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expectodragons · 7 months

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Bitter Water || Chapter 5

✦ Summary: Guided only by a thin paper trail and a promising job offer, Catherine Hart returns to the school of her youth. Taking on the mantle of Beasts professor, the young witch must find a balance between her lessons and her continued search of the Highlands. Especially when under the watchful eye of the Potion Master. ✦ Pairing: Aesop Sharp x Female MC ✦ Word Count: 10,300 ✦ Rating: Mature, 18+ only - minors do not interact. ✦ Tags / Warnings: Age difference, alcohol consumption, colleagues-to friends-to-lovers, Pagan sabbat (Yule), Sebastian Sallow being a flirt, slow burn. ✦ Story Playlist: Listen here ✦ Read on: AO3 || Tumblr (continue below)

Snow came to the valley in the early morning hours on the twelfth of December with a soft winter’s embrace – dusting the castle like a gingerbread house with its powdered sugar-like flakes.

Some creatures welcomed the change in weather better than others. The Fire Crabs’ enclosure was merely a puddle of thawed snow at this point, while the Mooncalves happily trotted and leaped through the drifts within their paddock.

It was the second to last week before Winter Break and the spirit of the season was felt throughout the castle.

Caroling ghosts positioned themselves in the large halls, surrounded by floating cream-colored candles. Sweet-smelling spruce garland wrapped the stair railings and beautifully decorated Pines could be found throughout the castle. Students and professors alike were in happier spirits as the promise of a short reprieve from studies was just within reach.

Catherine enjoyed her time outside almost as much as she did inside the castle – were it not for the bitter cold nipping at her cheeks and fingertips.

The creatures in her classroom had been rotated out at the beginning of November, making way for a new range of studies for her students. As her boots scrunch through the slush of snow and frozen mud that made up the paths between the enclosures, she keeps a watchful eye on her fifth years.

“Remember, Mr. Clearwater, unicorns are naturally distrusting of men. You need to back away and give them the chance to approach you, not pester them until they feel the need to flee.”

With a sigh, she jumps over the wooden fence and grabs hold of the brush from Ruth McKinnon.

“Now, if I were to brush your hair like this –” she demonstrates a hard yanking motion, “Would you feel particularly good about it?”

“No, Ma’am,” the girl replies with a down-turned look.

Reluctantly, she hands the brush back, “They may be creatures, but they do feel pain and discomfort as any one of you do. Please remember that, especially with these lovely beasts.”

With a clap of her hands, she addresses the class as a whole, “Now, I want any loose hairs collected in your labeled jars by the end of our lesson. We have about ten minutes now, so kindly go about your tasks.”

Effortlessly, she hops over the paddock’s fence once again and moves further away from the enclosure to keep watch over the three different groups of students. The first selection was returning the feed bags to the storage hut, the second was finishing up their hair collections, and the final group was getting around to mucking out the unicorn’s pen with varying looks of disgust.

As the bells in the tower begin to chime the hour, she drops the wards near the pavilion and wishes the students a wonderful rest of their afternoon before she goes around to inspect their handiwork before her final class of the day appears.

After her fourth years finish up their work with the Fire crabs, Catherine does a final check of the classroom before she secures the wards and heads back to the castle. She tugs her leather bag close to her body as she trudges down the worn path in the snow – littered with footprints of varying sizes.

Above, the sky is clouded with the violet hues of early sunset. In only an hour, the valley would be shrouded in near darkness with the lull of winter.

Her toes curl into the limited comfort of her socks as she makes her way across the courtyard – her boots did little to bade the cold away and she was looking more and more forward to the radiant warmth the castle would bring.

Through the Bell Tower, down the tapestry hall, and up the spiral stairs. She can finally feel her body begin to thaw as she vigorously rubs her hands together, begging the red tips of her fingers to return to their normal coloring.

After spending the past four months working together with Sharp, she was well aware of his schedule. And today, Monday, was one of the few days that they shared a similar free hour with their lack of sixth-period classes.

Giving a courtesy knock on the open classroom door, she steps inside only after casting a quick drying spell on her boots.

“Sharp? Are you in?”

She hears the familiar grunt of affirmation further inside the classroom. Crossing the flagstones, she finally spots him in a far alcove bent over a table with several bottled potions laid upon it.

Out of familiarity, she sheds her coat and scarf, laying it upon a barren counter.

“How are they fairing today?”

He beckons her over with a silent wave.

Catherine appears along his left side – about a head shorter than her companion, she realizes – and examines the range of shimmering brews. The Potion Master lifts one at a time, holding the glass bottle to the light, and giving it a gentle swirl before he places it back in line – writing a note on a piece of parchment to his right.

She lifts one up that holds a dull pea soup-colored liquid inside, “Well, this certainly doesn’t look right.”

Sharp gives it a glance and snorts, “No, it does not.”

“What were they supposed to brew exactly?”

He gives her a quick assessing look, “Surely you can ascertain that on your own.”

“Alright,” she gives him a challenging nod.

Studying the other bottles – whose liquid was at least a common shade of yellow or gold – she’s able to limit it down to a few dozen potions. Walking away from Sharp and the table, Catherine studies the room itself. While he had managed to erase the chalkboard of the day’s lesson already, certain things stood out.

1. There was a gap on the ingredients shelf. 2. There was a noticeable pungent scent lingering in the air. 3. As she dragged her hand across one of the counters, her index finger was pricked. Upon closer inspection, she discovered the source to be that of a nettle.

Staring at the shelf, which Sharp had alphabetized and divided up by most commonly used ingredients to least, as well as the most volatile to docile, she’s able to discern which item was most likely missing. As for the smell…?

Ah, yes. That likely made sense then.

She always hated the smell of puffer-fish eyeballs, it was almost as bad as the sound they made when they were crushed.

Bat spleens, nettles, and puffer-fish eyes. Only one thing could be made from those particular ingredients.

Tucking her hands behind her back, she strolls over to Sharp once again with a smug smile on her face.

“By chance, was it a swelling solution?”

He gives her a pleased nod.

“Were I able to, I would award points to Gryffindor.”

She laughs, “Please do. They’re utterly falling behind this year and it worries me as an alumnus.”

With a shake of his head, he returns to grading and assessing his second years’ attempts at brewing. Giving him a bit of space, she goes to collect her bag and begins pulling out the two thin containers of unicorn hair.

He strides over to her before she even has the chance to turn around. Plucking the vials from her hand, he holds them up to the light and examines the items with a critical eye. She merely folds her arms across her chest and stares.

“Yes, these will do nicely,” he lowers the containers and his gaze to meet her eye. “Thank you.”

“All thanks to the efforts of my fifth-years,” she replies smoothly.

He hums, walking over to a neighboring shelf to place the vials upon.

“With no thanks to their esteemed professor, I’m sure,” he says over his shoulder, offering her a playful smirk.

“None at all,” Catherine laughs.

Collecting her coat, scarf, and bag, she smiles at her colleague.

“Have a nice rest of your day, Sharp. If you’ll excuse me, I want nothing more than to remove these sodden clothes.”

“Of course,” he nods, a small chuckle in his throat as she turns around and heads out of the classroom.

Dinner was a cheerful affair in the Great Hall now, as the room was beautifully decorated for the season – perhaps the most gorgeous display in the entire castle. The students were of a more rowdy disposition than usual, unfortunately, as the build-up to the holiday break neared its crescendo.

“Mr. Parkin, if I need to repeat myself, you and your companions will find yourselves scrubbing trophies for the next two weeks. Do I make myself clear?”

Catherine hides her amusement behind her hand as Matilda scolds the unruly fourth-year who’s headed for the Grand Staircase.

“Yes, Professor!” He grins, offering her an ingenuous salute.

With a tired shake of her head, she bids the others goodnight and follows behind the group of Gryffindors.

“Shall we?”

Mirabel appears at her side, a warm smile on her soft features.

“If we must,” Catherine sighs with mock exhaustion.

The herbology professor loops her arm through the younger witch’s as they head out to the stone courtyard. Her floral green robes billow in the frozen air as Catherine tugs her own blue cloak closer to her body.

“I feel as though I never see you anymore.”

She glances over at the redhead, “Well, you know where you can typically find me. I’m afraid my department requires a little more attention than others once the school period has finished for the day.”

“Of course, of course,” Mirabel replies good-naturedly. “We should have tea one of these days before the break begins.”

“Or during, once the majority heads back to London,” she teases.

Mirabel grips her arm tighter as they pass over the Viaduct bridge, her smile widening.

“Yes, perhaps then I could track you down at last! Oh – look at that poor thing.”

Catherine’s eyes follow the herbology professor’s gaze, far across the lake, to a blot of gray streaking across the sky. Caught in an updraft, the owl soars to the side, flapping its great wings, before it barrels down toward them.

“Merlin!”

They duck down just as the bird nearly takes them out. She watches, wide-eyed, as the poor owl barely stops itself from slamming into the side of the castle, somehow landing on the ground. It ruffles its feathers with indignation before it scuttles over to her feet.

“Hello there,” she murmurs, bending down to pull the soaking-wet envelope from its beak.

Before she even has the chance to offer it food or shelter, the bird lifts up into the air and circles around Central Hall – likely headed for the owlery.

“Now what could that be?” Mirabel asks, wandering back over to her side.

Flipping the parcel over, she spots the familiar scratch of a self-writing quill.

A slow smile grows on her frozen lips.

“A letter from Ominis, I suspect,” she tucks it away into her pocket. “We have plans to meet over Christmas.”

“How lovely,” the other witch smiles in earnest. “I had wondered how some of your fellow classmates were faring. I only hear from a handful of them anymore and even then, those letters come few and far between these days.”

With a grin, Catherine pushes open the heavy doors of the Hall, descending the stone steps beside the herbology professor.

“Well, Poppy is far too busy handling her sanctuaries to do much more than send an occasional note. Natty is engaged to be married, as I’m sure Mudiwa has told you all. And last I heard, she was working on a relatively large case in her department.”

Down another flight of stairs, they go.

“You probably see Garreth every now and then in Hogsmeade, yes?”

Mirabel nods, “He’s the reason I’ve had to confiscate so many Zonkos products from my students. He’s far too good a salesman.”

Catherine chortles, “That he is. He’s also got a small brood of Weasleys of his own now. Let’s see –” Using her right hand, she counts them off, “There’s Edwin, and… Ronald. Gilbert and… oh, what’s the babe’s name? Starts with a B. Ben, Benjy, Barty… oh! Bertie. Four little Garreth lookalikes.”

The redhead offers her a conspiratorial look, “Perhaps by the time they’re due to arrive, I will find myself at another posting.”

“I certainly couldn’t blame you or anyone else for that.”

The gurgling fountain comes into view, oddly illuminated by the soft glow of the lit candles upon the decorated Christmas trees that surrounded the Hall.

“Maybe you’ll even join us then. I’m not sure I would have the strength to tolerate having another Weasley wandering around a group of beasts.”

Her expression drops slightly, perhaps not enough for Mirabel to notice, but she glances away anyway.

That kept coming up lately. In her thoughts, in conversations with her fellow professors. About her posting here at the school. How nice it was to have a permanent replacement for Howin. How excited they were to see what creatures she would introduce next year.

But what she herself didn’t know was if she would be here at all come next September.

There was no reason for her to be if all went according to plan.

She was expecting another note from Miriam, or Natty, or even Augustine in the coming days. Hoping for one, really.

After her ambush on the poachers in Crosskirk, no further leads arrived. And while Natty had been eternally grateful to her, as it had been a rather large nuisance for the Department, she had nothing more to offer Catherine – besides a chastising note that proclaimed that the young professor had nearly given the Auror a heart attack when her patronus came bursting into the office after hours.

And the Ministry itself seemed to be reluctant to admit there was a serious poaching and smuggling problem along its borders. Well, to be fair, they had been reluctant to admit a massive Goblin rebellion was overtaking the Highlands too, over a decade ago. So, it wasn’t truly surprising at all.

But she hoped. Waited and hoped that the smallest scrap of information would arrive and send her down the right path. But for now…

Now she had this.

A position she honestly would have never chosen for herself. Even though it seemed everyone around her – staff and students included – believed she was a perfect fit for the job.

“Catherine?”

She blinks, offering a sheepish look.

“Sorry, lost in my thoughts. So, did you want to take this side again or the Defense Tower?”

They split up the patrol duties of another mindless Friday evening. With a curious look on her face, Mirabel offers her a final nod before she turns and heads toward her greenhouses.

Biting her cheek, Catherine tugs her cloak closer to her chest and braves the cool night air of the Transfiguration courtyard. Hurrying across the path as fast as her boots can trek through the heavy snow before she finds relief in the neighboring tower.

Pulling her wand from her holster, she casts a soft Lumos and takes to the stairs.

She’s diligent in her duty, searching every hallway and corridor. But a simple Homenum Revelio shows that aside from Satyavati in her classroom, there isn’t another soul around.

On the third-floor balcony, she finds a bench to sit on and carefully pulls the soft envelope from her pocket. Using her thumb, she slides it under the seal and manages to pry the parcel open without a single tear.

Catherine,

I certainly hope you were joking when you said that about Sebastian. I personally will never be able to remove the thought from my mind, so thank you for that added trauma.

As for the holiday, I will find myself in Paris around the 19th. I sent word to the King of Dunces himself, though I have not received his reply. For now, assume he will grace us with his presence far later than he should.

If you would feel so inclined, I would be quite happy to see you again. Surely, it hasn’t been two years already? Perhaps you can stow those beasts of yours away in that hidden room you thought no one knew of at school. And if not, I suppose I could understand.

However, given the circumstances, surely you would not wish to bear me with the further hardship of trying to contain Sebastian Sallow while in the streets of Paris. If you agree, I will be indebted to you for life. I can also provide accommodations and any other frivolous things you would require.

Also, I hope that stubborn bird hasn’t given you too much trouble. He was as vain as they come. Did I ever mention that before I gave him to you?

As always, your humble friend, Ominis Gaunt.

Everyone was now counting down the days to the end of term. Four more to go and soon the castle would be emptied of the majority of the populace – off to spend the holiday with their families, no doubt.

“Oh, Professor Hart. Might I have a moment of your time?”

Catherine glances up from her seated position in the staff lounge, having found herself before the crackling fire during her free period. She closes her book – an Austen classic – and smiles up at the Deputy Headmistress, welcoming her over with a wave of her hand.

“Of course, Matilda. What can I do for you?”

The kindly witch takes a seat opposite her, resting her hands in her lap.

“Do you have plans for the holiday, Catherine?”

She gives a little grin, recalling her last two letters from Ominis, “I do actually. I’ll be heading to Paris before Christmas.”

“Oh, I see,” Matilda’s lips turn to a frown. Her soft brown eyes meet her gaze, “May I ask when you’re leaving?”

“Likely sometime Monday evening – before the Floo gets too overwhelmed with travelers.”

The older witch claps her hands together, a smile returning to her face, “Wonderful! Oh, simply wonderful. You see, there will be a number of students wishing to remain at the castle this year and I’m looking for another set of hands to assist with the Hogsmeade visit this Saturday.”

Catherine’s eyes bulge slightly, “Oh. Well, yes then.”

“Thank you, dear. I had hoped Mirabel would remain for the break, as she so often does, but she just informed me this morning that she has a prior engagement.”

The young witch stands up, offering a smile, “It’s no trouble at all. Surely it can’t be any worse than when we have the whole five years to look after.”

“No, certainly not! I’m sure you and Aesop will manage just fine.”

She blinks, “Oh… yes. I’m sure we will.”

With a parting smile, Catherine watches as the Transfiguration professor heads back toward her classroom with quick little steps. She glances back into the dancing flames of the fireplace and shakes her head.

The bitter wind makes the pace up to the village an arduous affair. The brisk breeze drawn across the valley sends its icy tendrils along their spines – freezing every appendage until all they can feel is the chattering of their teeth.

While the other students had loaded onto the snowy-white horse-drawn carriages to the station south of the village just an hour earlier, Catherine was leading the small party up for a final weekend in Hogsmeade. Sharp had informed her that he would meet them there – likely taking the Floo to avoid the long journey in the frozen snow.

And though the Beasts professor had been kind enough to cast warming charms on her younger students, her own spellwork was leaving little to be thankful for as the chill wind still found a way to bypass the charm. Digging her bare fingers into the lining of her cloak, she tugs the garment close and forces her feet to keep trudging forward.

“Professor?” A young Gryffindor moves alongside her, the girl’s breath billows up like dragon’s smoke in the cold air.

“Yes, Olive?”

“Have you ever stayed at the castle over break before?”

Catherine peers down at the third-year, her hands buried in a fur muff and her eyes just barely peeking out past her crimson and gold scarf. Something about the girl’s tone grabs her attention and she feels her features soften.

“I have. Every year I was a student. I suppose this is your first time then?”

The girl nods, kicking the soft fluff of recently fallen snow from her boot.

“My father wrote and said they couldn’t manage the funds to come to London this year, maybe for Easter break though.”

She gives a soft hum of understanding.

“What’s… what’s it like? Here, for the holiday I mean.”

“Well,” she breathes out, trying to recall her own memories of Christmas Break during her time as a student. “You’ll find the professors to be quite lenient during this time – now, don’t abuse that,” she offers a teasing grin down the girl, whose eyes brighten with a hidden smile.

“On Christmas Day, everyone sits together at one big table in the Great Hall. One of the finest feasts of the year, if you ask me. In the morning, you’ll find presents and treats in your common room. Find solace in the quiet moments of the castle –“ She looks down at the girl once again. “The house elves are usually eager to find something to do during this time – you’ll find random mugs of cocoa and biscuits appearing at all odd hours.”

With the young girl’s spirit seemingly lifted, she nods her thanks and hurries on ahead to a fair-haired Slytherin up the path.

The village, much like the castle, was decorated for the season in gorgeous abundance. Garlands and trees lined the streets and shops. It looked like a Christmas card – an idyllic little village in the Scottish Highlands.

Catherine watches as the small group of fifty or so students disperses; some heading off for nearby shops, others heading to the Three Broomsticks. She’s stood near Spintwitches, finding herself staring at the newest Comet model in the window. Though she hears the crackle of the Floo near the storefront, she can’t find it in herself to look away from the tempting price tag dangling from the handle of the broom.

“Window shopping?” comes Sharp’s gruff voice.

She looks to her left, offering a small smile, “Just browsing. I believe I’m still content with my current model.”

“Ah,” he hums. “I have heard tales of our resident Beasts professor flying alongside a herd of hippogriffs.”

“All hogwash, really,” she grins.

Together, they leave the broom supplier and begin the short trek up the hill to High Street. While the bitter chill is softened by the spread of houses and shops, her fingers still ache from the wind and she finds herself gathering her hands together to blow warm air upon them with her pursed lips.

Beside her, Sharp is surprisingly able-bodied as they make it up the incline. His coat is that of a woven gray with a dark fur collar and cuffs. Catherine tugs her own cloak closer in envy. He peers down at her.

Near the Square, wrought-iron white tables and chairs have been laid out near the empty fountain. As Sharp beelines for one, she’s inclined to follow – taking the seat opposite his, turning it out slightly so she can still keep an eye on the street.

Three sixth-years dressed in heavy cloaks emerge from Honeydukes, laughing as they link arms, hurrying down the cobblestone path. Two young third-years dip out of the Post office, rushing to their next stop to avoid the frigid air.

When she returns her attention to her companion, she finds that he is already watching her with those calculating dark eyes of his.

Digging her hands into the warmth of her armpits, Catherine nudges her chin down into the collar of her cloak – trying to stave off the breeze that nips at her ears. Sharp raises an amused brow in her direction, his smile hidden when he turns his head away – fingers lightly drumming on the ornate iron tabletop.

“Do you often stay during the break?” she asks after a long stretch of silence.

Sharp returns his attention to her.

“Yes. I find the castle to be a pleasant refuge after the last train leaves.”

A snort escapes her as she shakes her head, “I think you just enjoy being able to have the entire wing to yourself.”

“Well,” she watches the way he drags his index finger along the spiral vine pattern on the table. “Not entirely to myself anymore.”

“No, I suppose not,” Catherine glances down at her lap, a sheepish coloring of pink crossing her cheeks. “Though you’ll have the hallowed halls to yourself in a few days’ time.”

“Oh, will I?” he quirks his brow, a curious expression on his face.

“Mhmm. I’m headed to Paris on Monday.”

The potion professor looks away, his eyes focused on the scattered patrons throughout the square.

“I was unaware you had travel plans,” he loftily says.

She kneads her thighs as she watches a small family ducking out of Gladrag’s with a wrapped package in tow.

“Well, I certainly couldn’t leave you to watch this lot on your own could I?”

Sharp returns her gaze and smirks.

“I’m confident I could have managed it alone, Hart. You didn’t need to hold off your journey for something so frivolous.”

“I didn’t,” she laughs warmly, enjoying the scrunched expression he gives her. “I’m trying to avoid the excessive lines of holiday travelers. Monday was the clearest day on the schedule. And Ominis said he wouldn’t be able to secure me a room until then anyway.”

“Ah, how is Mr. Gaunt?”

His tone is airy, however, she assumes the query is not from a genuine place of interest but merely a reason to further carry on the conversation.

“He’s well; happier.”

The Potion Master nods, his gaze sweeping across the village square.

“It’s been years in the making on his, and Sebastian’s, part to get me into the same country as them for a few days. I’m afraid with my career of choice, I was rarely ever in one place for very long.”

Sharp rests his elbows on the table, folding his hands together into a fist which he then places his chin upon.

“A full reunion party from the sounds of it then.”

Catherine shakes her head, a laugh bubbling to her lips, “Hardly, as it’ll just be the three of us.”

With a pleasant sigh, she rests her cheek upon her palm as she stares at the towering decorated spruce tree next to the Owl Post.

“I sometimes forget how solitary this life could be. Don’t misread me, I will never regret the path I’ve chosen. But I feel as though my friends grew and had far more fruitful lives in the traditional sense while I was off, you know, chasing down poachers and the like.”

She shakes her head, blinking her dream-like eyes for a moment before she looks to her companion who appears to be trying to dissect her down to the last particle.

“Sorry, I’m not sure why I told you that.”

Sharp gives a small shrug of his shoulders, as if to say worry not.

And, for just a moment, she thinks that perhaps the ex-Auror could understand her positioning. She had to imagine that his previous line of work rarely left time for a person to have the traditional sort of life one would typically seek out. A doting spouse, cherub-faced children, a happy home situated in a neighborhood of good standing and prestige.

Though she knew little of the Potion Master’s past, she had never once been under the impression that there was a Mrs. Sharp hidden away in a lovely estate down south. She could hardly fathom the thought of tiny figures circling the stern-faced potions professor, lovingly calling him father.

No, the man before her had taken a similar path as she. The solitary one that was well-fulfilled with other means of joy and accomplishment. For a time.

They turn to more familiar conversations after that – grading unreadable essays, assessing dismal progress, and stories of their unruliest students. The sky fades to the heavier hues of magenta and navy as the sun begins to dip down past the horizon.

The two professors are walking down the street now, a breath of space between them as they pass other villagers and holiday shoppers. She can feel the warm brush of his fur-lined cuffs as her fingers graze the fabric.

Her companion stares up at the sky for a few slow steps, his eyes squinted ever so slightly. The colors up above mix together like loose watercolors on an evening canvas, swirling clouds of pink and dazzling gold.

“Only three more days till Yule,” she comments softly.

He nods.

“The return of the light will be welcomed after this constant darkness.”

And then his gaze turns toward her, “Will you be able to celebrate the day?”

She gives him a small smile, “Sebastian celebrates the bigger sabbats: Yule, Beltane, Samhain. So, I imagine we’ll manage to carve some time out for it. Though I’d rather do my usual traditions here.”

Rubbing her hands together once more, she gives a soft blow of warm breath before she tucks them away into her robes. Sharp’s gaze is latched onto the movement and she finds herself wishing she had the foresight to purchase a proper coat from Gladrag’s weeks back – before the temperature had dropped so drastically.

The waitlist was stacked out well past the new year now and by the time she could collect the package, the valley would be welcoming the warm flowerings of spring. For the time being, she would just have to make do with what she had.

After taking a final headcount of the students – forty-three in total – Catherine turns towards her fellow professor.

“If we don’t return by dinner, send a search party, will you?”

Sharp lets out a polite snort of amusement, but shakes his head, “I feel inclined to take the long way back –“ and when she glances at his leg, out of pure instinct alone, he adds, “Sometimes exercising eases the discomfort.”

Though she’s not convinced, she murmurs, “If you’re sure…”

Gesturing a hand outward, Catherine begins walking back down the path to the castle – the students stretched out ahead of them in little clumpings. She keeps to his pace without comment.

Much like her outings with Mirabel and Roland, she finds that she enjoys the silent company that Sharp brings. The quiet comfort that walks alongside her – occasionally trading glances and soft words.

It’s a tentative friendship, she realizes halfway down the road.

And while she would have never expected to find herself in that standing with her ex-professor, she would be foolish to deny that she enjoyed his presence. After years of traveling the world alone, after taking on a relatively solitary position at the school, Catherine found a familiar sense of comfort within the man beside her as she had once done with the friends she was set to meet in three days’ time.

As she rubs her hands together once more, Sharp rolls his eyes and mutters a barely audible, “Buy a pair of gloves, will you?”

Casting another warming charm, she can almost feel the liquid heat trying to penetrate the icy walls of her exterior appendages. It’s a small relief and one she is more than happy to accept as the looming towers of the castle come into clearer view.

A blur of people greets her as she steps out of the cool green flames of the Floo network, her head swimming with the motion. Grabbing a tight hold on her luggage, she steps clear of the hearth as another traveler comes through quite abruptly. Catherine barely has the chance to place her bag onto the ground before she hears the rumbling chuckle over the bustling sound of the Parisian wizarding street.

“There’s my girl.”

With a turn, her gaze meets the gleaming green eyes of her dearest friend as he beams at her through the passing travelers. Her eyes widen and her smile grows wider.

“Hello, darling.”

She rushes into his embrace with a bright smile.

His arms wrap around her in an instant, tugging her close to his chest. She can feel the bristles of his beard upon her crown as he presses his cheek down. The warm scent of woodsy musk and spiced rum tangled in his coat’s lapels. The rapid beat of his heart thumping away under the palm of her hand.

Sebastian Sallow had become a handsome wizard in the years following graduation – not to say that he was never a sight to behold prior to their seventh year, but she had certainly never noticed his charms for what they were.

He releases his hold on her, keeping one arm wrapped around her waist as he leans down to summon her bag to him.

“Six bloody years, Hart. That’s how long you’ve kept me waiting.”

She plucks the tip of his nose with her finger.

“As though you weren’t off shrouded in mystery and darkness down in that secretive Department of yours.”

“Yeah, comes with the name, doesn’t it?” He shrugs, unabashed, “But at least I stayed in the same country!”

With a bubbling laugh, she hugs him tighter – finding an old comfort in the embrace. His hands rest upon her lower back and she can feel his grin upon her shoulder.

“Oh, there you are.”

Catherine turns at the soft melodic voice behind her.

Not to be outdone, Ominis Gaunt had grown into quite the attractive man as well. His perfectly coiffed locks made his sharp features truly stand out. She finds herself visually tracing the constellations that his freckles created on his cheek.

“Hello, Ominis. It’s good to see you again.”

Tentatively, she pulls from the other man’s arms and steps forward, lowering her hand so her fingers brush against his.

He doesn’t stiffen this time but seems to relax instead as a smile crosses his lips. Slowly, she envelopes him in a hug, keeping her touch light in case he feels the need to rescind the affection. But he surprises her once again as he leans his chin upon her shoulder and holds her close.

“I’m happy to have you back, too.”

She hears a scoff to her left and she can almost imagine the face Sebastian is making as he says, “Oh sure, she gets a hug but I get a boxing to the head.”

Ominis pulls away, focusing his attention on the other man.

“Because you tried to bewitch the snow in front of a cafe full of Muggles, Sebastian! Honestly –“ he turns back to Catherine, “I’m thankful you arrived when you did. I’m not sure I could have managed another second on my own.”

“As if I’m a Crup that needs to be kept,” Sebastian scoffs.

With a roll of her eyes, she takes hold of both men by the crook of their elbows – effectively silencing them both.

“Well, you certainly know how to make a girl feel like she’s back in school again.”

Sebastian’s booming laugh follows them as they head out onto the magical streets of Paris – arm-in-arm.

Place Cacheé was bustling with holiday shoppers – the central square of the French wizarding market. The cobblestone streets were free of heavy snow drifts, as the Isles had been when she had departed. Instead, a light dusting clung to the colorful shop awnings, and thimble-sized icicles hung from the branches of the barren trees.

Ominis had secured the three of them rooms at the Hotel De Ginestou.

While he had forgone his measly inheritance once he broke away from the Gaunt family in its entirety upon graduation, Ominis had found his own way. And now, thanks to his own natural talents, he had sequestered away a sizable sum of money that he rarely ever dipped into. That no one but him could dip into.

This particular occasion, was one of the rare moments, however.

Catherine stares out at the market square from the arched window of her third-floor room. The suite contained two bedroom offshoots from a central living area – with the boys opting to share a double room while giving her the single.

The trio had spent their first day together out in the square, enjoying the varying foreign fares that the French market had to offer. Catherine had been on the lookout for gifts to give to her fellow colleagues. She had a handful of items already set to be delivered on Christmas morning back at the castle. But a few still needed to be sorted, as Hogsmeade hadn’t had quite the right trinkets in mind.

Sebastian planned to have them all traversing the streets of Muggle Paris before Christmas though, so perhaps she could find those last few presents out there.

That first night together, they sipped coffee on the patio of the cafe across the street from their lodgings and had the opportunity to watch the sun set while they finished their meals.

Everything had been so lovely thus far. They found their comfortable familiarity buried under six years of distant contact and unintentional silence. Soon, she felt quite similar to the sixteen-year-old version of herself – laughing with a bottle of wine shared between them as they sat upon the floor of their hotel suite, sharing more and more outrageous stories of their time away.

But now, the suite is quiet.

Blowing her breath against the window pane, she drags her index finger across the fresh canvas to create a multi-pointed snowflake. Outside, a light snowstorm had overtaken the city. Down on the street below, an inch or more of freshly fallen snow covered the walkways. Hurried shoppers darted between the safety of the awnings.

A small smile appears on her face as she blows once more to solidify the image.

This time of year brought around many different memories for her. For the last decade, she had spent the Christmas season in different countries around the world – where the momentous drink of wine or mead straight from the bottle was considered celebration enough. Familiar songs around roaring fires, or the very occasional passing of necessary items in lieu of frivolous gifts.

Miriam and Nigel had purchased a pair of sturdy leather boots for her during their travels across New Zealand on Christmas, as her own were terribly worn by that point. Yet that was perhaps the greatest gift she had received since leaving school.

During her short time at Hogwarts, the holidays were filled with laughter and joy as she celebrated with new friends. The spirit of the season was found in the snowball fights in the courtyard and the late-night conversations around the fireplace in the common room with mugs of cocoa and cider on hand.

But when recalling the years before the discovery of her magic…

Catherine starts another pointed snowflake on the fogged-up window pane, albeit slower as she drags her finger in a slow loop.

There were two different holidays in her mind. Those had before her parents died and those after. Admittedly, there was almost no celebration to be had in the aftermath.

The mill owner, Mr. Perkins, was a good Christian man who made sure his workers had the blessed day off. Many of the young girls who worked the bobbins had families to spend their time with. But several, like Catherine, who lived at the Boys’ and Girls’ Refuge in Manchester, simply didn’t have the luxury.

While the nuns made sure they attended the evening service, nothing more was had outside of randomly given brown-paper packaged gifts from the local charity organization. She usually gave her presents – a wooden train one year, and a gangly hand-sewn doll another – to the younger girls as she had no need for toys. Not since…

The holidays spent with her parents, however…

Those memories were concerningly faded after so many years.

She could recall a wreath with four candles nestled in its bows. The heavenly aroma of roasted goose and steaming potato pancakes with cinnamon applesauce. Images of the beautiful blonde-haired angel with a golden crown who was rumored to bring gifts to deserving children on Christmas Eve. The sweet ginger taste of Lebkuchens. The powdered sugar that would cling to the corners of her lips when she snuck another slice of Stollen.

Tucked away in those memories, hidden like the last present on Christmas morning, she could hear the sound of her parents’ laughter. The gentle chastising Johan would receive for sneaking a second biscuit before dinner. The exhaustion that was plain upon their faces as they watched their children unwrap their gifts. The tight warmth of her mother’s embrace.

A gentle rapping of knuckles upon her door has her turning.

Sebastian leans against the doorway, arms crossed and a deep smirk on his face. With a blush blooming across her cheeks, Catherine tucks her arms behind her back and glances away from the window.

“What?”

“Figured you wanted to get things started, unless I’ve interrupted the great artist at work?” he grins with a smug voice.

With a breath, she brushes past him, shoving his shoulder as she goes – though he doesn’t so much as budge, “Six years too short.”

His trailing laugh follows her into the dining area of the hotel suite.

Ominis had opted to leave them to it, as he had no love for the holiday and found his time better spent down at the complimentary bar. Catherine certainly couldn’t blame him, knowing the environment in which he grew up. It was a miracle Ominis had wanted to spend this time of year with anyone at all. Though she was slightly prideful of the fact that he chose to spend it with them.

She runs her hand along the soft leaves of the woody-smelling spruce wreath they had made earlier that day together. Sebastian had brought along the supplies in his suitcase, much to her delight. Rubbing her finger along the wonky-looking velvet ribbons he had tied, a warm smile crosses her lips.

In the center of the table sat the Yule log, surrounded by spruce bows, pinecones, and crisp red apples. A pair of wooden reindeer stood guard over the plates of prepared food – courtesy of a disgruntled cook down in the hotel’s kitchens.

“Would you like to do the honors?”

With a start, she glances up toward her companion who’s holding the three candles in his hand.

“Please,” she urges, gesturing at the log, “By all means.”

He gives a nod before carefully placing the two colored candles on the lace-covered tablecloth. Grabbing hold of his wand, he lights the first one with a delicate Incendio and situates it in the middle holder.

White: for purity, protection, and peace.

Rounding the table, Catherine takes hold of the second candle and does the same action. Her breath catches in her throat as she holds her finger close to the flame just to feel the flicker of heat against her skin.

Red: for strength and passion.

Together, they light the last candle. Sebastian places it in the final holder of the Yule log and steps back, a wide smile spreading across his lips.

Green: for health, prosperity, and new beginnings.

“Oh, look at that,” he says, with a soft voice of wonder.

She follows his gaze up to the ornate white ceiling where a spring of blooming mistletoe reaches down toward them. A look that spoke of having suffered too many mischievous pranks at the hands of the man across from her befalls her face.

“Yes, very clever.”

Sebastian immediately clears his throat, rocking back on his heels as he leans closer to her with his cheek on full display. With a sigh, she leans up and pecks a chaste kiss on his scruffy face.

With a pleased grin, he leans down and brushes his lips against the top of her head before picking up a slice of fruit cake – offering her a second piece.

“Blessed Yule, Cathy.”

Taking a bite of the sweet-spiced treat, she smiles back.

“Blessed Yule, Sebastian.”

Aesop awakens slowly as the pull of a precious dream keeps his eyes from fully fluttering open. Only due to the rich aroma of steaming coffee does he finally roll over, his legs tangled in the heavy red blanket, as he stares at the recently placed cup on his nightstand.

Salazar, bless House Elves.

Waking is a taxing affair on any normal day. But winter days had a particular added discomfort to them. His leg aches in a way that doesn’t stem from just the cursed muscle. It’s a throbbing somewhere deep in the very tissue brought on only by the weather.

He downs the half-used bottle of pain potion beside the mug of coffee.

At last, he rubs at his tired eyes and manages to sit up. The warm sheets pool around his lap as he stares down at the modest stack of presents at the end of his bed.

There’s no need to move as he grabs hold of his wand from the table beside him and summons the packages over to his side. It was self-indulgent, that he was all too fully aware of. But if one couldn’t be a little indulgent on this day of all days, then when could they be?

Abraham was gracious enough to purchase a lovely old bottle of whiskey for him with a golden dragon topper. It was nearly identical to the one Aesop had gifted the Charms professor.

This is followed by the usual array of potion and herb books from some of his other colleagues. He receives not one, but two copies of Potions of the Ages: A Collection of Advanced Brewing Techniques from Cecil Waterford and Headmaster Aragon.

Dinah sends him a thin book of obscure healing plants from around the world and their common usages. It appears as though the entire thing had been translated from another language as he flips through the pages with a surprised hum.

A new feathered quill, a glass paperweight in the shape of a curled serpent, and a box of assorted chocolates are added to the growing pile as well.

Tucked away between the packages, he plucks a plain envelope up with his calloused fingers. He peers at the swirl of writing on the front in deep emerald ink for but a moment before he stuffs the letter into the drawer of his nightstand.

That could be dealt with another day or once he had the proper amount of alcohol in his system.

With the final package opened – a slightly burnt fruitcake from Ranira Witherford – Aesop finally pulls free of the comfort of his bed and sets about to get ready for the day. He doesn’t take count of the presents to realize that one gift is missing.

The spirit around the castle would be in full swing with much merry-making and joy abound. Matilda would be supervising the remaining students as they took to the grounds while the ghosts and the portraits would inform them of any misbehaving miscreants running amok.

He was fond of this day, surprisingly. As in, most people found it surprising that the grouchy Potion Master was capable of finding joy in things other than belittling his foolhardy students.

But Aesop genuinely did enjoy the season. It was just due to the fickle nature surrounding his leg that he found his demeanor a sour affair.

For the majority of the day, he keeps to his quarters. Savoring the warmth of the roaring fireplace, the pleasant tingles of pain potion working to keep a numbness around the cursed appendage, the indulgence of fine artisan chocolates, and even the welcomed comfort of sketching in his armchair.

Little things that were difficult to come by during the average days of the school year.

But as the hours tick by and the light begins to fade from the window – forcing him to light the lamps around his study to continue his drawing – he comes to face the music that his free time is running out. Shuffling into his heavy woolen coat, the professor heads down the tapestry hall – passing the silent room near the stairs.

Briefly, he wonders what Hart is up to in Paris. If she was with Sallow and Gaunt, he couldn’t imagine any good. Though perhaps those thoughts only stemmed from the troubling three years the trio had shared as students together.

The crisp winter wind bites at his cheeks when he steps out onto the courtyard.

A handful of students are out on the hill near the empty Beasts classroom, sliding down the snowy slope on a wooden sled. A littering of oddly shaped snowmen line the lawn – with one holding what appears to be a broom near Kogawa’s shed.

He’s not sure, entirely, what made him decide to stretch his legs, so to speak. But he finds the chill air a welcome sensation as it fills his lungs. He makes a slow loop of the fountain, content to partake in just a small amount of exercise.

The looming gray-speckled sky above brings the promise of more snow as a slow drift of flakes begins to descend from the skies. One, rather large flake, seems to swoop through the air toward him before he realizes, as he squints his eyes, that it is, in fact, an owl.

A rotund, snowy white, owl.

The creature hoots only once as it soars downward, dropping a hefty package in his waiting hands before it circles around Aesop and heads off in the direction of the owlery.

The potions professor stares at the plain brown rectangular package, flipping it over to examine the folded white tag attached to the coiled string that reads only his name.

A momentary thought passes through his head – another book, lovely – before he schools himself and gently pulls the tied string loose. Unfolding the wrapping, just there in the quiet of the courtyard, Aesop vanishes the packaging and examines the crimson book with a skeptical eye.

He was mentally placing bets on whether it would be another book devoted to beginner-level potion-brewing or an encyclopedia of common herbs and fungi.

Golden embellished font garners his attention.

L’art Impressionniste en Europe (1865 – 1903)

Fingering the cover open, he flips through the pages.

Scaled-down portraits and landscapes and still-life greet him. The names of famous Muggle painters adorn the bottom of the pages. Monet, Renoir, Bazille, Morisot.

He snaps the cover closed, wanting to savor this in the privacy of his chambers. Aesop pockets the book as the students begin to trudge down the hill. With another glance towards the sky, he becomes aware of the hour and forces himself to patiently wait for them as dinner would soon be ready in the Great Hall.

Only four others had remained for the winter break. The Headmaster sits at the head of the long table, with Matilda and Mudiwa on either side of him. Students sit scattered about the table, far too nervous to sit directly beside their professors. Aesop nods politely at Ranira and the others before he takes a seat beside the Deputy Headmistress. A few stragglers make it to the Hall at last and then the delicious feast can begin.

Though he chats pleasantly with Matilda and a few Slytherin students to his left, his mind rarely travels far from the book in his coat pocket. His curiosity is burning, his desire to sequester himself away and savor each image too strong.

Pops of Christmas crackers pull his attention back to the moment as Mr. Nichols places a Viking helmet upon his head and Matilda happily takes hold of a pink crown. Aesop sets aside the velvet green and red elf hat that appears in his own package.

After bidding his colleagues good night and a happy Christmas, he’s finally able to depart. The entire journey, the book digs against his thigh like a scorching reminder.

But at last, he unlocks his chamber door, sheds his coat, and finds a comfortable position in his armchair. Thumbing the pages, he stares at the carefully arranged pictures that allow him to see the progression of a single artist’s portfolio through several years.

He finds himself lost in the golden sunset hues of Gillaumin’s Soleil couchant à Ivry (Sunset at Ivry). Transfixed by the gentle mixing of pastels in Cassatt’s Summertime. In awe of the depth of detail in Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party.

The potions professor finds himself eagerly studying each image until the fire turns to orange embers and his hip aches from retaining a singular position for so long. At last, he flips the final page over – only to discover a note carefully wedged between the page and end cover.

In a momentary lapse of memory, he chastises himself for not realizing who exactly had sent the book in the first place. The one professor he did not receive an expected gift from – as was traditional of the Hogwarts’ staff.

Holding the piece of parchment between his fingers, he examines the rough curve of Hart’s handwriting.

Aesop,

Apologies for the delay, owls are hard to come by this time of year – surprising, I know. While it’s not a book on potions, I do hope you give it a look through. I spotted it in a shop in the 18th arrondissement and thought it might be of interest. Hopefully, I wasn’t too far off base.

Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! - Catherine Hart

New Year’s Eve is an entire blur.

Glistening gold lights and silver streamers, blurs of drunken partiers with contagious smiles and bright laughter. Bubbling glasses of champagne and the noxious aroma of cigar smoke. Someone’s hand on her waist, spinning around on a marble floor. Counting down the seconds with explosions of multi-colored sparks emitting from everyone’s wands.

She regrets everything when she forces her eyes open the following morning. Dressing slowly as her sluggish mind refuses to cooperate with her schedule. With her wand, she packs away all of her clothing and trinkets. Squeezing everything into her luggage so the small stack of Christmas gifts can take up space too.

Sebastian had presented her with a beautifully carved wooden phoenix that ruffled its feathers and stretched its wings out. Ominis had been slightly more practical with a new quill and stack of personalized parchment bearing her name. So, you’ll have ample reason to respond to our letters.

The trio shares a warm breakfast around the dining table, filling the growing trepidation of parting with any small story or antidote that comes to mind – many of which had been heard several times before.

But, at last, their bags are packed and in hand, and the quiet peace of the hotel suite is locked up once more. Like little ducks in a row, they march down to the Floo Network. She wraps them both in tight hugs – ensuring that this is not like the goodbye they had shared before. They would meet up again – sooner than six years, she promised.

“You take care of yourself, okay?”

The blonde man smirked, “I always do.”

Taking hold of Sebastian’s warm calloused hand, she watches as Ominis disappears with the flicker of green flames. A second parting is had, in the quiet English port, as the oddly quiet man watches her enter another hearth – headed back to the village they had frequented so many times before.

“You can always come up during the weekends.”

“Or you could come down to London.”

They both knew it was unlikely.

With a wave, Sebastian fades from view and she’s stumbling out onto the quiet streets of Hogsmeade.

Shrinking her luggage down so it can fit into her pocket, Catherine heads back to the castle – feeling the warm beckoning of its call as she neared closer.

Several students are out and about in the courtyard, though it would be another three days before the rest of the student body returned to the school. For now, it was a quiet solace for the few bodies that remained for the holiday season.

Like a tight embrace, she relishes in the feeling of the Bell Tower. The earthy scent of spruce garland greets her as she heads down to her quarters – eager to shed away her traveling clothes and perhaps take the time to soak in a much-needed bath.

Once inside, she’s quick to light the fireplace – hoping it won’t take too long for the room to become heated up.

Flicking the locks on her suitcase, she directs her clothes back into the wardrobe, her new writing supplies to the desk, and the phoenix statue to her bedside table. Only once her things are put away does she draw her attention to a small stack of paper-wrapped packages on the rug beside her armchair.

As much as she wants to tear apart the strings and slide her thumb under the wrapping, she holds back – eyeing the open leather bag near the end of her bed instead.

Ducking her head down into the opening, she calls out, “Deek! Are you down there?”

She spends the next four hours busying herself in the bag. The old house elf was a natural of course, but she felt her duties had been severely neglected over the holiday – though she remained grateful for the help and thanked Deek far more than he liked for it.

Only then, after she climbed back out into her room and had to cast Lumos upon the scattered candles to fill the area with light, did she finally make her way over to the Christmas presents.

Like a child, Catherine deposits herself on the rug before the crackling fireplace. One by one, she reads the tag and opens the packaging.

A book devoted to North American beasts from the Headmaster. A jaunty sky blue pointed hat from Matilda – which the young witch immediately tries on and keeps in place for the remainder of the openings.

Broom polish from Kogawa, the expensive high-quality kind. Fruitcake from Ranira. A blooming purple plant from Mirabel that smells oddly of cherries. A new set of Tarot cards from Mudiwa that she stares at with a barely-masked look of disdain. A handful of books and sweets from the likes of Waterford, Crestwell, Moore, Shah, and Dippet.

There’s also a few items from Poppy: a small portrait of a soaring Hippogriff, a new dragonhide apron, and a pink and lime green box of cauldron cakes – still fresh as the day they were made. Natty also sends her a simple necklace with a silver feather attached to the chain – one that she is quick to place around her neck as she peers down to admire the placement.

She grins at the Christmas card sent by the Thortons, a moving image of them waving in front of a hollow of Nifflers who are actively trying to loot Nigel’s trouser pockets. Augustine’s card shows her atop a proud-looking Granian. While Edmund sternly salutes the camera from the top of the Great Wall.

With a flick of her wand, the cards float over to her nightstand and the torn packaging disappears. As she begins to ease onto her feet – her joints actively disliking the sudden change in position – she catches the faint blue wrapping out of the corner of her eye, wedged near the leg of the armchair.

Lowering herself back down to the rug, she pulls the small parcel free and examines the soft package. There is no tag, no note from the sender. But by doing a quick mental catalog of everyone who had already sent her gifts, she can easily limit it down to one person; one man.

Curious as to what could be inside, Catherine carefully pulls the paper free, unfolding it like a book on her lap. Inside, she finds another wrapped item – though the paper is a thin black that crunches beneath her fingertips. This too she pulls free.

A slow smile stretches across her pink lips as she picks up the glistening chestnut leather glove. Her fingers rub the smooth shell before they dip inside the warm black wool. She slides them on, one at a time, grinning as she finds that they fit perfectly and their added warming charm instantly sends a burst of heat through her fingers.

The memory of a quiet conversation held over a week ago on the journey back from Hogsmeade replays in her mind. Buy a pair of gloves, will you? He had said to her. While she had never found the time to do so before she left for Paris, clearly the potions professor had managed to slip away to purchase this fine pair.

She was truly looking forward to seeing him now, as she glanced over at the wall near the bed that separated her chambers from his. Ever observant, always watching – the ex-Auror must have truly pitied her that last trip to the village. But no matter, as she was genuinely grateful for them.

A brief thought given to the book she had managed to find in a tiny little store in Muggle Paris crosses her mind. It had been a risk at the time, something that he was unlikely to receive from the other professors. But she was aware of his secretive hobby and Catherine had hoped he wouldn’t be too offended by the purchase.

Brushing the knees of her trousers clear of imaginary dirt, she stands and begins to sort away her new items – keeping the gloves on the entire time, reluctant to take them off just yet. For what reason, she can not say.

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#aesop sharp x oc #aesop sharp x mc #professor sharp x oc #professor sharp x mc #aesop sharp fanfic #professor sharp fanfic #hphl fanfic #series: bitter water #my fic

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naivesilver · 2 years

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💢 ANGER, 🏊 SWIMMING, 🔪 KNIFE, 🎡 FERRIS WHEEL, 🔥 FIRE and ❤️ RED HEART for the little hee haw please?

One last hurrah for our bastard child, who we mostly conjured out of thin air 💗💗

OC Emoji Asks

💢 ANGER - what are some habits they have that will take some getting used to?

The language he's most fluent into is sarcasm. He will make a mockery of everything, sometimes because he really thinks it's ridiculous, often as a defence mechanism. Pinocchio and Eugene grew up around it and have developed two quite different response mechanisms to it, as have Leroy and Nova ever since they adopted him took him under their wing, but it's a tad jarring and unpleasant to newcomers.

🏊 SWIMMING - can they swim? or are they afraid of water? how well do they swim? how do they feel about swimming in the ocean?

Wow you think you're slick don't you

A great swimmer. He loves the sea in any shape and form. The only thing that prevents him from swimming and/or sailing to the other side of the ocean is that given Storybrooke's history for connecting to other worlds at random, he'd rather not risk finding anything unpleasant over the horizon. A lot of places he'd be happy to never see again are reachable via open water, it seems.

🔪 KNIFE - how do they react to injury / misfortune befalling their loved ones (significant other, family, friends)? do they put themselves at blame?

He will blame himself to the end of the world and back, obviously. He's likely to find a scapegoat, too, and rage against them to feel like he's doing something useful, but once that kind of fury has calmed down? Free tour around Guilt Town, baby. He asks himself why he couldn't stop it from happening, or why it didn't happen to him instead, and on and on until one of the usual suspects comes to knock some sense into his head.

🎡 FERRIS WHEEL - are they someone who wants to kiss at the top of the ferris wheel?

He would, if Ferris wheels weren't indissolubly tied to some nasty memories now. Kissing on a high spot is probably still in the cards, though. Emma should watch out for that clock tower.

🔥 FIRE - do they have any self destructive tendencies? what habits do they have that hinder them from becoming their best self?

Does he have any NOT self destructive tendencies, should be the question - they are pretty hard to get rid of, even after years of having some more solid relationships in his life. He distances himself from people he feels he's growing close to, because he's afraid to be hurt again; he assumes everyone is out to get him deep down; he smokes, because what is anyone going to do if they catch him? Call his parents?

Yeah, he's a mess. Six feet and counting of adolescent anger.

❤️ RED HEART - their love language(s)?

He isn't the best at reassuring his loved ones and making them feel validated by his words, so he does things for them, with or without them knowing he was the culprit. He's also something like a gangly four-limbed snarky octopus - he is all up in other people's personal space, and he physically clings to them a lot, in a mixture of being annoying and actually relishing in their presence.

#bewilderedmoth #thousand problems verse #ask meme #lampwickcore #leroy come get your son he's having angsty thoughts again

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brainy-twilight · 7 years

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Brainy: I take her brain out and put it in the disconnected water tower by my lab of course!

#brainy twilight #brain removal #jarless #technically?#does the water tower count as a jar?#twizilla

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peralta-guaranteed · 2 years

Text

me: I don’t really like soulmark AUs

also me, sleep-groggy: but what if.... :

Soulmate marks are the worst, in Amy’s opinion. For one, those sexist things only ever appeared on women.

(she guesses that could be seen as sweet, though, thinking of her brother’s best friend who came to school one day with one, crying from joy about being ‘recognised’ before she was even out to anyone)

They manifest different on most - maternal lines often share them, but not always. And they don’t show from moments of realisation, or from falling in love themselves - they show up when a woman feels the love of her soulmate. And they grow, the more it happens. There are old women completely covered in beautiful tattoo markings, their joyful husbands at their side. A friend of her mom’s has rainbow stripes through her entire hair, the original brown nowhere to be seen anymore. Her oldest sister-in-law is covered in shining, gold-glowing freckles, and her brother loves to kiss another onto her shoulder whenever he can.

Amy’s mom has a crown of flowers growing in her hair, the same way as her abuela. They pluck them, from time to time, make a nice flower arrangement for celebrations, and all it takes is a few kisses or sweet whispers from Amy’s dad to fill her head with blooms again.

Amy is with Teddy, has been for a few months now. And there isn’t a single flower in sight.

He’s sweet. He tries. He made a joke about switching her shampoo and conditioner to something with more ‘nutrition’. He buys her flowers, a lot.

He tried to slip one of them behind her ear once, before she ripped it off and spent the night at her place.

Soulmate marks are the worst, in Amy’s opinion.

The morning after Jake has left for his undercover sting, after “I wish something could happen. Romantic Stylez.”, there’s a tiny snowdrop shining amidst her black hair.

She rips it out and throws it into her bathroom trash. (She pretends she doesn’t check on it, but it won’t wilt, not for days after. She puts it into a small glass jar with water, later on, and tells Teddy it’s one of her mom’s, given as a little keepsake.)

Jake comes back, asks to speak to her in the evidence locker. Looks at her with what is clearly defeat in his eyes when she mentions Teddy, but says nothing. Makes a joke about it all.

Her head is incredibly itchy the rest of the day, and she wakes up with two little forget-me-nots poking out from behind her ears.

(they join the snowdrop in its jar.)

Amy is conflicted. Amy doesn’t know what to do. She cares for Teddy, she really does, but things have been… lately… she’s not really… well…

And then there’s Jake. He’s the worst. How dare he force flowers into her hair? How dare he be nice and soft and caring even when she’s rebuked him several times? How dare there be camomiles and violets on her scalp after a simple takeout dinner, after a stakeout with stupid 90s sing-a-longs?

They’re all tiny, she reasons. Pitiful little flowers, that are easily ripped out, not the kind of dramatic blooms she remembers from her mom and abuela. Maybe it’s a little mishap. Maybe a soulmate can be just a good friend, a close confidante.

(Sofia has no marks. She makes a succinct statement about them once, at Shaw’s, about how restricting she thinks of them, and how she never hopes to see a single colourful line on her nails the way her mom had them.)

(Jake nods. So does Amy. And thinks about her little vase of flowers that she hides away whenever Jake comes over.)

Then Jake kisses her. Three times. Two of those shouldn’t count, she thinks, they were clearly not meant, only quick professional thinking- she tries to argue with her itching head, and pulls out lilac stems and carnations the next day.

(They look gorgeous towering over the snowdrops and forget-me-nots.)

She thinks about wearing a hat to their date, maybe a nice turban. Anything to hide what might be popping up sooner than she wants it to. And when Jake snuggles against her back after “Hope it wasn’t a mistake”, she sets an almost silent alarm to wake her before him, to… well. Take care of things.

She stuffs the peonies and marigolds down her purse the next morning, amidst a few fuchsias and pansies that are still in there from previous nights out with her… colleague. Unwilted, unbothered in the depths of her bag.

She’s still checking for any petals that might’ve dropped when Jake potters over to give her a good morning kiss, and she excuses herself far quicker than she wants to when she feels the itch starting to grow again.

Except he stays over at her place the next night, after that second date they swore wouldn’t end with alcohol, and it didn’t, but it didn’t end much different than the one before anyway. And she still wakes up before him, makes the dash over to the bathroom to pluck and trim, but when she walks out with a small bouquet in her hand, Jake is standing in front of the ever growing one on her windowsill, twirling a little snowdrop between his fingers.

She’s trying to mumble some apology, or explanation, but Jake stops her while taking the new flowers out of her hand and adding them to the vase. “I get it, you know. It’s a lot to deal with right off the bat… I mean, I don’t really know, my mom never- and my Nana’s were mostly gone, but…”

(He understands me, she thinks, and it’s almost annoying, because realising that has him pluck a little sprig of lavender from her hair almost immediately.)

A few days later, during his speech at the funeral, she sees a small snowdrop rolling back and forth between his fingers.

Another day later, she knocks on his door to tell him ‘Screw light and breezy’, but she’s not sure he hears. His eyes are stuck on the flower wreath nestled perfectly into her hair, shining like a purple and pink and orange and yellow and white halo through her black strands.

(She still plucks them, afterwards. To keep things on the downlow, to keep it for themselves. Maybe to keep Charles from fainting again. Jake agrees, and helps her ‘groom’ each morning, the windowsill filled with pots and vases of little bouquets. After their cruise, and the very first ‘I love you’ that didn’t feel like a bit of a lie from her lips, Rosa and Gina smirk at the three hibiscus blooms she’s decided to keep like a little barrette.)

(When it’s time to meet her parents, she sends them a bouquet of hers beforehand. Karen gets one, too, and turns it into a beautiful pressed flowers art piece.)

(They don’t need to spend any money on flower arrangements for their wedding. Her bridal bouquet is filled with most of the snowdrops.)

#B99 #Brooklyn 99 #Peraltiago #Jake Peralta #Amy Santiago #headcanons

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lee-scribbles-and-doodles · 3 years

Text

S3 ep5

Current emotional status: FEAR

Cthulu Max has been on the rampage for a whole week!?

Ew, the narrator

Oh man, are they sending the airforce after him?

I really like Cthulu Max's design

Momma Bosco 💗

Oh hey, Norrington and Papierwaite are alive.

Superball are you saying you tried to send the Maimtrons up Max's--

Also he's acting president while Max is... deposed of.

Superball is only giving Sam until 6am :(

Featherly!

"Wandering around the moleman tunnels is no fun without Max."

"You got it all wrong, we're trying to help Max." "We will help him... to a generous serving of ass whooping."

"That is one rabbit who will be multiplied... into 2,000 smoldering pieces."

Carol ran off with Blustet

"I only want her to be happy, is all." Aw, Curt

Superball just admitted to having separation anxiety from Max

Ok Momma can't come but Papierwaite and Norringron can.

I like Norrington :)

GASP

Is it?

It is!

SYBIL!!!!

RETURN OF THE QUEEN

Oh, she is very pregnant

She was a wizard at one point?

She's gonna help!

Superball there's no such thing as acceptable losses

Abe has his body back

"Four score and seven tons of raw power"

HE CAN FLY NOW!?

Sybil, I love you, but why did you mod someone else's car???

Grandpa Stinky I love you

Oh, he just handed us the recipe for once.

Asdfff the spore maxes swarming Grandpa

They stole Grandpa's hotdogs

"We must feed the host! Piglets and sphinkters make us stronger!" "We regret nothing!"

Grandpa hasn't slept in three years

Sam just casually taking the last of Grandpa's corndogs

The spores are trying to get it

Lol Sam slapped them

Sal's alive!

He's hiding from Sam :(

Lol we can control Cthulu Max with Corndogs

Ew, the cornstarch got mixed in with the giant puddle 🤢 Looks gross

Love how Sybil completely ignores the Flaming Max head

Also the look of disappointment on the spore's face made me laugh

Fifth trimester???

The way the one Max spore by Grandpa's truck is bobbing in circles with his mouth open is making me laugh.

Sam showing concern for Sybil because she’s preggers 🥺

Her being pregnant with Abe's child implies that statues have working genital in this universe

She put a weiner scented airfreshener in the desoto

At least Sam and a Max spore seem to like that (of course they do)

"Sybil you're the best!" Hell yeah she is!

Sam's mind went to the color bar codes to prevent being traumatized by Sybil's oversharing

We drowned the desoto

Asdfgh Sam just botched slapped one of the spores for trying to say "that's none of your damn buisness."

Ew, Max's spine is pointing out

Oh hey, Satan and Jurgen

Why is Jurgen wearing his old fashioned clothes instead of his emo clothes?

Lol Sam snuck into frame to shout "Go Mets! New York rules!"

"--besides it's just a good and noble thing to do." "You're not familiar with my previous work, are you?"

"Sam, what happened to you to make you so cynical?" Gee, Jurgen, I wonder what could have possibly happened.

Oh so the water tower counts as vegetable oil because Momma did something to it

Pfft we can replace Satan's microphone with a corndog

Omg they jumped off the building to avoid Max

Oh, they're fine, and the oil is in the giant puddle.

I'm thankful to Featherly for giving us an egg but I'd have preferred not to watch him lay it. Granted it was just in a cartoon way but he still made weird noises

Also TRANS FEATHERLY 2021

"I desperately wanted to see that, sir. Ask him if he'll lay another one."

Oh hey, the Flaming Max heads helped heat up the giant desoto corndog

Since I'm playing this in 2021 the Maimtron's song references are super dated, which defeats Superball's efforts

Oooh! A unique opening sequence???

Oh this music is jazzy af

Sam really doesn't like the Max spores

Sam how do you already know what Max's insides look like???

"Even when he's not a collasal monster Max's food comas can last for weeks."

Ok we wake Max up with the coffee beans, right?

Yup!

The gi Max spore is so sad he doesn't get to come 😢

"But I'm a horrible monster!"

"I suppose Max's brain always looks like a living room?" "Well, Max is host to all kinds of weird parasites, and he likes to he a good host!" WHAT

No really, this brings up so many questions about lagomorphs. Are they some kind of Symbiote or something?

And a previous episode confirmed Max is amphibious

Max has tumors!!!

It shocked Sam!

"Eugh! Get away fake Max!" "Do you find my warmth... alarming, Sam?"

"What do nightmares taste like, anyway?" "Pepsi"

Max wants to be author 💗

He also writes fanfiction about Flint 🤣

I'd unironically read his books.

Tina Belcher voice: Friend fiction

Max has an experimental fusion jazz band???

"He just killed a great white shark--"

Max being completely unable to describe a woman is very gay of him. Good for him.

Max's brain teleported everyone to different parts of the body.

Found Sybil in the gym/legs

The brain is broadcasting Sam's thoughts???

Sam couldn't think of a joke for the medicine balls :(

"Wow Max is looking pretty buff. Would it be too weird if I asked him to turn around?"

Sam! Stop thinking bad things about Sybil's pregnancy she can hear you you putz!

She's upset with him now

"Can you believe this guy?" "I find the entire situation to be very contrived and misogynistic." Same spore Max, same.

Sam stop being so mean omg!

"I changed Sybil, I totally get the whole parenthood thing now." "Really now?" "Tax deductions."

In Max's inventory now

Y'know, I never really thought about it as a storage house

Hit The Road reference :3

Baby roach hatched in

"Pa..papa?" "Now I am little champion, now I am!"

Max has a Maximus shrine

Sam turned into a roomba!

Aw, he named it Sam Jr 🥺

We won Sybil back through his love of Sam Jr

Found the conjoined twins

Huh, Max lost as eye. Does that mean he has a glass one, or do lagomorphs have regenerative abilities?

Pfft we have to play twister to control his arma

The brain is messing with things again

Oh, we need a roach to operate the game because of radiation

Well, let's kidnap Sal

Oh, poor Girl Stinky. She's really going through it

Aw, Sal feels bad

Sal?

Honey, are alright?

He's dying???

He's not immune to irradiation!?

Oh no, he's gone

I'm so sad 😞

Gotta pick up Sam Jr. Before I control Max

They mad Max do a magical girl pose

Ugh the narrator is back

Wait, what?

He's Max's brain??? SUPEREGO???

WHAT

"I was always ignored" Yo if my super ego was as pretentious as you I 'd ignore it too 😤

He wants to kill himself and Max???

I know Max had a self loathing complex but holy shit

The super ego is perfectly fine with destroying half the east coast what a jerk

Just noticed Sam's tie is red. Had no idea about this while drawing PI!Sam lol

We have to help Max get his memories back to use the ASTRO projector

Skunkapes has three Sam clones imprisoned

Sam had canon ocd?

Gasp Gordon???

No, it's Sammun Mak

I love him, little child tyrant

Just make him a mobile brain in a jar and let Sam and Max adopt him

Why is Grandpa here?

He isn't talking like Stinky

Too polite

Sam sees it too

He's a space gorilla

They switched brains?

Found the cloning g chamber

Let's go to Momma's first

CONE OF SHAME CONE OF SHAME CONE OF SHAME

Superball is "wracked with guilt"

"Keep it together Superball. Sam will be able to save the day. He always does."

Ok, let's go to the cloning facility

I'm still thinking about poor Sal yo

FLIIIIIINT!

He's punching space apes!

Girl Stinky really playing up the evil Mistress role

The doggleganger has a bomb on him!!!

Wait so Girl really is a mermaid??? I thought that was just her aestetic

God I love Flint

Haha we tricked Skunkape with scooby doo villain tactics

Got the robot

Her water broke... and it was pennies

Max wants to save Sybil! 😭🥺💕

Super Ego is here

Oh now he wants to save Max

The only thing here are those records

Super Ego waved goodbye

Cthulu Max is cute when he cries

Wait What?

His head is on fire!

The maimtron hit him!

He waved goodbye... and teleported away.

He exploaded!!!!

He promised he'd take Sam with him and he didn't!!!!

AAAAAAH

I thought the dead Max thing was popular angst fanon fic thingy!

We're cloning Max?

It didn't work 😭😭😭😭😭

Superball ran off crying

Oh God the credits are just Sam walking sadly what the hell

He's not even stopping to fight any crime 😢

💔💔💔

God the way he's clinging to himself

What?

The elevator???

MAAAAX

he's back???

Past Max???

He blew his Sam up???

Wait hold on I'm glad they're together again but this doesn't fix anything

There's so much trauma from this season

All the horrible things that happened during 301-304 happened in like 3 days tops, then Sam had to deal with Max being a monster for a week before watching him die!

And the new (?) Max had BLOW HIS SAM UP!!!

And they left the franchise like that for a decade????

What the hell?

I want to be happy but this shit is going to consume my brain for the next week at least what the hell

Aaaaaaah!

Like maybe they really do just brush it off but it feels unlikely

I know Max has a connection with his other selves so it'll be easier for him to adjust but certainly Sam is going to notice the discrepancies since he doesn't get the same deal

Someone told me there were multiple endings hold on

Aw, they walked off into the sunrise together

But still

AAAAAAAAH

#sam and max #freelance husbands #sam and max freelance police #sam & max #sam & max freelance police #freelance police #lee plays sam and max #305 #what the hell #flint paper #agent superball #momma bosco #sybil pandemik #sal s&m #general skun ka'pe #girl stinky #sammun mak #don't @ me I'm crying

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polaroid15 · 3 years

Text

You Can't Save Everyone

Summary: After a rough night brings back vivid memories of his Uncle's death, Peter finds himself at Stark Tower. Tony has some realizations.

*trigger warning for dissociation

Read on Ao3 HERE :)

--------

It’s just shy of midnight when Peter enters the Tower.

Tony is in his lab when it happens, fiddling mindlessly with a new program for his suit. His shoulders ache and his lower back flares with pain, the discomfort only made known as FRIDAY’s alert interrupts his concentration. It pulls him away from his project like a tide rolling back to sea.

“Boss. As per the sneaking spider protocol, I am to inform you that Mr. Parker has entered the tower via an eighth floor window.”

A mixture of emotions flood Tony’s weary mind, battling mainly between excitement and worry. Historically, Peter showing up in the dead of night unannounced is not good, but Pepper has been trying to coach him into optimism.

It could be nothing.

Please let it be nothing.

“Is he okay?” Tony asks, already on his way to standing. He braces himself against his desk for a moment, working to loosen the stiffness in his joints as FRIDAY responds.

“It is unclear. Peter is unresponsive to my prompts.”

A spike of cold adrenaline shoots all the way down to his toes. He hurries towards the exit once he gets his bearings, a familiar sense of dread resting heavy in his gut. “Keep trying.”

“Of course.”

The elevator takes eons and Tony resists every nerve in his body to run once it opens. He’ll be fine, his mind assures, but even his own sentiments are hard to believe. Because it’s Peter. Because out of all the kid’s in the world he could’ve gotten attached to, it had to be a disaster prone spider mutant.

“Anything FRI?” Tony asks, quickening his stride. He’s close, but still too far. Still not there. “Is he responding yet?”

“Negative, boss.”

“Damn it kid-”

Tony stops short at the threshold of Peter’s room, the space underneath the door dark. He knocks once, twice, then barrels on through with his heart in his throat.

A sharp chill emanates from the open window but the kid is nowhere in sight. The sound of water running in the bathroom is enough evidence to steer Tony in it’s direction. Like the bedroom, the light in the bathroom is absent. Tony slaps his palm against the frame, ear pressed to hear. Please don’t be bleeding out. “Kid?” he shouts. “Are you in there?”

The shower continues to run, but it’s the only noise Tony hears. He knocks harder. “Peter! Can you hear me?”

He counts to ten in his head. Bites his lip. Closes his eyes.

“If you don’t answer I’m coming in, kiddo.”

This time he only counts to five.

Thankfully, the handle twists without a problem. Tony flicks on the switch and winces against the jarring brightness from the bulbs above the mirror. It only takes a couple seconds to find the kid in question, and his stomach bottoms out.

“Peter-”

He’s skidding to his knees on the cold tile before he can draw another breath, his fingers curling over the lip of the bathtub. Peter is sitting at the base of the tub under a steady stream of water, staring blankly at the wall and covered in blood. He’s not in his suit, the remnants of a NASA shirt just barely visible through the crimson and gore. It’s on his face, in his hair, under his nails-

Breathe. Breathe. Oh God.

“Peter?” he prompts, his hands shaky and hesitant to reach out. The kid has hardly even blinked since Tony barged in, let alone acknowledge him. Warning bells go off in his head like clockwork, sparking pain in his temples. “Can you hear me?”

But Peter merely stares onward, pale and distant as pink water circles the drain. He gives no indication whatsoever of being aware that Tony’s there, let alone talking to him, and he’s had enough experience with ptsd to know the kid is dissociating.

“FRI. Scan- scan Peter’s vitals. Is he hurt?”

“No wounds detected.”

A breath of relief. Tony leans forward, pressing his head into the tub. “Thank God. Okay, okay. Oh Christ.” More tethered, he reaches out a hand and feels the water’s temperature. Cold. He adjusts it until it’s warm and gets FRIDAY to dim the lights. “I’m here buddy,” he says, unsure if his words will break through. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Even though it kills his already sore back, Tony remains hunched on the bathroom floor. He sits and watches over Peter for the better part of an hour until the kid starts to come back to himself, his blinks becoming more frequent and his fingers twitching from where they rest in his lap. The distant fog in Peter’s eyes begins to ease, replaced with tears that are nearly impossible to differentiate from the water.

“Pete?” he whispers, a sorrow of his own causing his words to stick in his throat. He’s careful not to touch, to keep a distance no matter how badly he wants to do the opposite. “You back with me kiddo?”

Peter’s eyebrows pinch together and he sucks in a shuddering breath. With the grace of a newborn foal, Peter extends his hands in front of his face. They’re still stained with blood, and at the sight, Peter moans.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Can you look at me Peter?” He feels like he’s walking on a minefield. One misstep and it all goes kaboom. “Eyes over here bud. I know you can do it.”

It’s like Peter’s moving through molasses. His head swivels, his chest heaving, and then their eyes meet. It sends another jolt through Tony, though he fights to keep his expression neutral. Comforting. “That’s great. That’s perfect. I wanna help you. Can I touch you?”

An agonizing lull stretches while Peter processes the request. Then, he nods.

Careful not to move too quickly, Tony grabs a washcloth from the space under the sink and grabs Peter’s hands. He runs the material over the marred skin and under his nails. He does the same to his arms, his neck, his face. He squeezes shampoo in his hair and waits until the bubbles disappear and the water runs clear. When he finishes, Peter’s eyes are closed and red rimmed, his posture spring loaded as if seconds from breaking.

He rests his hand on Peter’s shoulder, noticing only now that his job is done how badly the boy is trembling. “Pete?” he prompts. “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

Another nod. For the first time, Peter moves intently, leaning forward and struggling to twist off the water. When he succeeds he rests his forehead on his knees until Tony helps him stand and together they manage to get Peter over the lip of the tub. He stands in his wet clothes, shivering and looking at the floor.

“Stay here, buddy. I’ll go get you some new clothes.”

Only when he’s certain Peter isn’t going to topple over, Tony vacates the steaming bathroom to the bedroom. He rifles through the kid’s messy drawers until he wrangles a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. Peter is sitting on the toilet lid when he returns, his head bowed in his hands.

“You need help changing?” Tony asks at the doorway. Peter lifts his head at the question and it looks as if it takes the same amount of effort the kid has used to lift a car.

“N-no,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and almost inaudible. “I’m okay.”

“Alright,” Tony agrees, another hard knot spawning at the base of his throat. He passes the clothes into Peter’s outstretched hands. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

“Right. Thanks.”

With one final look, Tony backs away and clicks the door shut behind him. His hand rests on the knob, tears pricking at his eyes and his body feeling weaker than ever. Then, only after he regains some strength, he settles on the edge of Peter’s bed and waits. His anxiety is a low burning flame, growing higher as his thoughts spiral. He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head between his knees as he forces oxygen deep into his lungs. Get a grip. Focus on Peter. You can’t help him if you’re panicking.

Somewhere in the muddy spiral of his thoughts Peter finishes in the bathroom and settles on the empty space to Tony’s right, so close that their arms touch. The bed dips with his weight.

And for a while, all they do is sit there.

Tony is grateful to hear him breathing. Even and slow. He matches the pattern and feels the embers of his anxiety darken.

“I’m sorry Tony,” Peter says eventually. If possible, he melts further into Tony’s side.

“Nothing to be sorry for, kid. How’re you feeling?”

Peter hums as he thinks. Then he shrugs. “Not so good I guess. Spacey. But better.”

“Better is good.”

They lapse into another silence, though this one is shorter. Peter’s breaths pick up. “Something happened today,” he says.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Take your time. We’ll go at your speed.”

Peter relaxes again, though some unresolved tension keeps his hands curled into fists. “I always forget,” he starts, his voice catching some detached quality, “how much blood is in a person.”

Tony hardly breathes.

“I was walking to Ned’s,” Peter continues. “I- I was supposed to stay the night at his place. I had just gotten off the subway and as soon as I came up there was a driveby. The man in front of me… one second he was standing and the next-” Peter chokes. Swallows. “They shot him in the chest. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it- it didn’t work.”

“Peter-”

“He was talking to me,” Peter says, his face wet once more. “He had a family. A wife. He- he looked just like Ben. I thought it was him, Tony. I really did. I could have sworn it was him. All over again. And he died, and I left when I could see the police coming. I just ran.”

“Peter, kiddo-”

“It was Ben,” Peter concludes with a shiver. “I think I was calling his name. He died again. I couldn’t save him.”

“It wasn’t Ben, okay? It wasn’t. Even if it felt like it was. None of this is your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter says again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I shouldn’t- I just- I couldn’t let May see me like this. I’m sorry for coming here.”

This is where Tony draws the line. He swivels on the bed and grips Peter’s forearm. “I’m glad you came. I want to help, Peter. Always. You know that.”

Peter nods, lip wobbling. “I don’t- I don’t really remember walking here. It’s like my body just took over. Like it knew it was safe.”

God, this kid. Tony blinks viciously at the sharp sting of tears and clears his throat. “There’s always a place for you here. Night and day. Our wish is your command. All that jazz.”

Miraculously, Peter cracks a smile. It’s weary, and Tony is reminded for the thousandth time just how young he is. “God, I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah, that’ll be the trauma,” Tony agrees, a pit opening up in his stomach. He feels a desperate urge to fix. To protect. “Feel up to some sleep?”

Instead of answering, Peter detaches himself from Tony’s side and crawls over to the opposite end of the bed. He struggles with the covers until he’s pressed between them, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. “Do you think I’m cursed?”

“What?”

“Cursed,” Peter repeats, like it’s the most obvious question in the world. “That the people around me are destined to some horrible, terrible fate?”

“God, I hope not,” he tries to joke, shifting his attention to the wall.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I!”

Peter huffs out a quiet laugh, though it sounds mostly forced. Tony sobers at the sound. “Of course you’re not cursed,” he says. “It’s just- life happens, you know? And yeah, you’ve gotten the short end of the stick more than once. Way more than is fair. But you can’t save everyone, Pete. No matter how badly you want to.”

At this, Peter blinks rapidly, his mouth pressing down into a hard line. Tony notices the way his fingernails curl up hard into his palms and he instinctively reaches out to stop it. Peter splays out his fingers, though they shake, and two distinct tears roll down into the pillow. “Oh man. Why is it that you’re always right?”

“I’m a literal genius, remember?”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

Something like sunlight leaks through Tony’s chest, disrupting the weight of the darkness that’s been monopolizing ever since he found Peter in the bathroom. “You, sir, are much less funny than you think.”

“Hmm. I disagree,” Peter says, his smile faltering as his eyes dip closed. He forces them back up, though they remain half lidded. Tony can hardly breathe through the tender feeling that blossoms up through his chest. Gross. Feelings.

“You going to be okay for the night?”

Peter hesitates. Nods. Then, as Tony stands to leave, his breath hitches. “Stay,” he blurts. Then as if embarrassed, backtracks. “Actually- no. Nevermind. I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”

But Tony’s already easing himself down on top of the covers on the opposite end of the bed, crossing his arms behind his head. “You better not snore,” he says.

Peter laughs again. This time, it’s genuine. A complete 180, a revival, and Tony thanks whatever higher power is listening for it. “Um. I’m pretty sure you’re the one who snores.”

Tony’s eyes close, his adrenaline gone and his energy spent. Peter is safe, he reminds himself. He’s here and he’s breathing and in this moment, he’s okay. “Sorry to break it to you kid, but geniuses don’t snore.”

“Right. Whatever you say.”

A couple beats pass. Tony’s chin dips. Then, quiet as ever, Peter’s voice returns. “Thank you Tony. For- for everything.”

“Don’t mention it, kiddo,” he murmurs, his chest tightening with a foreign feeling of affection. God, he’s getting soft.

“No,” Peter says, struggling up to his elbows. Through the dim light, Tony can see just how earnestly Peter is looking at him. “I need you to- I need you to hear me. Thank you. Everything since Germany- it’s just- if it weren’t for you-” he takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you.”

“I’m in your corner,” Tony says, surprising himself with the sincerity behind his words. It makes his chest ache. “Always.”

“I know.”

“You’re not cursed.”

“I- I know.”

“You’re a good kid.”

“Well-”

“But not if you snore.”

Peter laughs and Tony bites back one of his own. “I won’t,” he promises, his voice just above a whisper, and Tony senses it as the last of the boy’s tension drains from the room. Then, as if an afterthought, he slurs, “I’m always in your corner too, Tony.”

And within seconds, he’s asleep.

Though he’s exhausted, Tony lays and blinks heavily at the ceiling. He’s not a father, but he’s pretty damn sure this is what it must feel like.

The last thing he hears is Peter’s soft snore. He drifts, tears applying pressure against his eyelids, and vows to keep the boy safe. Because he’s not cursed. Not even close.

And Tony will always be in his corner.

Because Peter will always be in his.

No matter what.

#peter parker #tony stark #irondad #hurt/comfort #angst with fluff #protective tony stark #peter parker needs a hug #ben parker mentioned #dissociation #my fic #irondad fic

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 years

Text

72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John!

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic).

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @sevenseasofcats @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @herewegoagainniall @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @allauraleigh @bluutac @johndeaconshands

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh…Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

#queen fic #john deacon fic #fic series #72 hours in montreal

110 notes · View notes

snackhobi · 4 years

Text

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 11.8k / genre: tea witch!reader, nonwitch!jimin, growing up and finding your place in the world; fluff

summary: be careful, his mother would say. witches don’t care for mundane humans. be polite, do your business, but then leave. don’t linger. it’s not safe.

park jimin feels lost and alone and he’s still looking for home. but something unspoken leads him to your door—a witch who brews tea to match the stories and sadness that spill from his lips. a witch who gives him a question that he has to repay with an answer. (after all, you always have to pay a witch their dues.)

warnings/rating: SFW - talk of negative self thoughts, but that’s it I think! (so I suppose it’s a little angsty but it clears up dw :) )

a/n: thank you to the lovely @hobi-gif for beta reading this, ily queen!! the majority of teas mentioned are by the company bird & blend, and where possible I’ve inserted links to the exact teas I’ve included (so I suppose you could buy them yourself if you wanted to 👀)

edit [24/09/20]: please see the end of the story for an extra author’s note. -- Jimin is wet.

Jimin is tired, and sad, and lonely, but these are all things he's intimately familiar with, monochrome burden curled around his limbs and his heart, dragging him under their relentless weight. A familiar Sisyphean torture. Struggling against gravity only to be brought hurtling down once again. Yes, he's used to it by now.

But the wetness? That's new. Rain paints him with messy strokes, laid slick and cold across his body, soaking through clothes to skin to bone, reaching and curling chilled fingers into the heat of his insides. His shivers are full-bodied, every atom of his soul dripping rainwater, and Jimin—

Jimin wants to go home.

(He just doesn't know where that is, now.)

(Doesn't know if he's ever going to find it here.)

People rush past him. A sea of lifted hoods, unfolded umbrellas, crumpled newspapers— an array of protection from the downpour, some effective, some less so, but each offering at least a modicum of shielding. Hasty armour against the heavens.

Jimin is not so lucky. His pockets are empty and his jacket has no hood. Sodden blond hair guides tributaries down his face, the back of his neck, rainwater rivers that touch him so soft, so cold. Just more weights on the scale that are tipping him down, down, down.

(He's so tired.)

(He's so lost.)

The city becomes a different beast in the rain, grey and hazy, heaving with bodies, and Jimin has been swept up and spat out, road signs useless, phone dead, passersby more intent on their own destination than his. Too busy to spare a glance for the soaked boy who stands aside, out of the shifting tides of people, out of place.

(He's used to that, too.)

But then: a touch. Feather-light. A breath of wind, the gentlest curl of fingers as it brushes over his rain-slick cheek; a summer breeze, dappled sunlight and rose tinted warmth.

He turns into that touch, turning his head into that ephemeral hand, chasing the sensation of sun-hot air, and then, it hits him—

the smell.

(Sea salt and pale waves, a view that stretches on forever and falls into nothingness, endless skies and deep waters; cold across his skin and in his nose as he breathes in Songjeong beach, fills his lungs with the mellowed chill. The sand is a familiar soft roughness under his feet as he stares across the horizon, out to the world beyond, so close he can almost touch it.)

(Frying pastry, sticky street food, the smell of hot oil as the vendor flips the ssiat hotteok; air sweet with brown sugar and warm yeast, round and plump and full of seeds, a delicious crunch against his teeth. Laughter fills his ears and his lungs, as sweet as the sugar on his fingers, his lips, warmth and happiness and light.)

(Fish tang, salt and wet; the bustling yell of the fish market, fat shrimp and slick squid and rough oysters, fresh from the sea; everything breathing and shuffling and so alive, air full of the brightness of it all, edged with brine, sharp. He cuts through the choppy waves of people, treading a path that’s drawn by his steady feet, guiding him through this place he knows so well.)

Here, Jimin stands in the rain of Seoul, and all he can smell is Busan, Busan, Busan.

All he can smell is—

All he can smell is home.

(Home, that place of comfort, carved out in the heart of his memories, when he was younger and smaller and burned brighter; rose tinted and past perfect, unchangeable.)

Something stirs in his stomach. Something far reaching, but light, that soft curl of salt air brushing past the cold rain that's filled him.

He follows it.

(After all, it couldn't possibly take him somewhere that's worse than where he already is.)

Jimin has only met two witches in his life.

For the first, he was young, all chubby cheeks and small hands—he’s lost the round cheeks but the small hands have stayed.

He can easily recall the grizzled edges of the witch’s face and the deep solemnity in his voice. He’s a cliffside of a man, unbending and awe inspiring in his earthly solidness, almost terrifying; skin with pockmarks like crags, sandstone rough and chipped, eyes flint-hard and unchanging as he squats down to look at Jimin. The only thing that keeps him from bolting is his mother’s presence at his shoulder, hand warm in his, holding him tight and safe.

The witch is a monolith, and that scares Jimin. But whatever concoction the man passes over to Jimin’s mother—after she gives him jars of their family-recipe kimchi, spice and salt and sour—finally clears up the cough that’s been lingering in his throat for weeks, squeezing his lungs and throat, so he’s happy. (Even if his lips taste like sickly sweet aniseed and something deeper, something he still can't name).

For the second, he was all pubescent awkwardness, limbs still so short and yet so ungainly and gangly, a cygnet still shedding the grey plumage of his youth—desperate to reach the signature elegance and grace of a swan, all curved neck and crystal feathers and perfection.

This witch is all hard, perfect edges, glittering diamond, beautiful, untouchable; hair a dark waterfall around her face, lashes long, lips red, perfect curves and yet still so sharp. Terrifying. She eyes Jimin with something bordering on disdain, but disdain would require him to be worth her time. (He’s not.)

But he comes with payment, bundles of samphire he picked from the coast with bare hands, fat and green and salty, and so she deigns to give him a moment of that time. The metal charm is cold in his palm, ice and fire, but it works—Jonghee finally notices him, sees him, smiles at him. (Even if their relationship only lasts two weeks, a short lived school romance, she never would have looked at him twice without the charm that’s tucked in his pocket, drawing her gaze.)

Both witches had carried power like a cloak about their shoulders. Heavy around them, magic weighty and dark, smoke and fumes. Both were so different, but cut from the same cloth; clouds in the distance, sparking with lightning and weighty with rain.

Never cross a witch, they say. Always pay your dues, they say. Never approach a witch without knowing what you want, and never approach a witch without appropriate payment, ready to strike an accord, reach an agreement. One thing for another, tit-for-tat, keeping the scales even.

Witches are dangerous, they say.

(Be careful, his mother would say. Witches don’t care for mundane humans. Be polite, do your business, but then leave. Don’t linger. It’s not safe.)

(But witches keep their word. A promise from a witch is ironclad and unbreaking, written in stone. They’re dangerous, and you should always be wary, but there are rules they cannot and will not break.

In a way, it’s easier to trust a witch more than anyone else, because they’ll always honour an agreement. Jimin might not have spoken to a witch in years, now, but he knows this: if a witch gives you their word, it’s worth more than its weight in gold.)

Jimin’s feet—so skilled at treading the sea slick sands of Busan’s beaches—are unsteady on the firm concrete of Seoul’s streets. But still, he follows them. They tread a path he doesn’t know, tracing directions he cannot see, but it’s impossible to ignore and even harder to resist.

Ley lines cross. They settle here, a soft X drawn in smudged pencil on a finger-worn map, and Jimin stops.

The sign in the window says closed. At least, Jimin thinks it does, but then he blinks, and it’s almost like the words have rearranged themselves: open.

The building is unassuming, nestled between two others, a stunted tree surrounded by towering redwoods, but it’s this shopfront door that draws his eye—duck-egg, blue green, the colour of new life, the morning sea, the ebbing tide. The sign that hangs above is wooden, a little faded, but in a way that suggests comfort and not disrepair; like an old jumper, worn soft with age, but still warm, still loved.

Aurora.

A spark of light catches his eye. A glint, a dazzle, pulling his gaze towards it: below the sign, windchimes, circling a piece of quartz, catching the sunlight that's swallowed by clouds. It glitters at him through the rain. Even in the harsh breeze, the chimes are almost still, gently singing, soft voices whispering under the sound of falling water.

The door seems to swing forward at the lightest touch of Jimin’s gaze, already open, opening further. Beckoning him in.

The smell of sea fills his senses.

The quartz throws refracted light over him, lines between each colour sharp and defined despite the rough hewn edges, a rainbow that shines even brighter on the dark wetness of his clothes as he steps through; the windchimes ring out, a crystalline murmur, and then the door eases shut behind him.

It’s warm. It’s warm, and dry, and serene. Light slants in through the windows, dulled by the rain but still painting the room in white and gold. Everything is in its place, neat and quiet and cheerful, a spray of pastel crocuses in a lopsided, handmade clay vase on the counter. The counter is clear while the rest of the room is full; busy shelves and wall hangings and a garland that has the shifting phases of the moon, crescent-quarter-gibbous-full; glittering geodes, polished crystals, water smoothed pebbles; half burned candles, jars and bottles and shells, all crowding against each other.

The whole place hums with magic. But unlike the magic Jimin has felt before, sulphur sour at the back of his throat, burned tobacco in his lungs, this is gentle, all encompassing—like a kitchen warmed by a busy oven, full to the brim with bread, filling the room with its scent and heat.

Jimin feels out of place. He’s wet and dark and sad, drip-drip-dripping dirty rainwater on the hardwood floor. Hair hangs into his eyes, and he’s small and cold, almost bowing under the wet of the weather that clings to him. He shivers, caught up in the chill.

“Jinnie? Are you back already?”

A voice calls to him, out of sight. Jimin looks away from the mug and open book that lies on the counter, ring mark caught by the sliced geode coaster, sparkling copper green and jade.

“Did you forget to bring your charms? I told you to double check your bag before you left. I’m not done yet, anyway, I—”

Blink, blink. Wide eyed, soft and slow, surprised into stillness.

You look like comfort. It’s like someone’s taken a soft winter’s evening and turned it into a person—jumper big and thick weave warm, hair a softened mess, dangling earrings that look like little cherries, bare feet, skin touching the warm wood floor, mug in hand that coils with steam. Like a fireplace that flickers warmth and light in the cold.

Your pretty mouth is a little open, poised to speak another word that fails to come as you blink at Jimin.

“You’re not Jin,” you say, instead.

Drip, drip. Shying away from that doe-eyed gaze, Jimin looks down at his feet.

“The sign said open,” he mumbles, wanting to fold in on himself, a sodden origami crane that collapses under its own weight.

“It did?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your tone, but then a drip of rainwater trails down Jimin’s nose and falls, a teardrop of crystal. Your voice turns soft. “Oh, dear. No, of course it did. You’re soaking. Come on, come in. Take your shoes and coat off, leave them by the door. You look like you need a cup of tea.”

You leave no room for argument, disappearing back the way you came. Jimin is shocked into stillness, but then you reappear with a soft cream towel, an uplift to your eyebrows that looks expectant. Jimin pulls his worn shoes off, leaving them in self-created puddles at the door, jacket hung on the curved arms of an old coat rack.

The towel is warm around his neck and in his hair, cotton soaking up wetness with unnatural ease. The warmth of his surroundings is seeping in, chasing away the chill that’s settled in his bones, and when Jimin perches on the chair you’ve pulled out for him, he feels a little better. Not much, but a little, and that’s more than he can ask for.

The tea room is cluttered, racks of glass jars, some full to the brim, others almost empty, washed-out white and green and brown, some bright with full flower buds, some muted with dried berries and fruit; strings of dried orange slices hang from the ceiling above, surrounded by scatterings of bundled flowers and leaves. And yet, somehow, under the smell of bubbling water and dried tea, that tang of salt lingers, light on Jimin’s tongue.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like to talk about it?”

(In Seoul, no one has time for Jimin. Their eyes are closed off, hard, absorbed in themselves, their own problems—Jimin understands. Life is difficult, and it can be an uphill struggle, everyone so hungry, starved. Just like him. Trying to scrabble for a foothold in a mountain that’s been worn smooth by generations of grasping hands before him.)

The look you give Jimin is soft, and warm, and open; the look a mother gives a child when they fall and scrape open their knee. No pity, no judgement, just empathy.

“No,” Jimin says. Then: “Yes.” Then, after a long, lingering silence: “I don’t know where to start.”

You let out a little hum, patient, encouraging, reaching for two mismatched cups; one, soft camellia pink, the other, dark blue, bumpy ceramic, deep ocean waves.

“How about you start with how you’re feeling?”

How he’s feeling?

(How is he feeling?)

(Lost. Lonely. Alone. Like he’s caught in a riptide, and no matter how much he swims, the shore is growing further and further away; adrift and out to sea, swallowed by merciless waves.)

(Like he should have listened to the cautious words of everyone back home. Like he’d set himself up for failure from the moment he’d set his sights on Seoul, on success.)

(Like he’s never been good enough, will never be good enough, and he should have known that.)

Jimin doesn’t—Jimin doesn’t want to show you this raw, aching part of him, fit messily between his lungs.

He doesn’t have to tell you anything. He doesn’t have to peel back the skin of his chest and lay himself bare.

But for the first time since he’s stepped foot onto Seoul’s soil, Jimin feels seen.

His words are slow and faltering.

Jimin is out of practice, talking about himself, the things that he keeps small and folded away in quiet corners of his heart, but you listen. You hum and shift and move, opening jars, closing jars, weighing out loose leaves, eyes intent on your work. Maybe that’s what makes it easier.

You’re not staring at Jimin, watching as he strips himself raw. You’re watching the fire that flickers on the small burner, water bubbling and almost boiling, but not quite. Not yet. You’re watching your careful hands as you scoop the blend into a cast iron pot, burnished darkness. You’re not watching him, but you’re listening: how he’d come to Seoul to pursue his passions, his dreams, how it’s left him lonely and lost and aching. A ship on a course without map or compass, sky overcast, no stars to guide him.

“Sometimes I feel like I should have stayed in Busan,” Jimin murmurs. His head is bowed forwards, eyes caught in a knot on the wood of the table, lines coiling together. “Everyone was right. I’m never going to make it.”

The cup set in front of him is empty. Your fingers are curved around the handle as you turn it towards Jimin, and he notices little clouds on your nails, fluffy white against pastel blues. You hum lightly at his words, lifting the iron pot from its woven mat, steady as you pour.

(This is unlike any other place he’s ever known.)

“Do you want to go back to Busan?”

The tea smells lovely, a little floral, a little sweet, mellow and warm. It flows over the sharp salt that’s coating Jimin’s senses, sweeping away the last drops of rain that cling to his bones; washed fresh and clean. It settles in the pit of his stomach, lies light against his tongue, warming him from the inside out.

(A blanket that’s tucked over his shoulders and wrapping him tight.)

Suddenly, Jimin wants to cry.

He swallows down the tears, the rising tide that threatens to spill from his eyes. He thinks about his answer—does he want to go back to Busan? Back to the salt and the sea? Back to the world he knows so well, misses so well?

“No,” he admits. “I miss it, but… no. I want to find my place in Seoul.”

I want to be good enough. I want to find a new home.

The answering smile on your face is a small, tender thing.

The tea stays hot, no matter how long Jimin takes to drink. Rooibos, coconut, lavender, cocoa, earthy and delicate flavours mixing across his senses. His hands wrap around his cup, the shifting blue waves steady around the liquid inside, cotton towel around his neck crowding even closer as his shoulders bow inwards.

He notices, then, that he’s dry, somehow—every inch of him, from his skin to his hair to his clothes, whisked away by some unseen, ephemeral hand. Like he’d never been in the rain at all. His hair is soft on his head, clothes unwrinkled, and he smells like citrus and light, a shimmering garden. Not like rainwater and muted sorrow.

“You’re a witch,” he realises, suddenly.

He knows this place must be home to magic, but he’d figured you some sort of assistant, apprentice, as soft and unassuming as you are.

But, no. The magic he feels in the air, butter rich and sugar sweet, isn’t from the building. It’s from you.

He shouldn’t have told you anything. Witches are dangerous. He owes you now, undeniably so—for the tea he’s drunk, cup empty and cooling in front of him.

No one ever denies a witch their dues. No one would dare. But he has nothing to give you.

“I don’t have anything to give you.” Jimin’s eyes are wide. “I don’t have any money.”

“Jimin.” Your voice is a murmur, but it does nothing to quell the spike of worry in his heart, the realisation that he’d never told you his name, not once. But of course you know it. Witches see the unseen. Witches read the unknown. “You don’t owe me money. Please, don’t panic.”

Jimin tries to swallow down that panic. There’s nothing in his pockets but his phone, dead as it is, an old bus ticket stub, his keys, plain and unadorned save for the tiny puppy keyring he’s had for years, but doesn’t remember the origin of. Nothing a witch might be interested in. “Then what can I give you?”

“You’ve already spilled your heart to me,” you say. “That’s half of the payment. A confession of feelings.”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He can’t help his eyes darting over you, reading the signs he’d missed before—you might not stink of magic like coal dust and smothered fires, but instead it rests like a garland of flowers about your head, woven into the wool of your jumper like silken thread, gossamer. Delicate and light but undeniable, a fleur-de-lis that blooms over hard marble, strong and steady.

“What’s the other half?”

“That’s up to you.” You tilt your head, little cherries in your ears swinging with the motion. “A secret. A memory. Something you’d like to share. That’s the price; a story you want to share. The final half of the transaction.”

“Do you… keep it?” He’s heard of witches stealing the memory from people, leaving them hollow shells, but you shake your head with a soft laugh.

“No. You share your story, Jimin. You don’t give it to me. Your words and history are yours, not mine. I promise you: anything you give me remains your own.”

A witch’s promise. Unbreakable truth.

(What does he have that’s worth a witch’s time?)

A memory. A good one.

Climbing the trail of Geumjeongsan, warmed by the sun overhead, filtered by the arching trees, his brother beside him, his parents behind. He was still young, too young to climb all the way up the mountain route, bundled into the cable car that had lifted them towards the heavens, world spread at his feet, a feast for his hungry eyes. Their dinner had been roasted duck, fatty and crisp, leaking oil over his lips and cheeks as he’d eagerly bit in after a day of hard work. His family had been laughing, surrounding him with their love, liquid sunlight spilling over him. Happiness.

Your chin rests in your palm as you listen, hair a soft frame around your softer eyes, smile lingering at the edges of your lips. Jimin’s words trickle and slow, and for a second he wonders if it was enough, if this years-old memory, fuzzy around the edges, pays his dues—but as his mouth curves around the final syllable, listing the room back into warm quiet as he smiles at this remembered joy, he knows. Something in his heart knows. It is. It’s enough.

“Thank you for sharing that happiness with me, Jimin. It was lovely.”

For the first time in a long time, Jimin’s heart feels less like a broken thing. It feels like someone’s starting to take liquid gold to the cracks in his heart, protective resin that brings his broken parts together, the soft touch of kintsugi that shows his flaws but also lets him see that his heart can work despite them.

Broken and imperfect but still here. Still whole.

(He may have paid off his debt, but Jimin feels like he’s taking away something that’s more than just a cup of tea.)

His shoes are dry when you return to the door, and when he reaches for his jacket, it’s like he’s just peeled it off a washing line, smelling of sun and fresh laundry. His trainers fit better on his feet, not rubbing at the heel like it should. Small, little things that change so much.

“It’s still raining,” you say. “There’s an umbrella in the stand that you can have.”

The umbrella is a long, sturdy thing, plain black, but when Jimin lifts it, there’s a small charm tied to the handle. A tiny string of rose quartz beads, polished pale pink.

Witches never give things away for free. Jimin knows this.

“The price is that you have to share it with the first person you meet who needs it.” The words fall from your smiling lips before Jimin can ask. “You’ll know who it is when you see them.”

The arms of the umbrella spread so wide above him, engulfing him in protection, keeping him dry and safe. He turns to look at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, still barefoot, fingers that bear the sky barely peeping out of the sleeves of your jumper. Untouched by the rain and grime of Seoul, a lit candle in the night, vanilla scented wax, dribbling hot and sweet. So unlike any other witch Jimin has ever heard of.

There’s no smell of sea, any more. No lingering memories of Busan. Just petrichor, rain and concrete, an undercurrent to the fresh smell of his clothes, his hair, washed clean by a magic that’s softer than anything Jimin has ever known.

The only thing that’s softer is the smile on your face, the curl of your fingers as you wave goodbye. The door swings shut as you step back, windchimes trembling at the gentle parting, quartz throwing glitter over Jimin’s cheeks and catching in his lashes.

(The sign in the window remains untouched.

As Jimin turns away, it says closed.)

The rain has lessened, a drizzle that threatens to sweep over him, but the umbrella keeps him safe, draped over the air around him, warding away the cold that tries so desperately to claw back into his chest. Jimin doesn’t know where he’s going, just like before—but he steps onto the street and immediately stops.

The string of rose quartz pearls swings into his wrist.

“Hello. Would you like to share my umbrella?”

Jimin has to hold it up high, shorter than the long-limbed boy who stands in front of him. His eyes are dark and almost solemn, sliding across Jimin’s face as he seems to pull himself out of some faraway, unseen place. He doesn’t seem to notice the rain that’s starting to soak through his clothes, peppering his handsome face with small, cold kisses, but then he smiles, gratitude written across his grinning teeth.

“Hello.” His voice is so deep. “Thank you.” And then, after only the briefest pause: “My horoscope said I’d be helped by a Libra today.”

Jimin startles, umbrella scattering rain with the motion. “How did you know I’m a Libra?”

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Kim Taehyung. With a witch’s blessing warm in his belly and overhead, umbrella a shield against the heavens.

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Jeon Jungkook. With Kim Taehyung at his side, a witch’s charm around his wrist, rose quartz a soothing calm against his skin.

And so—this is how Park Jimin starts to build a home in Seoul, brick by brick, larger hands working alongside his own; Taehyung’s palms large, Jungkook’s fingers steady, laying the foundations to happiness. Together.

His feet find their way back to Aurora again and again, a moon that pulls at his waters, caught in its gravity. Quartz to citrine, aventurine to hematite, windchimes singing like bells whenever he passes underneath them, door swinging open at the lightest of touches.

Your wide eyed surprise ebbs like the tides. The second time, and then the third, and fourth, you’d stopped in your tracks at his arrival, hands a tumble of confusion whenever he’d appeared at your door, but now you’re always ready and waiting.

(“How did you find this place the first time?”

Today’s tea is sencha, salty sea-buckthorn, bright spearmint, delicate lemon verbena, tinged blue with cornflower and butterfly pea, the ocean waves in a cup, brewed just for him.

“I followed the sea,” Jimin answers. “The salt air. Didn’t you do that?”

“No.” The same tea lies in your own cup, a shared moment in the past and present. “You called out and you were answered. This shop is older than you or me, and even Jin doesn’t know the magic that lies in its walls. We don’t control this place. We just live here.”)

The stories he pays you with change over time, memories from years past, growing closer and closer to the present, an autobiography that lays out the peaks and valleys of his life; the happy, the sad, the embarrassments, the triumphs. The tea changes every time, too, mellow greens to bright fruits, smoky blacks to delicate whites, whisked matcha and woody lapsang souchong. Matching the timbre of his voice, reflecting his words, letting him dwell on happiness, or pulling him out of sorrow.

Sometimes Jin is there. Oftentimes, he isn’t. The tea room is sacred ground when Jimin is paying his dues, stories and secrets falling from his lips, but otherwise Jin will bundle in, all energy and noise, leaving plates of flaky pastry and tiny biscuits and soft bread, brioche lined with chocolate, melting and hot. They leave Jimin warm and full, no matter how much or how little he eats. Two kitchen witches that give, and give, and give.

Jimin pays for a plate of rose shortbread with a recollection of the time he’d spilled juice over his brother’s homework, only to blame the dog, who was refused his usual after-dinner gravy bones. Jimin still lives with the guilt. Jin laughs, and you smile, flower petals soft and sweet in your mouth as you listen to him speak.

He wants to bring Taehyung and Jungkook, share the brightness with them, with you, the things that make him smile and laugh; lifting him out the deep waters of sadness and towards the sun, light dappled waters, bright coral reefs, a multicolour display of life. But Aurora doesn’t call to them the way it calls to Jimin, which means he goes alone.

Taehyung’s eyes widen when Jimin mentions his disappointment.

“Jimin-ah.” His mouth is round with shock, a sweet pomegranate, red flushed lips. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

Jungkook’s cheeks bulge with lettuce and samgyeopsal, but he swallows it down in one go, a gannet with the metabolism of a god. (Lucky.) “Finding witches in Seoul is hard,” he says. “You have to actively search them out. Do you?”

Jungkook has met more witches than any of them, a little golden spark of magic nestled deep in his chest, a magnetised needle that points him forward like a compass. But even he can’t find Aurora, no matter how much Jimin tries to guide him.

“I just… walk,” Jimin says, unsure. “I just feel it and I walk.”

“I’ve alway wanted to get a cup of tea from that shop. They say the best way to solve your problems is to share it with a witch, but I’ve never been able to find it, no matter how hard I’ve tried,” says Taehyung. An empty leaf of lettuce lays in his palm, curled up, almost sad in how small it looks. (The same would be a riverboat in the tiny cups of Jimin’s hands.) But rather than jealousy sparking in his eyes, he just seems happy for Jimin, toothy grin appearing on his face. “You’re so lucky, Jimin-ah. I bet it’s incredible.”

(Jimin is a nightjar, a singing bird, calling out into the darkness. The dawn bursts over the horizon, light heavy, laden with brightness, aurora shimmering rose and gold, welcoming hands.)

(Jimin sings. You listen.)

This time when he finds Aurora—or maybe it finds him—it’s snowing.

Seoul is blanketed in white, pavements worn smooth with a thousand busy feet, roads salt slick and slush. The wind bites at his cheeks, apple crisp and sweet, the air a soft whisper that runs its chilled fingers through his hair and turns his head.

(The rose quartz lies warm around his wrist.)

The winter sun overhead casts short shadows, pale light flushing down Jimin’s face as he leans into that fleeting touch. It’s not Busan that fills his senses this time; it’s the smell of mulled wine, hot cinnamon, melting chocolate, but more than that—dark evergreen and sweet cherry-wood fires, dusty pepper and star anise, sticky caramel.

(Homely.)

Open, the sign says.

Today, the windchimes circle a shard of snowflake obsidian. It trills out a greeting as he touches his fingers to the door, tiny bells that tinkle their hello as Jimin steps over the threshold, Aurora just as warm and inviting as it had been the last time he’d stepped foot here. As warm and inviting as it always is.

(Closed, the sign says.)

He’s warm too, today. He’s wrapped up against winter, hand knitted hat on his head—a recent project by Taehyung—and his hands are nestled in his pockets, curled around the small hand warmers that Jungkook sneaks into his coat without comment. Reminders of the love of his friends even when they’re not beside him. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and his eyes are sparking happiness, smile wide as he stomps snow off his feet.

But there’s no one to greet him. No candles are lit, no half-finished drink on the counter, an unintentional offering to the quiet building. It feels like a held breath, light, heavy, ephemeral, weighty.

(Every moon hanging from the garland is waning.)

Jimin’s socked feet are quiet as he steps the familiar route to the tea room, hallway beckoning him forwards; the door is shut, and he hesitates, but even as he watches, it quietly swings open, untouched.

You’re bowed over the table. A hand rests over your eyes, your body held still, a rictus of—of deep thought, maybe? The weight of decision, indecision. Maybe. Something that hangs heavy about you, usual shimmering magic pulled down, osmium heavy; still glittering and beautiful, but sharper edged, burdensome.

The cup in front of you is dry, empty, matte ceramic the colour of bone, muted white, brittle cream. There’s no smell of warm tea today. Just still air.

(No matter how many times Jimin has seen you laugh and smile and tilt your head, the truth is that you’re a witch, and Jimin has only just started to map your world. He’s a cartographer with nothing more than his own hands and the aching need to find the stars, to trace those celestial bodies overhead that shine out so bright.)

The floor groans under Jimin’s unmoving feet and your head snaps up.

“Jimin?” Your eyes are wide and startled. All at once the air lifts, sunlight seeping from the floorboards; an open window that’s been thrown open to pull in the summer breeze. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

(The windchimes had been as loud as always, announcing his presence.)

“I’m sorry,” apologises Jimin. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You shift away from the table and straighten, magic coiling around your neck like a scarf, thick and warm. (Covering your mouth and muffling you.) “I just wasn’t expecting any customers,” you say. “You never have to apologise, Jimin. Come on in, take a seat. What do you want to talk about today?”

Jimin had wanted to share his happiness. He’d wanted to talk about Taehyung, and Jungkook, and the dancing job that’s turned steady, all the bright little pieces of his life, glistening opals, precious stones. But he realises, then, that’s not what he needs, really.

(Not what he wants, really.)

“Nothing,” he says. His voice is soft and sweet, white milk bread, fluffy and light. “I just wanted to see you. How are you?”

The fire under the water flickers, a sun flare that dies as soon as it’s born, settling into its usual ring of tiny flames. The magic around your neck turns into a stole, slipping away from your mouth, settling about your shoulders. You’re silent, for a long moment, as if you’d been in some unseen place and Jimin has pulled you back.

You glance at him through the curl of your lashes. “Busy,” you say, eventually. “Distracted, I suppose. Trying to work things out.”

Why? Jimin wants to ask. Work what things out?

But he knows better than to pry for a witch’s secrets, as open armed and soft palmed as you might be. So he just says: “I hope it gets better soon. I’m sure you’ll find the answer.”

The bundles overhead shift in an unseen breeze, dusty cinnamon sticks and fat berries and handfuls of clove, stirring the spiced smell of winter. Jimin would swear he hears the windchimes singing, a tiny choir of voices that swells and breaks as quickly as a wave crashing against the shore.

You let out a small laugh. It’s edged with something Jimin can’t put a name to. “Oh, this is the kind of answer that’s given, not found, so I have to wait, even if I think I know what it is,” you say. “And it’s… not one I was expecting. Witches don’t do well with being unable to take control of the situation, but I can’t do anything about it.”

Jimin pauses. He realises then, in a way, he’s been selfish—always speaking, never listening. But you don’t offer yourself up in the way Jimin does. A witch is a library of knowledge and secrets, locked to the outside world; Jimin wouldn’t dare to try and find the key. It would burn his hands, sear itself into his palm. The door has to be willingly opened by whoever’s inside.

He thinks about those words he’s heard you so many times, now, mouth so gentle around the syllables, the lilting question. A flickering constellation that guides his feet. One that he can trace, lines between the stars.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The smile you offer him is one he hasn't seen before, crooked, a whispered secret. Sending the pages of all those books fluttering, stirring on their shelves. “Do you want to strike a bargain, Park Jimin? I give you a story, and you pay me in turn?”

A tiny shiver prickles over Jimin’s skin. Your question feels like a test you both know he can't complete, but—there's something inside him that flickers bright at that challenge.

He’s not a witch and has no magic glowing in his spirit, but a contract takes two people, mundane or not. He’s never considered himself bold, softer and gentler than he wishes he was, sometimes, but—there’s that unrelenting part in him, reckless and brave, hungry for more, that pulled him from Busan and set him in Seoul, that bruises his knees and rubs blisters on his feet from his endless dancing; the part that brings him to a witch’s door, over and over, heedless of the magic that lingers like crystallised sugar about his wrists and ankles, almost painful were it not so sweet.

(Bravery isn’t always about being bold. Sometimes bravery is trying again, and again, even if it seems hopeless.)

“If that would help you?”

The delicate hanging chains of your earrings tremble, tiny sparkling hearts of crystal, your eyes widening imperceptibly in surprise. Witches are forces of nature, relentless, but for a second—just a second—Jimin stops you in your tracks. Not as an imposing seawall built against the crashing waves, but rather, a soft hand that’s lifted, palm first, fingers spread wide.

(Bravery is this, too: being gentle and open where others might expect you to be cold and distant, worn bitter by the cold world around them.)

(Jimin has always known this, but you’d reminded him, when he’d almost forgotten.)

The air smells like mulled wine, heady and sweet, a bonfire of spice and tannin. For a moment, Jimin fears he’s misstepped, craggy cliffs crumbling underneath his feet and throwing him into the merciless waves below—but then you step back, cast your hand at the wall of jars, almost endless in width and height.

“What tea do you think I need today, then?”

Jimin smiles, all full lips and shy teeth, and says: “You have to tell me your story first. That's how the transaction goes.”

And for the first time, Jimin sees you truly laugh. You shed every piece of armour that’s girded about you; you might be quieter, and gentler, but your magic is coiled close, plate metal that shines so bright but falls so soft. Your heavy iron door opens, just a crack, the smell of leather bound books and old manuscripts curling outwards, letting Jimin catch a glimpse of the wonders inside.

“I can’t tell you a story that hasn’t finished yet, but I have plenty of memories,” you say. “Hm. How about the day Jin and I found this place?”

Jimin doesn’t know how to blend tea. He doesn’t know how to balance flavours, top notes, heart notes, base notes, curling tastes together in a way you do so effortlessly. But he knows how to follow his heart, and as always, Aurora helps guide him.

He listens to your words the way you listen to his, with soft encouragement and gentle laughter, eyes bright as he swallows down the secrets of witchcraft that are banal to you but utterly fascinating to him. A glimpse into a world he’s barely touched. He traces unseen vibrations in the air, reaches for jar after jar, none of them labelled, but perfect each time he pulls them open and breathes in their scent. Almost jumping into his hands. He thinks of a feeling, a flavour to match each memory you lay in front of him, and the magic responds; not under his control, no, but letting him drift in its flow.

He plants a garden: fat rosebuds, yielding petals, bright lemongrass, earthy raspberry leaves, flaky cocoa shells.

(Jimin doesn’t know these ingredients, but you do, eyes intent and sharp as you watch him move with an ease no one else has ever displayed here, moving around the room that’s entirely yours—a part of your heart nestled safe in Aurora’s walls, one that even Jin could not traverse, if he tried.)

(But here he is. With no magic in his bones, here he is, treading a delicate path through this sanctum, weaving the energy around him without knowledge or thought. Just human, but also so much more.)

The iron pot is heavier than Jimin realised, a solid weight that you always heft with ease. The scent that fills the room when he pours is delicate and light but it washes away the spicy scent of winter warmth, and instead smells like floral enchantment.

He slips into the seat across from yours. It’s a reversal, tipping the world on its head, an entirely unfamiliar perspective; the wall behind you isn’t lined in the tools of your trade. Today, Jimin sits in the master’s seat. Today, you are silhouetted by the dried bouquets that hang from the crooked branch that coils from the ceiling, muted colours even quieter in the nimbus of your magic, dawn light and warmth, dripping honeycomb, gold and saccharine.

“Would you ever leave Aurora?”

(Even the fleeting thought sends disappointment through every part of him, an echo of loneliness for something that hasn’t happened. Jimin’s always been possessive, in a way, wanting to keep a tight hold of the things he cares about.)

(You’re one of those things, now.)

The smile you give Jimin is answer enough. “Once a witch finds their home, there’s no turning back. No matter how long I’m gone, or how far I go, I’ll always find my way back home.” And then there’s a little glitter in your warm eyes, gold dust under a sun-laden river. “Time for tea, I suppose?”

It’s rosewater sweetness, dark chocolate bitterness, a citrus undercurrent that flows around it all. Biting into Turkish delight, coated in rich chocolate, yielding to the press of your teeth, an explosion of flavour. Jimin has never tasted anything like this— rich and creamy but also fragrant and light.

Judging from your wide eyed stare, you haven’t, either.

(It’s perfect.)

(It takes that indecision that’s been settling around each of your bones, sweeps it away, Jimin’s eyes as large as the moon and just as bright. This cup is so much more than just a warm drink, a hot touch down your throat; it’s the world telling you something, showing you something, something about Jimin, something you thought you'd been wrong about.)

(Jimin has no magic of his own, but he burns so bright. A lovely, sweet, strong, talented boy, stronger than he knows, lovelier than he knows. The world fits around him so well, a backdrop to his beauty, shaping itself to his touch.)

(Your magic shapes itself around him in a way that's as easy as breathing, and it should frighten you.)

(But it doesn't.)

With any contract, the witch sets the price. Your story for this cup of tea should be enough, a parting of the curtain into a world he shouldn’t be allowed to see—but something still pulls in Jimin’s stomach. He feels a little empty. Like he’s eaten a meal and could be content to finish now, but he’s waiting for that final course, that bite of dessert. Something to satiate his lingering hunger.

You still need to pay the final part of the price.

“You need to give one more thing,” says Jimin, reciting the ancient law that he’s never been taught but sings in his bones.

Your silence is summer lightning. Light sparks in the distance, flashing hot and bright, but without the weight of thunder, without the promise of rain.

“A secret,” you decide. “I’ll give you a secret.”

If a witch’s word is worth more than gold, then a witch’s secret is worth more than rhodium; stronger, rarer.

“I’ve told you that Aurora answers people who call out, if they need our help?”

“Yes.” Jimin remembers this well, thinks about it every time he’s led back here, the guiding hands that helped him find the path he’s treading now. “You’ve told me that.”

“Witches can find the shop and come here often,” you say. “They come to buy things and leave again; they have to keep their magic safe. You see, a witch’s power is most potent in their own home, and weakest in another’s, so you’ll find witches won’t drink one of my teas, or eat Jin’s food, unless they’ve left the shop. It’s a sign of absolute trust to do something like that.”

You snack on Jin’s biscuits all the time, spread homemade jams over freshly-baked bread, watch Jin drizzle honey into soft camomile, slip lemon slices into hot Earl Grey. Mixing your magic and trust together like a tangle of fresh sheets.

“But humans, without magic? Even if you try, you can’t find this place unless it wants to be found. Neither Jin nor I control that, really, but the sign helps control the flow,” you continue. “If we put it on closed, the shop won’t beckon people in. But if it’s open? People come with their burdens and their sorrows, and I’ll sit, and I’ll listen. My magic isn’t what helps them. Sometimes all people need is a listening ear and that’s what I offer: a single moment of quiet in their busy lives before they leave again. You want to know what the secret is, Jimin?”

“Yes,” says Jimin, eager. Not just as a payment of something that’s owed, but for his own curiosity, digging its fingers into his stomach and lungs. “I want to know.”

The smile you deliver now is the final jolt of lightning, white hot and flooding the air with crackling energy, before the clouds part to reveal the quiet night sky, the vibrant colours of the Milky Way naked for the eyes to see.

“My secret is this: you shouldn’t be able to keep finding this place. I didn’t realise anyone could, but here you are, again and again. You’re the only non-witch who’s ever stepped foot in here more than once.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: you are the only thing in my life that I cannot answer with magic, and it’s completely out of my control. Even if the sign says closed, you can walk in, regardless.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: I know I won’t be able to find that answer I'm looking for, because it’s not in me, or my magic, or my shop. It’s something in you.”

Clink.

Three falling secrets that fold into one. A handful of coins tumbling over themselves into the waters of a wishing well, slipping into that liquid quiet. Throwing ripples across the glass surface.

Jimin has always thought that witches were gods of their domain, endless fonts of wisdom, magic cast over the world around them that catches knowledge in its weave, Indra’s net. “But I’m—I’m just human.”

Your eyes are soft. “There’s no just about it, Jimin,” you say. “Witch or not, we all have our place in the world, as small or large as it may be.”

“But I don’t have any magic. Jungkook does, and even Tae does, a little.” He always knows when to say bless you before someone sneezes. “But I’m just… completely mundane.”

“I know you don’t have magic, Jimin. But do you know what the word mundane originally meant? It doesn’t mean boring, or dull. It’s rooted in the world. The earth. There’s nothing more powerful. Don’t you know how brightly you shine?”

Jimin tilts his head away. The truth is that for all the happiness that’s started to grow across his heart like blooming roses, trailing wisteria, some days the river at his feet feels less like sun flecked waters and more like tar, thick and dark, ready to pull him back under. It’s not so easy to cast off sadness once it’s found you. Sometimes his chest feels like it could cave in under the weight of his own failings, each and every one of his flaws stacked up high, pressing on his lungs, his heart.

He doesn’t feel like he shines.

“Oh, Jimin. You really don’t see, do you?” The magic that curls around him is silken, light. Touching the rose quartz around his wrist with recognition. “Remember earlier, when I said the answer I wanted has to be given, not found? It’s because you need to find it. You can give it to me, once you do.”

“What if I never find it?” He looks back at you, back into your eyes, endless and deep. You’re a witch with power that drapes about you, a cascading mantle spun from silver and gold—if you don’t know the answer, how could Jimin possibly find it? “What do I do then?”

“I promise, you will,” you say. “You will. Sometimes the things we need to find appear when we’re not even looking for them. After all, you found your way here, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jimin answers, truth settling quiet between his lungs. Easing that weight that presses down on them. “I did.”

He did. And he does. And he will.

You stand in the open door and watch Jimin go, wrapped up once more, a Christmas present of woven wool and thick socks.

“By the way,” you call, and Jimin stops, turns back. “You said that your friends wanted to come here too, right?”

“Yes,” answers Jimin. Taehyung asks him endless questions and Jungkook might pretend like he’s not interested but he’s always nearby when Jimin recounts his tales of the witch’s shop. “They really do. But we can never seem to find Aurora when we try, even though Jungkook is normally so good at finding magical places.”

“Next time, don’t focus on Jungkook.” Above your head the windchimes tremble, obsidian spiralling. “You said he was a compass, didn’t you? But he’s not the one with the map. You are. Don’t forget that, okay? Trust in yourself, Jimin. Be your own guide.”

The next time Jimin stands with his friends flanking him, he thinks about the moon. How its silver light is loved so dearly, even if it’s just a reflection of the unseen sun, shining with someone else’s flames.

He might not have the strength of fire, but he can still shine.

The windchime’s call is throaty as Aurora comes into sight, brushed by a stone of lapis lazuli, door falling open at their arrival, the building filling with sunlight as Jimin steps in. Welcoming him. Jungkook and Taehyung are far more hesitant, staring at Jimin like he’s a voyager into unknown waters, here there be dragons, at risk of being swallowed whole, never to be seen again.

Jimin laughs at them. The lapis swings into the windchimes in a way that sounds like a giggle, too.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook says, once he’s inside. A candle sets alight. “Jimin, what the fuck.” Another.

“It’s Jimin-hyung,” Jimin says, but Jungkook ignores him, staring at the candles that start to catch flame one by one as he watches them.

“It’s so nice, Jiminie.” Taehyung’s eyes are huge. “Aren’t those flowers pretty?”

On a nearby shelf, the bowl of pansies blooms brighter under Taehyung’s gaze, every plant in the room standing tall, trying to catch his attention.

But of course, the thing that’s stronger than any of the candles or plants or trinkets here—you, stepping into sight, every inch as overwhelming as always, swallowing the room with your magic. Souffle soft and sweet, with all the rich headiness of melted chocolate.

You’re barefoot, as always, cardigan overlarge and draping, nails adorned with tiny butterflies. Jimin’s never met another witch like you, but now that he knows you, it’s almost laughable how he hadn’t noticed from the instant he’d seen you; you’re a witch, through and through, magic dripping through the air like nectar, ambrosia. God touched.

“You finally made it,” you say. “Jimin's told me a lot about you both. Your timing is perfect; I’ve just put the water on to boil. Who wants to go first?”

“Holy shit,” murmurs Jungkook.

The final candle bursts alight when you smile.

Jimin is always surprised at his capacity to find new happiness.

His parents had been heartbroken when he’d announced his decision to leave Busan, and pain had turned to anger, and anger had turned to arguments; he wanted too much, asked for too much, was never happy with what he was given. (All has been forgiven, now, but as always, the memory still lingers.)

Seoul had been so lonely, at first. He’d felt like the bottomless pit his parents had accused him of being, hungry, demanding ceaselessly for more, more, more—his heart had felt like a shrivelled thing, only good for holding onto sadness and bitterness. No room for happiness in any of the weeping corners of his soul.

But, now, Jimin realises that he’s sated.

He’ll always strive higher, work harder, that little edge of hunger in his core, but life has been given to him in its fullest measure. Unconditional friendship stuffs his heart full, but it can grow and grow, more and more, shuffling around to make room. Taehyung and Jungkook, and now Hoseok, then Yoongi, then Namjoon, each one burning bright, another star in his growing galaxy.

(Things he’d needed to find without knowing, appearing when he hadn’t even been looking.)

He still doesn’t know what answer it is he’s looking for, to give to you, and really, he’s not sure what the question is. He’s been given so much, and he’s so grateful, but there’s still that tiny hollow inside him, waiting for his hands to close around the final puzzle piece. Waiting for him to slot it into place.

But winter passes, sliding into spring, and then spring rolls into summer, and Jimin realises—he has time.

He has time. There’s no rush. He’s so used to chasing and running and aching, and that momentum will never leave him, but he’s starting to learn that it’s okay not to always sprint forwards. He sparks bright with progress, a glistening shine, but the things that shine out greater still are these: the moments of stillness. Taehyung and Jungkook sprawled around him, cheeks full of takeaway food. Hoseok in the dance studio, all the energy of his limbs brought to a quiet standstill as he sits and drinks water, staring at Jimin in the mirrors and wiggling his eyebrows. Yoongi beside him on the subway, eyes shut as he listens to the music coming from his earphones, tilting his head at Jimin’s questioning touch and taking one bud out to share. Namjoon, brows furrowed as he reads the book in front of him, large hands flipping the pages with such care, but turning his attention to Jimin the second he appears.

You, ankles hooked around the legs of your chair, cup of freshly brewed tea in front of you, letting the steam curl over your nose and cheeks. A cup of the same tea in front of Jimin, sometimes made by his own hands. Not often, but enough to find out more about you, the building blocks that have shaped you into who you are.

Jimin learns about witchcraft, and magic, and how it’s far less complicated and somehow entirely more complex than he thought. You’ve pulled the library doors wide open and invited Jimin to browse at his leisure, through ancient tomes written in languages he doesn’t understand, vellum covered in calligraphy too faded to be read, but you’re his Rosetta stone, translating it all. He always thought that magic was a secret thing, and it is, but you’re letting him look in. You give him knowledge, and patience, and time. You give him an open door, a place that always welcomes him, no matter the time or weather.

He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but Jimin doesn’t have to wait for Aurora’s call any more. He doesn’t have to wait for that crest of that nascent dawn on the horizon. He follows the curvature of the earth and walks towards the sun himself, chases that luminous aureole and finds it all on his own. And there you wait for him, at the base of that shining star, your magic a halo that’s settled in your hair, the north on his compass.

He still comes empty-handed, no answer to offer you; but you seem content to wait, so Jimin is, too.

He’ll wait.

He has time.

Jimin returns to Busan for the weekend. He sleeps in his childhood bed, eats food that never tastes the same when he tries to cook it himself, thinks about how tall he feels compared to his parents now, even if he hasn’t grown at all. He feels a little off kilter, like he’s pulled on an old t-shirt that used to fit him perfectly, but doesn’t anymore; too loose around the neck, too tight around the arms. Wearable, but different. Still comfortable, but not the same. He’s outgrown it now.

(Busan will always have a piece of his heart, but it’s not home anymore.)

(Home is somewhere close, he knows, but he’s still waiting to find that key, final tumbler of the lock sliding perfectly against its metallic teeth. He’s close, so close, but not there. Not yet.)

He’s walking past the fridges in the supermarket, on a quest for fresh radish for his mother, when he catches a smell that dredges up an old memory, smoke and ash.

Jimin turns his head.

The witch looks just the same as before: ageless and perfect. Long dark hair in perfect curls, nails and lips blood red, eyebrows perfect arches, imperious ice. She’s already staring at him, and once their eyes touch, a flicker of recognition passes over her face, and then surprise, gaze darting over Jimin.

“Well, look at you. You finally grew into those cute cheeks of yours. I thought you would.” Although her words might be patronising, Jimin is shocked at her tone. It’s polite; almost friendly. Nothing like the aloofness she’d shown him all those years ago, when he’d come to her with the reckless desperation of a youth in love. “You’ve clearly done well for yourself.”

Jimin’s jeans are ripped more from wear than fashion, his shirt is from the discount rack at the Lotte mart, and his trainers are scuffed and worn. He might have grown into his face but nothing about him shouts success—and yet this witch is looking at him with something like mutual respect. “Pardon?”

“I can smell the power of the magic on you from here,” the witch says, and Jimin startles. “Like warm banana bread. Or the bark of a maple tree. It suits you.”

“That’s—that’s not mine,” Jimin admits. His heart races in his chest. He hadn’t known that he carries some brightness of your magic with him, some sweetness, motes of light swirling around him even after he’s left Seoul. He hadn’t known that other witches could smell that magic the way he can smell theirs.

(He hadn’t known that he would smell like you.)

The witch tilts her head. Her earrings are interlocking hoops, circling each other, sliding at the motion. “Oh, I know that,” she says. “It’s been given to you. It’s not yours, but it’s a part of you. It just takes a special kind of person to control that flow of power, and I’ve never met a mundane who can do that. Surely you must have realised?”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He mixes tea, sure, but—that’s not him. It’s the shop guiding his hand. Isn’t it?

It’s been given to you. It’s not yours.

That promise you’d made Jimin, last year, the first time he’d stepped over your threshold, dripping rainwater and sorrow, so sad, so small: Anything you give me remains your own.

You just hadn’t mentioned it was the same for you, too.

(Hadn’t mentioned that you’d given him anything at all.)

(But you’ve given him so much, haven’t you?)

(It’s a part of you.)

(Jimin is changed by every person he meets, the sum of every part that’s ever been given to him by someone else. But he’s also more than those parts; he’s himself, something he’s made, is still making. Working towards being the best he can be.)

(He's himself, controls himself, the world around him. When he lifts those jars from the shelves, he's following his heart. He's his own guide. He trusts himself. Oh, it's not the shop after all, is it?)

(Is it?)

“Ah.” The witch lets out a knowing hum. “Understanding will come with time. Magic can seem such a fickle thing to the mundane, but it’s not. A witch’s magic is a reflection of who they are.”

He thinks of your magic, warm and honey-sweet. Dawn light; sun bright. A reflection of you. One that adorns him with its brilliance, even when you’re miles away from each other. You’re the silver lining to every cloud in his sky, when they’re white and wispy, or heavy with rain, torrenting water, weathering every season that turns in his heart. In the bittersweet death of autumn, the cold loneliness of winter, the emerging life of spring, the buoyant joy of summer. You’re a shelter against the elements. You’re the place Jimin feels safest in. You’re his—

Oh.

(There it is.)

(Home isn’t a place. Home is a feeling. You carry it with you, in your heart; that comfort, that belonging. Somewhere you want to come back to, that you know is waiting for you at the end of the day, any day, every day. That knowledge of love. Your friends; your family. Familiarity. Contentment. Feeling at peace because you know no matter where you are or where you go, home will always be there with you, and waiting for you back where you started, or wherever you finish.)

(Dropping that answer into his hands, feather light, rays of the morning sun cast over his palms, weightless in his grasp.)

(The key finally fits into the lock, and turns, door bursting wide open, letting life and light into Jimin’s heart, filling something that he already thought was full.)

The dark haired witch gives him a smile that’s equal parts pleased and self-satisfied. She sweeps away, leaving Jimin lost, and found.

Jimin steps down in Seoul with an utter lack of grace. Like the world has been pitching beneath his feet and has only just turned steady, sea legs buckling on the solid earth.

His bag is heavy with everything he’d brought to Busan for the weekend, and he’s tired after the train journey, and it’s hot, so hot, the summer heat oppressive in its height and weight, pressing sticky hands over his sweaty skin. Even so, he’d spent almost all three hours of travel with his leg jiggling up and down, wound up, pent up, every thread of him coiled around the knowledge he holds. The answer he’s been looking for, inside him all along.

Part of him wants to run. That hungry part of him, still scared of not being good enough, terrified that if he doesn’t grab something with both hands it’ll slip away like quicksand; that the river at his feet will pull the earth up in its rush, leaving an empty canyon in front of him, lonely and deep.

But another part of him—the part of him that’s grown so bright, watered by the love of everyone around him—quells that fear. It’s the part that gently reminds him that he has time. It’s the part that carries him gently in its current, guiding him through the swell of bodies and busyness that’s all pervasive in Seoul, guiding him north.

(His north.)

His feet aren’t a stumbling rush. He doesn’t have to hurry, after all. No matter how long he takes, he’ll get to his destination.

(Home is always waiting for you at the end of your journey.)

The windchimes orbit rose quartz today. The same pastel pink that circles his wrist.

“Hello,” says Jimin. “I missed you.”

The windchimes shiver and spark out a note of happiness, and Aurora’s blue-green door swings open. He’s hit with a burst of cool air that pulls the sweat away from his skin. Stepping into the shop feels like a shot of caffeine in his veins, and, besides, he’s found what he’s looking for.

He has the question, and the answer. (He’s had it all along.)

(Where is your home?)

He sheds his shoes and bag, cast carelessly on the floor, and doesn’t hesitate to step forwards. The door to the tea room swings open before he reaches it, as always, feeling his urgency and responding without being asked.

And there you are.

Your hair is bundled up out of your face, arms and legs bare in the summer heat, tiny pineapples on your nails, a sweating pitcher of tea dripping rivulets of water on the table as you pour yourself a glass, ice tumbling around slices of fresh peach. You glance up at his arrival, and when you smile, Jimin feels how the magic in the room lifts and swirls around him.

It’s the tart sweetness of fresh-squeezed lemonade; the soft chill of vanilla ice cream; the rich cream of mango parfait. It’s all happiness and tender affection, and Jimin wonders how he’s never seen the depth of it before now.

“Hi, Jimin.” Your voice is brighter than the summer sun outside, stronger still. “Did you just get back from Busan? You must be exhausted. How was your family?”

He answers by stepping forwards and wrapping his fingers around your glass. You watch in stunned silence as he lifts it to his lips, swallowing down the mix of flavours; rooibos, apple, hibiscus, rosehip, orange peel. Peach melba, sugary and mellow against his tongue, cold biting pain against his teeth.

He wipes away a stray drop of tea from his lips. Sunlight ripples in the room as your eyes flicker over his mouth. “Ask me.”

Your eyes tear back up to his. He can feel how the magic in the air slides away from you, pooling on the floor, swirling about your ankles; it’s like the brush of sand against his skin, treading across wet beaches, sticking to the soles of his feet. “Ask you what?”

“I need to pay for the tea. Ask me for a story.”

Jimin can feel the tug in his stomach, that telltale sensation that he has to pay his dues. Still, you seem surprised. “Okay, Jimin. What story do you have to share?”

“I met a witch, once. I was sad, and lonely, but she listened to me, every time I went to see her, again and again.” Jimin can feel your magic rising with each of his words, the gentlest tide. “And one day, she let me listen to her, too. She asked me to give her an answer for an unspoken question. But she didn’t press me for it. She just let me come back, again and again. She gave me a part of her magic. She’s not like any other witch in the world. I’ve been waiting to find that answer to give to her, but then I realised I had it all along.”

(Where is your home?)

Your mouth drops open, but Jimin speaks over your intake of breath. That tugging in his stomach is still there. That pull towards you. “Ask me for a secret,” Jimin says.

“Okay, Jimin.” Your voice is quiet, but your magic has never felt stronger, spilling out of you like morning dew, shimmering, opalescent. “What’s your secret?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says, feels how the magic in the room swells, but he knows he still has more to give. “Ask me for a confession.”

“Okay, Jimin.” A whisper. Your magic is as bright as a solar flare, glimmering crystal, spun sugar. “What’s your confession?”

“I want to kiss you,” Jimin confesses.

And then he does.

Every window and door flies open, every plant bursts into bloom, every candle catches light, windchimes singing, breeze rushing through every room, but Jimin doesn’t notice any of these things. All he can feel is the warmth of your mouth against his own, the sweet taste of peach, how your magic fizzes on his tongue like champagne, a heady rush.

Your breath is a flicker of candlelight in his mouth, one that grows into a bonfire, one he readily fans, watches how the flames leap high. One kiss turns to two, then three, your lips fitting so perfectly against his own, parting so readily at the first press of his tongue; your mouth a sweet little curve, dripping honey and syrup, as lovely as the rest of you. The world narrows down to this, to you; your hands warm where they cup his face, run through his hair, soft touches, how perfect those feel.

He’s breathless when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against your own. The magic is a heat shimmer, glistening air, surrounding the two of you in its embrace—but it doesn’t shine as brightly as you, your beauty, the sheen on your lips, kiss-swollen and exquisite.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh, Jimin.”

You’re so warm under his hands. The summer air that fills the room is swirling motes of brightness, brushing over you both with its delicate touch, and Jimin breathes you in. Not your magic, but you; a little salt, summer sweat, a little sweet, perfume soft. You feel so perfect like this, wrapped up in his arms, a powerful witch that’s opened up for him, the yielding petals of a flower, the sweet nectar at its core. Jimin’s always hated feeling so small, almost dainty, a slip of a thing compared to Taehyung’s height or Jungkook’s strength, and yet you fit so perfectly against him.

For all the magic that drips from you like liquid gold, divine and powerful, here you are: all comfort and tenderness and affection, open arms, calling him home.

“I’m giving you my heart.” Jimin presses his words into the lovely swell of your cheeks, the line of your jaw, your neck, lips trailing over your skin, drinking down the way you shiver. “It’s still mine, I know, but I’m giving it to you, too.”

The smile on your face is all open happiness, laughter brighter than every star in the sky. “A witch never lets a payment go unreturned,” you say. “My heart for your heart. Sound fair?”

Jimin’s answering laugh is echoed by the windchimes outside, tickling and light. “I think that settles the score.”

(Where is your home?)

(Wherever you are.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon

[24/09/20] author’s note: hi, guys. so I’ve recently been on a bit of a rereading binge, digging up old favourite fics of mine and enjoying them all over again, and I was horrified to discover a scene in a fic that’s eerily similar to something I’ve written here: namely, the scene where Jimin first comes across the shop and pays for a cup of tea with a happy memory.

I genuinely had not read the fic in over two years and don’t recall many details at all, but I must have remembered it without realising and echoed it in my own writing. I was reading the fic and my heart genuinely stopped in my chest and I started to freak out because I would never, ever want to plagiarise someone else’s work, intentionally or unintentionally.

however, on a reread of both the other fic and my own, the scene in question is somewhat similar but not the same. I just feel uncomfortable at the idea of benefiting from someone else’s time; writing is hard work and publishing things online takes a great deal of courage, and I know people who’ve had their work plagiarised, and how much it hurts. so I want to state for the record that when I wrote finding home it was without reference to anyone else’s story, so any similarities were coincidental.

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mypoisonedvine · 4 years

Text

A Rare Brew (dark!Steve x Reader oneshot)

Summary: The second he met you, Steve sensed your innocence. So shy, so adorable, and so perfectly sheltered. He knew instantly that he had to have you, that you would be the perfect blank slate to train into his obedient slut. And the first real step of his plan began once he finally got you to join him for a drink.

Warnings: heavy dub con (if not non con), sex pollen/drugging, stalking

Word Count: 3k

(cause sometime you need to write something with a naive reader and manipulative, creepy Steve, so you do it in two hours and post it immediately)

“Drink?!” you replied incredulously to his proposition. Sure, he’d been hanging around your desk from time-to-time since you’d begun working as a graphic designer in Stark Tower, but you still never expected for Captain America to ask you on a date. That’s what this was right, a date? That’s what “join me for a drink” meant?

“It doesn’t have to be alcohol. Do you like tea?” he asked. Of course, he already knew that you did, because he’d been tracking your every move for a month now, but he feigned ignorance.

“I do,” you answered.

“Me too,” he smiled. “I’m sort of a tea snob, actually. I have some unique blends that I keep in my kitchen. It’s the one thing I spend a decent amount of money on.”

“I don’t want to waste your expensive tea,” you blushed.

“Sharing it is anything but a waste.”

You hesitated, finding it all a little too good to be true, but decided that moving to New York was about trying new things and experiencing life to the fullest-- so why not? Plus, free tea!

“Sure,” you smiled shyly, “I’d love to have a cup with you sometime.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Oh, I’m sort of busy…”

“You have plans? With somebody else?” he asked in a way that felt a little aggressive, like he was accusing you of something. He knew you didn’t have plans, which was the real cause of his change in tone, but you didn’t realize that and let him call your bluff.

“No, I-- it’s fine. I can work hard this afternoon and finish everything. Can my keycard even get me up to your floor?”

“Yeah, I’ll have somebody update your clearance in the database,” he offered. “I’ll leave you be now, so you can finish your work… don’t be late.” “Of course,” you nodded, watching him get up from where he was sitting on your desk before turning back to your screen and continuing progress on the logo you needed to finish.

You wished you’d dressed differently today as you rode the elevator up to Steve’s quarters. You hadn’t realized this morning that you’d be on a date with Captain America. You would’ve worn something fancier, flashier, and not your current, preppy-yet-plain work outfit. You were surprised that he would even want to go out with you when you were dressed like this.

“You can set your bag down on that table, if you’d like,” Steve offered when you stepped into his open door. He must have seen you clutching it for dear life. “You seem a little nervous.”

“I am,” you admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he laughed, and you couldn’t tell if he meant “don’t be sorry” or “don’t be nervous.”

“I feel a little out of place knowing I’m in Captain America’s kitchen,” you explained. It was nice-- everything was steel and sleek. Unexpectedly modern for a guy like him. You wondered if he was actually able to pick it out himself or not.

“You’re not out of place. This is exactly where you belong,” he dismissed. “So, I’ve got a whole cabinet of teas… you can try anything you like.” He opened a door to reveal an extensive collection-- bags, looseleaf in jars, even an array of decorative steeping tools and a mortar and pestle.

“You really are a tea snob!” you exclaimed.

“You like it?”

“I don’t even know where to start,” you sighed.

“I do,” he grinned, reaching for a small black box. He opened it to reveal a few small bags. “I just picked this up recently. It’s incredible. If you’re a serious tea addict, this is the next step on your journey for sure.”

Just looking into the box, you could smell the aroma a bit. “It’s strong.” “Yeah, but there’s a mildness to it, too. You’d be surprised.”

“Okay, sure,” you smiled, “I’ll try it. You’re sure you don’t mind? It looks really expensive.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he waved his arm, pulling out a bag and closing the lid.

“You aren’t having any?” you asked.

“No, I’m gonna keep it simple tonight. I just want to watch you experience this.”

You were a little confused by that but said nothing, moving to take a seat at his dining table as he picked out a mug for you and filled it with water from the kettle.

He steeped the bag for you, and you were shocked when he brought the mug only to see a deep red liquid inside. “I didn’t expect it to be this color.” “It’s the rosehips. And I bet you can smell the ginger.” “But there’s something else in it…” you realized as you let the steam rise into your face. “Is it… cayenne?” “Damn,” he laughed, “you know your teas. I was hoping to surprise you with the spiciness, but oh well.”

“It’s not gonna melt my face off or anything, right?”

“No, no, it’s just a little heat in the back of your throat. Nearly an aftertaste.”

You felt a little awkward as you realized he was staring at you while you went for your first sip. It was just a little too hot to drink but you kept on anyways. It was delicious, that much was obvious from the moment it hit your tongue. Swallowing it was what brought the heat he’d mentioned, though it was stronger than he described. Not too spicy, thankfully, but it was definitely apparent. There was something unexpected about the flavor. Maybe it was just the way the natural acidity of the ginger mixed with the spiciness of the cayenne. There was an earthiness to it as well, moreso than you were used to from rosehips.

You didn’t notice the sweetness until you had swallowed your sip completely-- it was that kind of sweetness that you could only taste on the sides of your tongue, bright and fruity.

You looked to where Steve was watching you expectantly and gave him an approving nod. He smiled.

“It’s good,” you informed him.

“Just good?”

“No, it’s… it’s really good. It’s great. I’m still processing it, honestly. It’s very complex.”

The mug was half-empty when you started to feel… off. Tea always warmed your chest from the inside out, but suddenly the warmth was beginning to spread. You didn’t even notice it until you started to feel a little light-headed, like you had just woken up from a dream, or maybe like you were just beginning to have one.

Steve was talking about something but you couldn’t pay attention anymore as you tried to understand what was happening. You felt like you needed to go to the bathroom, or maybe you needed to take a cold shower, or maybe you needed some air… but you really, really needed something.

You realized that Steve wasn’t talking anymore. You looked to him and saw him staring at you, his eyes trailing to your chest which heaved with quickened breaths.

“Steve, what… what’s happening?” you whimpered as you felt your knees shake a little, your whole body becoming weak and tingly. Your core ached in a way you didn’t understand, and you pushed your thighs together without realizing you were doing it.

“Is the tea getting to you? It’s a very rare brew... I’ll admit I’ve never tried it before. I didn’t realize it would be so fast-acting,” his eyes got a little darker and his voice got deeper as he watched you unintentionally roll your hips against the chair, “or so strong.”

“What’s in this?” you asked nervously, staring at the mug as if it would suddenly reveal its own contents.

“Exactly what I said was in it: rosehips, ginger, cayenne. I just forgot to mention the black market aphrodisiac.”

You whimpered in fear, your hands gripping the ceramic so tight that your nails dug into your own palm. You felt hot, suddenly, and yet you found yourself wishing Steve was standing closer. Your eyes trailed over his body as they welled with tears.

“Don’t worry!” he piped up. “It’s organic!”

“I don’t feel well,” you murmured, “I don’t… I need to go…”

“No, baby, you need to stay here,” he cooed, moving closer to you and sliding an arm over your shoulders. His touch made your skin erupt with goosebumps and you suddenly wished that you weren’t wearing a cardigan and that he was touching you with nothing in the way.

“S-steve?” you whispered. “What… why?”

“Shh, I’m gonna take care of you, okay? You’re gonna feel so good.”

You knew he was right, and even as a little part of your mind was screaming that this was not right, that this was not going to go well, you melted into his touch as he scooped you into his arms and carried you to his bedroom.

You whimpered as he set you down on the fluffy quilt, feeling like a doll in his strong grip.

He reached up to push off your cardigan and start unbuttoning your blouse.

“Steve, what-- what are you--” you gurgled.

“Shh,” he soothed, but refused to explain. He pushed open your shirt to find your nipples visibly hard through your bra. “Oh, baby,” he praised, “you’re so needy, huh? You want me so bad.”

You yelped when he grabbed your bra and tore it open from the front, exposing your breasts to the colder air. And yet his hands were so warm, hot even, as they grabbed them and massaged them and traced over your nipples. It felt good, nothing like you expected it to. You hadn’t even realized it could feel good to be touched here.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “been thinking about these since you first came in for that interview. Did you even realize how perfect your tits looked in that dress?”

You had no earthly idea what he was talking about. And it scared you, even as your body begged for more; your back arched, pushing your chest into his hands.

“How do you feel?”

“I…” you began, unable to find the words. “Sore. Achy. It hurts.”

“Where does it hurt, baby?”

You blushed but couldn’t answer.

“Does it hurt between your legs?” he asked with a low voice.

“Yes,” you admitted, “please, Steve, help me.”

“I’m gonna help you, I promise. Gonna make you feel so good.”

His hands moved down to your skirt which he pushed up to find white cotton panties-- soaked as you squirmed under his touch.

“Oh,” he groaned, clenching his jaw, “no wonder it hurts. You’re dripping.”

He reached down and pulled the fabric aside, nearly coming right then and there as he saw your perfect little pussy; he had to look away for a second to compose himself, before turning back and biting his lip as he rediscovered it all over again.

“So wet,” he purred, “so wet for me.” He slipped a finger over your folds and you gasped, your legs kicking a bit.

“I’m not supposed to…” you began with a whimper. “I’m not supposed to let people touch me there.”

“Almost,” he nodded. “You can’t let anybody but me touch you here. Do you understand?”

No, you thought silently. “Yes,” you answered aloud, fearing the response to any other answer.

“Good.” His finger suddenly moved to something that made your leg jerk as pleasure jolted through your body. He touched it again and you moaned before you could stop yourself. You tried to ask him what was going on but he just kept going, drawing little circles around the spot, until you were a total mess with no shot at forming sentences any time soon.

Something was building in you, something so powerful that you couldn’t keep from moving your hips against his hand and you couldn’t stop yourself from gasping and moaning desperately. Suddenly, his hand pulled back and you bucked up against nothing.

“Why… why did you stop?” you asked breathlessly.

“You were about to come,” he explained.

“I was?”

“Yes, but you have to ask my permission before you do that. Okay?”

“O-okay,” you nodded. “Will you… touch me again, please?”

“Hmm…” he considered.

“Please, please Steve, touch me more,” you whined, “I’ll be good, just please--”

He finally acquiesced and began rubbing circles around your clit again. “I know you’ll be good,” he praised, “you’ll be good and come for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I will,” you promised with a sob. He wrapped his other arm around you and pulled you close until you were surrounded by him, your face buried into the crook of his neck.

“Say my name when you come,” he demanded. “Always say my name when you come.”

“Can I?” you murmured.

“Ask nicer,” he instructed.

“May I please come, Steve?” you repeated, louder.

“Yes,” he hissed, and his name poured from your lips in a chanted moan as you came, your whole body tensing up all at once as electricity tingled across your skin.

Only for a second did you feel relief before the feeling of need got even worse. “Do it again,” you demanded, “make me come again.”

You were sobered out of your trance with a restrained slap across the face. You gasped as your eyes shot open. “Never tell me what to do,” he barked. “You take what I give you, okay? I know what you need.”

“Yes, Steve, I’m sorry,” you whimpered, eyes welling with tears.

“I forgive you. Now lay back. I’m gonna make you feel good again, but I’m going to do it my way.”

You were apprehensive but felt you had no choice but to do as he asked. You laid back on the bed and watched with wide eyes as he stripped, pulling off his t-shirt and making quick work of his boots, belt, and jeans. You gasped when you saw the shape of his cock through his boxers.

“Have you ever seen a cock before?” he asked with a serious tone.

“Once,” you admitted. “On a dare. I watched porn.”

“Then you know what I’m going to do with this,” he presumed as he rubbed the shape of it through the fabric.

“You’re… you’re going to put it in me,” you realized with a gasp.

He pulled his boxers down to reveal it in its full glory and you scrambled backward on the bed.

“Steve, it’s too big,” you whimpered, “it won’t fit.”

“You’d be surprised,” he laughed, climbing on top of you and pinning you down. “It’s what it’s made for, doll, it’s what you’re made for. You can take it. You will take it.”

“Steve, I--” you whimpered, but he was already touching you down there again and suddenly you couldn’t think straight.

He slipped a finger into you and hissed at the feeling of your soaked walls fluttering around him. You bit your lip and tried to focus on anything else.

“You’re so tight,” he praised. “Too bad it’ll go to waste; with a cock like this, it really doesn’t matter.”

You nearly screamed as he pushed into you. You felt like your whole body had to relax to fit him and even then, you felt him molding you to his shape, stretching and opening you to his will.

Your head was spinning from the unbelievable mix of pleasure and pain, satisfaction and need, fear and hope.

When he was finally sheathed inside you entirely-- a moment you thought might never arrive-- he stilled and let his head fall back with a choked moan.

“God, it’s so good. You’re so good. Knew you would be.”

You could only choke on nothing as he pulled back out only to slam back home. He moved with slow but deep thrusts, pulling noises from you that you couldn’t even believe were originating from your body. You grabbed onto his arms and gripped them for dear life as his movements rocked you on top of the bed. You could feel how wet you were, you could hear how wet you were, as he slid himself into you each time. He looked down at you and smiled at your flushed face, hair sticking to your skin from a thin layer of sweat, eyes wrenched shut yet mouth fallen open into a perfect little moan… you looked exactly how he’d pictured you that first time he met you. You were exactly as perfect as he’d imagined.

“Steve, Steve, I need to-- please let me--” you whimpered.

“Not yet,” he frowned, and you whined with frustration.

“Please,” you cried.

“Don’t beg,” he sternly warned. “It’s unbecoming of a lady to beg. I’ll let you come when I’m ready for you to come, alright?”

“Yes, Steve,” you sighed, putting all your energy into holding back the wave of pleasure threatening to break through at any moment. His own moans got louder as he started moving faster inside you, balls slapping against your ass with a lewd clapping sound.

He could feel how badly you needed to come, but he needed you to prove you could be good for him and obey. “Fuck, baby,” he cooed, “so good. Fuck, just hold on a little longer.”

“Steve, please,” you sobbed.

“Say that you’re mine,” he growled. “Say that you belong to me.”

You blushed just hearing it, but you knew that the time for pearl-clutching had long since passed. You would do anything to come at that moment.

“I’m yours, Steve,” you sobbed, “I belong to you. Please let me come.”

“Fuck,” he moaned in approval, “so good. Just like that. Say it when you come. Say it when I come inside you.”

“Steve!” you cried out. “I’m yours, please!”

You lost track of what you were saying as he slammed into you so deep that it made your head hurt. All you could understand was the feeling of his cock flexing inside you, painting your walls with an absurd amount of thick, hot cum.

He moaned your name as he did it and you felt dizzy. He stayed like that for a while, holding you down even as you tried to squirm away to avoid the overstimulation of him inside you.

Finally, after what felt like forever, he pulled out, leaning back to watch his cum drip out of your hole. He felt a sense of accomplishment as he compared how your pussy looked now to how it had when he first saw it. There was a tinge of guilt for ruining you so thoroughly, of course, but pride as well.

“Why do I still feel funny?” you groaned as he laid down beside you. “I thought it would go away, once you… did that.”

“Oh, it lasts all night,” he shrugged. “Don’t worry, I just need a few minutes to recover and I’m gonna fuck you again. At least, as long as you ask nicely.”

#dark!steve rogers #dark!steve #dark!steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #captain america smut #steve rogers smut #chris evans x reader #chris evans x y/n #steve rogers x y/n #chris evans smut #chris evans fanfiction #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #chris evans fanfic #dark!chris evans #dark!chris evans x reader

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yehet-me-up · 4 years

Text

Fractions of Tomorrow

Pairing: Zitao/Reader (female)

Word Count: 10,249

Rating/Warnings: PG13

Summary: They always say opposites attract but you and Tao are putting that theory to the test. He works nights at Flanagan’s, you work the crack of dawn shift at Starbucks. He wears leather jackets, sings in a rock band, and drives a motorcycle. You prefer Keds to Chucks, study poetry at UW, and ride a pastel purple bike across town. Luckily, he’s not someone who’s afraid of a challenge.

When Baekhyun dares you and Tao to test the idea that two people can fall in love in one night you don’t expect to care so much, so fast. And when the sun rises all you can hope is that he feels the same.

Part seven of the Exodus Mall series (Can be read independently, but you’ll get some extra backstory if you read the other parts first!)

February 28, 1997

His head aches, body still reeling from the alcohol he drank far too much of the night before. The line at Starbucks is endlessly long and he groans. If he was responsible he’d go to the grocery across the street and get a decent breakfast. But his brain needs a substitute for the gin he was coerced into last night by his friends and it will only accept caffeine as an offering.

A saccharine song pours in from the speakers and people around him clear their throats or rustle in their pockets and the sheer noise of the morning grates against him. He’s a creature of the night; he finds other humans far more tolerable without the sun beating down on him. Only desperation pulled him from his hangover to acquire the nectar of the gods. He taps his foot and shrugs his jacket further up his body, hoping the collar will keep the bright light pouring in from the tall windows from reaching him.

A sweet voice breaks through the din and he turns to watch you, drawn by the warmth of the sound. It’s not his first time here, but it’s his first time paying attention. In the thriving ecosystem of the Exodus Mall everyone’s a friend of a friend of a cousin of someone and he distantly remembers you’re related to one of Baekhyun’s friends.

Maybe it’s the way early mornings after late nights distort the world, making everything feel hazy like a dream. Maybe it’s the fact that he went home alone last night, yet again. Maybe it’s the bright, energetic shine in your eyes, astounding for the pre-eight-am time. Or maybe it’s the dimple in your cheek when you smile at the customer, writing his name on the cup and passing it to your co-workers.

When the man moves aside and you turn your focus on Tao, for whatever reason, his intuition tells him to notice. Maybe it’s an illusion, but today feels different. You feel different.

‘Hi, welcome to Starbucks. What can I get you?’

He opens his mouth, unsure what to say. For a long beat he simply observes you. The little hearts drawn around your name on your name tag. He rolls it around in his mind, matching your face with the word, almost saying it aloud. A dangerous proposition. A door he should leave shut.

Someone coughs behind him and he shakes his head, stepping forward. ‘Just a big Americano please. As big as possible.’ His voice is thick and his throat dry. One day he’ll remember to drink a glass of water before bed after getting drunk.

You nod, reaching to the stack of cups. ‘A grande?’

He swallows to wet his throat. ‘Sure.’

‘Name?’

With a deep inhale he smells last night’s cologne still clinging to his skin. God he needs to get his shit together, he thinks with a sigh. His general state of dishevelment is even more noticeable next to you. He wonders if you ironed the collar of your shirt to be that precise or if you simply move through the world without acquiring any wrinkles.

‘Zitao,’ he says finally.

‘Cute.’ You say it under your breath but he still hears. His eyes go wide, his sluggish mind coming awake. After handing the cup to your co-worker you say the total. ‘That’ll be four oh two please.’

Automatically he reaches into his pocket for his wallet and pulls out the five dollar bill. He knows he’s staring like an idiot but he can’t help it. You hand him his change and on reflex he drops it into the tip jar. Service industry solidarity, he thinks with a half-smile.

The smile on your face blossoms; tentative at first, it grows when his eyes meet yours again. ‘Thank you!’ You pull a small coffee can out from beside the register and hold it out to him. ‘Anyone who tips gets a poem.’

He stares at the can and the slips of paper neatly folded within. Amusement fills him and he reaches for one at random, his fingers brushing yours as he pulls back. The sensation makes him want to linger. How long has it been since he touched someone, in the daylight? Since he wanted to hold and be held? Tao tells himself it doesn’t matter. It can’t. He’s got plans to leave Seattle and he doesn’t need anything tethering him here.

Before he embarasses himself he slides the paper into his pocket with a nod and moves on down the line. As he waits for his drink he keeps his focus on you. The efficiency of your motions and the genuine happiness on your face as you take order after order on the busy Friday morning. People come and go around him but he leans against the wall, waiting, thinking.

Finally his drink is done and the cup spreads heat along his chilled palms. The world is too sharp and demanding and the thought of a day full of errands on too little sleep followed by a full shift at the bar drags at him. But the smell of coffee and your smile and the mystery poem in his pocket are life preservers thrown to him today. He clings to them with both hands to keep himself afloat.

On his way out he finally reads the poem you’ve gifted to him. The writing is done with small, neat lettering and he knows it’s yours.

There is a candle in your heart, ready to be kindled.

There is a void in your soul, ready to be filled.

You feel it, don’t you?

- Rumi

With a groan he pushes out the door with his shoulder, blinking on the too-bright sidewalk. It’s too early to feel so raw and exposed, he decides.

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

Friday July 18, 1997

You trail into Flanagan’s Pub after Baekhyun and your sister, Hitchcock. It’s not her real name, but she’s had the nickname so long it might as well be. As always, they argue about movies. As always, you’re the third wheel. Not that they’re actually dating. But everyone agrees they should.

‘Come on, it was brilliant.’ Baekhyun waves his hands dramatically as you wind your way around the crowded bar after them.

‘I’m not saying it wasn’t,’ she responds. They slide into a booth opposite each other and you follow after your sister. ‘All I’m saying is it’s unrealistic, that’s all.’

Baekhyun scoffs, offended. ‘As if realism was the point here.’ You unfold the drink menu while he carries on, undeterred. ‘I know you’re not a hopeless romantic like myself, but are you honestly telling me that you don’t think it’s possible?’

Tonight’s Friday-movie-night tradition was your first viewing of The Fifth Element and Korben and Leeloo’s instant connection has revived their years-long argument about love at first sight. You roll your eyes when your sister shakes her head, leaning forward to tease him. She’s told you about her crush on Baekhyun, her best friend. For someone who’s been in love for as long as you can remember she fights awfully hard against Baekhyun’s romantic nature. Methinks the lady doth protest too much…

‘Look at Before Sunrise,’ Baekhyun says with a click of his tongue. ‘One night and they fell in love.’

She hums and scans the menu. ‘So what? It’s just one night. Show me what happens ten years later. After they see each other with messy morning hair and when he leaves dishes in the sink or, I don’t know, when she bites her nails.’ Baekhyun huffs and she smothers a laugh. ‘Let’s see how that instant love does after it’s put to the test. I’m not saying it isn’t possible, I’m just saying one night doesn’t mean it will stand the test of time, that’s all.’ She folds her menu and rests her elbows on the table, looking incredibly smug.

Baekhyun opens his mouth to argue but the server arrives and interrupts his tirade. ‘What can I get for you?’

The gravelly voice is familiar and your eyes widen in surprise when you see Tao towering over the table. Quickly you look away, back to the dark wood table.

You’ve noticed him before - at Starbucks, at parties at Baek’s from a distance, at Moe’s ages ago - but tonight he’s so cleaned up you hardly recognize him. Gone are the bags under his eyes and the nervous, jittery, curmudgeon energy that seemed to hang over him like a dark cloud. Tonight his eyes are alert and crinkle at the corner when he smiles broadly and you can’t help but notice. A very bad idea.

‘Hey man, how’s it going?’ Baekhyun reaches out and does a complex handshake with the man before you.

‘Oh, you know. Just working at the salt mines,’ Tao says with a laugh. ‘Are you coming to Chan and Soo’s party tomorrow night?’

‘You know it. I wouldn’t miss your big send off. My man here is taking off on a national tour on Sunday. Local boy making it big!’ Baekhyun gives Tao a friendly punch on the arm before drumming his fingers on the table and raising a brow. ‘Since you’re here, maybe you can settle an argument for us.’

Tao darts a look to you and clears his throat. ‘Sure thing. Lay it on me.’

‘Do you believe you can fall in love with someone in one night?’ Baekhyun waggles his brows at your sister and she groans. ‘Like, soulmates burning-down-the world you’re the person I’ve waited for always Blockbuster kind of love.’

He tilts his head to the side, considering. After a moment he shrugs. ‘I’m not sure.’ For a flash Tao’s eyes linger on you once more. ‘I think it would depend on the person.’ And then the bastard goes and winks at you.

Baekhyun snorts and lounges back in the booth, resting his arm on the back of the seat. 'Good luck, buddy. You'd have better luck charming a brick wall. She only reads about love these days, Double Shot here is a bit gun-shy at putting it into practice again.’

You glare at Baekhyun, body going rigid at being called out. For as long as he's been your sister's best friend he's acted like a surrogate older brother to you. He vacillates between telling you it’s good you’re so focused on your studies and telling you that you're too serious, too focused on school and work. Since you got broken up with Baekhyun seems focused on the latter, always needling you to go out and have fun. But, as they say, once burned twice shy.

You focus intently on your hands resting on the table and absolutely avoid looking at Tao. From the first time you rang him up at Starbucks you knew his gaze would see more than you'd like. He's the type to see through every bullshit line you give about how you’re fine being alone, fine with how things ended, fine fine fine.

If life was kind the three of you would order and Tao would leave and that would be the end of it. You could safely stay in your cocoon and hide. But of course, life doesn't play fair.

Tao sticks the pen behind his ear and folds his arms. ‘Is that a bet?’

Your cheeks warm and your heart races. Finally, you look up to him fully. 'Excuse me?'

He shrugs and gives you a lopsided smile. 'If you're game, of course. What do you say, shall we put this to the test?'

'You want to see if we'd fall in love in a night?' You're certain you look like a terrified animal. In a vain attempt to fold yourself back into someone confident you lean against the booth, pressing your feet to the ground and making your spine tall and straight. 'What makes you think you're even my type?'

‘Sweetheart, I’m everyone’s type.’

God knows he probably is. Tall, handsome bad boy who sings like an angel, drives a stupidly hot motorcycle, and looks like he knows the fastest way to make you come undone with just a look. But charming is only skin deep and in return you want to see if there’s anything underneath it that would keep your interest.

‘Fine, then.’ You hold out your hand. ‘I’ll take your bet.’ Stubborn, always so stubborn. Baekhyun giggles and claps excitedly as you grip Tao’s rough, much larger hand.

Your sister leans across you to stare Tao down. 'Hang on. I'm not about to let her go off with some random dude. How do we know you're trustworthy?' Hitchcock has turned her interrogation mode on. ‘I’ve seen you around, but I don’t know you from Bruce Willis.’

He must have other tables to attend to, other things to do, but he rests his palms on the table and leans down to meet her glare. 'I'm an open book. Ask me anything.' The move brings him inches from you. He smells like whisky, the kind that burns, and you swallow instinctively in response.

She narrows her eyes and hums. 'How old are you?'

'Twenty three.'

'Did you go to school?'

He chuckles. 'High school. No need for college.'

'Why not?' You speak up, preparing for an argument. He looks like he could actually keep up with you and a spark of excitement grows low in your body.

'Between singing and bartending I make plenty of money.’ He answers you, not your sister. ‘Don't get me wrong, I respect an education. But I get far more inspiration from living life than from just reading about it.'

You bristle. As a poetry major this feels like a personal attack. ‘Are you telling me you’ve never read anything that made you feel - I don’t know - inspired. Magical. Exposed?' You press your lips together, wishing you could gather the words back.

Tao looks at you through his lashes, bending close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips when he speaks. ‘Words are just the appetizer, darling. I prefer to have an entire feast.’

His dancing eyes dart down to your lips. But then he straightens, pulling the pen out and readying it on the pad. You grip the table to avoid swaying towards him and almost hate him for how much of a magnetic pull he seems to have over you. 'Any other questions or can I grab your orders?'

Baekhyun orders a Smirnoff Ice, delight pouring off him. Your sister narrows her eyes at Tao for a moment. Finally, she relents and orders a sex on the beach. You stare at the red plaid shirt tied around Tao’s hips and order something. An Appletini maybe? Your mind seems to have abandoned you but thankfully Tao nods and winds his way back through the crowd to the bar. In his absence you can breathe fully and look up to see Baekhyun smirking.

‘What?’ you practically groan at him.

‘Oh, nothing.’ He looks like the cat that caught the canary. ‘I just love being right.’

Hitchcock kicks him under the table and he winces, reaching for his shin. They resume their discussion, transitioning to talking about their opening shifts at the theater tomorrow and how much they can reasonably drink tonight and still be functional in the morning. You drum your nails on the lacquered wood table and wonder if your heart is racing from the heat of the packed bar or from the prospect of Tao holding you to your bargain.

The man himself comes back with drinks a moment later. When he slides the light green concoction across the table to you he tilts his head in question. ‘So, how about tonight?’

You choke on your sip and fight the burn in your throat. ‘Are you serious? So soon?’

He grins. ‘Why, did you want time to get ready? I think if we’re going to put it to the test it would have to be tonight. Also, I leave on Sunday morning, so the clock is ticking so to speak.’

‘But I work tomorrow at Starbucks. At the crack of dawn.’ You sputter, waving your hand in front of you. ‘I didn’t think you-’

‘Guess we should get started soon, then.' He winks again and you're tempted to throw your drink at him, just to get the upper hand. ‘I get off at nine.’ Without another word he puts the serving tray under his arm and leaves.

Your sister rolls her eyes. ‘You’re such a bad influence, Baek.’

He throws his arms out wide. ‘I can’t help it baby, I’m a lover. What can I say?’

She snorts and pats you on the back sympathetically. You down your drink in two swallows and absolutely refuse to look at Tao, Baekhyun, or your sister. Instead you pull some bills from your purse and push your way out of the bar before anyone can suggest anything else insane.

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

It takes you several tries to find a presentable outfit. It's been more than six months since that last fateful date and in the time between you’ve built a literal barrier around yourself, bundling up in sweaters and blankets at home, only emerging for work and class and Friday movie nights.

Baekhyun's words come back to you as you frown and throw yet another outfit on the bed. Are you really a brick wall, impenetrable and cold? You weren't always, surely. Byron's 'and thus, the heart will break, yet brokenly live on' swims in your mind, still fresh from the finals you took just a few weeks ago.

You don't feel broken, just stuck. Numb. Waiting. You hold a dress up to your body and wonder if your ex feels the same or if he, as the one who did the dumping, moved on instantly, and it's just the broken-up-with half that flails around trying to find new footing.

With an defiant press of your lips you sigh and settle on your favorite black and white checkered dress and white Keds. It’s a declaration of intent in a peter pan collar. Your ex always hated your clothes, what you chose to study, your music; everything about you screamed soft and he tried so hard to bend and form you into someone he wanted.

But you are as you are - romantic and idealistic and sweet. You roll your eyes. It’s the truth, and you remind yourself that just because you didn’t match him doesn’t mean you have to change just to make someone else happy. The outfit screams innocence it dares Tao to judge you tonight. As if you care what he thinks. Which you definitely do not.

You barely make it back in time to Flanagan’s. When you rush up Tao is pushing out of the bar onto the street. A thrill runs down your spine at his smile when he sees you. Your ex doesn't control you anymore, you remind yourself. You get to decide when you move on; when you stop mourning something that's dead and over and find something new. Even if it's not with Tao, tonight is an experiment. To see if you can handle a fresh start.

‘Hi,’ you start, breathless from your hurrying.

'Hi yourself. You still game?' he asks, mischief in his eyes and hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. 'If you want an out I won't hold it against you.' He looks you up and down and smirks, but doesn’t comment on your appearance.

In return you scan him as well. His hair is mussed just-so and his earrings match too well to be an accident. He’s trying too, even if his devil-may-care attitude would make others think he’s not. Everyone has an image they present to the world, tonight you’ll find if there’s substance behind Tao’s.

You press your tongue between your teeth and tilt your head at him. 'I'm ready to be surprised.'

He barks out a laugh. ‘Fair enough. I’ll see what I can do’

Tao starts to move towards you across the sidewalk, but you hold out a hand at the level of his chest, stopping his movement. 'So, love, huh? There's not some girlfriend or boyfriend of yours waiting for you at home?'

‘I belong only to myself. For now, at least.' He smiles and holds his arms out wide. His brows tug together suddenly. For a moment he looks unsure. Vulnerable. But the look is gone so fast you wonder if you imagined it. ‘What about you?’

You want to fold in on yourself and turn away, hiding. As if the stain of failure is written across your face. The words that were thrown your way like scarlet letters on your skin for him to see. Prude. Uptight. Tease. Your stomach churns and you’re glad you only had the one drink tonight.

‘Single.’ You suck in a breath after you get the word out, like it stole all the air from your lungs in speaking it.

He nods, holding your gaze for a moment. Those eyes of his drink you in and you’re sure he can see it - the hesitation and the fear. But once more he simply stands tall and gives you space to think. ‘Shall we head towards the waterfront?’

A public place, lively and full of people on a Friday night. Safe, reassuring. He didn’t suggest a club or somewhere heavy with expectation and you like him better for it. Tao waves an arm out in front of you, inviting you to go first and you start walking, clutching your purse under your arm.

He falls into step beside you. 'So I guess if we're going big or going home, shall we start with our dating history?'

You should have expected this level of inquisition, especially from someone who is friends with Baekhyun. ‘Jesus, you don’t pull any punches.’ But against your will you let out a laugh.

There’s something refreshing about someone who seems like, for all his mystery, he doesn’t hold any secrets. Everything out in the cool night air and you wonder if it would be freeing, to let it all go. To not question the words you say. To trust that the person you’re speaking them to will hold them without judgement.

‘Never have, never will,’ he reassures you. The cat-like grin on his lips is teasing. ‘That I can guarantee you. I’m happy to go first, if you’d like?’

You nod, and he sighs, looking through the clouds to the moon that peeks through. The streets are dry for once, a brief respite after the wet Seattle spring. Everyone around you takes in the night with gleeful laughter, on the search for music and connection and entertainment. But even with the full sidewalks around you all you feel compelled to do, inexplicably, is lean in closer to hear Tao.

A group of women brush by you, giggling, forcing you into Tao to avoid them. On instinct he reaches out an arm to keep you both from being overrun. You turn into him and end up meeting his eyes. In the night they’re so dark they look almost black, with flashes of light from passing cars.

The moment stretches around you and irrationally you want to stop him before he says anything else. No stories of the people he’s been with or kissed or loved or wrote songs about. Maybe that’s the appeal of one night love stories, you think. The beginning of love is always a lightning bolt. If that’s all it ever is you never have to deal with being knocked on your ass by the resulting thunderstorm.

The women pass and Tao respectfully brings his hand back to his pocket and time carries on. But the look on his face remains as you both start walking towards the Market again.

‘I should say up front, I uhh - I guess that I’ve never been in a relationship. Actually.’ He runs a hand through his hair and winces like he’s ashamed of it. ‘I came close a few times. But it’s just never worked out.’

You open your mouth but aren’t sure what to say. Do you make fun of him for clearly being a playboy, not wanting to be tied down, fitting the stereotype of the rockstar he’s on a path to becoming? Do you play coy, asking him if you might fit the bill? Or do you reassure him?

The latter feels the most natural. ‘You’re young. It’s the nineties. I don’t think it’s unusual to be playing the field right now.’ You lift a shoulder and shrug, the edge of your black denim jacket slipping down your back a bit with the motion. It exposes the skin of your collarbone above the strap of your dress, where your neck meets your chest.

Tao licks his lips and drags his eyes away from your shoulder to meet yours with a nod. ‘That’s true. I guess most of my friends are single. Sehun is. Jongin is. Baekhyun is, for sure. Even if he is in love with your sister.’ Your jaw drops and Tao bites his lip. ‘Shit, I shouldn’t have said anything. Please don’t tell her I -’

He looks genuinely panicked and you laugh, waving a hand. ‘Trust me, she’s in love with him too. They’re both too stubborn to admit it though. So your secret is safe with me.’

Tao sighs, relaxing, and gives you a half smile. ‘Thank you, I appreciate that.’ The neon lights from the bars and clubs along Pike street pass over his face, painting him dozens of bright colors. ‘So, that’s my story. Too busy working and writing lyrics and singing to be tied down. What’s yours?’

‘That’s hardly a story,’ you challenge, raising a brow. ‘More like the cover of a book.’

‘It’s plenty!’ he laughs. ‘I’ve exposed myself as a perpetually single man. I think that tells you tons about me.’ At your pursed lips he continues. ‘Fine. I’ve been chasing music for so long that I have avoided getting serious with anyone, lest it keep me from my dreams of stardom. I crave that intensity between me and an audience when I sing, but I’m afraid to let myself have something real. Something intimate, that expects more of me past one performance. I’m afraid that off-stage I’m more disappointing than on et cetera et cetera.’

He cuts off his rambling monologue, his eyes widening as he stops in his tracks for a moment, like he can’t believe he just said so much. But you stand next to him without judgement. Something about his disarming honesty and expressiveness makes you want to tell him the truth, ugly that it might be.

While you stand on the corner and wait for the light to change you look at the zipper of his leather jacket to avoid his eyes and spit it out. ‘I got dumped six months ago.’ You lift your hands and drop them uselessly to your side.

He tilts his head back in appraisal. Blessedly the teasing is gone from his face. He doesn’t offer sympathy, cloying and patronizing words about how you’ll find someone else. He doesn’t flirt with you, even though that seems to be his nature.

‘I don’t know the circumstances, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but all I can say is - it’s his loss.’ He gives you a slight smile, not moving even when the light changes, and you can’t help but return it.

It’s strange that it could be so simple. Perhaps if you do carry on something with Tao you’ll tell him more. But for tonight it can be that easy. The pain and doubt and shame can fade into a pinprick of light heading off into the distance and get swallowed up by the night. Like you can just wipe the slate clean and start over. You inhale a deep breath of cool, salty air and look up at Tao, your smile growing, becoming more genuine and whole.

A lightness fills you and you wind your arm through his, pulling him into the crosswalk just as the last few seconds show on the countdown. He lets you guide him easily and you come to rest on the concrete looking down at the Pike Place Market. The bright neon red sign reflects against the dark night and the inky blue waters of the Bay beyond it. In the twilight ships move back and forth through the port, full of tiny lights of their own.

He drops his hand a little, running over the clothed skin of your arm until he reaches your palm. The contact of his hand on yours makes you jolt. ‘Is this okay?’

Without thinking you nod, twining your fingers with his, savoring the heat as he presses against you. Your ex hated holding hands in public, hated any kind of PDA, calling it childish. But Tao stands by your side, hand in hand, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

People mill about you, heading to the endless restaurants and food stands that line the Market. In summer it’s in full bloom, crowded every night, and after a long winter and spring holed up in your apartment it’s disorienting to be out in the world again.

You start walking together, without a plan. It’s far more comfortable than you’d expected, the companionable silence with him. Everyone in your life talks a mile a minute - Baekhyun and your sister, your co-workers at the busy coffee shop, your classmates, hungry for discussion - but Tao seems content to just hold your hand and admire the rows of vendors you pass. The lack of pressure from him eases something that had drawn tight and anxious in your chest over the last few months.

Before you is a maze of stalls. Tables full of tulips in bright yellows and pinks, bouquets wrapped in brown paper, that you stop to smell. Screen printed tee shirts with the Sonics logo or photos of the Space Needle or trendy political puns that Tao points out with a laugh. People sell everything from watercolor paintings to homemade honey to snow globes. As a recent college grad, you’re saving all your money, but everything is still fascinating to look at.

The two of you settle on a kebab place for dinner after a long debate about the merits of the taco cart and the hole-in-the-wall seafood stop. The steam brings the rich smell of meat and vegetables to you. Against your protests to split the bill, Tao insists on buying dinner.

‘If this is an official date I have to follow the guidelines,’ he winks.

You roll your eyes and defiantly go to the next stall to order two Jones sodas from the seller. When you hold them up he laughs and inclines his head. ‘Alright, that’s fair.’

When you’re settled on the narrow rock wall beyond the far edge of the market, balancing Jones sodas on the uneven stones with a warm kebab resting on your knees, he carries on.

'So, poetry. What made you choose that?' He asks around a bite.

After a sip of soda you tilt your head at him. ‘You can't laugh, okay?'

'Why would I laugh?’ His brows furrow like it’s the furthest thing from his mind. ‘I'm a singer, sweetheart. I don't take the arts lightly and anyone who does is an asshole.' He narrows his eyes at you in mock seriousness but the way his mouth fights a smile is endearing.

You snort, liking him yet again without planning on it. ‘I don’t know. I’ve always loved it and sometimes I try to write it. I’ve had some job or another since high school, so I’m confident I can always get a job if I need it but - there’s something so - so delicious about poetry.’ You swallow another drink of your soda and Tao’s eyes flick to the motion of your throat. ‘If I was going to go to college, and our parents kind of insisted on it, I wanted to study something I loved.’

Tao lifts his own soda and clinks it to yours in solidarity. ‘I can respect that. What’s your favorite poem?’

Suddenly shy you turn to set your soda down on the stone beside you, letting your hair fall over your face while you think. It’s not that you don’t know, but that it feels too close, too personal to tell him just yet. ‘That’s very private.’

When you look back to him he holds your gaze for a moment. ‘Hmm. Okay I can respect that. Favorite songs are pretty personal too so I’ll let you hold onto it, for now.’ With a movement as casual as breathing he tucks your hair behind your ear, as though he does it twenty times day, and resumes his eating.

Poems run through your head as you chew, heart racing. You’d thought this was an experiment that would quickly go south. A quick walk to prove that you’re not compatible. A smug ‘I told you so’ to Baekhyun. And then a return to the comfort of your bed to read for the night. You didn’t expect to want him. Words, endless remembered words filter across your consciousness, ones of love and lust and death and the exhilaration of life.

Normally your own creative voice is quiet, too afraid to give permanence to the ideas, the words, that live inside you. But as you watch the gentle night breeze ruffle his dark hair you think you could write some tonight, if you had pen and paper. Instead you shove an enormous bite in your mouth and chew, afraid of the attraction you have to him.

When you’re both done eating he holds his hand out for your trash and you wad up the wrapper and hand it to him along with the empty bottle. He walks over to the trash and dutifully puts the bottles in the recycle, like any good Seattle boy. Dusting off his hands he turns back towards you, approaching slowly and holding out his hands.

After a moment’s hesitation you reach for him, allowing him to help you stand. Continuing the night’s adventure. When you’re on your feet he releases one of your hands, keeping the other one tucked in his as the two of you wind your way back through the crowds. Both of you stop to pat the bronze pig at the crux of the Market for good luck.

He leads the way down the narrow stairs to Post Alley and the line outside the comedy club at its base winds around in a long chain. It’s funny, normally you’d want to know The Plan. Baekhyun calls you anal retentive, but you just consider yourself organized. You like knowing what’s coming. But tonight you consent to following him without knowing the destination. You bite back a smile - it’s exciting and terrifying all at once.

A group of people tries to come up the stairs as you’re going down and you are pressed against the rail, trying not to slip. It definitely isn’t meant to be wide enough for both directions of people at the same time. As if sensing your predicament Tao presses his broad back into the rowdy man behind you, ignoring his grumbles of annoyance, making space so you can descend the last few steps onto the courtyard.

Out front of the Market Theater you thank him and wonder what exactly his plan is. Is he taking you to an improv show? A concert? Drinks? With your hand still in his he gently moves to the left, under the archway and in front of the long gum wall. You raise a brow at him but he merely smiles and shrugs.

‘I didn’t peg you for someone who likes tourist attractions.’

His eyes dance with amusement. ‘Oh yeah? What kind of person did you imagine me to be?’

You purse your lips and try to figure out how to answer him. ‘I’m not sure, actually. Normally I can read people pretty easily, but I can’t pin you down.’

‘Me?’ He presses his hand that holds yours to his chest. ‘Baby, I’m an open book.’

The gum wall around you smells sickly sweet and you can almost taste it on your tongue. Everyone around you is taking polaroids in front of the wall or chewing their own gum in preparation to add to it.

You wonder what the two of you look like from an outsider’s perspective. Tao, tall and imposing with his thick motorcycle boots. You with your white Keds and sweet, checkered dress and headband. It might seem like you’re an odd couple, but the heartbeat in his chest against your hand is strong and underneath it all perhaps you’re not so different.

With a breathy laugh and a roll of your eyes you grip his hand and pull him further along the alley beside the gum walls, towards the water. Nearby one of the many buskers permitted to perform along Pike Place starts signing a loud and heartfelt, if slightly off-key, rendition of ‘Sweet Caroline,’ drawing the cheers of the onlookers.

Away from the crowd in Post Alley you emerge onto a side street a block or so from the water. Tilting your head back you watch as everyone sings along. Tao’s free arm suddenly comes around your waist and dramatically he starts swaying you back and forth, crooning along to the Neil Diamond song far better than the busker. A few other people on the street around you smile or laugh, making their way to the pier up ahead.

Instead of asking him what on earth he’s doing or feeling embarrassed about dancing in the middle of the sidewalk you just cling to him and try to keep up. His voice is rich and soothing, his hand holding you against him is sturdy and comforting. You can’t help but giggle and roll with it, holding onto his jacket and watching his jaw move as he sings.

All too soon the performance back at the Market behind you ends and the last lyrics are drowned out by applause. Tao takes a step back and the night is cold without his warm embrace. You long to step forward and close the distance once more. Instead you brush your hair back and compose yourself.

‘What kind of music do you like to sing?’ you ask as the two of you resume your progress towards the pier.

‘All kinds.’ He shrugs. ‘But mostly love songs.’

‘Really?’ The light before you changes and ahead the aquarium looms in the night. To your left is the Kingdome waits, past the long stretch of the boardwalk. Without waiting for Tao you head that direction, the briny ocean air filling your lungs.

He easily comes to your side. ‘Of course. Everything’s about love I think, when you get down to it.’

‘You weren’t singing love songs when I saw you perform.’

You answer without thinking, remembering the concert a few months ago that you and your sister went to. Baekhyun had invited you both to see Chanyeol’s band - Yeol and the Salty Wolves - and Tao was performing with the opening group.

‘You’ve seen me on stage?’ His proud grin is teasing and playful and damned if you don’t want to kiss him.

‘Yeah. It - my sister dragged me out of the house. She thought getting outside would do me some good.’ You focus on picking off a section of your pink nail polish that’s started to chip. ‘You guys were great. But you were definitely yelling about anarchy, not love.’

The imagine of him in his tank top, wide slits cut under the arms revealing a broad swath of his tanned skin, singing passionately, makes you suddenly very aware of him. Tonight he’s composed, a rebel in street clothes. But that night his face was slicked with sweat from his intensity, red in the cheeks and headbanging along with the crowd and the rest of the band. Even that night, so close after your recent break up, you wanted him. It was a dangerous idea then and it’s a dangerous idea now.

He hums and veers to the right, heading down one of the longer piers. ‘I could argue that anarchy still is love. Love of your beliefs and love of a person or a place or a thing so much that you’re willing to fight for it, to go to war for what you care about.’

To that you don’t argue. ‘That’s true. I guess anything could be love when you get down to it. There’s so many poems about sadness - missing love or rejected love. Anger. Bitterness.’

The wooden boards of the pier below you give a gentle thunk with each heavy step of Tao’s huge boots. Below you the water sloshes against the planks. Now at the end you lean forward, resting your elbows on the railing, before turning back to Tao.

‘I guess this is a day to be debating love,’ you smirk, thinking back to the conversation that got you into this. In the wind off the Bay you shiver.

Like a reflex Tao shrugs out of his jacket and holds it out to you. But you lean over and wave your hand at him. ‘No it’s okay, I’m fine. Please, you don’t have to -’

But he drops it over you anyways, the warm weight of his jacket settling on your shoulders and insulating you from the wind. In his black, long-sleeve shirt he doesn’t even seem cold. With a sigh you pull it more fully onto you and bend upright again, inches from him.

‘Debating love indeed. See I think love and intimacy is made far too complex by a lot of people.’ He slowly rubs his hands together, forearms resting on the railing as he leans over, looking at the waves. ‘I think it comes from knowing someone. Really knowing them. Hopes and fears and memories and all of that. and choosing to be with them. Simple and complicated as that.’

‘Simple as that?’ you gape at him, holding your wind-tousled hair out of the way with one hand so you can look at him. ‘There's no way to truly know someone in one night, though. There's too much nuance for love in such a short time.’ The beating of your heart in your palms when you look at him would argue otherwise and you inhale deeply, trying to keep your center.

‘Hence why I also said complicated. But now we’re debating what love itself means.’ His gaze darts down to your lips before he meets your eyes. ‘I know plenty about you.’

You open your mouth to argue but he carries on. ‘I know you’re stubborn, given the soda earlier and the coat just now. I know you’re practical and competent - I’ve seen you at your job. I know you’re a romantic at heart, you have to be to study poetry, and even if some asshole temporarily doused that fire you look for evidence that love is real everywhere.’

Feeling raw and exposed you try to find anything to say to brush off the way his statements cut to the heart of you. ‘That doesn’t mean you - uhm - that you know me.’

The word you almost said in your haste was love and the thought makes your palms sweat. Irrational. Impossible. Everyone always says your emotions are easy to read, that they’re written all over your face, and you wonder what he sees as he watches you. The moment you said it you could see the slow smile start on his lips. At the very least he knows you’re not arguing with him as much as arguing with yourself, against what you feel.

He leans in closer so that his forehead touches yours, low voice almost a murmur. ‘But I want to know you more. I want to do a lot of things. Does that count?’

‘Count?’ If you wanted to you could press up on your toes and kiss him. The thought is intoxicating and you close your eyes, heaving a breath into your lungs.

After a long moment of thinking and waiting and wondering you finally open them again. Tao looks just as conflicted as you are - his brows tug together and the casual flirtation is gone. He holds himself still before you and something far more serious crosses his face. Though he doesn’t answer with words the look in his eyes telegraphs his feelings for you.

With a sigh he pulls back, reaching to the railing with both hands to steady himself, and you sway in his absence. He looks up at the night sky, at the moon through the clouds, and smiles. The stars peek through here and there. It’s not a cold night, just a breeze across the water to relieve the heat from the long summer day. Distantly a line of poetry comes to you, about being thirsty, parched almost, and wanting to drink him in to quench it.

Rather than indulge the dangerous impulse to touch him again you take off back down the boardwalk. Back to the city and the lights and far away from the closeness of being with him in the dark. The pressure of his thick jacket will have to be enough, for now.

‘So, where do you want to go next?’ You’re impressed you manage to sound steady.

He sticks his hands in his pockets once more and ambles after you, a small smile gracing his lips. ‘I know a place.’

As you make your way along the waterfront he turns the conversation to safer territory. You fill each other in on your jobs - how they started and what you like and don’t like. Co-workers who are dating, friends you have in common at the mall. Notorious customers. Tao has dozens of stories and his laugh is easy, his eyes bright with flirtation now that you’re both on safer ground.

Through the night you meander around the city in a vague Northward direction. Past the Science Center, it’s great white sculptures lit up. Around the Space Needle and the fountain. Another city and the streets would be deserted this late. But here there’s groups of people, laughing and splashing each other at the base of the enormous bowl that forms the center of it. You pass the occasional jogger or couple holding hands, walking home.

The two of you stop to use the restroom and get a drink of water at a 24 hour grocery store. Tao also insists on buying some snacks, chocolate and a bag of chips that you keep in the large pockets of his jacket as you progress to the edges of Lake Union.

It’s easy, being with him. His energy is calm, reassuring. He’s got a wicked and witty sense of humor you wouldn’t have expected and you easily spend half an hour looking out at the boats, making up other, naughtier names for them.

It turns out he likes X-Files just as much as you and your sister do. As you stroll along the Fremont bridge you end up taking his hand once more. The snacks are gone and you can’t resist touching him again. It must be well after midnight, but he doesn’t mention going home. Strangely, you don’t want to either. For someone who’s life has become so habitual you’re surprized you’ve not even spared a thought for your nightly routine of reading in bed with a glass of wine and a candle burning on the windowsill.

There will be other nights for that, but for tonight you let the momentum of the evening carry you along with him. You both decide to skip a visit to the Troll, not wanting to tempt any disasters. The Keds on your feet hold up well and you give a thanks to your past self for not wearing heels or sandals.

Eventually his destination becomes clear. The gates to the park are closed for the night. ‘Gas Works? This is your plan - breaking and entering?’

He nods, biting his lip. ‘Yep. I know a way in. The nighttime view is unbeatable.’

You hold out your hands, gesturing to the enormous PARK HOURS: DAWN TIL DUSK sign.

‘Afraid of being caught?’

You roll your eyes. ‘Yes, actually. I don’t think getting arrested for trespassing would be a great thing for my resume.’

Tao considers before backing towards the edge of the fence with a smirk. ‘Come on. How about a little mischief here ‘upon the honey’d middle of the night’?’

‘You know Keats?’ It leaves you breathless, rooted to the ground. It’s not from your favorite poem, but he is your favorite poet. A good guess or has he been doing his research?

‘Of course. Don’t you?’ Tao teases, folding back a corner of the fence and easing himself through.

You scoff and charge after him. The smug bastard can’t just quote Keats and then run away from you. Once again you want to kiss the proud look off his face, to rattle him the way he seems so capable of rattling you, getting underneath your surface. With a last thought to your reputation you step through after him and a thrill runs down your spine.

The rusted red containers and machines that form the center of the park are tall ghosts in the night, rising from the grass and casting long shadows around you in the distant light from the city. He holds out his hand and you easily catch it, both of you winding your way carefully around the gentle hills to make your way to the view.

You find a suitable spot and sit down on the grass. ‘You’re right,’ you tell him reluctantly.

‘About what?’ Tao sits beside you, linking his hands over his knees. He sits near enough you can feel his thigh pressing against yours. Close, always so close, but not as close as you want him.

‘About this.’ You gesture to the Seattle skyline in front of you.

Sure you’ve been in the daytime, watching the boats sail on Lake Union and the groups of yoga practitioners and families with young kids fill the grassy slopes down to the water. But by night the lights of the city look like a painting. Skyscrapers touching the clouds as the first hints of sun are lightening the horizon.

‘I thought you’d enjoy it.’ He nudges you with his shoulder and smiles at you.

The gentle sounds of the water below is relaxing. Even as you lift your hand to cover a yawn you don’t truly feel tired, like the night and closeness to him could keep you awake forever, if you let them. But even so, dawn is coming and you think back to the reason that you’re both here.

‘So. About that bet?’ Your words are a sigh and somewhere between the late hours and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles you don’t second guess the question.

He side eyes you and can’t smother the grin on his face. ‘You mean the one about if we can fall in love in one night?’

‘Yes, that.’ It must be the lack of sleep causing the giddiness you feel, you tell yourself, as you lean back against the grass and cover your face with your hands.

His own hands find yours and you turn to see him on his side next to you. Gently he pulls them down, holding them to his chest, so he can look you in the eyes. ‘Hmm, I don’t know about love, but I feel a whole hell of a lot right now. We never came up with an objective definition of it, anyways.’

You snort. ‘Did you honestly just say ‘objective definition?’’

‘Yes, I think if we’re going to agree here, we need to be on the same page.’ With his intense focus on yours he brushes a kiss against the backs of your hands. ‘If we say love is a feeling, who’s to say that we aren’t in love? If we decide it’s an action then which one is it? A kiss or a commitment or - maybe it’s nothing more complicated than putting words to the way I feel when you look at me?’

The smile blooms across your face and right then you’re tempted to say it’s all of them. How much you want his mouth on yours and his hands all over you. How you’re not quite sure you know how to have a relationship with a man anymore, after your ex, but that you want to try with him. How wild and free you feel being next to him.

‘I don’t know about -’ you whisper. You let the truth fall out, not bothering to think about what it might mean. ‘Long term or after tonight. But I’d say, much that I hate to admit Baekhyun could be right, I’d say… uhm, he could be right.’

You avoid Tao’s eyes, focusing on his jaw or the fabric of his shirt or the way his hands hold yours. But still you see how he smiles, almost glowing in the light of the moon and the barest reflection of the sun coloring the skyline to your left.

He clears his throat, pressing another kiss to your hand. ‘Well, I'd look at it this way. Let's say we do get together. Maybe we last a month or maybe we last for the rest of our lives. Another fifty or sixty years. In either of those cases tonight would be just a fraction of the relationship. A small sliver. Important when looking at the broad view of a life together, but not crucial by itself.’

With a nod you look at him and the heat in his eyes makes you gasp. He moves over you, releasing your hands to brace himself on the ground behind your head. The sturdy press of his body reminds you this isn’t a movie or a dream, it’s something real that’s happening to you. The cool grass sinks into your dress at your back and brushes against your thighs.

'Or.' His hot breath cascades across your lips. 'If all we have is tonight.' Moving himself to the side he runs his nose along your jaw, mouth teasing the skin of your neck with barely there kisses. 'One night would be everything. For all the marbles, as they say.' He pulls back and looks at you with a lopsided grin.

You huff out a breath, blowing your bangs out of your eyes, absently running your hands across his shoulders, along his chest. 'I don't know. I like knowing there's always time for more. Like - what if I was tired tonight or hungry or cranky and I messed it up? The thought of just one night still makes me nervous.’

He kisses your forehead and the words come faster, as if hurried along by the morning. ‘If we're a forever thing, then it's okay, because there will be a thousand more chances to get it right. But just once? How can it be perfect if it's so brief?'

'Well, even if we do get together we'd still only have one first kiss.' He rests on one elbow and uses his free hand to cup your jaw, clearing his throat around the roughness of his voice. 'Do you want to wait or shall we attempt perfection tonight?'

The thought of waiting any longer makes you far sadder and you nod. ‘Screw it - kiss me. Please?’

Instead of answering he simply drops his head, closing the distance and sealing his mouth over yours. He groans at the contact, the sound vibrating in his chest where it rests against yours. You grip his neck, winding your fingers through the strands of his hair and hold on, to ground yourself, between him and the grass as he slowly, hungrily, kisses you.

Your eyes flutter for a moment as he sucks on your lower lip. Behind him the sky is bright, the rays of light spilling through the clouds and rendering him art himself. The arch of his brows, full of emotion. You squeeze your eyes closed and hold him tight, grazing his neck with your nails and sighing into his open mouth. Before you can kiss him again he pulls back, his cheeks flushed and his eyes full of delight.

‘That was pretty damn good.’ He huffs out a laugh, running his tongue along his lower lip like he’s trying to keep the taste of you close. ‘Are you sure you want to risk another one? It could be -’

‘Yes,’ you answer immediately. ‘Again.’

He grins and buries his face in your neck, his hot breath falling on your sensitive skin. ‘I think we’ve found the crucial difference between us.’ At your hum he carries on. ‘I can take one moment and hold onto it forever, perpetually living off the way it felt. You want to have it over and over again. And here I thought you were the poet.’

Rolling onto his back he pulls you on top of him with a squeal as you right yourself, bracing hands on his shoulders for balance. His hand rests against your cheek. ‘But if it helps. I - feel the same way.’

‘Oh.’ To keep your surprise and delight from exploding all over your face you bite your lip. ‘Alright then.’ You trace patterns in the fabric covering his chest.

It’s as simple and as complicated as that, just like he said, hours ago.

As the day rises full and bright with the heat of the sun you do indeed kiss again. Several more times. When you’re both red lipped and thirsty and covered in wrinkled clothes you head back to your apartment by UW. He gives you a piggy back ride when your feet start to hurt and helps you make breakfast with a sleepy smile and runs his fingers over the covers of the numerous books stacked on every surface of your apartment and all the while the feeling in your chest grows, not diminishes.

You hurry through a shower and getting dressed for work while he patiently waits on the couch. His eyes are closed when you emerge, putting your hair back in a ponytail. Leaning against the door frame you watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest. You stifle a yawn and think of how not twelve hours ago you didn’t know what his skin felt like beneath your palms or what he’d be like to kiss or how perfectly your bodies seem to line up.

Tomorrow, or perhaps later tonight, you’ll have to report back to Baekhyun and your sister. Though you still have no idea what you’ll say when he asks if the two of you fell in love in one night, you know that, at the very least, it was the start of something.

You leave Tao a note with instructions to sleep as long as he wants and a spare copy of your keys. He works his own shift tonight at Flanagan’s at two, his last one before he leaves on tour. Reassured that at least you’ll see him once more tonight at the party, before he’s gone for - well, you suppose you didn’t ask the specifics yet. You laugh at the thought and quietly shut the door and sprint down the steps to work.

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

It’s hardly after nine in the morning when Tao arrives. Far earlier than you were expecting, but you’ve learned that he likes to surprise you. When you see him standing in line you bite your lip, tilting your head and giving him a sleepy smile.

‘A bit early for you, isn’t it?’ You ask, friendly and professional. ‘You look like you had a long night.’

He laughs, shaking his head and resting his palms on the counter. ‘I did indeed. But it’s been over two hours since I last saw you.’

‘Oh yeah? Is that a long time, then?’ you tease him.

He whistles and leans in to whisper so only you can hear. ‘Far too long for someone in love.’

‘Love?’ The word thunders in your chest.

‘Maybe it’s too soon to know,’ he says, not backing up at all. ‘Maybe love is confirmed by time. But what I feel, whatever this is the start of, I’m greatly looking forward to.’

‘Are you sure you want to start this? You’re leaving, like, tomorrow.’ Suddenly in the light of day the reality of the situation makes your stomach flip.

He clutches his chest dramatically. ‘Don’t sound so sad, love. Please. You say that like I won’t come back.’ He reaches for your hand across the counter. ‘At least we'll have tonight. Tonight or forever, right?’

‘Exactly.’ Unable to resist you lift your hand to hold his cheek and kiss him. It was killing you not to and why not? He’s right. If it’s just one more night, you’re going to make it count.

You pull back and fill out his cup, insisting it’s your treat. Before he leaves you hold out the jar of poems. When he reads the line he laughs, holding it out to you.

“And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.”

― Pablo Neruda

#exowritersnet #tao x reader #zitao x reader #tao scenario #tao fanfic #exo x reader #exo au #exo fanfic #exo scenario #exo imagine #exodus mall

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nalgenewhore · 3 years

Text

storm

essar x lorcan, alternate canon au, domestic fluff, word count: 1556

Outside, the storm rages. The windows and cupboard doors rattle, the noise forcing tension to crawl up her spine. Essar sighs softly and turns over again, just as a clap of thunder erupts in the skies above. The female startles, immediately reaching for her bedmate.

As she stretches towards him, she hesitates, her eyes tracking over his slumbering face. He’s been so tired lately, what with all their preparations for the winter. She shouldn’t bother him, she thinks. With another sigh, Essar returns to her spot and tucks her hands beneath her pillow. She closes her eyes, but the flash of lightning is bright and they open a moment later.

She curses into her pillow, frowning in annoyance. Essar peeks out at her mate, who has hardly moved, except to rub the tip of his nose and wrinkle his brow. She turns her head and watches him, silent. Something in her chest calms as she continues staring at Lorcan, but she knows that sleep will still evade her. Carefully, the Fae gets up from her bed and pads across the mat-covered floor to the door of their bedroom.

Essar slips through the door and walks down the hall, Lorcan’s shirt falling to her mid-thighs. Her bright eyes trail over their cosy cabin, seeing the fire that glows in the coals of their fireplace. Before it, on a soft wolf pelt rug, her clothes are still laying rumpled from their… frenzy. A smirk pulls at her plump lips and Essar scurries into the kitchen, her body recalling his warmth. After her tea, she’ll curl up next to him and his presence will soothe her back to sleep.

The storm attempts to shake the house, but it doesn’t bother her as much anymore. Essar feeds kindling and larger pieces of wood into the oven, summoning her flame to set it alight. The heavy kettle is still halfway full, so she won’t need to fetch water for it. She puts it down on the metal surface and takes a mug down from the shelf.

She spins to the island counter, where they keep a collection of various everyday dried herbs to make their drinks. There’s a hand-sized mortar and pestle next to the collection. Essars plucks a small jar from the neat row and pries the cork off with an audible ‘pop’. She tilts it to the side, trying to determine how much of the tea blend is left.

A week or so ago, they traveled to the nearest village to stock up on supplies that were hard to come by, like specialty dried flowers and roots, dairy products like butter and a dozen pints of goat milk, eggs, flour, and sugar too. Their pantry is well stocked and Essar knows they don’t need to worry about starving over the colder months.

She takes a small linen bag and shakes some of the blend into it, then ties the drawstring closing shut and puts it in her cup. While she waits for the kettle to boil, Essar keeps her eye on the weather outside, watching it whip at their sheet-covered crops. A slight frown graces her brow. She doesn’t like to see their plants so abused.

It doesn’t take long for the kettle to boil. When its steam billows in the air, Essar lifts it off of the stove and carefully fills her cup a few centimetres beneath the rim. Then she lets it steep for a few moments as she hunts for the honey. She knows her love has hidden it somewhere. It’s a joking habit of theirs, wanting to keep the sticky-sweet treat all for themselves.

Essar finds the jar quickly and takes the teabag out. As she stirs in some honey, she hears steady footsteps tracking across the wood floor, made audible so that she isn’t scared moments later. Two big, tattoo-covered arms circle around her waist and his head comes down to rest his face in the crook of her shoulder. “Essar,” Lorcan grumbles, clearly displeased from waking up to an empty bed. He sniffs and presses his lips to the curve of her neck, his lips brushing against her, “S’matter, love?”

“Nothing,” she murmurs back, resting her free hand on his forearm. “Just can’t sleep. The storm.” Essar stirs in her honey and turns to look at him. Lorcan’s eyes are shut and she grins, leaning back against him. She loves the way his shoulders curl around her, protecting her.

He hums, “Why didn’t’cha wake me?”

“You… you were sleeping. And you’ve been working so hard lately.” Heat blooms across her crescent-shaped cheeks, knowing that he’ll think her reasons ridiculous. The male leaps at chances to comfort her and fuss over her. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Lorcan gently nips at her soft brown skin, his elongated canines scratching harder than the others. “You could never bother me, Tangaroa.”

She smiles and turns her head to kiss his temple, “Alright, darling. Would you like some tea?”

He sighs through his nose and lifts his head, humming lowly. “No, s’alright. Just wondered where ya were.” Lorcan taps Essar’s hip so she’ll turn and she does, her tea cupped between both hands. Lovingly, with such care, he brushes her wavy hair back and kisses her forehead, “Is it the storm?” His mate has never taken well to them. Storms don’t frighten her, per se, they simply disrupt her sleep and are a tiresome, stress-inducing nuisance.

Essar nods, “Yes. Come sit with me.” She reaches behind her to take one of his hands and neatly spins out of his arms, leading him to their living room. They bypass the large couch in favour of the armchair. It’s a snug fit, what with Lorcan’s towering stature. Essar is not a small being either – the top of her head comes just past his chin. Her legs are across his lap, her backside on the cushion beside his left thigh. Lorcan rests a hand on her thigh and eases his other arm around her waist, his fingers splayed across her ribcage.

She laughs when she sees his eyelids drooping and kisses the bridge of his nose, “Tired, are we?”

He smiles softly and nods. Blinking hard a few times, Lorcan sits up straight and strokes his thumb over her side as Essar sips on her sweetened tea. “Gimme a sip,” he implores her, nudging his chin towards her mug.

Essar smirks and arches a brow up while she moves her drink away from him. “Thought you said you didn’t want any.”

His grin widens, showing her those dishy dimples that they both know she’s weak for. “Just a wee bit, my love.” She rolls her eyes and concedes, letting him have a taste. In thanks, Lorcan kisses the curve of her shoulder before resting his chin atop her head.

She nestles into him and clicks her tongue, “Ya big thug. Stealing your mate’s tea. How shameful.”

Lorcan huffs a laugh through his nose and winds his fingers through her hair, his neat nails scratching her scalp. Essar melts instantly, near purring as her eyes become hooded and gently slip shut. Unseen by her, the male smiles a pleased smile, pride sparking in his chest at the sight of the female he adores happy under his care. Her lashes flutter as she opens her eyes, staying curled where she is, and finishes her tea slowly.

He takes her empty mug and puts it on the end table, right next to a stack of books. “Feeling ready to sleep now?” Lorcan asks her softly, petting her hair gently. Essar hums and kisses the underside of his jaw.

“Yes, but… only if you… carry me,” she whispers, voice drowsy and sweet.

“Of course,” Lorcan tells her, hooking his arm beneath her knees and the other across her shoulders. He cradles her against his chest and stands smoothly, walking across the cabin. The storm seems to have lessened in its intensity, the strikes of lightning softer, the rolling of thunder gentler.

He bumps the door open with his hip and kicks it shut, remembering to not use full force. Essar is seconds away from true slumber, he can feel it as she becomes heavier and heavier in his arms, relaxing into him. He won’t do anything to jeopardise her rest.

The layered blankets and quilts on their bed are rumpled, pushed to the foot of the mattress. Lorcan sets Essar down and eases himself beside her. She makes a noise in the back of her throat and shifts closer to him as he pulls the covers over them.

Essar fits herself against him, stretching her arm across his waist and hitching her leg over his hip. Her head is rested against his chest. Lorcan runs his hand down her side and fits his hand in cradle above her hip, making the shirt she’s wearing bunch up. He rubs his thumb over her waist and she hums again, shifting so that her chest is cushioned against his.

He buries his face in her hair, smelling her gentle sea salt and tiare blossom scent. “I love you, Ess.”

More asleep than not, his mate mumbles an incomprehensible jumble of words, but he smiles all the same, knowing exactly what she’s saying. With all that I am, and with all that I ever will be.

<3<3<3

an: i realise i dont have a taglist for this so......im going to tag a couple people who i know appreciate essar n lorcan <3 let me know if u want to b added for future writings !

@sassyhobbits @hellasblessed @ladyverena

#essar x lorcan #essar #lorcan salvaterre #isa writes #nalgenewhore #also essar is tall because ! it's ! what ! she ! deserves !

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tailorvizsla · 4 years

Note

“Just let me see (her/him/them) one last time. Please.” with Paz 🥺

Title: Home Is In Your Arms Pairing: Paz x F Reader Word Count: ~4k Rating: R Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Reader is an ex-Storm Trooper and was not treated well, some attempts at medical jargon, Paz is injured, a hint of angst, and vanilla sex. Author’s Notes: A request from the lovely, wonderful @huliabitch that was supposed to be a one-shot but evolved into this entire-ass fic because I sort of like this concept? There’s a lot of buildup and not a lot of angst, but just a hint. I really hope you don’t mind! [Holy crap, I copied the wrong list of tags for this. I took those extra names off as soon as I realized it. I’m not sure if I got it quickly enough, though. If you got a note, I am really sorry. Forgive me, please.]

📚 My Master List 📚 If you want to send in a prompt (or just talk to me lol), feel free to peruse the list here!

The gunshot wound to his side is like a singular point of white-hot fire, a blinding supernova of agony as he stumbles against the crumbling remains of the blown-out grocery store. Blood burbles up through his lips and sprays against the inside screen of his visor, streaking crimson as it drips out through the bottom of his helmet. Paz sinks down between two of the shelves, fingers trembling as he tries to staunch the blood rapidly seeping into his kute. Paz gasps as his backside touches the ground, jarring the agonizing pain shooting up his side. His head swims nauseatingly as he struggles to get each gasp of air into his aching lungs.

Fuck, he thinks to himself. Really got in over my head today.

He had a bounty to pick up – a simple bounty for someone skipping on bail – and he had almost gotten them. Then the troopers had shown up with two AT-STs and a TIE-fighter. His head suddenly feels both heavy and empty, and he thinks about his family. His home. Paz lets his head fall back against a stone pillar, blackness starting to seep in at the edges of his eyesight.

Just let me see them one last time. Please.

The last thing he sees as his head bobs down toward his chest are a pair of white boots approaching him.

The EMP blast triggers a minor explosion that knocks you off your feet. Collapsing into the remains of the store, you try to regain your bearings. It takes you several minutes to realize that your collar is no longer buzzing. You toss your weapon down and yank your helmet off, pulling at the band digging into your neck. It does not budge. You swear quietly to yourself.

You remove your breast plate and abdominal armor and drop it on the ground. They will not protect you much from Mandalorian weapons. You’d rather die in your undersuit than in the Empire’s armor. The vambraces follow, falling to the dusty, cracked concrete with a clatter. Glancing around the shop, you find that you are in some sort of supply store. Hopefully, there will be a knife here you can borrow.

As you pass by a display, you pick up a bag and loop it over your chest. Then you go to ransack the shelve for food and medical supplies. There isn’t much here, but it will be enough to tide you over until you can find someplace safe.

When you round the corner, you see a massive pile of blue armor in the corner. You freeze. This is the Mandalorian who had taken out half the buckets on your squad by himself. Many of them had been collared like you. Others were blind followers of the Empire. Despite this, you hold no bitterness against him.

Rather, you find yourself in terrified awe of him.

You get as close to him as you dare and crouch, poking his pauldron. He doesn’t budge. Glancing down at his side, you notice the wound on his side. Shit, he has lost a lot of blood. Chewing on your lower lip, you begin digging through your bag of pilfered supplies. You have some basic first aid training, so you get to work on getting him back onto his feet. When you’ve packed the wound and sealed it with a mass of tape, you start to rifle through his pockets to see what medical supplies he might be carrying. He has a single dose of the really good bacta, the stuff that’ll get a corpse back onto its feet for a few minutes. The stuff that cannon fodder like you would never be given.

For a moment, you stare down at the tiny bottle in your hand, watching as the dose of medicine swishes around inside. You want to take it, but you decide against it. This warrior deserves better than to bleed out in a damn grocery store.

You stab him in the patch of skin you can see. Then you grab his vibroblade and start sawing at the band around your throat, cursing violently as the blade just barely begins to chew through it. You are so engrossed in the task at hand that you do not hear the soft inhalation from behind you. Or the near-silent growl. A rough hand grabs you by the shirt and pulls up. The other hand wraps itself around your neck and you go very still, teetering on your tiptoes to avoid being choked to death.

“Who the fuck are you?” comes a low, deadly voice in your ear.

“The idiot who decided to help you?” you choke out.

“Why the hell would an Imp help a Mandalorian?”

“F-figured would be the right thing to do,” you gasp out. “Borrowed you-your knife – “

“Did you want me on my feet to try and kill me?” he hisses at you. “Did you think I’d be an easy target?”

Your heart rate spikes as his hand tightens around your throat. You cough in response, pulling at his forearm to try and breathe. He doesn’t budge.

“Collar – cut it off – let me – let me die free, please – “

The arm around your neck loosens slightly. Blood rushes back into your head and your knees wobble. His other hand comes up and you inhale, closing your eyes, expecting him to snap your neck. Instead, he examines your collar.

“Interesting,” he says.

Then he yanks his blade from your hand and puts it back where you had borrowed it.

“If I let you go, will you attack me?”

“Not suicidal,” you gasp out.

“Smart girl,” he rumbles out.

He lets go. You stagger a bit, wheezing as you suck down some air to your oxygen-starved lungs. You turn to look at him. Upright, he’s even bigger than you thought. He towers over you by no small amount, nearly twice your size. You swallow tightly, feeling quite exposed without your armor.

Not that it would have protected you much if he decided to take a swing at you. Tripping and falling would crack that cheap plasteel shit. He stumbles and you just barely catch him around the middle. A grunt escapes you at just how damn heavy he is.

“If I help you out of here, will you take this damn thing off me?” you ask him.

“Sure, why not?” he slurs.

“Where to?” you ask.

“East,” he says.

“Are we waiting for anybody?”

“No,” he manages to say. “Just me.”

You stare at him incredulously.

“You are responsible for all this?” you hiss, gesturing at the mayhem outside.

He throws his head back and laughs. It takes nearly two hours to walk the half-mile back to his ship. At some point, you debate on asking him if he’d be willing to ditch the armor, but you decide against it. That amount of beskar is probably worth a small fortune. It takes you a minute to spot his ship, cleverly hidden under a rocky overhang and a large camouflage tarp.

The ramp opens and you carry him up the ramp. There, you drag him as far as you can before he collapses. You grab the tarp and drag it inside to keep it from getting sucked into the intake vents. You shut the door before you start looking for a med kit. You find it in the galley, just above the sink. Then you hurtle back to the Mandalorian and inject him with another dose of the good stuff. Then you check his wound. Miraculously, the bleeding seems to have stopped.

From there, there is little you can do but wait, so you cover his chest with a blanket and climb into the cockpit. It only takes a few minutes to get the ship into the air and away from the battlefield.

You aren’t quite sure when you fell asleep, but when a hand clamps down on your shoulder, your neck is sore, and you have drooled on yourself. You look up. Big Blue is looming over you.

“The fuck are you doing?” he growls.

You blink the sleep out of your eyes. Then it all comes back in a rush. Shit.

“I didn’t know where you wanted to go,” you stutter out. “So I put her in a random hyperspace lane. I think.”

“Move,” he snarls.

You quickly get out of his way and he sits down. You retreat into the copilot’s chair, where you sit in silence for several minutes. He makes several course adjustments before you dare to speak up.

“Can I use your refresher, please?” you ask.

Be polite and he may not just toss you out the back. He growls. You take that as a yes. You head down the ladder and into the refresher you had seen. You relieve yourself. Then you eye the tiny washing machine stuffed in the corner. You stare down at your stained undersuit.

It’s filthy.

You’re filthy.

Gnawing on your lower lip, you peer over at the ladder. You asked for the refresher, not the toilet. And the washing machine is in the refresher. So it’s fair game?

Swiftly, before you can porg out like a coward, you shuck the suit and your underthings off, stuffing it all into the washing machine. Then you jump into the shower and begin cleaning up quickly. You untie your hair and work the worst of the knots in your braid out with your fingers. Then you steal some soap and start scrubbing the layers of blood, dirt, and grime off your body.

The water is cold, but it is glorious to be able to shower for more than two minutes at a time. When you are finished, you hop out and grab a towel. You can just barely wrap it around yourself, and it does little to cover your curves. You are just moving your things into the dryer when you hear your Mandalorian’s footsteps stomping toward the door.

“It’s been twenty minutes,” he snarls.

You open the door, putting your hands up.

“I asked to borrow your refresher,” you say. “I borrowed it. Nothing more.”

He freezes, his dark visor tilted down at you.

“Uh,” he stutters out. “Uhm – “

“It looks like it’ll be a little bit before everything is finished drying,” you tell him. “Then I’ll find a corner to sit in. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”

“Uh, yeah,” he stammers. “Get dressed. I will be in the cockpit.”

He turns on his heel and goes back to the ladder in a hurry. You frown after him. What a weirdo. It takes another thirty minutes for the dryer to finish extracting the moisture from your clothing. You put it all back on and head up to the cockpit. He turns to look at you.

“You stay on that cushion,” he says, pointing at a chair. “Are we clear?”

“Aye, captain,” you say, sitting down in the copilot’s chair.

He disappears down the narrow corridor. You peer after him, snooping shamelessly. You catch a glimpse of a big bed and a gun case before the door swishes shut after him. You turn your attention back to the dizzying array of blue lights passing by in the windows. Boredom sets in quickly. You glance at the door. Then at the cushion under you.

A stupid thought seizes you. You’re hungry. He’s probably famished. Big Blue is your commanding officer now. So, he gets to eat first. Then, if he allows it, you get to eat your own ration. You push the thoughts away. This isn’t the Empire - he may not care if you eat at all.

But still. He’s your commanding officer now. And he’s been injured.

You give the cushion a tug and it pulls away from the seat, revealing the attachment points. You climb down the ladder, the cushion under one arm. Then you go dig around in the galley for something to snack on. Setting the cushion on the ground, you take your place on it, and start sifting through the packages of freeze-dried food.

“WOMAN - !” your Mandalorian bellows.

You nearly leap into the air. He drops down the ladder and lands with a jarring thud. He comes stomping into the galley, where you have put what appears to be a ration pack on the counter to heat. He glowers down at you.

“What. Did. I. Tell. You.”

“You said I couldn’t leave the cushion,” you say. “But you need to eat – “

“I can feed myself,” he hissed. “I gave you a direct order – “

You pat the cushion under your ass.

“You need to eat,” you repeat. “Your blood sugar is probably tanked by now. And concentrated bacta does weird things to your sodium levels. You need to eat, sir.”

He inhales sharply to yell, but he cuts himself off, pressing his face to his hand. You can almost see the steam curling from under his helmet.

“Do not call me sir. Get your ass to the cockpit. NOW. Before I snap your fucking neck and throw you out the airlock.”

You grab the bread roll and stuff it into your mouth. Then you grab the cushion and climb back up the ladder, hastily replacing it where it belongs. By the time he gets back to you, you’ve devoured the bread, and you are licking the crumbs off your fingertips.

“Don’t get smart with me,” he snaps.

You tilt your head up at him questioningly and decide to not argue.

“Let me see your collar,” he says grouchily.

You flip your hair forward. Big Blue grabs the collar. This time, he far gentler as he starts messing with it. You stay quiet, hoping that it will come off. Then you feel something cold slip between it and your neck. Then it pinches and the collar falls away. You stare down at it, turning it over and over.

“I’m free,” you whisper. You look up at him. “I’m free.”

“Looks like it,” he says. “Where are you from?”

You shake your head.

“I don’t know.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m at least twenty-four,” you say. “That’s all I know.”

He turns to look at you.

“Any fodders who survive to their twenty-fourth get the dubious pleasure of being shortlisted for officer training,” you say quietly, bitterly as you look out the window. “I think my training started last year at some point.”

“How do you not remember?” he asks impatiently.

“They don’t want to damage our nervous systems with repeated shocking,” you say, looking down at the collar in your hands. “They sometimes drugged us if they suspected we were thinking too much.”

He doesn’t respond. You exhale. Then you chortle.

“Are you looking to hire backup? I’m a fair shot,” you say wryly. “I ask for two meals a day and a corner to sleep in.”

“You think I’d pay you that much?” he retorts. “You Imps are all terrible shots.”

“By the time someone gets put on frontline duty, their fine motor controls are fried,” you say nonchalantly, swinging your foot back and forth. You hold up your hand, watching as your fingers tremble minutely.

“A lieutenant made a pass at me and I turned him down. He didn’t like that,” you say nonchalantly. “He refused to take no for an answer, so I broke his nose.”

“You were tortured for defending yourself?” he asks, his voice suddenly quiet.

You tilt your head up at him questioningly.

“Oh, no. Gideon had him killed for making a pass at me. Mingling between officers and fodders is forbidden,” you say, shaking your head. “I got my date with the electrical socket because I missed cleaning up his blood. Some of it got on Gideon’s boot."

You wrap your arms around your knee and stare out at the lights flashing by. He doesn’t respond for a long time.

“Two meals and a corner?” he asks.

“That’s my best offer,” you respond. “If you let me have a blanket, I can negotiate down to one meal a day.”

“Bread?” he counters.

“Warm,” you return easily. “With butter. And I still want a blanket.”

“You look at me wrong and I will toss you straight out through the airlock. You understand?”

You nod, relief filling you.

Two Years Later

You nudge Paz with your elbow and tilt your head toward the gorgeous redhead at the bar.

“How about her?” you ask. “Go ask her for her comm number.”

“No,” Paz says for the twelfth time that night. “I told you, I have a different type.”

“I can’t help you find a nice lady if you won’t tell me what your type is,” you say to Paz. “You have turned down literally every person I have suggested. You do still like ladies, right?”

He sighs in exasperation.

“I don’t do the temporary thing,” he says at long last.

“So you want the whole nine parsecs, yes?” you ask. “A nice courtship, marriage, and a herd of little blue brats? Maybe a loth-cat?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Or as close as I can get to it. I’m not going to find that person in a bar.”

You sigh dejectedly.

“Why do you care?” he asks, tilting his helmet down at you.

“Well, I certainly am not going to get laid,” you say. “Might as well play the role of backup and keep helping you out.”

He huffs in amusement.

“I have my eyes on someone closer to me,” he says quietly.

“Oh?” you ask, perking up. “Is it – oh, who was that – sauce girl? The one who dumped a pot of sauce all over – “

“No,” Paz says, his head turning to yours sharply. “No, you di’kut. That was my kriffing cousin.”

“Well, fuck,” you say. “She’s the only woman I’ve seen you spend any amount of time with.”

“Much closer,” he continues in an odd tone.

“…are you hiding your lady friends from me?” you ask, narrowing your eyes up at him. “What, are you afraid I’ll tell them about your stupid ideas when you get wasted? How dare you.”

He harrumphs grumpily.

“Take mercy on the poor man,” a drunken voice slurs. “He means you, daft girl.”

A sharp jolt of surprise fills you as you look up at Paz. He grimaces and refuses to look at you as he sips his drink down. The drunk person laughs and sloshes their way to an empty booth, where they collapse onto the cushion and start snoring. You give Paz an appraising look.

“So, do you wanna fuck me, or do you want the whole nine parsecs?” you ask, tilting your head up at him.

“Uh…both?” he says.

Without hesitating, you slam a handful of credits on the bar to pay for your drink. Then you finish the last sip.

“Let’s go,” you tell him.

“Where?” he asks.

“Ship,” you say. “I haven’t been fucked in years.”

“Well, maybe we should discuss – “

“Blue,” you say patiently. “There is nothing to discuss. My answer is yes.”

You hear his sharp inhalation from here.

“Now. If you don’t start moving, I’ll just borrow the bartender’s can opener,” you say saucily to him. “I’ll get that codpiece off, one way or another.”

Paz puts his drink down and adds his own money to the pile. It takes far too long to get back to the ship. Once the ramp is closed behind him, you start shucking your clothes off. When you’re completely naked, you start helping Paz remove his armor, dropping it onto the table. Then he removes his padding and undersuit, revealing a thick, muscular frame to you. Then the lights turn off and you hear another thunk. A thrill runs through you when you realize his helmet is off.

“Bed?” you ask, hoping he’ll say yes to a tumble on that decadent bed of his.

“Bed,” he confirms.

You make it up the ladder in record time, opening the bedroom door. Paz follows after you, not bothering to shut the door, as he hurtles onto the bed after you. He throws you down onto your back, mouth crashing onto yours, one hand groping at your hip and the other supporting the majority of his weight. You pull at Paz’s hair, digging your nails into his scalp as you kiss him back, wrapping your legs snugly around his waist. It’s sloppy and a bit rushed, but you do not care.

He tastes like the cheap fruit alcohol he had been drinking and like himself, vaguely sweet and metallic. You nip at his lower lip, a little rougher than you intended, earning a growl from him. He grinds his length against you and you gasp sharply. You’re already soaking wet and ready for Paz as he slides his hand between your bodies. His fingers press inward. You tear your mouth away from his and moan, lifting your hips against his hand.

“Yes,” you hiss at him. “Paz, more!”

He nibbles his way along your neck and down to your shoulder, the wet sounds of his fingers working inside of you barely audible over your moans. Frustrated, you hook one leg behind his, the other on the bed for leverage. You kiss Paz back, forcing your tongue into his mouth, relishing in his noise of surprise. You push against his shoulder at the same time and you just barely get him onto his back.

“Not sure what you think you’re doin’,” he manages to say as you settle on his hips.

“Shut up,” you tell him, as you position his generously sized cock under you.

Your eyes roll back as you start to take him in slow, short thrusts. He’s a lot bigger than you had expected, but you are no coward – you have never shied away from a challenge. Just when you think you can’t take any more of his hard, thick length, your clit presses down against his pubic bone, and a victorious thrill runs through you.

You can feel him throbbing deep inside of you just shy of discomfort. As you catch your breath, Paz shifts impatiently, a groan escaping him.

“Move, move – “ he urges around his pants. “Baby, please.”

Resting your weight on his lower belly, you start a slow pace, grinding slow circles, relishing in each rich moan you can get from your lover. One hand finds your hip, the other your breast. He pinches down on your nipple and you mewl at the sharp burst of pleasure.

“Fuck,” he stutters out. “Feel so-so fuckin’ good, baby.”

You change your pace, swiveling your hips in tight circles, arching your back so he can get in nice and deep with each thrust. Paz gasps, a tremor running through his body as you take him that extra half-inch.

“Shit,” he says, his voice catching just a hair, “Oh fuck, don’t – don’t know what I did to deserve you. Don’t fuckin’ deserve you, baby – “

Your breath stutters at his words, but your pace doesn’t break.

“ – so good to me,” he babbles, “Too good to me – too good for me – “

Tears spring to your eyes at his self-deprecation. You dig your nails into his belly to stop him, grinding down against his pubic bone.

“You’re mine,” you whisper in response. “Mine, Paz Vizsla, you’re mine and you’re perfect.”

Both hands fall to your hips and Paz starts to thrust up into you, taking over and setting the pace he wants. Paz grunts in frustration and pulls you down against his chest, rolling your bodies back over before you can protest. He presses a kiss to your lips before resuming his punishing pace once more, each thrust sending you spiraling higher and higher toward completion. You dig your nails into his back when he starts hitting that spot, the one that makes you sob.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant into his ear. “Gods, yes, Paz – I’m c-coming – “

You tighten around him and cry out on more time, digging your heels into his backside as you come around him, walls shuddering around his cock. The pleasure sweeps through you in deep, devastating waves, leaving you breathless and shaking. Paz goes stiff, harsh groans escaping him with each pulse of his cock inside you. After several long seconds, he falls forward onto his elbows, trapping you under him. As you run your fingers along his spine and massage his shoulders, Paz sighs with pleasure, his cock occasionally twitching.

“Need me to move?” he asks.

“I can take it,” you say sleepily. “Kinda like it. You’re like a weighted blanket. A really warm one.”

He huffs in amusement.

“Your feet are like ice,” he says.

He pulls his hips back. A torrent of his spend follows as you stretch out for a few seconds. Then you crawl under the blanket and curl up, inhaling the soft scent of his pillows. Paz joins you a moment later, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“You’re a walking furnace,” you mumble to him. “Holy fuck.”

He chuckles and presses a kiss to your temple. Just as your breath is starting to slow, Paz speaks softly. So softly you nearly miss it.

“Always wanted to go home,” he whispers. “Never knew it was right here the whole time.”

Warmth fills your chest at those sweet words.

“Sleep, cyar’ika.”

For the first time in your life, you find rest easily. You dream of pleasant things, and your future no longer seems terrifying and lonely.

Tags: I guess this qualifies as a fic in some places? lmao

@hdlynn @princessbatears @oloreaa @phoenixhalliwell @reader-without-a-story @nelba @aeryntheofficial @trippedmetaldetector @jedi-mando @marthastewart89

#huliabitch #asks #tailor doesn't understand the meaning of restraint #sorry #paz vizsla x reader #paz vizsla x you #paz vizla x reader #paz vizla x you #romance #smut #tailor is a thirsty bitch confirmed

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ibijau · 3 years

Note

Number 13 for otp prompts with sect leader Yao and sect leader ouyang :)

This took way too much effort to write and so dear anon, I hate you a little for it, but my pride is intact, I wrote the thing!

cql-verse

In the end, there is some small comfort to be found in meeting an old, familiar face in the halls of Carp Tower, even if the circumstances could hardly be worse. Sect Leader Yao is grateful when Sect Leader Ouyang comes to check on him and his injuries.

That it happens several times in the days that follow is a testament to Sect Leader Ouyang's loyalty to his friends. Among the many people who have run to Lanling for help, Sect Leader Ouyang is the only one who spares a thought for Sect Leader Yao, now that his sect is no more. The only person to come see him is Jiang Fengmian's daughter, a dull girl who must only try to escape political discussions she cannot understand.

Sect Leader Yao would give anything for a chance to join those same discussions, but his health does not yet allow it, and his status even less so. A man with only two disciples left can hardly be called a sect leader, his opinion is without value.

Still, Sect Leader Ouyang keeps him updated each time he visits, and as soon as Sect Leader Yao's health allows, takes him for a walk to the gardens.

That walk takes them to an isolated spot where they sometimes sneaked off to when they were young and forced to accompany their fathers at discussion conferences. To make the nostalgia worse, Sect Leader Ouyang even brought wine, for which Sect Leader Yao is grateful. He's been wanting to get drunk since the moment he fully realised just how much he lost.

"And still nobody will rise against the Wens," Sect Leader Ouyang grumbles. "They're saying it was a misunderstanding. They're all just glad it was you and not them. Only that Nie idiot is calling for repercussions, but he's been doing that for years."

Sect Leader Yao nods, and takes a sip of wine straight from the jar. The sun rises, water flows, Nie Mingjue wants to kill the Wens so he doesn't have to accept his father was just crazy.

"Wouldn't be like that if it had been a great sect they attacked," Sect Leader Yao grumbles.

"They attacked the Lans and nobody cared," Sect Leader Ouyang points out, leaning against his side, like they did when they were young.

"That hardly counted as an attack. Even killing Qingheng-Jun… Did you even know he was still alive? Thought the man was dead with his wife. I'd heard he killed himself over her corpse and the Lans just wouldn't admit it."

"I heard that he found her in bed with his brother," Sect Leader Ouyang announces, grabbing the wine. "So he killed her, and dumped the sect on Lan Qiren as punishment. I've heard both the boys are Lan Qiren's, and that's why he won't marry. Doesn't need to, he's sure already that his sons will inherit the sect."

That makes sense, so it must be true, Sect Leader Yao figures.

"He wasn't half bad looking as a youth," he admits. "The beard was a mistake though. He doesn't have the face for it."

"Not everyone is as lucky as us. It takes effort to look this dignified."

The sound that comes out of Sect Leader Yao's throat is very nearly a giggle. He blames it on the wine, and on the company. He used to like it a lot when Sect Leader Ouyang complimented, back before they became sect leaders and had to be serious. Life was better back then, when they didn't have wives to bother them, when the Wens protected small sects from the great ones, and they could Night Hunt together all they liked.

"Come to Baling with your boys," Sect Leader Ouyang suddenly offers, passing him back the jar of wine. "Until it's safe to go home and start recruiting again. I wouldn't mind the company, either. My wife is insufferable since she's become pregnant, I'd like to have someone sensible to talk to instead of putting up with all her gossip."

"Women talk too much," Sect Leader Yao agrees. "You sure she wouldn't mind having me and the boys around?"

"Why would she mind? It's my house, my sect. She can go complain to her mother if she doesn't like that, it won't change a thing. I won't abandon a friend in need."

Sect Leader Yao can't help laughing, remembering times of their youth when they helped each other when the need arose. Sect Leader Ouyang looks at him with a puzzled expression, then joins in the laughter when he figures out the cause of that hilarity, shoving Sect Leader Yao and cursing him for his dirty mind.

Everything is different these days, but at least some things dont change.

#sect leader yao #sect leader ouyang #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #mdzs #jau writes #I seriously hate this and I hate them #Anonymous #bad ship prompts

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 3 years

Text

From Chin To Yon Rah (Part 30)

She knows that there is not a soul left in the world that cares for her. She knows it because if there was, someone would have reached out and taken her hand. Someone would have realized that she was slowly dying and they would have given her at least a little sip of water and a small morsel to eat.

Nobody does.

Because nobody cares.

For all of its heat, she is certain that the Fire Nation is colder than the poles.

No wonder she herself is so cold.

Her body aches and pains in ways she hadn’t thought possible. Dehydration leaves her muscles cramped without mercy. She puts one foot in front of the other, over and over. Her mind has grown numb to all else. Her head throbs and she has run out of sweat. She stumbles and pitches forward. She doesn’t have the energy to pick herself back up and so she drags herself on all fours. Crawling on her hands and knees.

She doesn’t think of anything else, just of moving limb after limb until she finds herself at the base of a cliff. The Black Cliffs she realizes, faintly. She drags herself to the shoreline, tears welling in her eyes.

She greedily laps at the water, feeling just as uncivilized as she has become. She thinks that there is nothing left of who she had been. Nothing good anyhow. She is certain that she has still retained and regained all of the most unsavory bits.

After helping herself to copious amounts of water, she lets her body fall limp. Arm outstretched, her fingers dip into the water. Water that laps gently at the sand. The cliffs tower high above her, shadows washing over her. Atop them, short strands of grass sway and swish. A fuzzy green to adorn the otherwise craggy landscape.She bunches herself up; at the very least she will have a nice view to go with her death.

She doesn’t expect to wake up but she does. And she awakes to familiar pains. At least she is no longer thirsty, at least the water cools her body. At least she can refill the waterskin. But how terribly her stomach pangs. And the sun burns on her skin sear a bright red. Her skin is already peeling in places, she feels even less human.

She climbs to her feet anyhow, dizzy, swaying.

She walks for miles, empty headed, reduced to nothing but the aches in her stomach and feet. The throbbing of her head.

She isn’t going to make it, she isn’t sure why she is trying.

She wonders if her corpse will be found and if she will be buried respectfully or unceremoniously. Perhaps her body will rot where it falls…

Approaching from the other direction, she sees the first people that she had encountered in days...weeks?

She wonders if it would make a difference to tell them that she is their princess.

She recalls her haggard state and wonders if they’d believe her.

She approaches them.

She opens her mouth. She knows that she had.

But the blackness overtakes her--she isn’t sure if she had gotten any word out. Her body, spent and at its limit trembles all over even in sleep. She doesn’t wake up for some time. And when she does, she wakes alone. Alone and somewhere entirely new.

Her heart thunders in her chest; where have they taken her? Is she dead? It’s dark. She chokes out a little sob. She doesn’t know where she is or how she got there. She shivers; what if she has gotten herself mixed up with the slave traders? Agni, can’t the universe at least let her die a free woman?

But her hands, her ankles...they aren’t bound.

Curiously, her middle doesn’t ache quite as terribly. They, whoever they are, must have fed her.

Azula sits up and the tarp falls away. She looks around and her eyes fall upon a stocky man with a full beard and ample eyebrows. “What…?” She gestures to the tarp. The man catches it before it can blow away entirely.

“It was to keep the sun off of you.” The man says gruffly. He is a soldier. She thinks that she recognizes him. She can’t put a name to a face right now, neither can she put it to a memory.

Still shaking, she rakes her hands through her hair.

Her hair!

Her dismay must have registered on her face because the man states plainly, “Matted. We wouldn’t have been able to comb it so we cut it.”

She falls back to the floor of the cart. It doesn’t matter. Long, lustrous hair is for the dignified anyways. She bunches herself back up.

“We’ll take you as far as the outskirts of Caldera City, then you fend for yourself.”

She manages a small nod but inquires, “why did you pick me up at all?”

“We’re not savages. We’re trying to show the world that the Fire Nation isn’t cruel.” The soldier shrugs.

But compared to everywhere else that she has been, it is. Very much so.

“But we’re not about to give rewards to someone like you.”

“Like me?” It is an impulse to ask.

“Dirty. Dumb. Useless. You haven’t earned your keep.”

And now she recognizes him. He had been one of Admiral Zhao’s subordinates. Arrogant and dumber than he thinks she. She has earned her keep more than thrice over. It isn’t her fault that the universe keeps stealing it away from her.

It isn’t her fault that the universe has a vendetta against her specifically. That it is trying to give her the fill of bad luck she had missed. Maybe in another fourteen years--maybe eleven to twelve if the years she has suffered already count--she will fall into another era of fortune.

Maybe if she can last that long.

“You gonna get a job when you get to the outskirts or are you gonna…”

She doesn’t have the patience to listen to him anymore. Doesn’t have the patience for small minded assumptions and baseless judgements. She doesn’t have the emotional energy to deal with her own former ideals thrown back at her again. And again. And again…

She isn’t sure how many times she has to pay for them.

When it will end.

When the world will finally acknowledge that she is doing her best. That she isn’t evil through and through; that she is just a woman who wants a home and peace of mind…

The rocking of the cart jars and unsettles her.

She thinks that she has learned it quite a while back but more subtly, kindly; that day she learns not to sneer at those who are down on their luck. She doesn’t know them. They don’t know her.

.oOo.

She is almost overwhelmed by how much attention she is getting. Mostly it is from Sokka who holds her as close as he physically can. But it is from Zuko too, who fixes her some tea (“just the way uncle always makes it!”) and from TyLee who gushes over what a caring mother she is until her cheeks grow red. It comes from Mai who brings her scrolls to read and occupy her mind with. From the servants and Lo and Li...

Caihong hasn’t spoken with her since she delivered the bad news nearly four days ago.

“Trust me. Children are just like that.” Ursa insists. “She’ll come around.”

But Azula hadn’t.

She still hasn’t.

She is still angry with the woman.

The woman who had left her feeling neglected and hated for much of her life. The woman who, with uncle in tow, finally made her appearance--and at the worst possible time--two days prior.

And yet the woman has her hand on the small of her back and rubs in small circles. At least Iroh knows to keep his distance. But really, aside from the lashing of her tongue, there isn’t a particular risk in pestering her.

Ursa reaches out and grazes her fingers over the scar on Azula’s neck. The princess flinches back and her mother grimaces.

“What happened, dear?”

“Ask Zuzu.” She is so tired and she doesn’t feel like explaining it again. She really doesn’t feel like dealing with more pity.

“She’s been through a lot.” Sokka takes his seat at the edge of the bed. “And she can use some fresh air. Let's go for a walk, Azula.”

“I’d rather not.”

“You shouldn’t just sit in your room all day.”

“I’m not. I leave occasionally to get something to eat and have my bath…”

“What about to socialize?”

Azula crinkles her nose and he laughs. She is in utter distress and he is laughing. “Talking to people isn’t that bad. Look how nice all of the Earth Kingdomers were to you.” He gestures to her journal.

She takes it in her hands and stares at it for sometime before shoving it into Ursa’s arms. “Talk to me when you’re done reading it.”

“Azula--!?”

“You haven’t even read the first page yet.” She scoffs.

“You shouldn’t be so mean to your--”

Azula cuts him a glare.

“Strawberry garden, let’s check on that.” This time it is a nervous laugh.

She grabs his hand and quite roughly. She doesn’t mean to be so rough, but he doesn’t even flinch. Caihong is already in the garden when they arrive, babbling away with TyLee. She holds Bao up with a delighted squeal.

Azula sits down next to the child who turns around with a “hmph!”

“Oh come on, Caihong,” TyLee tries, “Azula really wants to talk to you. She cares about you a lot.”

Caihong folds her arms, “nuh-uh, she makes me sad.”

Azula’s stomach flutters.

“Sometimes bad things happen, Cai.” Sokka tries. “She didn’t make this thing happen she was only telling you what happened.” He pauses. “Don’t you think you would have been sadder if that bad guy took you back to WuJing and no one was there?”

Caihong’s pout grows.

“At least now you have me and TyLee and Zuko and…” He lifts her up and turns her around to face Azula, “you have a mom.”

“My mom died.” She says plainly, fidgeting with Bao’s claws. “‘S not fair.”

“No kidding…” Sokka mutters. “My mom died too. Sometimes there are just bad people, Caihong. And they take really good people away. But there are lots of other good people and you have to talk to them.” He scoops her up and plops her into Azula’s lap.

“But…”

“Is Azula a bad person?” TyLee asks.

Azula cringes at the question coming from her.

“Did she do something bad to you?”

Caihong looks up at her with those bright green eyes and shakes her head.

“Did she do something good for you?”

Another glance is accompanied by an affirmative nod. “Lots of good things.” Caihong mumbles into Bao’s head.

“So why are you mad at her?” Sokka asks.

Caihong thinks for a moment, “she told me about the bad people.”

“And you didn’t want to hear it?”

Caihong shakes her head again.

“Would you have rather heard it from someone else?”

Another head shake. This time her little fingers curl around Azula’s hand.

“Do you still want Azula to be your mommy!?” TyLee clasps her hands together.

Caihong pauses, squeezing and squeezing Azula’s hand before nodding once more. Caihong nuzzles her cheek against Azula’s chest and Azula holds her close. She strokes at the child’s hair. “Bao and I were having a cave adventure.”

“A cave adventure?”

“Mmhmm, see.” Caihong points at a small hole that she dug right in the middle of Azula’s strawberry garden. The princess sighs.

“Did you find anything in the caves?”

“Rubies!” She declares, gesturing to the slain corpses of her strawberries.

“Those rubies weren’t ready to be mined yet.” She mumbles.

She isn’t sure why, but Caihong laughs. People, she decides, laugh at the strangest things. “You can plant more rubies, mom!”

Mom…

Mother…

She could have had so much…

.oOo.

Even after tucking a newly happy and babbling Caihong in, Azula is very quiet. Sullen and withdrawn. Sokka sets a platter of roast duck on her nightstand, “you didn’t come to dinner?”

“I’m not hungry, Sokka.” She doesn’t look away from the ceiling. She absently toys with the curtains draped over her bed. He doesn’t push her this time, though he decides that he will be delivering an extra nice breakfast to her in the morning. He lays himself down next to her. He very nearly springs back up, unsure if they have reached a point where she is comfortable with him laying on her bed. But she rolls over and reaches for his hand.

“You haven’t even changed out of your day clothes.” He observes.

She gives a slight shrug, “they’re comfortable enough. I’ve…”

“Slept in worse?” He rolls his eyes.

She nods.

“You’re going to be alright, Azula.” He promises.

“Perhaps.”

He sighs, they have been so focused on reassuring Caihong that he has forgotten to comfort Azula. He is certain that the princess has been neglecting herself too. “Ya know, everything we said about family applies to you too? Do you want Caihong to be your child?”

“Of course, Sokka. I wouldn’t have gone through all of that trouble if I didn’t.”

“Do you…” He swallows. “Do you want a new lover? A new husband?”

She is quiet for a very long time but she doesn’t withdraw her hand. “I don’t want to replace Hajime.”

“I don’t want to replace him.” Sokka replies. “I want you to talk about him and tell me about him. But I want to be Sokka, I don’t want to take you on the kinds of dates Hajime took you on, I want to…”

She presses her fingers to his lips. “You talk too much. I got the point the first time.” She rolls back onto her back. “I know that you aren’t replacing anyone. You are Sokka. That’s good enough for me.”

He takes his chances with moving closer to her. Having success, he slides his arm around her waist. She is quiet for another long span. It might have left him feeling anxious had she not let him trace his finger over the line of the scar on her belly. It is rougher in comparison to her otherwise delicate skin.

“I don’t think that ‘good enough’, is exactly the right phrase.” She speaks again. “It’s…” she trails off. “It’s something new and it’s...it’s just as special.”

#Avatar The Last Airbender #Azula #Sokka #Sokkla #Fanfiction

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bibislut · 4 years

Note

Hello!! I'd love love LOVE if I could get a bit of a longer fic of Loki x Female Reader. The reader is a member of the Avengers and she has it BAD for Loki. They are very close but she does not think he would ever return those feelings. She is sent on a stealth mission but it goes wrong. She ends up in a sex trafficking hustle and she is a virgin. Loki notices she doesn't come back and gets worried and he rescues her before anything bad happens.

Hi! This is a fantastic prompt, and I hope I’ve done it justice!

This was a little out of my comfort zone simply because I’ve never written much action before, but I’m pretty damn happy with the result!

Word count: 4263

Warnings: Strong language, talk of sex trafficking, talk of r*pe. Nothing sexually explicit.

You sip slowly at your coffee, letting the feeling of the hot liquid oozing down your throat ease your hunched up body.

Last night you had drunk a few too many glasses of wine, and few too little glasses of water. You trace the lines of the polished oak wood table before you, really wishing you could go back to bed. Leaning back in your chair, you take another sip as Fury's voice carries around the room.

"..simple enough for soldiers such as yourselves.." You tune him out again, the other six members of your stealth squad rigid in their seats, eyes studying the director carefully, listening silently to every word he says.

Your eyes come into focus again as a familiar silhouette appears on the other side of the glass wall. Loki walks past nonchalantly, hands stuffed into his dark wash jeans, green t-shirt clinging deliciously to his chiseled torso. It really is unfair how gorgeous he is. You watch as he goes up to the coffee machine and presses the button for a latte. Snorting into your cup, you push your thoughts out to him.

~Tosser ~

You know full well that he's only come down to the briefing floor to wind you up, with a perfectly good coffee machine on your own floor.

~ Oh absolutely, my dear ~

The silken sound of Loki's voice whispers lowly in your ear, unheard by others in the room. You watch as his large hand reaches out to wrap around the paper cup.

~ Good luck, today ~

You scowl at him as he turns around and winks at you before striding away.

~ Piss off ~

A small smile plays at his lips just before he leaves your line of vision. He was the prick who had suggested a movie marathon last night, helped you demolish half of the wine fridge and now got to stay at the Tower all day, doing fuck all. It really wasn't fair. Maybe when you got back you could have a little revenge, cover his bedroom ceiling in pictures of Thor or something, maybe hide some photos in his drawers and pillow cases. Something he couldn't quickly magic away.

You smirk. That might just work.

"Agent!" Fury's voice carries around the room and you flick your eyes over to him. He smiles sardonically. "Nice of you to join us."

"You're welcome." You smile back sweetly and his jaw twitches. "Don't worry, Director. I've already read the brief, and you said it yourself, the mission should be easy enough." The lie flows easily from your lips.

"Jesus fuck, you're as bad as Stark with that mouth of yours. It's not appreciated, Agent."

"It's part of why you keep me around."

"Uh-huh." He grunts and drops the file he was holding onto the table. "Briefing concluded. You're all to be on the jet in 30 minutes."

The soldiers around you all stand up and you clear out with them. You need a filthy helping of grease, and have just enough time to leg it to the burger van a couple blocks away.

-----

You throw the dirty napkins in the bin and wash your hands, running over the brief in your mind. The hard drive you're being sent to retrieve is in the basement of an abandoned gym in one of the poorer neighbourhoods of Atlantic City. A maximum of ten men are expected to be there, all of them with weapons, no more than six of them with military training. The hard drive contains sensitive information which the leader had won in a bet, and was now trying to sell to the highest bidder. Two of your team will take the upper level, another two on the ground floor, and the last two with you in the basement.

The most stressful thing will be dealing with Williamson's singing on the way back, an awful celebratory habit of his. Thank god he's a good soldier, otherwise you might strap him with a parachute and kick him off the jet.

-----

“Everyone off. The entry point is three blocks west.” You motion everyone off the jet with your hands before following them as you all jog through the desolate neighbourhood. You all flatten your backs against the wall of the next door building, and you creep forwards to peer ahead. A lone man stands outside the door, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he looks around. Although dressed casually, you can see the handgun tucked into his waistband. You slide the silencer onto your gun and take aim.

His body falls to the ground with a soft thud and you wave to the others to follow. Williamson moves in front of you to kick the door down and you aim over his left shoulder as the two of you take down the men inside before they can shout out. Peters and Edwards push forward into the building ahead of you, and the other four follow you to the staircase on your right. Williamson and Smith take the stairs up and you wave Johnson and Willows down with you.

As you descend, the throbbing in your head returns and you rub your forehead, willing it to go away. The door in front of you is slightly ajar and you hold your hand up to stop the others as you listen closely.

“...the new lot are waiting by the docks, should be leaving in an hour or so.” A gruff voice says.

A high pitched laugh rings out. “Any of them any good?”

“As if you could afford one, Anderson.” A third man snickers.

Perfect, they’re not expecting you. You nod to the other two before pushing the door open. The men are sitting around a table, and you shoot one in the chest before the other two have even stood up. Johnson ducks as the smaller guy shoots, and you land a bullet in his throat before he can turn to you.

The rest of the room is empty, with a door on the left and right. “Johnson, Willows. You take the right, I’ll take the left.” You whisper and they nod.

You press your ear to the door on the left. It’s mostly silent, except for the clacking of computer keys. Only one guy it seems. You kick the door open, gun raised at the man behind the computer.

Time seems to slow as your finger rests on the trigger, a flicker of surprise gracing your features at the young man in front of you; spotty skin, a star trek t-shirt stained with ketchup and a poor attempt at what is probably his first mustache.

You shouldn’t hesitate, you never have before. Maybe it’s the headache, maybe it’s something else, but either way - you know you’ve fucked up as a large figure looms in your peripheral vision to your right. You barely leap out of the way before the giant of a man’s fist punches through the air where your head was. You spin to face him, back to the young guy as you shoot straight through the big guy’s head. Turning quickly back around, you lift your gun again, expecting to see the younger guy’s face.

Instead, you see the fist of a man double your size, right before it lands on your face. You fly back against the wall, gun falling from your grip. Your head spins and vision blurs as you try to lift yourself to your feet.

“Not so fast, pretty girl.” The brute’s giant hand wraps around your throat as shouts sound out around you. He drags you by your throat as you kick out, scratching at his fist, towards an open door at the back of the room. He drags you past several men as Johnson and Willows burst into the room, shooting at them. They disappear from sight as you’re dragged through the door into a dim hallway. You gasp for air, your vision growing dark as the blood is restricted to your head. Just as you black out, you feel yourself being hauled over the brute’s shoulder.

----

When you wake, your head is pounding and everything hurts. You’re cold, and everything is so bright. You squint around the room, taking in the concrete walls, the concrete floor, the fluorescent lights. Opposite you is a window of one way glass, and just in front of it, a camera on a tripod, the flashing red light indicating that it is recording. You look yourself over and realise with a jarring shiver that you’ve been stripped and given a simple white dress, your legs and shoulders exposed. As you do this a rattle sounds next to you and you gasp, clutching at your neck and feeling the metal collar wrapped around it. The back of it has a chain attached, and when you stand on shaky legs, you realise the chain is attached to the middle of the wall. You don’t bother to pull at it, knowing full well that it won’t budge.

The chain allows you to move about six feet away from the wall, but no further, definitely not close enough to kick at the tripod or touch the glass. The girl in the mirror looks awful, dark circles under her eyes and bruises around her neck, skin grey in the light. You grind your teeth, more angry than scared. Ten men! What a load of bullshit! They had at least fifteen in the building, and if Fury could get his fucking facts straight, you would’ve been more prepared!

You stop your gnashing as the door to the left of the camera clangs, the sound of several bolts being opened, before it swings open to reveal two men. The first, a tall, balding man in a suit, smiles at you coldly. The second is dressed in all black, clutching a rifle.

They stop next to the camera as the door slams shut behind them, echoing around the chamber.

“Do you know why you are here?” The first man drawls, his voice like a serpents.

You smirk at him. “You’re gonna torture me for information. Good luck with that by the way, I’ve been trained by the best. You won’t hear a peep from me.”

He snickers, covering his mouth with his hand and you try not to show your unease. “I have no use for your information, sweetheart.” He stares over at you like he can see through your dress. “No, your mind is not what I value. Your body will fetch a much higher price.”

You clench your jaw at his words, trying not to let the fear creep into you.

He steps forwards, arms behind his back as he looks you up and down. “There are many out there who would love to have one of SHIELD’s operatives in their hands. It’s a much more personal way to… take out their grievances.”

You fight the urge to step back, away from him; and instead raise your chin at him, not looking away.

He chuckles. “Look at that, such bravery. I do wonder how long that will hold out.” He turns away, walking back towards the wall before leaning nonchalantly against it. “I saw you, you know, when they brought you here. So beautiful, so vulnerable.” He licks his lips. “Such a lovely body too, what a shame we can’t hear how nicely you beg.” Your hands twitch by your sides, itching to cover yourself. “Tell me, are you a virgin?”

You still, not allowing yourself to do anything that will give away an answer, but that seems to be answer enough. He claps his hands in joy, pushing himself off the wall in excitement. “You are! Oh, how wonderful! We can double the price now.” He chortles to himself.

“Fuck you.” You spit at his feet, straining against the chain.

“Not me darling, but someone else. Soon.” He taps his hand on top of the camera. “Do you know why we record you? So that the buyers can get a taste for the product they’re buying; and you, sweetheart, are the newest in a long line of girls who have been in our special store.”

He picks up the camera and switches it off, handing it to the other man. “Don’t fret. You won’t be in here too long, we’ve already received some interest.”

The man knocks on the door and it opens again. “Toodles.” He wags his fingers at you before striding out.

The door shuts behind the two, and you hear the bolts sliding into place. They’re really not taking any chances with you, are they? You sit back against the wall, and run your hands through your hair. You have no idea how long has passed since you arrived at the original mission site, but it’s surely not more than a few hours. They had definitely drugged you in some way to get you here, but you were confident that they hadn’t… violated you. You shiver, closing your eyes and bowing your head.

You’d be found, right? Before.. Before you were bought by whatever despicable human wanted this kind of perverse thing. You had been wanting to lose your virginity for a while, but the right time never seemed to come around, and by the time it did, your mind was occupied with something , well, someone, else. You sure as hell aren’t going to go down without a fight, but the fear grips you tightly and blink away the tears. What if you don’t have a choice? What if they.. No. You’re not going to think about it.

You trust the team. You trust him. Loki. He had been your rock since you joined the team, the one you clicked with the most. His quiet wit, and his loud exclamations when you got him alone. His gorgeous smile, and the amused looks he reserved only for you when the others did something stupid. The way he had taught you how to project your thoughts to him, and no one else, a private thing between the two of you. He was your best friend. And yes, maybe you had been hoping to lose your v-card to him, but that didn’t really matter now, as long as it wasn’t some evil bastard on the other side of the glass. Fuck, if you got out of here in time, you might finally grow the balls to actually tell him how you feel. He wouldn’t reciprocate of course, but at least you wouldn’t have to hide it anymore. The thought of Loki in a slutty priest costume swims into your head. “You have a confession?” The absurdity of it makes you smile, a small reprieve from the worry itching itself through your veins.

You allow yourself to drift off into a daydream of different members of the team in ridiculous outfits, Thor as a ballerina, Tony in a unicorn onesie, Nat as Director Fury, and soon enough drift off to sleep.

-----

You wake to the sound of scraping metal, and look up at the man in the suit as he carries in a tray of food and a glass of water. He slides it over to you, some of the water spilling over the edge of the paper cup. An apple and two slices of buttered bread lie on the tray, no plate, nothing you can use as a weapon.

“I wouldn’t usually bring a girl their food myself, but I thought I’d let you know some exciting news!” He exclaims in an exaggerated tone.

You say nothing, gulping down the water as he watches your throat move. “We’ve had a tremendous response to your tape. The top six bidders will be here tomorrow morning to see you in person.”

He smiles at you in mock kindness. “Make sure you rest up well, I imagine you’ll be quite busy tomorrow.” He laughs, heading towards the door.

You stand up quickly, holding out a hand. “Wait!” He turns back, an eyebrow raised. “Could I please use the toilet?”

He smiles coldly. “Of course, I can't have you soiled when the buyers arrive.” He gestures to someone outside the door and two men walk in, dressed just as the other guy was earlier, holding guns. “Please escort her to the lavatory.” He leaves the room and the two men look at you.

“Face the wall, palms to the wall.” The one on the right barks and you do as you’re told. You feel one of them come up behind you, moving your hair out of the way and you feel sick. The jingle of keys sounds and then you feel the neck restraint slacken. Two pairs of hands grab an arm each, and they lead you away between them, your restraint falling to the floor. Outside the door is a long hallway lined with doors, all of them shut tight. You get the distinct feeling that you are underground and struggle to keep up with the guards' long strides. When you reach the end of the hallway, it opens up into a larger room, where a woman in a white lab coat is bustling about. A young girl, perhaps 17 or 18 lies unconscious on a bed, a large gash on her head. It looks as if the doctor is stitching her up. The guards pull you around the side of a curtain to see a toilet. They let you go and push you towards it. They don’t turn away, amused looks on their faces as your skin flushes. You lift your skirt, squatting down. You try to focus on something else, utterly mortified as they watch you. You reach for the toilet roll and wipe, turning around to flush the toilet.

This is the only chance you might get. You launch yourself backwards into one of the guards, grabbing his arm and shifting your weight to throw him over your shoulder. He wacks his head on the bowl of the toilet, but you don’t stop. Hitting the other guard’s pressure points, you pull the gun from his grasp, sliding it across the room. You put one foot on the unconscious guard’s body, using the momentum to launch yourself onto the other guard, hitting him repeatedly with your elbows as he tries to pry you off. You land an especially hard blow and he stumbles, allowing you to kick off him and push him into the wall which he slides down. You skid around the curtain, the doctor shielding the unconscious girl’s body as she looks at you with wide eyes.

“Please you have to help me, how do I get out of here?!” You try not to scream the words but she just looks at you. “¿Dónde está la salida?” You say, hoping maybe she speaks spanish. The sounds of boots on concrete thunder towards the room from down the hallway and you shake her shoulders. “Please!” Again, she says nothing.

You grab a scalpel off of the tray beside her, wielding it in front of you as guards come pouring into the room. One, two, three, four, five, six. All of them aiming at you. You drop the scalpel, holding your hands up in surrender.

-----

You don’t sleep a wink all night, just staring at the wall, your back aching from the unforgiving floor. What if you’re not found in time? What if you’re sold like a slave? Images of what could happen flash through your mind and you wipe at the tears that threaten to spill over. You have to hope, you can’t give into the fear so easily.

It feels like an eternity, this waiting. Eventually, you hear voices outside. “I think you’ll find she’s much to your liking, gentleman.” The clang of the bolts sliding sounds and you push yourself back against the wall, pulling your dress as low as it will go, and yet it still won’t cover your knees. Your heart pounds in your ears as the guy in the suit walks in, followed by six other men. Your eyes lock on the second to last’s and the lights in the room flicker. Loki.

Now with short blonde hair, and wearing a cream suit; he looks almost nothing like himself. And yet you’d know those ice blue eyes anywhere, those cheekbones, those lips - usually lifted in laughter but now pressed tight together. His eyes blaze with anger as he takes you in, covered in bruises, hunched against the wall. Your heart beats so loudly you’re sure everyone can hear it, and you look away quickly, not wanting to let your reaction give anything away.

~ Stay calm ~ You send your thoughts out to him.

~ My love, what have they done to you? ~ Your eyes dart back to his as the lights flicker again. His voice in your ear brings tears to your eyes as relief floods you. He’s never called you that before.

~ You need to keep your magic under control ~

“...bidding at 1.5, gentlemen?” The man’s voice draws you back to the room. A larger guy licks his lips at you as he raises his hand.

“Wonderful. What about 1.75? Anyone?” Loki raises his hand and you shiver.

“Excellent. Anyone have two million for one of SHIELD’s own?”

~ We have to delay them, the team is almost here ~ Loki’s voice in your ear is like silk, and makes you feel stronger just from hearing it.

You gulp as another man raises his hand. You had been trying so hard to contain your emotions , but if you’re gonna slow this down, you need to put on a show.

“Fuck you!” You spit, clambering to your feet. “I dare you, fucking try me!” You scream it, letting yourself feel the anger, breathing heavily.

The men laugh at you. “Isn’t she so feisty?” One says.

“Mmm indeed.” Another agrees and raises his hand.

“Two million, lovely. Anyone going for two and a quarter?”

You scream, throwing yourself forward until the chain pulls painfully at your throat. “Come here you bastard, and let me give you two million dollars worth.” You reach your hands out like a mad woman, clawing at the air in front of the men.

“May I?” Loki asks, stepping forwards towards you with fake curiosity.

“Oi! Who said you get to touch her?!” One of the men shouts, pulling Loki back. He spins around, towering over the guy.

“Gentlemen please, let us continue the auction.” The man says and Loki straightens his blazer, returning to the wall.

Gun shots ring out down the hall and all of them men look over to the open door. “If you’ll excuse me.” The man says, rushing from the room.

“Looks like it’s free dibs.” One of the men says, eyeing you up. You stumble backwards as you lock eyes with him, and then another man punches him.

Apparently that is all that is needed for a brawl to break out, and you back against the wall, watching as Loki drops something, nonchalantly kicking it back to you as he throws a punch. The hook pick slides across the floor and you scramble to pick it up, sliding it into the lock around your throat. You jiggle it, almost laughing in elation as it releases, and you rip it from around your throat. When you look up, four of the men lay on the floor unconscious, and Loki slams the last against the wall, smashing his head into the concrete.

He turns around, his glamour falling away to reveal his long black hair and leather suit. Tears pour down your face as he pulls you into his embrace, shushing you. “My little dove, I’m here.” He coos at you and you cry harder at the nickname he reserves for special occasions.

“I was so worried… I thought.. I thought you might not find me in time.” You sob into his chest.

“Sshh, I will always be here for you.”

“Promise me.” You let your walls down with your words, and Loki sinks to the floor with you in his lap.

“I promise, my love.”

You sniffle, pulling away from him. “Don’t call me that. You don’t mean it.”

He chuckles. “Is this really the place for confessions?”

The image of him in a slutty priest outfit flashes through your head and you give a watery laugh. “Because of the unconscious cunts on the floor?”

“I mean, partly.” He says, smoothing your hair behind your ears as you wipe your face.

“Are we safe?” You ask, knowing he can sense the energies around.

“Yes, the others are waiting just outside.”

“Then yes, it is the place for confessions. I was so scared Loki…”

“Sshh it’s okay.” He rubs the pads of his thumbs over your cheeks.

“No, it’s not. Because through everything I was so scared that I wouldn’t get to see you, get to tell you..” You break off, tears threatening to pour again.

“I know, little dove.” He tilts your chin up to make you look at him and strokes your hair. “I love you.” He whispers the words, and your tears spill over at the sight of his own eyes shining with tears, at hearing him say the words you had waited so long for.

“I love you too, Loki.” You hold onto him tightly, and he squeezes you, letting you cry.

After several long minutes, you pull away, wiping the snot from your face. “Sorry, I probably look disgusting.”

“Be quiet. You look as gorgeous as ever.” He stands, offering you a hand. He shrugs out of his long leather jacket, draping it over your shoulders. “Let’s get you home, pet.”

****************

Hope you enjoyed!

My fic requests are open! Please refer to this post for more info!

#loki x you #loki x reader #loki fic #loki fluff #loki fic request #fic requests open #mcu #loki #loki odinson #loki laufeyson

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