hot tea and scolded himself. Or when they saw how Charlie had scratched at his face and drawn blood without meaning to because he didn't feel anything.

Perching himself on the edge of the table, Roger nodded at John when he handed the phone over.

"Hello? Sweetheart calm down... what's he done?" Moving his feet out, Roger perched them on one of the swivel chairs in front of him as his free hand knitted in his hair. He tried to take deep breaths so he didn't panic but the more he listened to what (Y/n) had to say the more he felt his heart beginning to beat that little bit faster. He felt his lungs inflating with more air than they could handle at the way (Y/n)'s voice rose as she tried not to cry as she hurriedly asked Roger what she was meant to do. "Come here, bring him here first."

Roger started to pull at the strands of hair at the back of his head as if he was trying to relieve them from his scalp. His head nodding even though he knew (Y/n) couldn't see that kind of response.

When he hung up the phone a minute later, Roger looked down to his feet as he tried to stop the fluttering of panic in his chest and stomach that was making his foot jitter up and down from the sudden rush of adrenaline. Roger looked up when Freddie rested a hand on his shoulder, silently asking if he was okay and what had happened. Clasping his hands together in front of him, Roger let his shoulders hunch over, his body leaning forwards as his frame turned rigid.

"She's bringing Charlie here... h-he's chewed through his lip, she said he's covered in blood she doesn't know what to do." Roger knew that they most probably would need to go to the hospital but he wanted to see for himself how bad it was and by the way (Y/n) was talking it was far from good. The hospital was near to the studio anyway so it would be like a pit stop to collect Roger so he could go with them.

Small conversations floated around in the air but they didn't last very long as no one knew what they were meant to say. They didn't want to just blast into a new conversation and act like everything was fine but at the same time, no one could just sit around and wait because it felt more awkward. They needed to talk about something or do something to pass the fifteen minutes they had to wait for (Y/n) to get down to the studio.

The moment Roger saw his wife walking up the corridor to reach them he flew from where he was sitting to meet her halfway.

He rested his hands on her arms as he took in her state. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the veins prominent on the whites of her eyes as tears were falling down her features. One arm was wrapped around Charlie, her other hand resting to the back of his head as he seemed rather calm resting in her arms as if he were going to sleep. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line as Roger felt her trembling. (Y/n) hated having to call Roger up at work or come down like this when something was wrong but she didn't know how to react or what she was meant to do. It wasn't as if Charlie was in floods of tears or screaming in pain, he was perfectly happy and content and that made it worse.

"I- I took my eyes off him for two minutes I swear, a-and the next he was..." (Y/n) hadn't left Charlie to his own devices for more than two minutes. She had sat him down on the sofa and disappeared to the bathroom but the moment she came back he was sitting there with blood dripping from his lips that were curved into a smile as he watched the tv he couldn't understand.

"Give him here." Roger responded gently, his eyes showing he knew it wasn't her fault. Charlie couldn't be watched every second of every day, it wasn't possible and (Y/n) would never neglect Charlie or just leave him.

(Y/n) gently eased Charlie from her arms into Rogers, biting her nail as she watched Roger's expression go from worried to traumatised in seconds when he looked at his boy. Charlie was smiling around the dummy resting between his lips but there was a lot of blood. There was blood on (Y/n)'s shoulder, blood smeared around Charlie's cheeks and blood dripping down his chin and onto his clothing.

The two-year-old had a scratch on his cheek that had happened last night when Roger was home. They had to keep buying him onesies with the hands enclosed so he couldn't scratch at himself which is what he was wearing now.

Reaching down Roger took the dummy from his son's lips, handing it to (Y/n) as he peered at Charlie's lips. There were one or two little marks on his upper lip where he must have caught his lip with his teeth but it was his lower lip that was the problem. His lower lip had a lot of bite marks but there was one that was causing all the bleeding. Charlie must have pulled his lip between his teeth and just chewed as if he thought his lip was a toy. If he couldn't feel pain or feel much of anything he wasn't likely to stop.

"Brian?" Roger's tone was rather questioning as he called for the guitarist, turning his head to look at his friend as he bounced his son on his hip. "Can the hospital do anything for this?" He whispered the words as Brian stood at his side, peering over at the toddler, his lips parting in shock but no words were formed.

"I... um... I don't think that would require stitches. Maybe just put some cream on and let it heal?" Brian was at a loss for suggestions.

Charlie hadn't torn all the way through his lip and there wasn't a significant tear that would require stitching, the gash was too small for that. If Charlie was in pain then they could have taken him to hospital and gotten him an injection to numb his lip but not much could be done for it.

Roger seemed to pale to the point he was almost see-through but he nodded all the same. Looking down to watch Charlie lean his head on his shoulder, closing his eyes as he seemed to be rather tired now. Leaning down Roger pressed his lips to the top of Charlie's head before motioning for (Y/n) to follow him down the corridor. He grabbed the small green medical box they kept in the next room for emergencies and headed to the bathroom.

(Y/n) leaned against the counter in the bathroom, gently brushing her fingers through the curls on Charlie's head when Roger set him down next to the sink. Turning the tap on cold, Roger tried to clean Charlie's lips and cheeks as much as he could. Wiping away the blood before manoeuvring Charlie so he could run the cold water over his lip to try and stop the blood flow that was already beginning to slow down.

A smile made its way onto Roger's lips when Charlie flicked some of the water at him, giggling when he saw how it made Roger smile which prompted him to do it again.

"Cheeky boy." Roger commented quietly as he sat Charlie back down on the counter. Reaching for some sudocrem as (Y/n) took out some cream from her bag that was more for mouth ulcers but it would do for the inside of Charlie's lip that he had bitten. It did help that Charlie wasn't crying or screaming or writhing around in pain because it made it much easier to help and treat him but at the same time it was worrying that he didn't cry when accidents like this happened.

After putting some cream on his lip, Roger took out a small plaster and put it just under his lip, covering some of his chin in an attempt to stop him from rubbing the cuts or scratching at them.

"All done." Roger stated quietly, taking the dummy (Y/n) had placed on the counter so he could run it under the tap before giving it back to Charlie.

"Doesn't look as bad now, does it?" (Y/n) spoke gently but her tone was almost broken. His lips were burning an inflamed red shade and his lower lip was beginning to swell but the plaster covered most of the damage. It was as if Charlie was fine now he had that plaster on. Almost as if (Y/n) had overreacted when she saw what Charlie had done in so little time but she hadn't known what else to do. He had covered himself and her in a lot of blood that wouldn't stop and his lip looked torn to pieces before. 

Now all it seemed was a cleanup and a plaster could make all the difference in the world.

"Take off the plaster and it will. If something like this happens again just come down here, I don't care how mild it is or how bad it seems just come get me. This is bad, I don't want you worrying on your own." Roger didn't want (Y/n) to think that she had to worry on her own and that calling Roger or coming down to the studio would be annoying or a waste of their time. If something happened to Charlie Roger wanted to know even if it was just a bump on the head or a scraped knee.

Reaching his arm out, Roger wrapped it around (Y/n)'s waist so he could pull her to his chest. Relaxing as she smiled and nodded in response before he pressed his lips to her own. Slowly pulling back, Roger turned to look at Charlie who had taken it upon himself to lean against Roger's arm as if asking for attention. Unwinding his right arm from (Y/n), Roger scooped Charlie up, holding him to his chest before leaning his forehead against (Y/n)'s. A smile forming on his lips.

[minyoongijjangjjangmanboongboong]

Sweet Dreams Chapter Four

Lucid dreaming: The process of being aware that one is dreaming. Some researchers believe that in lucid dreaming, the individual may be able to change the outcome of the dream or control their degree of participation in the imaginary (dream) environment.

Description: Lee Eunbyul has been plagued with hellish nightmares since she was a child. Not the sort of nightmares you may be familiar with. There are no monsters to evade, no serial killers to outrun, no auditoriums of classmates in front of whom to stand naked. Instead there is just…darkness. Endless darkness. With professional help, the dreams come less frequently. But after moving away from home to live with her sister, Eunbyul’s nightmare returns, only this time it’s different. This time…she’s not alone.

What would you do if you had the chance to change the outcome of not only your dreams, but your life?

Genre: Romance, Drama, Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn

Pairing: Namjoon x (f) OC

Word Count: 6.8k

Tags: Non-Idol!Au, Producer!Namjoon, Bookstore Clerk!Seokjin, Potter!Jimin, Producer!Yoongi, Dancer!Hoseok

Warnings: Frequent mentions of mental illness, infrequent swearing and mentions of alcohol

A/N: Hiya! Let’s get this bread! I saw the Wembley concert, and I’m so proud of the boys oml. I hope they’re resting enough and taking some time for themselves these days. Anyway, please don’t be shy and send feedback, critique, questions, theories, and comments my way. I’ll be sure to respond to all asks I receive within a day of receiving them!

And again, if you want to follow my Twitter, my username is @/plzpunchmebts. I’m super active over there and hopefully in the future I’ll do some livestreams/chats with you all!

- Mercury

Previous Chapter – Next Chapter

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Namjoon

“How long is she gonna be here?” whispered Yoongi out the corner of his mouth, eyeing me.

I turned to him and sighed, shrugging. After leaving the first time, Hani had returned this morning with coffee and bagels that were still untouched on the marble countertop. It had been three hours and she was still lounging on the couch, flipping aimlessly through cable channels with her jaw unhinged in a gape, eyes listless.

Yoongi looked worse for the wear with his dark hair standing on end in clumps from fitful sleeping and his scrutinizing eyes adorned with lilac circles that sunk into his sockets. He’d been up late finishing a beat, I was certain. And, unlike me, the beats he made actually became songs. Songs he made money on…

I shook my head. “She doesn't wanna be alone.”

“Well I do,” mumbled Yoongi, crossing his arms with a frown. We stood side by side at the entrance to the kitchen, and Hani hadn’t even looked over her shoulder once to notice our gossiping.

And that only made me worry more.

“I’m sorry, Yoongi,” I whispered, my eyes falling to my roommate’s slippered feet.

For a moment, Yoongi remained rigid, unmoved by my apology, arms still crossed and, I was sure, still scowling. But after a few seconds his frustration gave way to a resigned sigh and his hands dropped to his thighs. He waved a hand at me and turned on his heel toward the kitchen counter where cold coffee and stale bagels waited.

“Just worried about you,” he said under his breath as he passed, and he didn’t stick around long enough for me to ask him to repeat himself, because once he’d snatched his food and drink his back was fast retreating to the cold darkness of his bedroom.

I smiled softly after him. Like a cat, I thought to myself with a sigh as I took a peek at Hani over my shoulder. She seemed to have found a channel she could live with, and was staring slack-jawed at the wide TV on the wall like a kid on a Sunday morning, watching cartoons. Only she was watching the news.

“Local bookstore ranked number one in the district,” called an enthusiastic broadcaster with a bright white grin. She consulter her notes for a second before gesturing toward the green screen behind her where a video began to play. “Hyejin’s Books is a locally owned and family-run business spanning three generations,” continued the newswoman as footage of a two-story, lichen-ridden brick building played across the screen. Vaguely familiar… “We had an interview with Hyejin herself, who was just a baby when her grandparents opened the shop.”

The footage changed to a young girl standing at the counter, hanging planter baskets swinging beside her head and a big, bright window behind her. She looked as ordinary as anyone, but it was clear the girl was passionate about the family business as she talked. The footage changed to a shot of the shop itself, rows and rows of tall bookshelves spanning across the floor. And, beside a wall of windows overlooking the city, was a single patron. Head down, baseball cap covering her face, swimming in clothes too big for her small frame…

“Ah!” I said, snapping my fingers with a laugh.

Hani jumped and turned to me. “Jesus, when did you get there?” she asked with a halfhearted laugh.

I smiled my apology and came to sit beside her, pointing at the screen as the girl pulled her had further down her forehead, revealing nails bitten down to the skin. “Sorry,” I said with a sigh. “I know that girl.”

Hani cocked a brow. “I thought I was the only girl you knew.”

I laughed and gave her shoulder a shove with my own. “She bumped into an old lady on the bus the other day. Didn’t even apologize.”

“That’s rude,” remarked Hani as she examined a cuticle, poking it with her fingernail with care. “Could’ve at least said sorry.”

I pursed my lips and stared at the girl onscreen, visibly uncomfortable being on tape as she hunched over her book and tipped her head down low. “I…I don’t think she was being rude,” I said, then shook my head. “Anyway, what’s your plan for today?” I asked, eyes wide and pleading as she looked my way. I wasn’t sure how much gentler I could be…

She raised her brows and pursed her cherry lips. “Mm,” she mumbled in a pout. “Figured we could hang out? Maybe catch some lunch.”

I rubbed my forehead and sighed, glancing back at the television as the shot changed back to the newswoman, sitting proper with a bright smile. The difference between her and that hunched, hat-wearing, stranger from the bus was almost comical. I smiled and leaned back against the couch cushions with a heavy sigh.

“I mean, only if you have time today,” said Hani quickly, turning to me with round brown eyes.

I met her gaze for only a brief second before swallowing hard and looking someplace else, anyplace really. “I…I’ve got time,” I said slowly, and I felt the skin of my cheeks burning up. I watched my hands as they knotted and unknotted.

I knew I needed to tell her to stop. I knew I needed to create a space between her and me, a space that was not only impregnable, but unchanging. I couldn’t keep flip-flopping like this moment to moment. Even if it felt like she needed me more than anyone else. Even if it felt like betrayal to turn her away.

Even if it makes you feel uncomfortable or scared.

I furrowed my brow. The words entered my mind as if someone else had spoken them, like a friend’s thoughts playing in my head. “But Hani, I said this before and I think I need to tell you again…I don’t think us spending so much time together is healthy,” I said, eyeing her.

She sat up straighter and glanced at me through her lashes. “I…I get it,” she said with a nod and a melancholy smile. She let her eyes fall to her lap and tilted her head to the side. “It’s just…I dunno, Joohee and the others get it but they don’t like…get it get it like you do, you know?” She shook her head. “I know it’s a burden, but I’m just kind of rattled right now. That’s all. I’ll leave now if that’s better.”

She shifted as if to leave and, on their own accord, my hands reached out and clasped around her forearms, holding her still. She turned to me with wide eyes and raised her brows. I felt in that moment both massive and tiny under her scrutiny.

“It…it’s fine,” I said, releasing her arms and falling back against the couch with a cough. “You don’t have to go anywhere. Let me just…get ready and we can go get something to eat.”

She settled back down and, eyes still locked on me, nodded her head once. “As long as you’re sure it’s okay.”

I smiled her way. “I am.” I wasn’t…

Hani laughed, vibrant, as the two of us sat on a picnic bench outside, watching the ocean with twin ice cream cones as the day wore on and on. “Your whole arm is gonna be sticky,” she said with another laugh as I examined my skin, melted cream sliding down to my elbow.

I grabbed a napkin and dabbed at it, but it was no use. She was right. I’d be sticky for the rest of the day, if not the rest of my life. “Damn,” I mumbled with a chuckle as she continued giggling at my expense.

Better than staring at the TV screen like a zombie, I thought idly as she ran a hand through her hair, the soft sunlight turning her ends slightly red. She looked like something from a different world, an older world. The sun was like a blanket around her, and her soft smile glowed in the backlight.

I cleared my throat and returned to my ice cream, not pooling in the bottom of the cone as it melted fast under the unsympathetic sun. My eyes strayed to the ocean, the tops of waves glittering with every crest and fall. “Say,” I began, eyeing her, “remember graduation?”

She raised her brows before breaking into a grin and, laughing, nodded her head. “Of course I do. I got smashed at Chan’s house and you came to pick me up because I puked on my shoes and started crying.”

I chuckled and nodded, watching the water sway. “I came down here and you followed me.”

Her laughter paused and I felt her grow serious. She exhaled slowly and nodded, letting her own ice cream spill onto her skin. “Yeah…”

“Went around the cliff, climbed on the rocks, and…”

“I remember,” she said with a long exhale. “Wish I didn’t.”

“Yeah, me too.”

She rested her cheek in her hand, pushing the flesh on her face, and her eyes reflected the sea. “Think we’d still be together if not for that?”

I stiffened and furrowed my brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, like, what if we never went down there?” she asked, peeking up at me. “What if I never told you?”

I chuckled, disbelieving, and stared down at her with wide eyes. “Hani, whether you told me or not, you still cheat-,”

“Don’t say it!” she called, sitting up straight with eyes squeezed shut and waving her hands. “I was young and stupid and had no business being in a relationship.”

“And still…I stayed,” I said with a scoff. “Hani, did you like me because I’m a masochist?”

Hani opened her eyes and laughed, tossing her head back. As the bright sound of her laughter filled the summer air, I turned again to look at the water. “You know what? Probably,” she said through laughs.

I smiled and nodded, resting my cheek against one balled fist. A group of teens wandered along the sand, tracing the waterline with their footsteps as they waves lapped at their toes. I watched as a young boy grabbed a young girl by the shoulders and gave her a shake, like he may shove her right into the ocean. As she jumped, she lurched against him and he wrapped both arms around her stomach and the two sauntered on that way. The girl didn’t seem to mind being toyed with. She didn’t seem to mind at all.

“Ah, Joon, I think your phone’s going off,” Hani said, pointing one finger toward my cell on the table.

I grabbed for it and as I read the name on the screen I couldn’t fight the smile that spread across my face. “One second,” I said to Hani, standing with my soggy ice cream cone and walking toward a trashcan along the beach. I pressed the phone to my ear with a grin. “Somi.”

“Ah! The great PD Kim Namjoon has the time to take his lowly sister’s call!” Somi teased.

I rolled my eyes, tossing my cone in the trash, and crossed my arms as I meandered onto the sand. “I have all the time in the world to talk to you,” I said with a frown. “You’d know that if you called me more.”

She groaned. “God, you sound like Mom.”

“Well you sound like a stranger,” I complained, watching my sneakers sink into the beige sand below, each step taking me closer to the blue horizon. “When can I treat you to dinner?”

She sighed. “Joonie, you know it’s tough to make time these days,” she said gently, but I sensed something else there, lurking underneath the surface.

I cocked a brow. “Is it because of him?” I said, clenching my fist.

“No, it’s not like that,” she said, but I could tell from her tone alone. It was indeed like that. “Listen, I just wanted to hear your voice. I’ve been spending so much time alone reading these days, I feel like a damn hermit.”

I snapped my fingers and jumped a little. “Shit I just realized it!” I called aloud.

She laughed. “Huh?”

“Sorry! I was watching the news this morning and this bookstore was a feature story,” I said, shaking my head. “I couldn’t figure out why it looked so familiar, but now I remember.”

“Ah! Hyejin’s?” she asked, and it was clear she was smiling.

“Yeah,” I said with a smile. “I remembered the rows of books.”

“I can’t believe you remember it at all, you were so young,” she said with a laugh. “I still go there, you know.”

I smiled. “They won a competition or something. Best bookstore in the district.”

She sighed. “It’s nice there,” she said. “I feel like I can breathe, you know?”

“Maybe we should meet up there sometime,” I offered, holding my breath as I awaited an answer.

“Oh!” she said, quick to respond with a laugh. “That would be great actually.”

“Alright then. Let’s go tomorrow then, okay? No backing out,” I said, smiling. “I need to take a picture of you to send to Mom so she doesn’t think I’m lying.”

She joined me in laughter. “It’s a deal, kiddo.”

“Who was it?” asked Hani as she licked the tip of her index finger, smiling softly.

I settled down at the picnic table beside her and sighed. “Somi.”

Her eyes flashed toward me and she grinned. “Ah! How is she?”

I hummed, resting my cheek in my hand, and let my eyes wander along the lines of the woodgrain. “Hard to say.”

“She still with that guy?” she asked, pursing her lips and scrunching her brows as she tried to recall the name. “Hanbin?”

With a sigh, I nodded my head. “Yeah,” I said, shrugging. “It’s her life anyway.”

“Still don’t get along with him?” she teased.

I eyed her. It hadn’t been long since our breakup. Two months maybe. And we’d seen each other plenty in the interim. For her to be so curious, as if we were old friends meeting up after a long time…

It was odd.

I offered her a smile and tilted my head to the side. “You ready to go?” I asked, keeping an eye on her as her back stiffened and she raised her brows at me. “It’s probably a good time to get you home.”

The air was still as I peeled my eyes open. Darkness. I sighed and sat upright, rubbing my forehead. Lucid dreaming again. I turned to the right, stretching out my back, and saw lying on her back, a girl.

Eunbyul.

I exhaled slowly and it felt like the first breath after being underwater too long. As she slowly began to awake, her short nose twitched a little and her eyes moved rapidly behind the lids. Her fingertips wiggled, and so did her bare toes. Tonight, no glasses. Without them, it was easier to see her features. And I remarked with some chagrin how pretty the girl actually was. I watched her face for a moment, trying to memorize the details. In the morning, there’d be nothing left of her. Not even a memory. I clung desperately to even the smallest freckle, the curling ends of black eyelashes, the shades of red and amber in her skin.

Maybe, if I cemented it in my memory…

Her eyes flashed open and I quickly shut my own, focusing on the beach. The lilac sky, the sunset, the waves. The scene that I recalled on my hardest days. The scene I recalled the first night we met. When Eunbyul awoke, she awoke on the sand, the sound of waves lapping at the shore muffled by the gentle breeze.

I glanced down at her with a smile and the moment she looked at me, really looked at me properly, she smiled too and sat up straight. “Hey,” she said softly, eyes and lips puffy from sleep as she rubbed her cheeks.

I chuckled. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too,” she said, then glanced around. “Ah!” she said, a knowing grin spreading across her face.

“You remember?”

“Mhm.”

I watched her in profile, golden, dying sunlight tracing her skin, and chuckled at the wonder in her eyes. “Pretty, right?”

She nodded. “Really,” she said with a nod. “But…why are we here again? I thought you were gonna show me something nice tonight.”

I stiffened. I had had something else planned, hadn’t I? A date, or something like that. At a restaurant in Jeju. I blushed, remembering it, and scanned her from above. Wasn’t it kind of conceited anyway? To assume she’d want to do something like that with me? Just because of this dream we had?

It seemed that plan was dead…

“Ah…you’re too quick,” I said with a breathy laugh. She eyed me with raised brows. “Just…that ex I mentioned.”

She sighed. “Still haven’t set your boundaries?”

“I…,” I began, then sighed and ran my hands through my hair with a hopeless shake of my head. “No.”

She nodded. “Well…what’s going on with her?” she asked as she eyed me sidelong.

I swallowed hard and shrugged. “I dunno. I just…I get the feeling she’s trying to get back together.”

“Hm?”

“Like…she’s acting like we didn’t break up. Like we just took a break and now we’re back to normal,” I said, then shook my head. “But that’s not quite right either.”

She nodded, watching the waves, and stood to her feet. I jumped at her sudden movement and followed suit, eyes wide. “Let’s swim,” she said, pointing at the water.

I blinked down at her. “I…I mean, we don’t have bathing suits or anything-,”

“It’s a dream anyway. What’s it matter?” she asked, brows low and lips pursed. “I wanna swim.”

“I-If you want…,” I conceded with a bit of reluctance.

She nodded and tromped through the sand toward the water. I walked a few paces behind her, watching her back as she stepped into the waves. One foot, tentative, and then the other. And then, with her back to me, she shouted into the open air, “I won’t say this to your face, but I think you deserve better!”

Quietly, I watched her as she patted down her pajama shorts and took another step in, up to her knees. She turned around and glanced at me, brows raised almost like she was challenging me, hair waving around her chin. She jerked her head toward the water, endless in front of her, and blinked.

I chuckled, rubbing my forehead, and jogged in after her. I didn’t mind, even when the bottoms of my sweatpants got soaked, even when the water sprayed against my face and stained my shirt, even when the wind whipped sand into my eyes. I just found my place beside her and stood there, half my calves drenched, my skin growing warm under the sunlight.

“She was here after graduation,” I said with a nod. “With me.”

Eunbyul nodded and, keeping her gaze on the horizon, hummed a little. “I thought you came alone?”

“I did. But she followed me.”

“Is that why you like coming here?” she asked, turning to scan me from below. “Because it reminds you of the good times you had with her?”

I smiled and shook my head. “No.” I lowered my hands into the cool water, letting it wash over my fingers up to the first knuckle. “It’s the opposite.”

“How do you mean?”

“She cheated on me,” I said slowly, testing out the words. I laughed. “That’s the first time I’ve said it out loud before.”

She stared at me with serious, downturned eyes. Sympathy was etched into the set of her brows, the clench of her jaw. “I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry.” I chuckled. “It’s been so long, I guess it doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”

“When you graduated high school…?” she began, then realization dawned on her as her mouth opened into a gape. “Ah, shit. Did she tell you here?”

I nodded. “She did.”

“How did it happen?” she asked, then shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to cross a line.”

I smiled down at her and let my wet knuckles brush against hers. For the briefest, strangest of seconds, I considered grabbing hold of her hands, lacing our fingers. Blushing, I cleared my throat and smiled at the water swaying around our legs. “There’s no line when you’re in a dream together.”

She laughed a little and I settled at the sound, sighing. “I guess not.”

“Anyway, I guess she’d been hooking up with this guy, Chan, for a few months. We’d been dating since we were sixteen. I think she wasn’t ready to be steady with one person, so…she strayed. I should have seen it coming, I think,” I said with a sigh.

“You can’t blame yourself,” she said softly. “Some things…are really just out of your control.”

I shrugged, recalling the evening. Graduation.

And, like a memory resurfacing from somewhere deep in my brain, it appeared behind us on the sand. Two teenagers tracing the waterline, a young boy leading the way as a girl follows several drunken paces behind. I could hear it all, every footfall, every curse uttered under breath.

I turned to Eunbyul with wide eyes. “I-I, Eunbyul I have no idea-,” I began, then shook my head, heart racing, as I watched myself collapse on the sand, just a few feet away.

Eunbyul reached up and placed a hand on my shoulder, and as my eyes fell, horrified, from the scene to her face, I felt my pulse slow down, my chest relax. She was looking right up at me, no judgement, no discomfort. Just raised brows, like asking for permission.

“I won’t look if you don’t want,” she said, ready to turn back toward the sunset.

I watched with knit brows as Hani stumbled toward me and fell beside my hip, leaning heavily against my side with a giggle. Her long, waving hair blowed like silk in the breeze and her eyes shut against the pink apples of her cheeks. I chewed on my lip, unable to tear my eyes away from the memory for a moment, before I managed a simple sentence.

“Watch,” I said, despite my better judgement. Despite rationality.

Because, for some sick reason, I wanted her to see it. I wanted somebody to see it. I wanted somebody to understand.

Because pain shared is pain divided.

Or something like that.

Eunbyul’s eyes didn’t move from my face for a long moment, terribly long. But slowly, she sighed, nodded, and turned to watch the sand properly. “It’s like having a front row seat at the movies,” she remarked, crossing her arms. “Like when they play movies on the big screen at the public pool.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle and as I did, I saw Eunbyul’s shoulders lower, like she’d been holding them pinched in tension before. I smiled. “Kinda, huh?”

She stood there, backlit, brows low and serious as she watched. “Can’t see very well,” she mumbled.

“Oh, your glass-,”

Before I could continue, Hani spoke. “Joonie,” she said gently, holding onto the me from the past with her head in the crook of my neck. I still remembered how it felt. “I’m sorry I’m a mess.”

The me from before sighed, holding her with one arm around her shoulders. “I love you anyway.”

She stiffened. It was the first time I’d ever said that. Two years together, and neither of us had said that. And as she pulled away to look at me, I remembered my heart racing. I could almost hear it from the water. She scanned my face, her eyes glowing with sunset, and instead of saying a single word in response, she wrapped both arms around my neck and crashed herself against me, like waves against the sand. I remembered her lips. The bitter taste of leftover alcohol, the hot breath. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I didn’t mind.

I never minded.

She kissed me like she was starving, like my loving her could sustain her. Neither of us knew yet that it couldn’t. That someone else’s love can’t keep your head above water. We were sincere, at least in that moment. I needed to love her as much as she needed to be loved. And maybe that was the problem from the start.

As the me from my memory guided her back against the sand, I winced. It was coming, and even in the memory I could feel it. That sense of foreboding. Anticipation blending with anxiety in an acrid cocktail. I remembered my hands roaming the sides of her body, trailing down her hips. Her hands touching mine.

And, just as my fingertips brushed against the waistband of her jeans, she paused and so did I. We lie there on the beach, staring at each other with wide eyes. Neither of us moved for a long moment, and I wasn’t sure what passed between us but something did.

“Joonie, I…,” she began, then pushed me back by the chest. The me from before fell back against my heels, staring at her with wounded, round eyes.

Did I do something wrong? Did I move too fast? Is she not ready?

I remembered those thoughts.

I remembered drowning in them.

“I cheated,” she said, expelling the words like she couldn’t possibly hold them in any longer.

I watched the past me, watched his eyes fill with tears that wouldn’t fall. I watched myself fall onto his bottom, stare at this beautiful, curious, crying girl before him with nothing to say.

I want to stop watching now, I thought, desperate to stop the show, to let the memory fade away in the back of my mind where it couldn’t hurt.

But as my chest began to constrict, I felt warm, soft fingers intertwine with mine, palms connecting. I jumped a little, but once I glanced down I could do nothing but watch her instead. Eunbyul. Her eyes were on the shoreline, unwavering, and her brows were knitted. That charming crease between them. She was pouting a little, or maybe just squinting to see better, but I felt it in her hand. I felt…

Sympathy.

But something more too. Something else.

Understanding.

“You…what?” asked the me from before.

Hani sobbed, her head in her hands, and shook her head. Woeful, tearful, regretful, she reached out and fell against my chest but this time I didn’t hold her. I just sat there dumb. Sat there stupid.

“I’m so sorry! Baby, I’m so, so, so sorry. I would take it all back in a heartbeat if I could, I-,”

“Hani…”

“Joonie, baby, please-,”

“Can I be alone for a minute?”

She looked up at me, at him, at the me I used to be, at the me I still was, somehow. And instead of saying another word, she simply leaned away, rubbed her eyes as lines of dark mascara streamed down her flushed cheeks, and stood. And she clambered over those rocks alone. And she wandered down the beach alone. I watched her figure walk and walk until it faded into nothing. And when I looked back to the sand, I saw myself, arms hooked around my knees, eyes far away, gazing at the sea like it had answers.

And then he was gone too.

Eunbyul’s hand in mine felt small. Smaller than it should be. Too small to carry the weight of my memories. But still, she held tight. Her lips were set in a straight line, her chin tucked down, staring at where the old Namjoon used to be, and for a profound moment neither of us spoke.

She turned to me, brows low, and squinted up at me. She still held my hand. “Kim Namjoon,” she said at last, and all I could do was nod. She still held my hand. “Thank you.”

“Huh?” I asked, stunned. “What for?”

She shook her head, still staring right into my eyes, still holding my hand. “For letting me watch.”

I swallowed hard and I felt the tears from that night, unshed, return. My throat felt tight, chest too. I wanted to duck under the waves, hold my breath, and stay there for a long moment. Long enough so the tears I could no longer fight would become part of the ocean. Long enough to leave them behind there.

But instead I simply sniffled a little, wiped beneath my eyes, and nodded. “Thank you for watching.”

She nodded and, like that, slipped her hand from mine. She crossed her arms and glanced back toward the sand. Without a word, she fell into the water, sitting down criss-cross under the ocean waves. “She sucks,” she said simply, letting the waves caress her neck, soak through her clothes.

And I joined her, sitting there staring at the place where I once was. “Yeah, kinda.”

“You still love her,” she said.

I was quiet. “I…”

“And that’s okay.”

I blinked at her, both of us up to our necks in the ocean where we sat. “Huh?”

She nodded. “It’s okay,” she said. “There’s no roadmap to follow. Just…in your own time, overcome it.”

“Where’d you hear that?” I asked with a chuckle.

“Therapy.”

“Maybe I should go too. What’s the name of your therapist?” I joked.

She laughed. “I’ll give you his business card tomorrow night.”

“You won’t remember,” I said with a chuckle. “Ah! That’s right, where are your glasses anyway?”

She touched her bare face and sighed, as if she’d just remembered. “That’s why everything’s fuzzy,” she said, sighing and running slender fingers through her hair and dragging seawater along her locks. “I don’t normally sleep with them on to begin with.” She stood and so did I, but instead of heading back to the shore, she bent down she cupped some water in her hands. Without warning, she threw it my way with a bright laugh. “Thanks for fixing them, by the way!”

I grinned and splashed her back. “Of course,” I said, then furrowed my brow. “Wait, does that mean they were fixed for real? You know, like…in real life?”

She paused for a moment, thinking. “Yeah…,” she said, lips parting as she gazed into the middle distance.

“Then…”

“What happens to us in the dream…happens in real life too?” she asked.

I glanced down at my wet clothes and laughed. “Well, this is gonna be hard to explain.”

She glanced down too. “You think we’ll be wet?” she asked, then pursed her lips and gave me another splash. “Even though the water’s not real?”

“Then are your glasses real in here? And your clothes?” I asked.

She quirked her lips to the side and crossed her arms. “I don’t know.”

“It’s weird…I can’t seem to make heads or tails of all this,” I said with a sigh.

“You’re the one who said not to think about it too much,” she countered with a sly grin.

I rolled my eyes and kicked up my foot, splashing her with foamy seawater. “Well that was before I knew it would happen every night,” I said, sighing. “Makes me wonder if it really does mean something.”

“Well, I’ve thought that from the start, but-,”

“Are you always this petty?” I asked through laughter.

She turned to me with a smile and nodded. “Just ask my sister.”

“That reminds me,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I’ve gotta see if I can leave work early tomorrow.”

She raised her brows. “What for?”

“I’m meeting up with my sister for the first time in a few months,” I said with a smile. “We live in the same city, but we never see each other.”

Eunbyul hummed. “Ah,” she said, nodding. “Are you gonna eat steaks at a fancy restaurant, Mister Producer?”

I laughed and shook my head. “Above my pay grade, I’m afraid,” I said, then gave her another splash which she took with a laugh. “We’re going to a bookstore in town.”

“Oh, I know a good one near where I live,” she said, sighing. “Hyejin’s Books.”

My whole body went rigid and my heart kicked up. Hyejin’s Books. It was all I could do to turn to her with wide eyes and utter a simple, “What?”

She smiled, still splashing around with her fingertips, and nodded. “I go there all the time.”

That girl from the news segment, that girl from the bus, that girl. “It was you…,” I breathed.

She turned to me with the gentlest of smiles and took a step toward me. “Hm?”

“Eunbyul, I think we live in the same city,” I said slowly.

She blinked at me. “What?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I-I’m-tomorrow, I’m going there. To Hyejin’s.”

She waved a hand. “I mean, there could be other Hyejin’s Books out there-,”

“I saw you, Eunbyul. On the bus the other day and in the news segment this morning,” I said, scanning her.

She paused and met my eyes so slowly I wondered if she was moving at all. “I…,” she began, then furrowed her brow and shook her head. “I had my head down the whole time, there’s no way you could have recognized me.”

“I didn’t. Maybe…maybe that’s the problem. Maybe because I never got a good look at you in real life. Maybe if I looked at you properly…,” I began, my words stumbling into one another like they were desperate to get out.

About as desperate as I was.

She shook her head. “Namjoon, if that’s true then all we have to do to remember everything is-,”

“Meet. In person.”

Slowly, a grin spread across her face. “And if we’re going to the same place tomorrow…”

“Maybe we can meet.”

And just as the seeds of a plan began to form, I felt that tug. Right in my chest, a yanking on my very soul. Just like that, the ocean was gone and so was the beach. The water on our clothes was gone too, as I glanced over at Eunbyul to find her entirely dry in the blackness. She stared at me with round, worried eyes.

“How are we gonna remember?” she asked, shaking her head.

I opened and closed my mouth, but no words came out. I didn’t have an answer. “I…”

She lurched toward me, and the strain on her face was obvious. Like she was walking through thick sludge to close the two steps of distance between us. Struggling, she grabbed the hair elastic on her wrist and held it out to me with a wiggling hand.

I grabbed it and slipped it over my own wrist, meeting her eyes. “If our clothes and glasses are real, then this is real too. It probably won’t be enough, but…hold onto it, okay? Don’t lose it. Maybe…maybe if you hold onto it, you’ll remember something. Since it’s mine…,” she said, and it sounded like she was near tears.

I nodded, taking her hands. “I’ll keep it. I promise you.”

“How can you be certain?”

I shook my head. “I promise.”

She met my eyes before nodding once and, just like that, the dream ended.

4:03. I sighed and fell back against my pillow, watching the first streaks of daylight spreading across the ceiling. Quietly, I pushed myself onto my bottom and hopped off the bed, padding across the chilly floor and slipping through my open bedroom door. I made my way down the hallway and emerged in the blue-tinged living room. The early hours made everything blue. I was becoming too acquainted with these hours.

Soft snoring startled me and I paused by the television stand. Upon investigation, I found sitting on the floor with his laptop open and the screen dead black, Min Yoongi. He slept with his arm for a pillow and his head resting on the coffee table, mouth agape and drooling. His headphones were still resting halfway on his ears, and his legs were criss-crossed like a pale pretzel. I chuckled and guided the headphones off his ears, setting them down beside his laptop with a sigh.

Maneuvering carefully around him, I made my way to the kitchen and swung the refrigerator door open, but the light was painfully bright to my sensitive eyes. I lifted my hand to rub them, but as I did caught sight of something black around my wrist. Squinting, I stared at it. A hair elastic? I furrowed my brow. How could I have gotten one of these? Neither mine nor Yoongi’s hair was long enough for one, and I was fairly certain I hadn’t picked it up from one of the few women in my life.

I chuckled and let it snap against my wrist. I then took to rifling aimlessly through the half-empty refrigerator, in search of something that didn’t take much effort to cook.

“What’s that?” asked Somi, pointing at my hand across the bookstore table.

I glanced down at my wrist and raised my brows. I looped a finger around the hair elastic there and shrugged. “A hairband,” I said with a nod.

She laughed. “Well duh, what I meant was why is it on your wrist, goofball?”

I smiled at her. It was good to see her laughing. Dimpled smile, like mine, mono-lidded, toothy grin, but still beautiful. Still glowing and healthy. She swept a stray lock of dark hair over her shoulder and sighed, raising her brows at me.

“I don’t remember where it came from.” I played with the elastic for a moment longer, working the tip of my finger beneath it and rolling it up to my knuckle.

She wiggled her fingers at me. “Oh, does it perhaps belong to Miss Hani?” she asked.

I swallowed hard, heart picking up speed, and met her eyes. “You…you know we broke up, right? I thought I told you.”

She stiffened and her playfulness dissolved, replaced by something more serious. She cleared her throat. “Ah, that’s right,” she said with a sigh, resting her cheek in her hand and glancing out the window. “I’m the worst big sister ever.”

I smiled. “You’re not,” I said, reaching out to give her free hand a pat. “I’m just happy to see you.”

She sighed. “I’m surprised you can see at all with how tired you look.”

“I’ve been waking up early these days,” I said with a shrug.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” she scolded, meeting my eyes seriously. “I want you happy and healthy.”

I laughed. “Now you sound like Mom.”

She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue at me. “Whatever,” she said, then snapped her fingers. “Ah, didn’t you need a photo? To prove to Mom that I’m alive or whatever?”

“That’s right!” I said, grabbing for my phone. I stood and found a place in the walkway beside the shelves, trying to frame the shot so the cityscape was visible over Somi’s shoulder. “Give me Rich Housewife Meeting with Her Bookclub,” I said, laughing as Somi collapsed into giggles. She posed and I snapped a photo. But it was too dark. She was backlit by the window. “Ah,” I said as I reviewed them, frowning.

“What, no good?” she asked, then smirked. “I know it wasn’t because of my impeccable modeling.”

I laughed. “No, just weird lighting. Let me try from over here-,” I began, but as I took a step to the side, my back collided with someone, hard enough to send them stumbling backward. I jumped, turning immediately to check on the person, and found a girl with her head down, looking at her unsteady feet, wearing a baseball cap. Knobby tan knees and too-big clothes. I smiled a little and offered a hand to help her, but she didn’t take it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said, almost too quietly to hear.

I furrowed my brow. I recognized that voice. “You…,” I began, but Somi interrupted me with an obvious cough.

“The model waits for no one. Either snap it now or lose your chance, nerd,” said Somi from over my shoulder.

I jumped and returned to her as the girl walked around me and took a seat at the table behind where Somi sat. I watched keenly through my phone camera as she settled in, but she never lifted her head long enough for me to get a proper look. Suddenly, the hairband on my wrist felt too tight. I adjusted it, scowling, and shook my head. I was being creepy, probably. She just wanted to do some reading, probably. I should stop…probably.

I sighed and snapped a photo of Somi, this time with proper lighting.

And then, despite my better judgement, and knowing how strange it was, I took one more photo from the same angle, zooming in just enough to see the stranger’s chin peeking from beneath the brim of her hat.

[writermich18]

Good Omens Writing Prompt: AU Meets Canon

"Our Michael is a pyromaniac."

All conversations stop. The Canon characters - including Lucifer in human form - turn to stare incredulously at their AU counterparts.

"What." Canon Michael deadpans.

"It's true." AU Michael easily shrugs about it. Her voice was calm, rough, and low with a slight high undertone similar to AU Lucifer's own tenor voice. This Michael had wild, neck length red hair with it framing and mostly moving to the left. Any way you looked at it from any direction, it still looks as if it was constantly on fire. Sharp, but open and mischievous amber orange eyes with a red pupil. Darkly tanned skin marred with white, sometimes pink, scars. A prothestic left arm. Pointy ears with small blue hoop earrings (the same kind worn by BOTW Link and the same type of ears as Hylians). All of the AU Angels had those pointy ears and a different colored pupil other than black. The AU Demons all had round ears and black pupils. Baby cheeks but roughed by the weather and the streets, rough but circular jawline. Short nose. AU Michael was wearing an undershirt black sleeveless training turtleneck, a dark red and white tunic over that with Enochian and Celtic designs dancing on the hems and collar. Chest armor with one shoulder pad, armguards and fingerless black gloves with a metal plate on top of which the Army symbol was carved on. Dark blue leggings, armored skirt, shin guards, and black shinobi sandals. A tanto was strapped horizontally to her waist with a belt. Said belt had an assortment of other pouches and supplies attached to it. She had on a dark orange cloak with many Enochian and Celtic designs sewn on the back, hem, and collar. Dark red rope at the neck connected the two ends.

"I tend to blow shit up. Lucifer-nī tended to scold me for it," she remembers with a fond smile. "He still does, too." She adds.

"Because you keep shit up in Hell! It's already chaotic enough, stop adding to it!" AU Lucifer practically yells at her from his spot next to Canon Lucifer. Though his yell was more like a slightly louder normal voice. His voice was a smooth, tenor's voice with a rough low undertone similar to AU Michael's. There was a ghost of a tempting voice hidden somewhere in it. Long nose but it looked like it had been broken and reset a couple of times, most likely by Michael and then reset by a medic. AU Lucifer had just as wild hair as Michael but it was more in the way of stylishly curly mess than Michael's wild lioness mane of hair. It fell to his chest, unfairly stylishly, and dirty blond yet somehow shining in the natural light as if it was the fucking sun itself. High cheekbones, smooth jawline, but you could just tell that he was harsh to the touch at a closer look. Sharp, closed off silver eyes with a slit black pupil that still shined with its own inner light. Peach, pale skin. Round ears without a piercing. He wore a black high collar button up with a white silk tie and a black blazer with white lined hem and collar, white trousers, and black dress shoes. He looked put together but like he could easily destroy your life without a word.

"It just needs a little more fire, lighten the place up a bit."

"Says the soldier!" AU Luci sarcastically retorts.

"They're gonna be at this for the entire day so..." AU Uriel mutters. AU Uriel has a medium leveled voice, not high nor low pitched, it wasn't rough nor smooth. It had an emotional undertone, as in you could hear their emotions even when they were supposedly emotionless - comes with being the Archangel of the Arts (and yes, the Arts as in any type of art including philosophy), I guess. They were dark brown skinned person-being. Short, cropped black hair with some braided tiny buns burling along their head. Multi-colored eyes and pupil for the Arts is the element she maintains and is multicolored for its many aspects. Pointy ears with stud Anime character earrings (fan art is art) and multiple other ear piercings, and one lip piercing on the right side of their lips. Extravagant, cosplay style makeup painted their face into a beautiful canvas. They wore a high school's music shirt, with blue overalls - the overalls were painted on like a canvas as well - over the shirt, a utility belt filled to the brim with different artifacts all supplies from the different artistic areas. Old and worn galaxy styled sneakers finished their look.

"Stop it." Another voice pits in. AU Michael and Lucifer stop immediately and sulk as they refused to look at each other. Canon Aziraphale stared at his AU counterpart, the one who said stop it, as he has been since meeting her.

AU Aziraphale who apparently prefers to go by Ezra when she's on Earth doing her job. She, unlike him, was raised as a soldier practically her whole life. She never stopped training even when she was being Heaven's Earth agent. So she had muscles where he did not. He was chubby from eating while she was "chubby" from training and growing muscles - not really "traditional" chubby, chubby like a rolling torso and muscles. Not a bad thing but differently not something he's seen on his own body since becoming Heaven's Earth agent. Unlike him, she had a wild mane of white - white, not light blond - hair set up like AU Michael's with a slight difference in volume. Darkly tanned skin with scars and calloused hands and feet. Bare foot, dirty from walking on the ground. A nomad, she said she was. Didn't tend to stay in one place. Got antsy if she tried, like an enemy was going to pop in and kill her in her sleep because she's kept a predictable schedule. Sharp but almond shaped and kind amber orange eyes, red pupils like AU Michael's. Her Michael's adopted blood daughter, did the blood ritual to make it official for the papers. That explains the the fire colored streaks briefly seen flickering around and in her hair like actual embers, Canon Aziraphale thought faintly. She wore the same hoop earrings as Michael. Pointy ears. Baby cheeks but roughed by the weather and the streets. Ezra wore a black turtleneck like Michael, over which she wore a dirty blue button up with brown chest armor and a red wrongly tied tie. The sleeves were ripped up and turned into a short sleeve. She wore fingerless gloves with the metal plate that has Heaven't symbol on it. Wrapped around her waist was a plaid blue-and-black shirt under which was a utility belt with a assortment of book recovering supplies, a first aid kit pouch, and weapon pouches with another pouch, probably filled with more weapons, tied around her left thigh. Ruined at the hem, and torn dark blue pants covered her legs with multiple pieces of bandages and rough signs of frantic sewing on the pants. Her nails were somehow manicured, with only a few nails being mildly bitten. A nervous habit. She also apparently has a smaller version of Michael's pyromaniac tendencies - not a lot but enough to where even her superiors except her mother and Mother was afraid of pissing her off.

The rest of the Canon characters were also slightly unnerved and or intrigued by their respective counterparts.

Canon Adam was actually jealous of his counterpart because though he had an older sister, he didn't have a twin sister. Said AU Adam's twin sister was apparently essence adopted by AU Michael - meaning while her earthbound body made her the Young Family's daughter, her adopted-by-an-angel-and-ritually-claimed-as-Michael's-child soul, her essence, made her essentially Michael's daughter, meaning she got the benefits and consequences of being Michael's daughter. Which means AU Adam is not alone in the Child of an Angel department. Not only does he have a big sister in the form of AU Aziraphale - being Michael's angelic adopted daughter, related to AU Adsm through siblings Lucifer and Michael - but also a twin sister, related to AU Adam by 2 ways: sibling relation thus cousin relation for their children, and siblings through the Young Family, relations through earthbound body.

This situation they've all found themselves in will either end in hilarity or tragedy. All of them, except for the Chaos Trio (AU Michael, AU Lucifer, and AU Aziraphale), prayed for it to end in hilarity because another tragedy did not need to happen right now.

Ezra was just hoping for the Canon counterparts (and some of the AU counterparts) to never learn of the circumstances which caused her world's Michael to take her under her wings (literally and figuratively) and adopt her. That was a scarred past that should be buried and forgotten. Though she did want some chaos to happen.

AU Michael was also crossing her fingers and hoping people never found out about her ostracized and broken past which helped push her to help two damaged but not broken children. That was a wound too deep to heal without breaking someone else. Though she did want some chaos.

Lucifer just wanted chaos so that he could finally take that 32 hour long nap he's been meaning to take.