#me when he is grieving at least SOMETHING twenty-four seven. seven days a week.

[cacoetheswriting]

angels like you

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Warnings: unrequited / unreciprocated love, breakup talk, mentions of heartbreak, very angsty Word Count: 1.6k Summary: still in love with you, the young doctor is forced to watch you move on.

A/N: i was heavily inspired by miley cyrus’ song of the same title, as well as precious by depeche mode. i really suggest listening to those songs while reading this fic to really feel the pain.

-

The annual office Christmas party was in full swing. Fairy lights and wreathes decorated the usually dull space. Platters of food were being passed around between the attendees, accompanied by an enormous amounts of champagne. And while everyone was enjoying themselves, a certain brunette doctor found himself feeling the exact opposite.

Spencer was sat at the edge of his desk. Next to him stood Penelope who was in the middle of outlining her holiday plans. Yet he couldn't concentrate. He felt terrible. Like a truly bad friend. But he couldn't help it. Every time he tried to focus on the words coming out of Penelope’s mouth, his mind instead wandered to you.

Breakups are hard. Spencer would know, he memorised all the statistics. Well, at least he thought he understood because as it turns out in practice they are even worse than in theory. Especially since he didn't really understand what went so terribly wrong.

You told him you didn't love him. But how could that be? You certainly acted in love, happy. Was it all a lie? No. It couldn’t have been because he would have been able to tell. He makes a living profiling behaviours therefore he would have been able to tell if you were pretending. Right?

It was a puzzle he couldn't solve. His mind was racing a million miles per hour. For exactly thirty days, seven hours, twenty-two minutes and one, two, three, four, five... Spencer shook his head. He focused his attention on Garcia who was no longer talking. Instead she was staring at him with quizzically.

“Are you okay?” A concerned look spread across her face. Spencer nodded in response although it was no use because she knew he was lying. “It’s okay to be sad-” She began but he cut her off. “I’m not sad. I’m confused.” Penelope placed her hand on his shoulder giving it a gentle squeeze.

“That’s okay too.”

She smiled at him reassuringly before offering to get him some eggnog: “It might not make you feel better, but it tastes so good.”. Before he got a chance to respond however she had already disappeared into the crowd leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He looked ahead wanting desperately, just this once, for his brain to stop. He didn't want to think anymore. He definitely didn't want to think about you, your relationship, your breakup.

In retrospect however, thinking about you would have been better than seeing you. Because in that moment, in between the bodies of his coworkers, Spencer spotted you. His heart stopped.

The sharp office lights, usually unflattering, hit your skin so elegantly that he couldn't believe how beautiful you looked. Your hair was perfectly placed around your face, it bounced gently with your every move. The red dress you were wearing was new, Spencer noted, although it complimented your figure greatly.  

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat. He nervously tugged at his tie, undoing it hastily.

He shouldn't have been surprised to see you here. After all you worked in the same building, only a few floors down from the BAU. He shouldn't have been surprised at all, but he was. He was because exactly thirty days, seven hours, twenty-five minutes ago you told him you didn't want to see him again. You told him it would be better if the two of you didn't interact - especially at work. So why were you here? Why were you breaking your own rules?

Spencer decided to investigate; bite the bullet, talk to you. He lifted his body weight off the desk and straightened his clothes. He was about to take the first step in your direction when a man appeared beside you and draped one arm around your shoulder.

The young doctor froze. What the hell?

He watched as the man handed you a drink before placing a kiss on the side of your head. He watched you smile, that warm kindhearted smile you had graced Spencer with only a few months ago. He watched the man whisper something in your ear, your cheeks flushing red. He watched and his heart ached.

“Hey Spence, where’s your head at?” JJ asked creeping up beside the young doctor. When Spencer didn't answer, the petite blonde followed his gaze. “Ahh, I see.”

“What do you think she sees in him?” Spencer asked, a hint of heartbreak in his voice.

“I wish I could answer that Spence, I really do.”

“According to research published in The Journal of Positive Psychology, it takes eleven weeks to feel better after a relationship ends.” Spencer stated. “We broke up thirty days ago, how could she be with someone new?”

JJ sighed.

“Love is messy. Each relationship is unique so different people grieve differently, and some may get over their feelings quicker than others.” She nudged Spencer’s arm. “Just because she’s here with someone new, doesn't mean she didn't care about you.” Spencer glanced up at JJ. “She told me she didn't love me.”

It was the first time he spoke those words aloud. Before when his team members asked what went wrong, he brushed the question off with a statistic on how sixty-four percent of Americans have gone through a breakup of a long-term relationship. It was oddly freeing to finally tell the truth.

“Spence, I’m so sorry.” JJ smiled sympathetically.

“She said that the more I gave, the less she needed. She said she knew I was wrong for her.” Spencer’s nose twitched as he tried to fight back tears. “She said that things get damaged, broken. That in the end she realised she didn't feel as strongly about me as I did about her. That she had so little left to give, and that it was unfair to me.”

Spencer’s gaze traveled to where you were stood once again. “She said that I deserve better but what if I never get over her? She’s perfect to me.”

JJ linked her arm with the young doctor. The two of them stood quietly as Spencer composed himself, his eyes still fixated on you. You and the mystery man.

Laughing at something the man said, you lifted your head upwards before tilting it to the side in Spencer’s direction. Your eyes locked with hid instantly and the air caught in your throat. A sheepish smile spread on your face, one that Spencer couldn't bring himself to reciprocate.

Turning your attention back to your date, you told him you needed to mingle and asked him to find you later. He kissed your cheek and turned to walk away, get another drink perhaps, as you ambled your way toward the brunette doctor.

“Hi JJ.” You greeted kindly, before looking at who you truly wanted to talk to. “Hi Spencer.”

“Hey Y/N. It’s good to see you again.” The petite blonde responded.

Spencer however remained quiet. There was so much he wanted to say to you, ask you. He had prepared speeches in his mind that he would use once the two of you were finally talking again. However, now that you stood in front of him he didn't know where to start.

So he did what any heartbroken person would do in his situation, and walked away. It was a little childish perhaps but it felt right. He manoeuvred his way between the partying people and headed for the elevator. Heart racing.

You managed to catch up with him as he waited for the machine to arrive.

“Spencer.”

He turned on his heel at the sound of his name. Now facing you, a broken look plastered across his face. “What do you want Y/N? I left you alone, and I didn't question why we broke up. I did everything you asked even if it didn't make much sense to me. What do you want?” There was a hint of dismay in his voice.

“I-I just wanted to see if you were o-okay.” You responded.

“Of course I’m not.” He jeered. “You broke up with me, told me you didn't love me, and then moved on within a matter of weeks as if our relationship meant nothing to you.”

“That’s not true Spencer. Our relationship meant everything to me, and I wanted nothing more than to feel the same way as you. I killed myself every day, hated myself because for whatever reason I couldn't fall in love you even though you are the best person I have ever met.” You breathed.

“I would have given anything to be able to love you Spencer Reid.”

The second his name escaped your lips, he charged at you. His mouth pressed against yours with so much force you stumped backwards. His hands cupped your cheeks, pulling you in closer with every second that passed. Eyes closed. Heat growing.

He parted his lips, his tongue trailed forcefully along the brim of your bottom lip demanding entry. Which in the heat of the moment you allowed. Your mouth parted and his tongue instantly latched onto yours, exploring and dancing together.

The outside sounds disappeared. There was no party, no people, no date. In this moment it was just you and Spencer. You and the man who’s heart you broke exactly thirty days, seven hours, thirty-three minutes ago. In this moment you could only hear his breath and soft moans that escaped from between your locked lips.

Your body melted into his. Your hands were now on his back, feeling his tensed muscles. You began to feel your passion rise as the he tangled his fingers in your hair.

The moment was short lived however because in the space of a heartbeat you used all of your strength to pull away, breaking the kiss. Both your eyes still closed, foreheads pressed against one another, breathing heavily.

“It's not your fault I ruin everything. And it's not your fault I can't be what you need.” You whispered while gently caressing the back of his head. Your fingers tangled in his soft curls one last time. 

Before Spencer even opened his eyes, you were gone. Your last words ringing in his ears as overwhelming sadness overcame him once again.

Baby, angels like you can't fly down here with me.

-

masterlist

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds angst #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #dr spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #dr spencer reid #dr spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid fic #dr spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid x you #dr spencer reid x y/n #dr spencer reid angst

[when-we-drive-away-in-secret]

The Ersatz Elevator - Quotes

Not a direct mention of the sugar bowl, but we did get the first reference to it! (you can always trust Esmé to bring up what was stolen from her). This post also contains literally the longest quote ever (genuinely took about three pages) but it’s an important one so I had to include it

“The word ‘bubble’ is in the dictionary, for instance, as it the word ‘peacock,’ the word ‘vacation,’ and the words ‘the’ ‘author’s’ ‘execution’ ‘has’ ‘been’ ‘cancelled,’ which make up a sentence that is always pleasant to hear. [...] Nowhere in this book will you find the words ‘bubble,’ ‘peacock,’ ‘vacation,’ or, unfortunately for me, anything about an execution being cancelled.” - Lemony Snicket; Chapter One

“Dark Avenue was just a few blocks away from where the Baudelaire mansion had been” - Chapter One

“ ‘Remember that time,’ Violet said, ‘when our parents attended the Sixteenth Annual Run-a-Thon, and their feet were so tired when they got home that Dad prepared dinner while sitting on the kitchen floor, instead of standing?’ [...] ‘We only had salad, because they couldn’t stand up to use the stove.’ ” - A conversation between Violet and Klaus Baudelaire; Chapter Two

“Your mother was adventurous, too. You know, she and I were very good friends a ways back. We hiked up Mount Fraught with some friends—gosh, it must have been twenty years ago. Mount Fraught was known for having dangerous animals on it, but your mother wasn’t afraid. But then, swooping out of the sky-” - Jerome Squalor; Chapter Two

“Klaus was delighted to revisit the Akhmatova Bookstore, where his father used to take him as a special treat, to buy an atlas or a volume of the encyclopedia.” - Chapter Three

“It’s terribly exciting. Your mother used to love them [auctions]! I remember one time-” - Jerome Squalor; Chapter Three

“We just moved in a few weeks ago” - Jerome Squalor; Chapter Three

“It was a word that still haunts me in my dreams as I toss and turn each night, images of Beatrice and her legacy filling my weary, grieving brain no matter where in the world I travel and no matter what important evidence I discover. [...] this word, I’m sorry to say, was ‘Olaf.’ ” - Lemony Snicket; Chapter Three

“Just the other day, for example, it was useful for me to have an unpleasant argument with a medical student, because if he hadn’t let me borrow his speedboat I would now be chained inside a very small, waterproof room, instead of sitting in a typewriter factory typing out this woeful tale.” - Lemony Snicket; Chapter Four

“There is nothing particularly wrong with salmon, of course, but like caramel candy, strawberry yogurt, and liquid carpet cleaner, if you eat too much of it you are not going to enjoy your meal.” - Lemony Snicket; Chapter Five

“ ‘Did he take an elevator when he left?’ Klaus said. Esmé’s eyes widened, and she open and shut her her mouth several times without saying anything, as if she were experiencing the element of surprise.” - Chapter Five

“The morning I am writing this chapter, I am wondering if the future will hold something that will enable me to saw through these handcuffs and crawl out of the double-locked window” - Lemony Snicket; Chapter Six

“Esmé has an important meeting with the King of Arizona today” - Jerome Squalor; Chapter Six

“Every problem has a solution. [...] At least, that’s what a close associate of mine says.” - Fernald; Chapter Six

“A terror so profound that I have slept with four night-lights ever since I visited 667 Dark Avenue and saw this deep pit that the Baudelaires climbed down.” - Lemony Snicket; Chapter Seven

“Every second we spend with him [Olaf], all he does is brag about his horrible plans” - Duncan Quagmire; Chapter Eight

“Gunther wants to smuggle us out of the city, and hide us away on some island where the police won’t find us." - Duncan Quagmire; Chapter Eight

“He’s told us so many haunting secrets, Violet. So many awful schemes—all the treachery he has done in the past, and all he’s planning to do in the future.” - Duncan Quagmire; Chapter Eight

“The three siblings were pleased that their guardian had not dismissed their findings, or argued with them about Gunther or the Quagmires or anything else, but instead had quietly and calmly listened to every detail.” - Chapter Ten

“Mt former acting teacher will finally get his hands on not one but two enormous fortunes!” - Esmé Squalor; Chapter Ten

“He’s [Olaf’s] not a terrible villain. [...] He’s a genius! I instructed the doorman not to let you out of the penthouse until Gunther came and retrieved you, but Gunther convinced me that throwing you down there was a better idea, and he was right!” - Esmé Squalor; Chapter Ten

“But I want to steal from you, [...] I want to steal from you the way Beatrice stole from me.” - Esmé Squalor; Chapter Ten

“One of my most prised possessions is a small wooden box with a special lock on it that is more than five hundred years old and works according to a secret code that my grandfather taught me. My grandfather learned it from his grandfather, and his grandfather learned it from his grandfather, and I would teach it to my grandchild if I thought that I would ever have a family of my own instead of living out the remainder of my days all alone in this world. The small wooden box is one of my most prised possessions, because when the lock is opened according to the code, a small silver key may be found inside, and this key fits the lock on one of my other most prised possessions, which is a slightly larger wooden box given to me by a woman whom my grandfather always refused to speak about. Inside this slightly larger wooden box is a roll of parchment, a word which here means ‘some very old paper printed with a map of the city at the time when the Baudelaire orphans lived in it.’ The map has every single detail of the city written down in dark blue ink, with measurements of buildings and sketches of costumes and charts of changes in the weather all added in the margins by the map’s twelve previous owners, all of whom are now dead. I have spent more hours than I can ever count going over every inch of this map as carefully as possible, so that everything that can be learned from it can be copied into my files and then into books such as this one, in the hopes that the general public will finally learn every detail of the treacherous conspiracy I have spent my life trying to escape. The map contains thousands of fascinating things that have been discovered by all sorts of explorers, criminal investigators and circus performers over the years, but the most fascinating thing that the map contains was discovered just at this moment by the three Baudelaire children. Sometimes, in the dead of night when I cannot sleep, I rise from my bed and work the code on the small wooden box to retrieve the key that opens the slightly larger wooden box so I can sit at my desk and look once again, by candlelight, at the two dotted lines indicating the underground hallway that begins at the bottom of the elevator shaft at 667 Dark Avenue and ends at the trapdoor that the Baudelaires managed to open with their ersatz crowbars. I stare and stare at that part of the city where the orphans climbed out of that ghastly corridor, but no matter how much I stare I can scarcely believe my own eyes, any more than the youngsters could believe theirs.” - Lemony Snicket; Chapter Eleven

“If I had been with the Baudelaires, I never would have opened the award-winning door. I would have considered myself lucky to have gotten out of the net suspended in the middle of the elevator shaft, and to have escaped Gunther’s evil plan, and I would have fled to some remote corner of the world and hid from Gunther and his associates for the rest of my life rather than risk another encounter with this treacherous villain” - Lemony Snicket; Chapter Twelve

“On one side of him was a small glass vase with blue flowers painted on it, and on the other was Esmé, who was sitting in a fancy chair and gazing at Gunther as if he were the cat’s pajamas, a phrase which here means ‘a charming and handsome gentleman instead of a cruel and dishonest villain.’ ” - Chapter Twelve

“ ‘Hey, boss!’ he [Fernald] said, and both Esmé and Gunther turned to look” - Chapter Twelve

“ ‘I’ve made enough money today.’ ‘I never thought I’d hear Esmé say that,’ Jerome murmured.” - Chapter Twelve

“by the time two detectives found the big black pickup truck, abandoned outside St Carl’s Cathedral with the motor still running, Olaf had already transferred the Quagmires from the red herring to a shiny black instrument case, which he told the bus driver was a tuba he was bringing to his aunt.” - Chapter Thirteen

“Your mother always said I wasn’t brave enough, and I guess she was right.” - Jerome Squalor; Chapter Thirteen

“Lemony Snicket’s extended family, if they were alive, would describe him as a distinguished scholar, an amateur connoisseur, and an outright gentleman. Unfortunately this description has been challenged of late” - Biographical Paragraph

#the sugar bowl archive #asoue

[alexiessan]

Never alone - Chapter Twenty Four - Soulmate AU - The End

AO3

Previous - Here

Master List

Last chapter! Thanks to everyone who followed this story!

After Gabriel Agreste and Nathalie Sanscœur got arrested, Emilie Agreste was brought to the hospital. She has been in a coma for a few years now, with no sign of waking up, and the doctors weren’t very optimistic about her.

Emilie Agreste would probably never wake up.

Adrien has been very sad when he got the news, but he had the time to grieve her mother years ago when his father has lied about her death. While he missed her every day, he had learned to move on. Still, knowing that she was alive, brought hope to the young model. He didn’t care about the doctors’ prognostics, nothing could crush his hopes.

Thankfully, Adrien has been declared innocent in the whole Hawkmoth debacle. He and Ladybug had revealed to the police that the young Agreste has been Chat Noir all along. The information didn’t make it to the news, thankfully.

Paris celebrated that night and would celebrate for a whole week, finally happy to be free of Hawkmoth. People allowed themselves to cry, to scream, to let their emotions free.

That night, Marinette cried in the arms of her soulmate, not stopping even when he carried her to his bedroom, the short girl in his arm clinging to him like a koala.

Life, without having to fight Akumas, was weird. Marinette had gotten so used to miss classes or a few hours of sleep because of attacks that she was nervous as if waiting for something to happen.

But nothing happened. Her shoulders were free of the burden of Paris’ safety.

She no longer needed to be Ladybug.

The Miraculous on her ears felt so heavy now.

It’s at the end of April, after a month and a half of peace, that the fashion designer decided to take off the earrings.

“I think we both need a rest,” she said to Tikki, a sad smile on her lips. “I need to heal from Hawkmoth, to detach myself from Ladybug, and I can’t do that with you around.” She winced. “No offense.”

Tikki laughed. “None taken, Marinette! I totally understand. It will be nice for me to be with the other Kwamis for a while,” she smiled, floating up to Marinette’s face to nuzzle her cheek. “And it’s not like we’re saying goodbye. You’re the guardian now, so we can see each other whenever we want!” She settled on her chosen’s shoulder. “But you’re right. We both need a break. So…” she fell silent for a few seconds. “See you soon, I guess!”

Marinette laughed, placing a kiss on the Kwami’s head.

“See you soon, Tikki.”

And she took the earrings off, placing them in the Miraculous Box.

It was like a weight has been lifted off her shoulder. Marinette hadn’t felt so light in years.

She almost jumped when she felt arms circle around her from behind. Sighing happily, she leaned back so she could be closer to Damian.

“How are you feeling,” he asked, placing a kiss on her neck.

“Good,” she breathed, turning around to face him. “I feel really good.”

She pulled him closer and kissed him.

Adrien was moving away. He had told his friends that he would live with his aunt and his cousin in London.

“I mean, I’m eighteen, so I could live by myself but…” he played with his fingers, embarrassed. Nino looked at him with a warm smile, encouraging him. “But, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’ve had a golden childhood, you know? People did everything for me, from cleaning my room to cooking the meals. I can’t live by myself yet, so I’m moving in with my aunt. Then, I’ll learn everything I need to take care of myself.”

Alya laughed.

“Try not to give food poisoning to your family!”

Adrien gasped, falsely offended. “How dare you?!”

Adrien and Alya laughed while the others just shook their head in exasperation.

The young Agreste turned to Damian. “I heard you’re leaving soon?”

Damian nodded, unconsciously bringing Marinette closer to him. “Next week.”

Alya groaned. “Finally. I won’t have to see you anymore.”

The youngest Wayne smirked. “Sorry to break the news, Césaire, but I’ll be back in August as I’ll study here.”

The look on Alya’s face made everyone laugh.

Even though she knew that she would see him in a few weeks, saying goodbye to Damian at the airport brought tears to her eyes.

She hugged Dick first, who hugged her back so tightly that she couldn’t breathe for a few seconds.

“I’ll miss you so much.”

“Aw, you’ll see me soon, I promise,” the oldest of the Wayne siblings winked.

“I know, but it won’t be the same.”

Richard ruffled her hair with a smile. “I’m only a phone call away if you need anything. And when I say anything, I mean it, ok? Don’t hesitate. That’s what siblings are for, after all!”

She almost cried at that, but he gently pushed her towards Damian, giving them privacy in their goodbye.

Marinette let out a sob.

“I’m sorry. I swear I won’t always be this sensitive,” she said, embarrassed with the amount of tears she had shed lately. She had cried earlier when she said goodbye to Cloud and Alfred the cat too.

The green-eyed boy took her hand in his, pulling her closer to him. He kissed her forehead.

“I understand. Take time to allow yourself to feel, alright? Then, you’ll be okay in no time.”

She nodded. “You’re right.”

She cupped his cheek in her hand. “God, I hate seeing you go.”

He leaned in her touch. “I know. But you’ll see me in a few weeks for Prom.”

“I can’t wait,” she said and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

With the Baccalauréat coming and all the studying she had to do, time passed more quickly than she has expected.

In no time, she was in Gotham with the help of Kaalki, in her prom dress with Damian’s family in their manor.

Her boyfriend rolled his eyes as his father and brothers insisted to take a lot of pictures. Marinette didn’t mind. She was just happy to see Damian again.

She was happy to see his siblings too, of course.

Prom was exactly how she imagined it. It was such a shame there was no such thing in France.

The look on Damian’s classmates’ faces was hilarious. They obviously couldn’t believe that Damian Wayne was there, and with a date!

Their faces were even funnier when they saw him dance with her or when he tried to discretely kiss her.

Which was discreet at all, what with everyone watching them like a hawk.

It was a very nice night, one Marinette wished wouldn’t end, but alas, in the end, she had to go back to Paris.

While it was only one in the morning in Gotham, it was already seven in Paris, and she would have only three hours of sleep before having to get up to meet Alya and Chloé for a study session.

And, ok, maybe she got back at eight in the end because she couldn’t detach her lips from Damian’s.

Marinette and Damian passed their own tests easily, saying goodbye to their high school life.

The Eurasian girl was disappointed that she didn’t get to go to Damian’s graduation — she loved how it was such a big event in the US — but Jason sent her all the pictures they had taken, so it made up for her absence.

They didn’t get to see each other much during the summer. Just a trip here and there to Gotham thanks to Kaalki. Damian had to figure out a lot of things about Robin not being in Gotham for at least three years — five years if he decided to get a master degree — and all the paperwork needed for an American student studying in France.

Plus, his friend Jon was forcing him to spend time with it as it would be a long time before they would get to see each other.

Marinette has been accepted into the Fashion University of her choice and had immediately filled all the paperwork needed to finalize the registration.

Her summer has been busy with helping her parents in the bakery and going on a trip with Claude, Allan, and Allegra, and then on another trip with the original class from middle school. Even Lila was there and was actually pleasant.

All in all, August was there, and Damian and Marinette had finally moved in the Wayne’s penthouse. They had redecorated to make it their place and were exhausted after two weeks of painting and Ikea trips.

They were cuddling on the couch, Titus, Cloud, and Alfred the cat sleeping in a pile at their feet.

The couple was exhausted, but happy and ready for the next step in their life.

Marinette turned slightly so she could face her boyfriend. She smiled at him as he raised an eyebrow at her, and kiss him softly.

“Hey, I love you, you know?”

Damian kissed her cheek.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, bringing her closer. “I love you, too.”

Tag List:

@bigpicklebananatree​ @animegirlweeb​ @crazylittlemunchkin​ @northernbluetongue​ @cutechip​ @justafanwarrior​ @iloontjeboontje​ @resignedcatservant @maribat-is-lifeblood​ @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff​ @toodaloo-kangaroo​ @mikantsume​ @dast218​ @amayakans​ @zestyzealot​ @lunarwolfspn​ @corabeth11​ @marinettepotterandplagg​ @olynix​ @aestheticnpoetic​ @hot-neighbour-nextdoor​ @thehufflepuffranger-blog​ @k-poplunardreams​ @tis-i-beanbandit​ @bluesimani​ @laurcad123​ @notmycupoftea26​

#maribat #daminette #maridami #damian x marinette #ml x dc #mlb x dc #miraculous x dc

[agentsandbutterflies]

Merlahad, as slytherin merlin and gryffindor harry rivals AU

This went very dark, very fast when I started to think about it (so be warned, there is character death in this one) but then it turned out it took forever to get there… I apologise for the delay.

I think this is the longest one I’ve done…

Harry is in the year above the Marauders

Merlin is in the same year as them and shares dormitory with Severus Snape

(Merlin pretty much hates his parents for naming him Merlin, because really? REALLY?)

They are both Pure-blood

The First Wizarding War starts Harry’s first year at Hogwarts

But he’s a First Year at Hogwarts and doesn’t notice a thing

Merlin is a kid in a Pure-blood family, he doesn’t notice anything either

Harry’s parents join the Order of the Phoenix in 1971

Merlin’s parents stay away from all of it

The older students start to talk and more and more Muggle borns and Half-bloods are getting worried about the state of the world

Harry tries out for the Gryffindor quidditch team but doesn’t get a spot

Merlin falls in love with charms during his first class

The first time they meet is in the Slug Club when Merlin is invited during his fourth year

Harry has been a member for about a year at that point

(Merlin is annoyed that Severus is there as well)

(Harry doesn’t know Lily Evans exists before she comes to her first Slug Club dinner)

(She knows he exists, though. All the girls in the Gryffindor tower know he exists)

Merlin’s not impressed by Harry’s habit of drawing attention to himself by always arriving late

Harry thinks Merlin’s a know-it-all

But they are Gryffindor and Slytherin, they are supposed to dislike each other. They have never questioned why, it’s just how it is and it makes life a bit more interesting to have an entire House to hate

The exception is of course Severus and Lily, but he’s weird and she’s too kind so, yeah…

Harry and Merlin sometimes exchange looks and roll their eyes at them, because at least they can agree that that friendship is odd

The war has been going on for five years when Merlin joins the Slug Club and it starts to creep into Hogwarts as well

Almost everyone worries, even the ones who pretend they don’t

Harry’s parents write less and less

Merlin’s parents write as if there is nothing wrong with the world

Slughorn invites them all to dinner and they talk about literature the entire evening as if people aren’t disappearing outside the walls

Yet lines are drawn, children picking the side their parents are on or breaking with their families

Hogwarts can’t save you from that

If the rivalry between the four Houses was all fun and games before it’s now part of the warfare – or so the students think

Three Houses against one and no one sees or cares about the second year Slytherin student who hasn’t heard from their parents in weeks

Or the fourth year who is too afraid of their classmates to speak their mind

Or the sixth year student whose sister is killed

Because it’s their own fault for wearing green and silver anyway…

Merlin’s grades are perfect and he becomes a prefect in his fifth year

He takes it upon himself to take points off Gryffindor whenever Harry is late for Slug Club

It’s seen as another Slytherin provocation and Harry challenges Merlin to a duel

It loses both of them enough points for them to eat alone at their respective tables for weeks

…but not enough for them to learn a lesson

The third time they are caught duelling they get detention

The fourth, the fifth and the sixth time too

The seventh time it’s Slughorn who catches them and he tells them that if they get caught again he will ban them from the Slug Club

If they get caught... there’s something encouraging in the way Slughorn says that

So the eighth time they meet in the Forbidden forest

The ninth time behind the quidditch field

The tenth in the Room of Requirements

It’s war practice under the guise of House rivalry

“I don’t think he’s right,” says Merlin one evening as they walk back from the lake, sweaty and exhausted. “Just so you know.”

“Me neither,” says Harry

When they are about to part, Harry to go up to the tower and Merlin down to the dungeon, Harry hesitates

“Can I write you over the summer?”  he asks

Merlin smiles. “Yes.”

“Who is she?” Harry’s mum asks when there have been owls coming and going almost daily for a month

“You should invite him to the house in Elie,” Merlin’s dad says. “Your mum and I aren’t going there until 10th of August.”

So Harry goes to Scotland a month before he’s supposed to go back to school

It takes four days on the beach and half a bottle of fire whisky (unknowingly given by Merlin’s dad) one evening for their hands to touch

It takes about two seconds more for their lips to touch

It takes two days for them to leave the house again

Harry’s mum notices some very indiscrete marks on Harry’s neck when he gets home after his little vacation

She gives him her concealer and asks him to cover it up before dad sees it on her way out to do recon for the Order

Harry does and he counts the days until he gets to board the Hogwarts’ Express for the last time

Merlin keeps knocking points off Gryffindor when Harry’s late for Slug Club

Harry keeps challenging him to duels

They keep meeting in strange and secret places

They don’t spend the time duelling

Harry is getting by with his N.E.W.T.

All the teachers think he can do better, and he can, but his head is already on the battlefield

Because first it was Muggle borns, then Half-bloods and certain Magical creatures, then Pure-bloods considered Blood Traitors…

Harry takes muggle studies and knows that the step to round up the Gender Traitors is a small one

That’s what will make him join the Order of the Phoenix when he leaves Hogwarts

(It may be self-serving, but he’s 18 and he chooses to fight. No one would have questioned his motives, had they known them)

Merlin asks him not to

Only once

Because he knows he can’t stop him, but he won’t be able to live with himself if he doesn’t at least ask

Harry goes to Elie for two weeks that summer

Merlin’s last year is a disaster

They have decided that Harry shouldn’t write him, because who knows what his House mates might happen to see

Harry writes Lily, though, the only other Gryffindor Merlin knows

(And quite frankly the only Gryffindor Harry knows who doesn’t judge a person after the colour of their House)

(He had confided in her about Merlin in the beginning of his seventh year because he needed someone to talk to and knew she wouldn’t judge him for the Slythering part of the equation)

Lily gives Merlin the updates at Slug Club and when they pass each other in the door in and out of Transfiguration

They become really good at exchanging folded pieces of paper without even looking at each other 

“Still nothing?” Merlin asks at the Slug Club’s yearly Christmas party

Lily shakes her head. “I can write and ask Marleneif you like?”

Merlin declines, reasoning that it’s easier to worry than to grieve

Two days before the end of the semester, Lily waits for Merlin outside the Great Hall, pressing a note in his hand

“It’s good news,” she says with a smile before she hurries to catch up with her friends

It turns out to only be good news in the sense that Harry isn’t dead

Harry’s mum is, though, and Harry has taken a curse in the face, losing the sight on his left eye

But he’s alive, and because of his injury out of harm’s way for a while

Perhaps that’s what counts as good news in wartime?

Harry is back in the field in January

He’s young, he’s fit, and his practice with Merlin has made him really good at flinging curses

Losing his mum only makes him more sure that he’s in the right place, doing the right thing

Revenge is added to his motives

Dumbledore asks him to help with recruitment of Hogwarts students

Harry has no moral qualms about dragging his old House mates to the front line to fight with him

Most of the Gryffindors he reaches out to respond

The only Slytherin he reaches out to does not

Or he does, but it’s a firm “no”

In spite of that, Merlin still moves into Harry’s tiny one room flat after he graduates because there’s no way he’s going to stay in Scotland when Harry is going around being an idiot all over England

They are not even twenty yet

Merlin gets a job – entry level at the Ministry of Magic

He has the ambition of his House, he has good grades and he’s a Pure-blood, it doesn’t take that long before he gets a proposition from the Death Eaters

He accepts on the spot and goes home to tell Harry

The fear Harry feels when he hears this is worse than anything he has experienced during his now almost two years in the Order

“It’s not the same as with Severus,” says Lily when Harry tells her. “It’s not like he’s really a Death Eater.”

Harry agrees – trying to be a double agent is a completely new level of stupid

The information Merlin manages to pass on to Harry is good, but not worth dying over

(Something Harry points out repeatedly)

It takes 171 days for the Death Eaters to figure it out

Or it probably takes less, but it takes 171 days for them to act

Harry opens the door to a flash of green light one evening

Merlin doesn’t even think to search for his wand as Mulciber, who Merlin had shared his dorm room with for seven years, steps over Harry’s body with his wand raised

“Always knew you were a poof,” says Mulciber, “though I never took you for a Blood Traitor.”

Merlin turns to look at Harry as the Killing Curse hits him in the chest

Harry’s dad is the one who finds them two days later

With the help of Merlin’s parents he makes sure they are buried together in Elie

#Kingsman #merlahad #merlin (kingsman) #harry hart #kingsman au #au #harry #merlin #cw character death #cw death #my headcanons

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter twenty-seven (bud e luv bomb and satan’s lounge band)

October 23, 1988. New Orleans, Louisiana.

I haven't been able to find my shoes anywhere in Lars' place. Either I lost them in the restaurant or something else happened to them. Nevertheless, I don't really want to walk about the wet ground of the French Quarter barefoot. I found my ring in my jeans pocket, but I cannot for the life of me remember where I left my shoes. But nowhere in Lars' apartment can I find any shoes or boots or anything that seems to fit me. And the fact he hasn't woken up yet, at eight thirty, tells me I should probably bypass him and search for some shoes myself.

Meanwhile, I still haven't heard a peep from Ellen's apartment. I'm pretty sure I am the last person she saw given I'm met with silence each time I walk over there to knock on her door. I finally gave up about a half an hour ago when I decided it's better if I just take care of myself and fetch something to eat downstairs. I fix my shirt and head on downstairs with the coat over my body to see if it actually does fit me. Musty and scratchy, but does fit me well especially at my hips. I put on the gloves, which fit as though they were made for my hands. I lift my hair out from underneath the collar before wheeling around and heading out of the apartment. Lars is still sound asleep by the time I leave the apartment and head out to the hallway. The floor boards creak under my bare feet as I amble down to Ellen's door again.

Gently, I knock on the panel.

“Ellen? Are you there?”

I'm still met with silence.

“Ellen, it's Joey.” I feel odd saying this already. “I know you're probably gone now, like you went in your sleep but—” I don't know if it's the thirst of having drank a lot the night before or if it's the fact I was the last person for her to see me, but my throat is already closing up.

“—I want to tell you thank you. You know for... sharing your final moments with me and your last bit of wisdom. I'll admit I was a little unsure at first but—I don't know what I'm saying. You were a ghastly sick old lady taking her final steps and I want to thank you for letting me take them with you. But—I have to go now. I hope you and I can meet again one day.”

I sigh through my nose and feel the weight of the silence upon me. I close my eyes as I keep my hand on the door panel. I slide my hand down to the doorknob to feel it turn a bit. The door swings open and I'm met with a rush of cool air that smells clean once again. She's in there, I can sense it. It's like how I can sense Mrs. Snow or Vera in the same room with me. There's the corpse of an old lady in there but I don't really want to see it.

I close the door again out of respect for her. At least I can do one thing right for once in this past week.

I run my fingers through my hair before heading down the stairs to the bar and the restaurant, which is bustling with patrons and waitresses docked in black button up blouses and black and red skirts. I take a seat at the sole empty table near the stage, where the band of the day is setting up their amps and their equipment. A waitress strolls on over to me and asks me if I can have anything to drink.

“Cup of coffee please—no cream—and a blueberry muffin.”

She nods at me before stepping away. I can only hope I've got enough in my pockets to cover for it; I fold my arms over the top of the table and lean over so as to hide my face. I glance over my shoulder at the stage behind me and the girl in a lush crimson long dress that looks as though it's made entirely of velvet is setting up the microphone rack right down by her feet. I watch her stand up before the microphone itself and blow into it.

I adjust myself in the seat of the chair so my elbow rests on the top of the back and I'm facing her straight on.

She opens her lips and starts to sing “Blackbird” by the Beatles.

I learned to sing by covering the Beatles.

I can't help it: I do it along with her, but without my own microphone.

She lifts her gaze to me and our eyes lock together for a moment but it's long enough to coax a smile from her. I flash her wink and she wraps her fingers around the stand, to which I see a wedding ring on her third finger.

FUCK.

I sigh through my nose and that's when the waitress returns to me. I shift back around in my chair at the sight of a white mug of fresh black coffee and a big fresh blueberry muffin that I swear is larger than my fist. I take a sip of the coffee and it caresses my poor parched mouth with its warmth. I pick at my muffin, and I usually like my blueberry ones, especially the ones straight out of the oven. I think it just might be the hangover talking, though, so I keep drinking the coffee to the very bottom of the mug.

Little better. My headache is going away, but my appetite is still a ways off, though.

I pick at the muffin even more and once I reach the stump, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn my head to find the girl who was up on stage standing next to me but with a jacket over her dress.

“'Scuse me—er, I hate to do this to you,” she speaks with a little lighter of an accent compared to Ellen's, “but I saw you singin' earlier, and I was just wonderin' if it wouldn't be too much trouble for me to ask you if could you fill in for me, please? I have an emergency at home that I need to tend to, but I don't want my band to be without a singer again.”

“Um—sure.” The butterflies rise up inside of my stomach because this is a total unknown to me.

“We're just a cover band and we're only gonna do a couple of songs before we head on home, anyways. We're just the openin' band for the main act in a little while.”

“Yeah, I'd be honored to—it's no bother. Just lemme finish my muffin—”

She returns to the band, all of whom are already taking their places up on the stage. I wasn't hungry before but I wolf down the remainder of the muffin stump before striding over to them. I wish I hadn't already drank down the coffee because the whole thing coats my mouth for a moment. I recall what Ellen had told me the night before given this is the Big Easy and that someone will have work for you. I adjust the lapels of my coat and climb up the trio of steps leading up onto the stage.

There's a black girl with dreadlocks behind the small drum kit, a sandy haired boy holding an oversized blue bass guitar with five strings, and two boys with pompadours atop their heads holding twin red guitars. They're all wearing white shirts and black and white leggings held up with black suspenders.

Like a lounge version of Anthrax.

“Hey, guys, I'm Joey,” I introduce to them. “Your singer just told me she had to run on home real quick and so I took up to the challenge.”

“No challenge here, man,” the bass player assures me, “we're just gonna play two songs and then we're heading out.”

“The first song we're doing is 'Hush' by Deep Purple,” the drummer calls out to me. “Do you know that one?”

“Hell yeah! Like, by heart!”

“I like this guy already,” the guitarist on the right chuckles, taking out a comb from his trouser pocket for a quick swipe over his head, “let's get on it.”

I pull the thread bare coat over me before ambling over the stage to the microphone stand. I curl my fingers back to better break into the black leather gloves. All eyes are on me and the fact I'm the one person up here dressed in black with disheveled hair, bare feet, and dark Indian skin. I gaze on at the crowd before us. I hope Lars will hear me belt it out as the four of them launch into their heavy, rough sound right behind me. It's like being with Anthrax again as I grip onto the microphone stand with my left hand.

I think about Maya, who's back in Seattle; about Ellen, who's upstairs; Brick, who's in the hospital; the fact I got drunk last night and lied to my parents; and most of all, I think about my past with Anthrax. It's all coming down on me like a pouring, torrential rain from the incoming hurricane outside.

But all I can do is sing out, and sing loud.

Since I woke up hungover, and I had just eaten a muffin, I haven't been able to warm up but I go forth with it anyways. My voice comes out broken and garbled, but loud and still plenty powerful from my last performance on State of Euphoria, even against the full sounding bass and the loud guitars. Their instruments are rough and filthy in sound, as though they hadn't spent a lot of money on buying them, but they're good musicians, though. They're a good heavy weight against my voice.

I'm loud, even with the breaks in my voice and my stomach tightening up. Ellen's firmly on my mind as I'm nearing the end of the first verse.

I feel a piece of my hair falling into my face, but I don't care. If anything, it just adds to it.

Ellen died alone and I'm the one soul grieving her at the moment.

My voice breaks even more when I hit the chorus and I throw myself into it even more. The four of them join in with me on their microphones.

I think back to when Anthrax and I did a song at the end of our album from last year, Among the Living, called “Bud E Luv Bomb and Satan's Lounge Band”, where I was Bud E Luv Bomb, the smarmy lounge singer blitzed off his ass on booze and cocaine and God knows what else. We did it as kind of a joke, but I had become that very entity.

I am Bud E Luv Bomb, and this is Satan's Lounge Band right behind me.

I run my fingers through my hair so everyone can better see my face. This is where I open my eyes to catch a view of the audience. Everyone is gazing on at me in awe.

I wonder how many of the people in here are aware that I was once the lead singer for a thrash metal band and am now caught up in a hurricane of strange events.

Probably not many, because the couple right in front of me lean together to say something. After the guitar solo, I hear the man on the right say, “he's got a lot of soul” and the woman next to him follow with “yeah, he's an amazing singer. Lot of melancholy.”

Melancholy, yes, especially at the moment. Amazing? Meh. I'm not sure about that.

#after the watershed #now it's dark #chapter 27 #new chapter #fanfic #fanfiction #heavy metal fanfiction #thrash metal #anthrax fanfics #joey belladonna #anthrax #noir au #southern gothic #dark sci-fi #amwriting #text

[acquisitive-adventurers]

How did Singlar lose his wife? Did he feel he lost her through his own negligence or ineptitude, or does he blame someone else for her death? Has he ever considered looking for a way to bring her back from the dead? Would he ever consider that?

(Thanks for the ask, @calabren-iarian !)

THIS IS LARGELY MY FAVORITE THING TO TRY AND WRITE??? It came out in an rp AGES ago with Singlar’s mun, and he was like (oocly) “what if you were my wife but I thought I’d lost you?” during a really sad part of an rp. It ripped my heart out and it’s been that way forever.

It’s evolved from something akin to screaming into the void to something else less screamy.

Singlar was pretty young as a dwarf – few decades old, probably 60 or so – and he was out exploring with his older brother, Kóri. They were out, being stupid “young” guys, when they came upon a night elf village. They weren’t used to meeting any of the other races beyond dwarves, gnomes, and humans, and the elves were… gorgeous, to say the least. Kóri would joke at Singlar about “staring too long,” but as a young paladin, the starlight that emanated from their eyes was intoxicating.

Though he and his brother left the village after a particularly bad cold snap (it was only like a few days before the weather opened up), Singlar had developed a major crush on the elf that would become his wife. It took maybe ten years before they actually got married, and they stayed that way for almost 80 years (so he’d be roughly 150-160 when she “died”). They’d made a home in the mountain ranges between Mount Hyjal/Felwood/Winterspring, and they were pretty happy.

Emerald Dream portals would open randomly though, and the village they lived in believed they were well defended, so no one left. Singlar left to go visit his brother in Ironforge (for some business) and left Zaha’a alone at their home. When Singlar returned a few weeks later, it was a gory mess: the village was reduced to smoldering ash, fresh corpses of elves and worgen were everywhere, and Singlar couldn’t find his wife anywhere among the survivors. So, he thought she’d perished.

For another 90+ years, he held a hatred for elves and worgen (and anyone that could turn into one tbh). He blamed himself for staying too long in Ironforge, for not taking the first boat and being delayed by a few extra hours, for not bringing his wife along in the first place.

Since there wasn’t anything left of her – possessions, body, even a photo – Singlar was left with nothing of his wife, but her visage haunted him every day for nearly 50 years. He went and drank himself nearly to death, until the kingdoms of men started asking for the other races to help build up their cities. He spent the next few decades working, drinking, sleeping with everyone, and refusing to allow himself to grieve or let go of his anger. He got sick, and sicker, and sickest of all when the orcs invaded Azeroth. He was one of the first to put his skills into the armies for the Alliance, and used it as an excuse to shed blood.

(Even that left him so very hollow inside, and it did not feel good to watch the blood go down the drain after a battle.)

When his commanders realized what he was doing, he was sent to Silithus to keep the supply chains there flowing for the Alliance and keep them as long as possible from the Horde. It was only when he touched down in Stormwind and was given the orders to go did he see Ahilyah for the first (and only) time fully decked out in her commander’s armor – at the time, he didn’t know she was his commander and was pretty awful to her, but she let it slide – as they were both introduced to the other members of their team.

All seven of them left to go to Silithus. Eventually, after battles and literal years spent in the bug-infested cesspool, everyone but Singlar and Ahilyah died or were transferred. They didn’t get any other teammates, and it was just them holding down an entire outpost.

They grew comfortable, enough to drink and sleep in the same room together (more for camaraderie than anything else), and eventually they started sharing their lives. She told him about her explorations and commander school, he told her how it was to grow up in the heart of a mountain; he explained paladin teachings (that he often scoffed at in the same breath of whispering his prayers to the Light), she explained beautiful and terrifying worlds beyond their touch that only a few could (or would) ever see. They were friends.

Between fighting the Horde and the old god worshippers and the bugs, Ahilyah was often given secret missions that they’d go and usually sabotage Horde encampments (”don’t explain anything to me, and I’ll have no questions to ask,” Singlar would tell her), but one time there was a month of nothing. Singlar asked if the war was over, if they’d be released from this Hell and they’d finally go their separate ways; she explained she’d already been given her orders, and had been given plenty of mail about not completing it yet.

When he asked why they hadn’t gone out to do “another get-this, kill-that” mission, she explained it wasn’t that type of mission anymore. It was supposed to have them go outside of the combat zone and kill any and every Horde village nearby. She had twenty-four hours to respond, or she’d be court marshaled, judged by the king and his peers, and executed. (She still didn’t know which part of the kingdom this order came from, but it had an official seal. She had asked the high command for a repeat of the orders, but she never got one – so, she stayed put, mostly because of her morals and also because she didn’t believe it was a real King Varian-stated order.)

They had a screaming match due to misunderstandings until she screamed something in anger – basically “you’re such a stupid dwarf, I can’t believe I put up with you for so many centuries” – and he was like “????what????”

And then they had a very awkward reveal that she was his wife.

He was angry, hurt, confused, and felt like he wanted to throw up. He ended up camping out in the next outpost over, thinking everything over.

Ahilyah never did the mission. At this point the Alliance basically forgot about Silithus as the Legion expac started, King Wrynn dying, and the other Alliance leaders straining under Anduin’s leadership. He came back after fighting on the Broken Shore for a while (she was in Suramar for a time), but they went back to Silithus when the Broken Isles were secure.

Days before the Sargeras skewering of the world, they started to talk about things. Though Anduin’s reign was much different than his father’s, their relationship would never be able to heal. Silithus was going to be released so the people there could refocus elsewhere in the world, but so far it was just a waiting process.

They were on their way out of the zone (near the northern mountain range) when the sword came down. The group they were traveling with were able to get into a nearby cave, but it turned out to be a straight view of the valley; they’d be burned alive if the shockwave didn’t kill them.

And being stupid, Singlar kind of just stood in front of Ahilyah as they curled up in the corner of the cavern while Silithus erupted in flames. In the last few seconds before the flames hit them, he was like, “I wasted years over you.” And she just had to tell him to choose: the anger, or a clear future.

When the shockwave hit, everything exposed to the flames was horribly burned.  Chunks of Azerite were thrown into bodies of people, killing some instantly due to the intense high while others were in severe agony. The dwarves and gnomes that sat in the cavern came out completely different, half infused with this rock that deformed their bodies but also gave them immense strengths they hadn’t had before.

Ahilyah ends up with horrible burns/scars across the right side of her body (and flecks on her left). The warrior’s right eye glows like the Azurite does, and parts of her scars sometimes glow if she gets too enraged. She goes into blind rages whenever she loses control of herself, going into a frenzy due to the Azerite in her system.

For Singlar, he’s got these giant rocks (kinda like the rock giants in Deepholm?) sticking out of his back, pulsing every time his heart beats. His eyes turn from an ice blue to brilliant gold, and the veins along his body pulse the same color. He’s got burns along the skin that isn’t infused with Azerite, and the back of his head/neck have diamonds/Azerite crystal hybrids growing out of it.

(The other dwarves and gnomes come out looking similar to Singlar, only with their own molecular type – some have sandstone/Azerite, sapphire/Azerite, etc. Each one’s experiences with the Azerite infusion range wildly to “this sucks” to “what could go wrong?”)

((I want to make an entire post about what gnomes, dwarves, goblins, and (maybe) humans taking baths in this stuff would do to them (being descendants of the Titan constructs and all), since the initial “explosion” can’t really be recreated. So it’ll just add to that layer of “well this might actually suck for us” by being so dependent on Azerite.))

#ask #ask answered #Singlar #Ahilyah #warrior #warrior oc #paladin #paladin oc #dwarf #dwarf oc #worgen #worgen oc #nelf #nelf oc #wow #wow oc #world of warcraft oc #world of warcraft #oc

[gripefroot]

Rendezvous for Two

The buzz of your phone cuts through the post-coital haze shimmering in the bedroom. Forcing his eyes back open, Bucky gives a groan as you squirm away to make a grab for the nightstand. 

“Just ignore it, babe,” he says raggedly, pulling on your waist - but it’s futile. 

“Can’t,” you sigh. “It’s Fury.” 

“Boo on Fury.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.” A wink over your shoulder, and Bucky’s stomach does funny turns as he can’t help but smile back - and then you’re on your feet, the bed beside him is empty, and he gives a monstrous and pitiful sigh, his arms utterly empty.  

He closes his eyes again just to keep the moment close a little longer - it’s been a long few weeks, with you on missions and him on different missions and schedules just not cooperating...this is the first time Bucky has been alone with you in twenty-three days. Not that he’s counting. 

Why did Fury have to call now? 

“I’ll be right there, sir,” your voice says from the bathroom, and Bucky frowns into the pillow. He does not like the sound of that. And when your footsteps return, and he hears the clatter of your phone on the nightstand, he lifts his head to scowl at you as best he can. 

“Be where?” Bucky asks crossly, as a grin lights up your tired expression. “You shouldn’t be going anywhere. You just got back from Madrid four hours ago. You’re off duty, babe. The only place you should be, is here.” And he accentuates his point by pulling back the covers of your bed, patting the empty space beside him with a pointed look.  

You laugh, and it gives him hope - but then you turn away to start rummaging through your closet.  

“I’m off duty for the Avengers,” you explain over your shoulder. “But I’m on call for SHIELD this weekend. And Fury knows I’ve been busy; he wouldn’t call me in if he didn’t need me.” 

“Uh huh,” Bucky says, thoroughly skeptical.  

“It’s true. Fury knows the danger of a worn-out agent.” 

Clean underwear, and a clean bra. Bucky groans aloud - loudly and dramatically enough to make you giggle more. And when the black, long-sleeve SHIELD-issue shirt goes over your head, he nearly pretends to start crying.  

It’s been a long twenty-three days.  

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” he sighs, as your combat pants go on next.  

“It’s been a few weeks, Buck, that’s all…” Belt next, with empty sheaths awaiting armament.  

“Should’ve told Fury to call for Steve instead,” Bucky grumbles. 

“Steve’s in Orlando on a different assignment.” 

“Well - well - ” His spluttering is cut off as he watches you buckle the holster around your thigh - his physical response to this sight is a little painful and a little bittersweet. Shifting beneath the covers, Bucky props his head up on his hand, and gives yet another sigh. “You know what we need?” he muses. “A vacation. Just us. We can go somewhere. Anywhere.” 

“A mission for two?” you tease back, glancing over with those sparkling eyes. 

“No. A vacation.” 

A snicker. “Never heard of it.” 

“Don’t even pretend, babe,” Bucky growls. “Just you and me. No responsibilities. No phone calls, no Fury or Steve or Sam…” 

“Do we get food, at least?” Your weight sinks into the bed as you slide socks onto your feet, and Bucky reaches over to pinch your waist - you yelp, and start to laugh.  

“‘Course we do. And water. Plenty of water.” 

“Well, it sounds lovely, though short on details.” That smile is lighting up your face something extra beautiful as you stand, turning to lean over Bucky to kiss his pouting lips. He grunts, and you giggle kissing him again.  

“Stay,” he tries again, yanking a finger into your belt to tug you closer.  

“Sooner I go, the sooner I can come back,” you murmur against his lips, nose brushing against his. Your eyes are bright and beyond the exhaustion he sees, there’s that warm fondness that makes Bucky grin despite himself.  

“You gonna leave me here alone?” he teases.  

“Oh please - like you’re gonna steal from my gun stash.” 

“I might.” 

“There’s better stuff at the Tower.” 

“But it’s not yours.” 

“Then you’d better not start light-fingering my cutlery, either.” 

“There are other things I’d prefer to finger.” With his lips pressed close to keep from laughing, Bucky’s hand moves between your legs - but you just giggle again, and give his hair a solid tug.  

“Ouch!” He glowers as he rubs at the sore spot, but you’ve already moved out of range as you make for the door.  

“Don’t wait up for me,” you call back, your smile fading slightly as you study him for a moment - Bucky wiggles his eyebrows, and your laugh echoes in the apartment as you leave. Bucky’s head plops back into the pillows in resignation, and he tries to ignore the despair creeping in. It’s not right to be here without you. As much as he misses you, your space is extra empty, too... 

Too many missions. Too much time spent apart. 

The idea of a getaway hadn’t been half bad… 

A few minutes of brainstorming later, and Bucky finally has the energy to crawl out of bed, make it in a hurry (you’re very particular about that sort of thing), pull back on his shorts, and retreat to the living room where he had discarded his phone upon entry. And t-shirt. And socks.  

The day gets brighter, with a little more excitement - a little more to look forward to.  

Bucky’s good at planning. 

The next briefing by Stark is thirty-six hours later, in the waning afternoon as dusk settles over New York through the massive windows in the conference room. Bucky is barely listening - he’s already heard all the gossip from Sam and Natasha after their return from Detroit, and he’s not the least bit worried about Steve still in Orlando. Clint is nodding off - Bucky would be doing the same, if his master plan wasn’t about to play out.  

“So, that takes us up to this afternoon, and we have twelve hours until that boat docks in Cape Town,” Stark is saying, strolling around the table with his hands in his pockets. Bucky’s eyes are on yours as your gaze follows Tony - but your eyes are sparkling, and Bucky knows that’s meant for him. 

“Sorry, Sam and Nat - but I’m sending you two after it with Clint.” 

“Tony, we just got back,” Natasha protests, rubbing her eyes.  

“I know,” Tony sighs. "I was going to send Bucky, but he submitted a request for 'time off,'" -- this coupled with air quotations and an eye roll -- "just a few days ago, apparently. My secretary told me about it today. He must’ve known I’d send him chasing dirty guns across the Atlantic.” 

Bucky gets a few glares, but he doesn’t care.  

“Send 28,” Sam suggests.  

A pause. A slight downturn of your lips. “I can go,” you say at last, but your reluctance is in every word. “I mean, I’ve had one full night’s sleep one day this week. That’s more than Nat and Sam combined.” 

“Fury mentioned something about needing you next week,” Tony admits, as Sam gives a sigh of relief. Natasha leans over to nudge Clint, who snorts awake, and a phone buzzes beneath the table. 

“Sorry, that’s me.” You reach into your pants to pull out your phone. Everything is quiet for a moment - curious gazes from everyone, no matter how rude. Tony checks his fingernails. “Um, Stark,” you say in a small voice. “My - my grandmother passed away a few hours ago.” 

A distinct, awkward shifting in the tension of the room. A sniffle from you.  

“Nat, you’re back on the case,” Tony says briskly, in a very Tony-fashion. “Sam too. You have five hours ‘til launch - go sleep. Clint, you too. 28, I’ll prep you a jet - ” 

“No, no,” you tell him. Your voice is thick - Bucky tries not to grin as you rub your cheek. “It’s...only a few hours away. I’ll drive.” 

Tony shrugs. 

“Are you gonna offer me one of your nice cars, or?” you add on with a flicker of a smile.  

“Good to know you’re grieving,” Stark deadpans. “Take whatever you want. I’ll let Fury know you’re going to be out of town, if you need me to.” 

“No, I should be the one to let him know. Sorry, Tony. Sorry, Nat.” There’s an unapologetic grimace on your face as you push your chair away to stand.  

“What about me?” Sam asks. You stick out your tongue in his direction. Bucky smothers a snort.  

“See you all later - ” as you disappear through the door, and Bucky watches until your back is gone. The door swings shut, and Tony rubs his temples.  

“We need a break,” he sighs.  

Bucky just grins.  

It’s past nine when he finally saunters down the stairs (needed the exercise), and with a backpack over his shoulder and the memory of Sam chewing him out for taking time off when “the Avengers needed him the most,” Bucky whistles a bit to himself as he strides out of the Tower, and onto the sidewalk.  

Two blocks south, one block west. It’s not too busy in Manhattan, for a weeknight, and Bucky ignores the funny stares as he waits on a street corner. He doesn’t have to wait long - soon a sleek, dark purple car pulls up, and your beaming smile peers out as the window lowers.  

“Hey, there,” you tease, and Bucky can’t help laughing already. “Looking for a place to stay tonight?” 

“Why, you offering a good price?” he jokes back, slinging off his backpack to shove in the backseat.  

“I can offer you the best night of your life.” 

“Now that sounds like an offer a fellow can’t refuse.” 

He can hear your laughter as he strides around to the passenger side. It’s cramped, but he fits, and leans over for a kiss in greeting.  

“For the record, my grandmother died seven years ago,” you inform him, merging back into traffic. 

“I know.” 

“If Natasha has read up on me as much as you have, she’ll be suspicious.” 

“I think she has bigger problems,” Bucky chortles, wrapping his metal fingers around yours on the gear shift. “And also for the record - I’m glad we aren’t getting sent to Cape Town.” 

“Oh, I agree,” you say with a sigh. “I’m not sure I even realized how exhausted I am until Tony wanted me to go.” 

“A ‘thank you, Bucky’ would not go amiss,” he teases. 

There’s a glint in your eyes, reflecting the traffic lights all around. And your smirk - Bucky loves it so much. “I’ll be showing you my thanks all weekend,” you coo. “Now, give me the directions to this place you rented, or we’ll end up in Canada.” 

“I wouldn’t mind getting a little lost with you,” Bucky purrs back, making a show of leaning over into you, an arm over your shoulders as he punches an address into the GPS.

“I packed a gun or two,” you laugh. “We’ll get stopped at the border. And I don’t even want to know what illegal gadgets they’d find in Stark’s car. That wouldn’t be laying low, now would it?” 

“You’re right. As always.” 

“I know.” 

A few moments pass as you navigate through traffic - the city is fading fast behind, and your eyes flit over to the screen.  

“Four hours?” you exclaim. “You trying to exhaust me before we even get there?”

“I can drive, babe,” Bucky says soothingly. “You can nap.” 

A slanted, daring gaze. “I can think of better ways to pass the time,” you say lightly. 

“Oh? And what’s that?” His fingers creep over to your thigh, giving a slight squeeze before tracing innocent patterns upward. A slight catch of breath - and then a giggle. 

“I think you got the idea,” you tease. 

It’s 2 a.m. before Bucky pulls into the gravel driveway leading to the cabin he’d rented, Stark’s car might need an interior wash, and you’re dozing in the passenger seat with your shirt still riding up, showing off your deliciously smooth skin. 

He leaves you there, eyes still closed, as he opens up the little cabin - it’s small and quaint and clean, and the nearest neighbor is two miles away. That had been a selling point. That, and the lousy cell phone service out in the boonies. He turns on some dim lights, just so it’s not pitch black - and jogs back out to bring you in. 

Even with the forest looming all around, crisp pine and old leaves scenting the air, Bucky can see the stars twinkling above. Softer, gentler lights than New York - and there are crickets and cicadas instead of honks and horns. Your head droops against his shoulder as he carries you inside - eyes shut, but there’s a drowsy smile lifting your lips. 

“Good service,” you mumble, as he carefully doesn’t knock your head against the doorframe.  

“It’s supposed to be,” Bucky snarks back in a murmur. “It’s a vacation.” 

“That means we get to sleep in, right?” 

“Of course, babe.” 

“Good.” 

It’s 2:33 a.m. when Bucky’s satisfied with the security of the place (vacation or not - can’t stop being an agent), and he crawls into the fresh, clean sheets beside your warm body, wrapping you up close and letting out a breath as about a thousand worries leave his shoulders.  

The only worry left is one he’s happy to bear: giving you the best weekend of your life.

~

It starts to rain at about five a.m. 

Roused from slumber, Bucky stirs a bit, and tightens his hold around your waist as he buries his nose deeper into the crook of your neck. The light through the curtained windows is only about one shade softer than black, and the cabin shudders a little bit with a gust of wind. You don’t stir - and he dozes.  

The bedroom is about four shades lighter when Bucky is drawn back into consciousness again - his lips part as he sucks in a heady breath, realizing with a sensuous twist of his stomach that your backside is squirming against his front, and he’s hard. 

“Babe,” he growls, taking a nip at your ear. “I was sleeping.” 

“Not all of you, apparently.”  

He can’t help chuckling along with your bleary giggles. Then he pushes back, and a sigh slips from your lips, and Bucky’s hand disappears further beneath the sheets to tug down some underwear. Two pairs, to be precise.  

Tucked up around you as a distant peal of thunder rolls through the dreary sky outside; the rain on the windows picks up with a whoosh as more wind tries to invade the cabin - but it’s no use. The only moving air in the bedroom are his breaths; and yours - and your tilt your head slightly back so that Bucky can kiss your lips.  

It’s perfect.  

The sheets rustle, you moan in your throat, and Bucky grunts slightly with each thrust. It doesn’t take long - only a few moments later, with a flash of lightning through the curtains - and a private sort of explosion is shared between the sheets, ending in little chuckles and murmurs and gentle kissing.  

Like he said. Perfect.  

He dozes again afterwards, and so do you, still tangled and hearts still racing.  

“Oh, no - ” 

Woken up again - Bucky blinks his eyes opens to see your bare back, bent over the side of the bed with your phone in hand.  

“Whassisit,” he mumbles, stretching out with a yawn. 

“My phone is dead,” you say mournfully.  

“Good. Doesn’t matter. We’re not on call.” 

A massively dramatic sigh, and Bucky snorts to himself. “I just can’t function without you,” you whimper, and he rolls his eyes. “You make life make sense. Please, please don’t go. I - I can’t live without you…” 

“Oh, stop it.” Thoroughly irritated, he rolls onto his side to grab you around the waist - you yelp, and your phone falls to the floor with a clatter. “You,” Bucky mutters into your ear. “Are here for me. Now come back here, I want to put some hickeys on you. Mark my territory. Because I don’t get to do that often enough.”  

“Is this your idea of vacation, Bucky?” you tease, but turn around to crawl back in beside him. Eyes sparking mischief - he grins.  

“Yes,” he says flatly.  

“Didn’t you promise food? Because I’m starving.” 

“Hickeys first - food later.” And his lips find your throat, and you’re melting into his arms - and there are no more protests.  

By mid-morning Bucky makes it to the shower, while you yawn and stretch and go off in search of food - he takes his time in the hot water, enjoying the sensation of having nowhere to be and nothing to do (besides you, but that’s not a sacrifice.) With a courtesy pair of briefs covering his modesty, he wanders around the cabin and into the kitchen, grinning at the sight of you. 

Wearing a loose shirt of his and your own underwear (fits better, anyway), as well as a pair of socks that come up over your knees - you stand at the massive window in the dining area, steaming mug in hand, as you gaze out at the deluge pattering on the glass. He sneaks up behind, and wraps himself around you.  

“That smells good,” Bucky murmurs, and makes a pass at your tea - but you yank it away, glaring back at him.  

“Yours is steeping in the kitchen,” you tell him, a little severely. “You don’t get to dehydrate me.”  

“Is that a challenge?” 

“No!” But you’re laughing anyway, and he gets an elbow to the ribs. Bucky grunts, and chortles. Tightening his hold around your waist, he presses his cheek to the top of your head, gazing out the window as you take a sip of your tea.  

“I had so much planned for today,” he says with a sigh. “Hiking. Having sex in the woods. Oh, I rented a motorcycle too - I thought it would be fun to scope out the town. Have sex on the motorcycle somewhere off the side of the road.” 

You choke, and splutter, and he gets a few warm splatters on his face. Bucky doesn’t mind, and laughs as he dips his head to kiss behind your ear.  

“What, you don’t like my plan?” he says, pretending to be offended.  

“It’s a pretty good plan,” you allow. Your head tilts to the side, giving him better access. He likes that, and takes full advantage. “But I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve kidnapped me to keep me here as your sex slave.” 

Bucky chortles. “Complaining?”

“Not at all.” Your eyes are sparkling, and Bucky grins. “But - ” you add. “I think it should be the other way around.” 

“What, me as your slave?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” Takes Bucky about a second to decide. “Whatever you wanna to do with me, ma’am. I’m yours.” 

“I like the sound of that,” you coo. 

“What do you want me to do, huh?” he nibbles your earlobe, making you scrunch your nose. "Give you a lap dance? Let you sit on my face? You wanna drive the motorcycle, huh, babe? I’ll let you. Don’t even have to ask.”  

With a laugh you twist in his arms, flinging your free arm over his shoulder to pull him close. Bucky grins, pressing his hips into yours as your eyes dance. “I have an idea,” you purr, and your chest is pressed to his. Oh, this is good. He quirks a brow, and waits. “A great idea.” 

“Tell me,” he says hoarsely.  

“I - want - you - ” your fingers walk across his shoulder, to his neck and into his hair. Goosebumps trail along behind, and Bucky bites back a groan. Your lips curl into that special smug smile that’s just for him, and you whisper, so low that he has to bend his ear to hear - “to make me breakfast.” 

He groans aloud. “Babe…” 

“You said whatever I wanted!” 

“Fine. Fine.” Rolling his eyes, Bucky pulls away - and he glares a little, too - but you’re unrepentant and clearly amused. “I’ll make you breakfast, babe. You got an order for me?” 

“Yeah, I want eggs and toast. And yogurt.” 

“You’d better hope the refrigerator is stocked.” 

“Oh, it is. I checked.” A dimple forms beside your mouth, and Bucky dips down to kiss it. A sweet, herbal taste that’s just so you - so special and wonderful and has his heart doing funny little flips in his chest. But he just shakes his head. 

“Fine, I’m on it,” he says with a long-suffering sigh. Winding his fingers through yours, he pulls you along into the kitchen. “But on one condition.” 

“Yeah? What’s that?” 

“I wanna eat you out while the eggs are cooking.” 

Your warm laugh echoes in the cabin, and despite the storm outside - Bucky surmises that the weekend is going to go extraordinary well, no matter what. 

[secretblog1212]

DJ Reddie; The lucky seven

Words-1846

Warnings- character death, suicide at the optional ending

“Hello my sunny list’ners, how are y’all doin’ this here lovely morn’n?” Richie asked when the green light blinked. “Tuh-days mix is gunna be a throwback to this herey boys childhood. Back tuh the eighties we go. An’ Remember, I will take calls starting at Seven Thirty.”

    Richie sat back in his chair and put his head in his hands. He had felt off since he had woken up that morning. He couldn’t tell you what it was but it was making him nostalgic and he didn’t much appreciate it.

    His morning continued to go slowly and it got closer and closer to him taking his thirty minutes of requests. He would periodically stop the playlist and talk for a while before putting it back on. He couldn’t really get into character today and was feeling more than a little lost.

    As a song Richie couldn’t even remember the name of finished he prepared to start answering calls, it was seven twenty eight after all.

    He put his headphones on during the last verse and when the green light flicked back on her wasn’t fully prepared. “And that wraps up our eighties throwback. Now let’s talk about and appreciate just how interesting the eighties were for all different types of music. Of course not all of it is really rock like my taste now but i will admit to knowing most of the lyrics to some of those songs.” He leaned up closer to the mike and dropped his voice so it went gravely and deep. Sensual some would describe it as. “Now let’s get those calls coming in ladies and gentlemen. I can’t wait to hear what you have to say.”

    Of course the call lights started to flicker on. Most were teenage and young men and women who were getting ready for their day or driving to work. He wasn’t said to be popular for nothing.

    “Okay, first caller of the day. Who will it be? Who will have the honor?” Richie swirled his finger in a spiral before pressing a random number. “Name age and such sweetie.”

    A gruff manly voice answered which wasn’t exactly what Richie was Expecting. His face flushed with color before he could get over his shock. He wasn’t expecting a forty something lumberjack to be his first caller.

    “My name is Joe Wachum and I’m callin’ here to say that you’re content is hilarious and your playlist reminded me of my earlier years. Have to also say that your voices are amazing and I was wondering how you could switch em’ so fast?”

    Richie switched through a few of his best voices while explaining that he wasn’t sure ow  but he just could before Mr.Lumberjack had to say goodbye. He answered a few more calls that weren’t anything special.

    “Almost out of time already. Only a few more callers then I’ll have to say goodbye and see you tomorrow.”

    He chose another number at random. “Hullo darllin’ what can I do for ya’.” He said switching into his southern bell accent easily.

    “Um… Hey Richie? It’s Eddie, Eddie Kaspbrak. We were friends in school and I heard from Mike that your made it onto radio so I… Um… Yeah.” Said the small timid sounding voice on the other line.

    Richie’s face went white as a sheet. He could remember an Eddie from a long time ago but was this really his Eds after all these years. His boyfriend who he had to leave behind when his mom and dad moved out of Derry. The same Eddie who was the reasoning he never could keep a relationship and had made his standards so high and being honest… so male. His little germophobic little Eddie Spaghetti. His loser? His lover? No. It must be fake.

    “Listen here, I don’t know if you’re someone I used to know or how you know that name but if this is some kind of a prank then it really isn’t funny.” Richie’s voice had come out flat and monotone with out his meaning too. He was supposed to be the happy go lucky bubbly radio host. He couldn’t find a way to force any emotion in his voice though.

    “Listen here. It’s me Trashmouth. In was talking to Mike and he mentioned your gig and I told him I would give you a call. I tried your personal line but it was down or something. How am i supposed to prove to you this isn’t some stupid prank? How can I prove that?”

    Richie shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know where you are getting all these names but it you really are who you say you are then tell me something only Eddie would know. And when i say that I mean ONLY Eddie.”

    There was a moment of silence where Richie could see gestures of the crew behind the glass windows. He ignored them.

    “Once” The voice started suddenly. “You tried to climb through my window but you were dizzy and hallucinating with a high fever and you fell on your face and broke your glasses trying to get through the window frame. Your state of mind wasn’t much better than your physical.”

    Richie could feel his face heating up. He remembered blurrily Eddie taking care of him when he had a really high fever and was seeing a bunch of shit. At least he hadn’t mentioned that Richie had been really clingy and once he was better wanted to cuddle and kiss Eddie constantly. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of their dating or his bisexuality but it would be best not to bring that up live for both of them. Last Richie heard his gay little Eds had gotten a fiance anyway.

    “Well you definitely are my Eds but I do have to say that of course you would need to bring up me in a near hysterical state of mind. Thanks for that.” Richie had forgot they were on air. It was just him and Eddie now.

    “Oh!” Richie could practically see Eddie blushing and covering his face with his hands. “Sorry! That was just the first thing that came to mind since you used to crawl through my window all the time and i’m just going to stop talking before I make the situation worse.”

    Richie doubted it was the first thing, probably the first thing that came to mind that wasn’t about them dating. “Okay, well my people are telling me that it is time to end the broadcast so I will call you tomorrow unless my phones gets fixed tonight and I’m sure I can find your name in my phone book so that should work. Oh and-”

“Beep beep Richie. Yeah, just call me when your phone gets fixed. Bye!”

And with that the call was over, Richie got his phone fixed and Richie avoided the cast for nearly a full week until their questions died down. He and Eddie had a lot to catch up on.

Three years later

Richie and Eddie had kept in contact since the call on that fateful day. In fact he and Eddie had been dating for just over two years now. Richie had found out that Eddie couldn’t go through with the marriage and hadn’t had a relationship since.

Richie was kind of forced to come out to his audience not long after the call when he was asked directly by a fan. Like he said, he wasn’t ashamed.

Of course he had gotten some hate but overall it was a happy response.

Eddie had moved to Cali to be with Richie after a year of them talking, he moved to a different branch of his driving business and controlled it from there. Everything was good.

They shared Richie’s house for two years now and though some might say they were moving too fast they had been pining after each other and dating for a grand total of, if you included their childhood, nearly eight years.

Things were going very well. They had gotten in contact with the rest of the losers and now they all tried to meet up as much as possible. Things were still fuzzy even after all this time but they knew that if in upcoming years they wanted to defeat It they would need to be strong and bonded like they were in their childhood.

Richie had been busy lately though. He was planning a special surprise for his dear boyfriend, hopefully soon to be fiance.

He had asked Eddie to call him at “Exactly seven fifty seven babe. It’s really important.” so he would still be on air when he popped the question. He had even asked the losers to listen in if they could.

Eddie figured it would be something stupid Richie wanted to do again. He had no idea Richie had already bought a ring to give to him later that day if he said yes.

At exactly seven fifty six he cleared all the calls on the board. When the clock struck seven fifty seven a single light turned on.

Richie chose the line and began before Eddie could even say anything.

“Eddie i know this might make you hate me for not doing this in person but whenever I tried I would get really nervous and so I thought this would be the next best option.” He paused taking a big breath before starting again as to not ruin his momentum. “I’ve loved you since we were thirteen. We’ve been through a whole lot of shit but I want to continue to go through that shit with you by my side. Would you do little ole me the honor of giving me your hand in marriage?

There was a traumatizing, pregnant pause before a  small pinched voice came through on the line. “Yes you fuck face. Get your ass home so i can hug you you asshole.” Before hanging up. Richie smiled, the people behind the glass were clapping. The losers were each in their own corner of the world with mouths agape in shock, but Richie Tozier couldn’t of been happier.

Four years later (Sad ending but true)

After a scheduled week off of work he and Eddie visited Derry to defeat It Richie came home mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted.

He tried and tried and tried all for nothing. Eddie was gone and he was never coming back. Stan was gone and never coming back. The losers had broken back into their corners of the world like a puzzle with missing pieces. First Stan, then Eddie? It liked to work in cruel ways, it It couldn’t get rid of you the it got rid of everything you cared for.

After a week of depressingly going about his routine Richie knew he wouldn’t be able to return like things were normal again.

He guessed it was true about the lucky number seven.

Seven friends who made the oath originally.

Seven years with Eddie.

Seven days before Richie would join his two friends in death leaving only four left to grieve for their dead.

@richietoaster because you asked where the fic was… im sorry.

#richie toizer #eddie kaspbrak #reddie #adult characters #it #radio host richie #character death #suicide #sad #gay #the losers club #my own writing #im sorry #fic

[yanagibayashi]

Parts of a departure. (The walls were so blue, that morning. Sunlight filtered through the open windows and all I could notice was that in every room there was an empty chair. I couldn’t quite bring myself up to photograph the blue of the walls, but I have kept parts and pieces of this week for myself.) Goodbye. I didn’t know you as well as I would have liked to, but I’m glad I at least got to say goodbye. I’m glad I at least got to make the arrangements for the rest of you that was left behind. Death is a difficult concept to grapple with on the best of days. Immediately post-fact, what I noticed most was the emphasis on functionality and efficiency. The need to immediately ensure the space for others to grieve and for the body to either stay preserved or leave. For it to not be a hazard to others. For it to not be a ritual of only function. For all of this to work, at least one person has to remain entirely functional the whole time. What I noticed most was the need for the brisk, economic demonstration of functionality in the face of nerve wracking grief. I did not expect that that person would have to be me. It has been more than a few years since I’ve felt the need to document something (control a narrative or risk losing track entirely) as rigorously as I found myself wanting to document the ostensible things that he left behind, in the end. For me, what that boiled down to was keeping parts of his life towards the end for myself and my faulty, obsessive memory. In that moment, it felt so right I could not have stoped to think about it even if I wanted to. I just wanted to preserve some sense of what it was like to acknowledge for the first time in a very long time for me that the absence is not what hurts as much as the compelling hope for a potential return. Even as a floating spirit, even as a voice in a dream. Just something to tell me that it was okay to let go now, that it was okay to rest now. That it has been a hard year but it is alright to stop now. (It never came.) Even as I was clearing the room and burning the incense and getting the men to lay him down to rest for a while on the floor until his daughters arrived, I kept expecting him to open his eyes and wink at me like he used to. I kept expecting him to mumble something sharp and wickedly funny. I made the arrangements on Thursday from four in the morning to half-past midnight, and woke up early on Friday feeling restless and ill-rested. The entirety of Friday passed in a haze of sleep and nausea. I haven’t even cried. I cannot bring myself up to mourn because I feel both an immense rage at the circumstances of his passing and nothing at all. It has been three days since and all I can remember is the exhaustion of having to live so hard in the present moment for an entire day while the entire house full of nearly twenty other people that were far closer to him than I ever was were battered with guilt and grief. He was the eldest of my grandfather’s seven siblings, and the only one that ever really spoilt him. Ultimately, when my grandfather began taking care of the red house in the corner and everyone in it, even when Boddho-Nana couldn’t keep up with things, it was still him my grandfather felt the closest to. They lived in separate apartments on the same floor of this little red brick house in the corner for longer than my parents have been married. He used to run to the market to buy the biggest, freshest fish for me, when I’d visit as a child. That’s all I remember. Him buying the fish and his wife cooking the best maach-er jhol I’ve ever had. I remember nothing else of them but rickety impressions of a wooden folding screen and a large pressure cooker full of fish stew. All I really remember of him now is that his eyes twinkled with more mischief at 91 than I have seen in the eyes of many a younger man. I saw him the day I landed in Calcutta and thought to myself that he would not make it much farther. The situational irony of having come here to care for one grandfather and finding myself preparing the funereal arrangements for another (his eldest brother) is not lost upon me. Everywhere I flee to escape my responsibilities, I come across a reckoning. But, for now, goodbye. Maybe I will mourn you one day. Maybe I will find it in me to do that too. Maybe it will not be deft and economical at all. Maybe that, too, will be something inescapable that this year has left for me to find. Death takes and takes, but leaves so much behind. November, 2017. A death in the family.

#personal #photographs #mine #do not reblog

[aelin-and-feyre]

Ten Minutes Ago (Part 1)

Feysand - Cinderella au

Masterlist

I have this entire thing written already so I’ll be posting a new part a day over the next week. I hope you enjoy!

Once upon a time, there lived a small girl of about three years of age. She lived in a large farmhouse on the outskirts of Prythian, a small kingdom in peaceful harmony and run by seven High Lords. Feyre, as this small girl was called, had two loving parents and all the imagination in the world. Her mother was a beautiful woman who cared for their farm and all the animals with almost as much love as she gave her daughter. Her father was a hard working merchant who regrettably spent very little time with his family but cherished the time he did. Though her mother was a bit vain, Feyre was constantly taught to have humility and kindness for all things. They lived very happily together.

In the northern edge of Prythian, there lived a small boy of four years of age in a huge palace. His father, the young High Lord of the Night Court, and his mother, the young High Lord’s consort and mate. The boy’s name was Rhysand. Referred by the Night Court as Prince Rhysand, the boy led a charmed life of silver spoons but also of gilded cages, rarely being allowed to leave the palace grounds. His mother, Mary, was a generous and beloved queen, caring for her people and her son with all her heart. The High Lord was kind but also strong and strict, leading the Night Court with a firm hand. They also lived happily.

Feyre’s mother and Mary were in fact very good friends, having grown up together—a friendship they maintained even when Mary became royalty. The women took weekly walks and had tea together but they rarely had their families engage as both their husbands were very busy. Their kids played together sometimes, when Mary would invite Feyre along with them to the palace, but Rhys had his teachings so the two children rarely had time to play.

Feyre remembers that the two women used to sing a song whenever they were together, a song about first love called ‘Ten Minutes Ago’. The song was meant to be sung by a male and female throughout the verses but Feyre remembers fondly that the consort and her mother would alternate the parts over their strolls.

About six months after the Night Court princess was born, something horrible happened. Mary and Feyre’s mother went for a walk in the woods outside the palace grounds with the baby. Consort Mary had denied the guards’ escort and the two women walked the woods alone.

Their remains were found hours later seeming to have been attacked by a pack of bears.

All of Pythian grieved, the High Lord was in disarray, and the young prince was left in utter confusion of where his mother and sister had gone. For Feyre and her father, mourning the consort and princess was bad enough but Feyre also lost a mother and her father lost a wife.

The High Lord’s family and the Archerons had no more connection after that. Feyre never saw the prince again as the Court fell into despair. The High Lord still kept up his duties but was less kind and more strict.

The prince was shielded from the people. He grew up as a fierce warrior and hunter, killing animals of all sizes in the mountains that took up half the Night Court.

Feyre’s father coped in a different way: plunging himself into his work. However, it didn’t take him long to realize that Feyre needed a mother. Eventually, he married another, a woman named Amarantha Hybern with two daughters of her own—Nesta and Elain.

Soon after the marriage, Feyre’s father turned ill. The doctors did all they could, but he died of a broken heart just before Feyre’s eight birthday.

Amarantha, who had been pleasant in her husband’s presence, turned wicked. She treated Feyre like no more than a slave and placed the weight of the house, chores, and overall upkeep of the farmhouse on the young girl. Nesta and Elain followed their mother’s lead, making Feyre their servant and living like they were royalty. They even stopped calling her Feyre—’Cinderella’ seemed a fit name for their little sister, as she was always covered in cinders from the hearth.

As the girls grew, Nesta and Elain became calloused and mean, vain and pompous. Feyre on the other hand, grew up patient and kind, graceful and beautiful. The memory of her parents were clouded with the harsh words and acts of her new family, but she retained their love. She promised herself that she would remain kind, humble, and loving no matter what the Hybern’s did to her. And she kept that promise.

By the time Feyre was twenty two, she was an absolutely charming young lady with beauty to spare and a heart of gold. She was especially gifted with animals. All the creatures on the farm were her friends, even the mice—all but Attor, Amarantha’s wretched cat.

Her Stepmother despised her. She piled on work, moved her to the attic, dressed her in rags, and fed her table scraps, but Feyre never talked back, never became angry, and never disobeyed.

At twenty two Feyre would have been allowed to leave, but she couldn’t fathom the thought of leaving her parent’s home and decided to endure the wrath of Amarantha and her step sisters.

Prince Rhys grew up hurt. His father never fully recovering from his mate and daughter’s death and pushed it on his son, teaching him to hunt and battle instead of how to rule. Rhys was kind but fierce, intelligent but cunning, always ready for the next hunt.

However, when he reached 20 years old and his father fell sick, Rhysand decided to leave the Court to learn how to be a High Lord. He could see that his father would not be fit for the job soon.

Now, a week before his twenty-third birthday, Rhys returns from his studies to the Night Court….

...

“Rhys!” The High Lord exclaims, strong enough today to get out of bed. He walks over to his son and envelops him in a hug. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, boy.”

“I’ve missed you too, father.” The prince replies as large footsteps sound through the halls. Rhys catches a glimpse of long brown hair before he is pulled into another hug. “Woah, sasquatch.” He mutters, trying to regain his footing. His best friend and Captain of the Guard thumps him on the back, then pulls away. Rhysand looks Cassian up and down, now having to tilt his head back to see his brother’s face. “I must not be in as much shape as I thought—you’re bigger than me now. I was only gone for two years!”

Cassian shrugs. “Snooze, you lose, man. How are you doing?”

“I’m great! Better than great, I’m grand!” Rhys’ smile is contagious.

“Didn’t do too much sleeping around while you were gone I hope?” The High Lord asks, nudging his son with a smile.

Rhys straightens up. “Please father, I went there to learn to be High Lord.” He can’t even keep a straight face through the whole sentence and all three men burst out laughing.

“Well you can tell us all about it later. For now, I need to speak with you.” The High Lord places a hand on Rhys’ shoulder and leads him to the staircase. “Cassian, will you excuse us please?”

“Sure, I’ll talk to you later, dude.” And then Cassian marches away. Rhys hopes he is going to find Azriel. The three of them have been apart for too long.

“What do you need, Dad?” The prince asks as they walk into his office. The High Lord sits down in his chair and Rhys sit across, suddenly nervous.

His father takes a deep breath. “I’m dying Rhys.”

“Wow, that’s one way to kill the mood,” Rhys mutters and the man scowls but otherwise ignores the statement.

“You knew this was happening so I’m not easing you into it but because of this fact there is something you need to do.” This gets Rhys’ attention and his joking demeanor vanishes. The High Lord attitude he’s been trying to perfect assumes his features. “Your birthday is on Sunday and I have planned a three day ball in your honor, the last day being your birthday.”

“Sounds fun,” Rhys nods contemplatively. “Who’s invited?”

“All eligible ladies in the Court and some princesses from neighboring ones.” The High Lord responds and Rhys’s smile drops. This is not happening. “At the end of the three days I want you to pick a consort.”

Rhys stands abruptly. “No,” he states, glaring at his father. “I will not pick a wife out of your ‘eligible’ ladies. I will not marry for advantage. I will marry for love. I’m waiting for my mate.” He swears they’ve had this conversation a dozen times.

His father remains calm, passively looking up at his son from his chair. “Who’s to say you won’t find your mate at the ball? Or fall in love with one of the ladies enough to remember that mates are not always a sure thing?” He asks and Rhys grinds his teeth. The High Lord sighs and holds up his hands. “All I’m asking is that you give them a chance. Make an appearance to the public, dance with some fair maidens, and keep an open mind. Can you do that for me?”

Rhys stands ramrod straight and contemplates the proposal. He is mad as hell but he can’t deny his father this, he has to at least try. “Fine. Send out the invitations.”

...

Feyre is just finishing her afternoon chores when a knock comes at the door. Nesta and Elain are upstairs singing and her stepmother is reading, so Feyre rushes to answer before the sound disturbs them. A royal mail carrier stands with a large envelope in his hand.

“Invitation to a grand ball in honor of Prince Rhys for Lady Hybern,” he proclaims and hands the note to Feyre. He’s turned around and down the steps before Feyre even closes the door. She just stares at the invitation in awe.

“Stepmother!” She exclaims as she runs to the sitting room. Amarantha lets out an irritated sigh.

“You interrupted my reading,” she scolds. “This had better be good.”

“Oh, it is Stepmother! We just received an invitation to the royal ball-“

“Royal ball?” Amarantha practically squeals, springing out of her seat and snatching the note from Feyre’s hand. “Nesta! Elain! Stop that racket and get down here this instant!”

Pounding is heard from the hallway as the girls run down the stairs in their highheels. Amarantha finishes reading the invitation and looks like she is about to faint.

“What is it, mother?” Nesta asks.

Amarantha shoves the invitation into her daughter’s face. “We are invited to the royal ball in honor of the prince’s birthday. It says that every invited eligible maiden is to attend.”

The girls squeal and start asking questions. Feyre’s ears perk up at the mention of every maiden. That means she can go as well.

“Cinderella!” Amarantha calls and Feyre jumps from her excited haze. “Run down to the tailor and have them make seven elegant dresses, you know our sizes.”

“Stepmother, why ever would we need seven? There’s only four of us.” Feyre reminds helpfully and Amarantha looks at her like she is missing a screw.

“What do you mean?” She asks, genuinely confused.

Elain pipes up before Feyre can answer. “Oh, mother, she thinks that she’s coming with us. How cute.” Feyre feels her cheeks heat as the girls snicker.

“Well, why can’t I come with you? The invitation says every invited maiden is to attend.” She argues defiantly.

“No,” Nesta chortles gracelessly. “It says every eligible maiden.”

Elain nods. “And you are not eligible.”

Feyre is hurt. Sure, her hair is grimy with soot, and her clothes are old and torn, but with a nice bath and a new dress, she could look just as beautiful as them.

“No,” Amarantha chides. “You are not going to the ball. The event will be three days long so I need three dresses for Nesta, three for Elain, and one for me. You will just attract unwanted attention. Besides, we can’t show up with our servant girl, we’ll be a disgrace!”

They’d called her worse, but Feyre still feels the sting. She muffles it for now and just nods. “I understand Stepmother, I will go fetch the tailor.” She says quietly.

“Good girl. When you get back, finish the chores.” Feyre nods again and leaves. Tears sting her eyes and she doesn’t let them flow until she is a safe distance away from the farmhouse.

Masterlist

#feysand #feyrhys #feyre #rhysand #rhys #feyrexrhysand #cassian #azriel #acotar #acomaf #cinderella au #my writing #acotar fanfic #feysand fanfic #feyrhys fanfic #amarantha #nesta #elain #prythian #feysand cinderella au #acotar au #acomaf fanfic #acotar fanfiction #high lord of the night court #ten minutes ago

[immortalviridian]

parting is such sweet sorrow

@juminvweek

Day Two - Reunited

3,533 words

Fluff (mostly)/Slight Angst

Pre-Game

Source

After a painful year and a half, Jumin Han and Jihyun Kim finally had a break to come and see each other again. They had four days and three nights together. Both intended to make full use of them, even if it meant that they would draw their own silent conclusions about each other, for better or worse.

The scary story was taken from Sakura/Azura’s supports in Fire Emblem: Fates if you know what they are because I suck at telling scary stories.

Everyone knew that Jumin Han worked harder than anyone else in his company, even more than Jaehee Kang. However, there were some things he just couldn’t miss out on, especially since the window of opportunity was rather tight. One had to consider though: what kind of friend would he be if he were to turn down a three-day vacation with Jihyun Kim after all? Their itinerary would be a tour of the finest beaches and many high-end restaurants along the coastline. From there, V would head off on his most recent flight and Jumin would attend a business meeting in Busan in their financial center, just as they had agreed.

Carefully, the first night, the two had settled into their hotel room, sharing a single bed and flat screen tv in the lounge. There was a mini kitchenette as well. It wasn’t like the two were tight on money, of course. They just were used to this set up at their own homes, but the homes they currently had were filled too much of recent pains. Jumin and V wanted to go back to better days. So they would stay in a high rise that looked over the glittering water of the southern coasts. It was breathtakingly beautiful, just as the two men would have preferred. They rested side by side on the bed, lying down but not asleep or dozing off. With a one-armed, lazy embrace, the teal haired man, his best friend drew him closer. Jumin arched a brow and narrowed his stormy gray eyes at the other man. Quickly, they widened though, as Jihyun pressed his soft lips against the shell of his ear with a mischevious grin.

“Jihyun, I just realized, it’s been a really long while since you’ve told me one of your stories, hasn’t it?”

“Quite. Work and traveling have often gotten in the way, but I thought you didn’t like my scary stories. I guess you liked them after all.” The ex-photographer chuckled, taking off his jacket and setting it aside. Jumin followed suit.

“Hardly. They were over-dramatized little tales meant to scare me, but you told me them so very earnestly that I couldn’t help but yearn to know what the endings to those stories were.” He snorted lightly in amusement, humoring the other man delicately.

Jihyun explained with a hint of a smile on his face,“You know, sometimes people want to be scared. It helps them keep their minds off of things.”

Jumin couldn’t resist wearing a smile as well. “I would have to say I am not one of them. I simply enjoyed staying up all night with you and talking to you.”

The cat lover let out disgruntled sounds as his best friend attacked him with feather-soft pokes, meant to tickle and tease at him. “Hehe,” the little rascal started, “I still remember. Your eyes were as wide as saucers!” He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as the older male made embellished hand gestures to supplement this barrage of foolhardiness. “You’d be shaking like a leaf!” Another poke came Jumin’s way, right on his side, and an unwilling laugh bubbled out of his mouth. “But still…” Turquoise orbs danced with mirth as Jihyun continued with the light and slightly malicious tone of a storyteller who enjoyed himself far too much. “You’d plead with me to keep going. You had to know the end!”

“Stop this at once, Jihyun! Did you forget that I was only six then? I was quite little at the time - don’t you dare go around telling others I’m a scaredy-cat!”

“Pfft.” The mint haired male wiped his lips as he recovered from a long burst of exuberance, gasping for air with a shit-eating grin. “You have my word, Jumin, but there are no promises that others can’t see it for themselves. You were so very cute then.”

V didn’t quite give in as easily as Jumin had thought he would. He aimed an analytical gaze at the CEO, his lightened teal eyes now sparkling with more life than he could recall, forcing a feeling of nostalgia upon Jumin. It was quite bittersweet. This past year and a half were rough on both of them. There was a great distance between them even long beforehand, with Rika around. Especially when she was around - Jumin could recall upon his memory that he wanted her to be his. For a while, he wondered why - the photographer and CEO were much more alike than many would have suspected. Rika found love and inspiration in Jihyun’s work, and in turn, Jihyun had grown to love Rika for how she viewed the world - so beautifully, so painfully naive. His heart felt like it was tearing in two, almost, since it appeared that he too was losing his best friend. In the end, Jumin had found the blonde’s mysteries intriguing; he felt like someone understood him other than V could listen to him.

Yet, he could not understand her. After all, V had gravitated from Jumin to meet Rika at her own philosophical end; such philanthropy knew no bounds. As much as he coveted a mirror that would show who he truly was and who he wanted to become, nothing was more important than the bond he had built up with V. He remembered when V used to look at him that way, when the young six-year-old had imprinted on an overly mature boy who yet somehow succeeded to be about one month younger. Jumin remembered how Jihyun had followed him around like a reverent temple worshipper. It was almost embarrassing and it lasted for many years. That was until V and Rika had met.

There was a part of Jumin that was gnawing at the truth. V was becoming like Rika; he was imitating her even, albeit far from perfectly. He went with all her plans without complaint or inquiry because he believed in them too, until the last few weeks surrounding his fiance’s death, when he just seemed plaintively desperate. It broke Jumin’s heart to see the man close up and grieve on his own - V wasn’t that much of an extrovert, nor someone with lots of self-confidence. Neither did he reveal his secrets easily. However, there was only something Jumin knew and that was that some way, somehow, Jihyun was hurting, like he was lost or like he was missing something. The name Elizabeth 3rd reminded him of the days when Jihyun was much more stable and when Jumin had two people to listen to him without it having to become a crowd. And the cat reminded him of the company, of the understanding and stability that Jumin had always longed for. Yet, the now twenty-seven-year-old man was making excuses of his own.

Perhaps he had wanted Rika, but he had never wanted her alone - no, he wanted her because it was the only way he could have V by his side at that point. It was why he didn’t act on his feelings. What kind of friend would take away what V and Rika seemed to have? Truth be told, Jumin didn’t quite understand what the two had between them. Whether it was his own lack of experience or perhaps just plain disinterest, the CEO of C&R International really only longed for the friendship he had had with Jihyun; the one where he was a sort of knight who had defended and guided a gentle prince who was able to zero in on all the elegance of the world, even as a small child.

Seeing that Jihyun had fallen asleep, Jumin was able to smile freely yet sadly at long last. There were still traces of that little prince left. Now, if only the rest of that bright, energetic boy would come back home too.

Their second day was quite productive, the raven haired male thought. Lightly embarrassed and a little frustrated too, Jumin had to constantly remind V to put on his sunscreen and to not stay out in the sun for too long. His strong grip was always around the other man’s warm palms or slender wrists; Jumin didn’t mind guiding and guarding his charge, but it almost was like Jihyun had forgotten he could only really see with one eye. Sometimes he reached for his absent camera like it was a phantom limb. He constantly wandered near the water, when he could easily drown or get lost in the waves and end up only God knows where. It was so troublesome that Jumin had begun to show signs of what he considered heart palpitations, even though technically he was far too young to have them, but a man of his status ought to have been prepared for everything. Or at least, he thought he did.

Yet somehow, they both managed to have every meal of the day - a full English breakfast, the specialty barbecue of their hotel for lunch, and last but not least, a surf-and-turf dish at a restaurant right on the waterfront. It was so luxurious that V had suggested one time, “If and when you find someone special enough to love ever so fully, maybe you should take them out on a date like this. I am quite certain that if your suitors saw me with you like this, they would get jealous.”

“To hell with them, Jihyun. You’re the only one I want with me.” In response, his guest had blushed rather prettily, for a lack of better words. A smirk crept onto the businessman’s face without realizing it before he took yet another sip of his Chianti Classico.

It only widened when V shrank back in his seat, hiding his face behind a menu as a great heat rose up to his face and ears. Satisfied, Jumin stole a glance of rosy red cheeks. They had stayed silent until it was time to order dessert: six petite cream puffs filled with custard and pelted with confectionary sugar. It was one of their favorites as children whenever the two had dinner at the old mansion Jumin used to live in. He missed those sleepovers. Bright blue eyes blinked their fine eyelashes at him as if they knew what the corporate heir was thinking. He seemed composed enough now, so Jumin braced himself for whatever was in store.

“Hello, Jumin. Are you ready for another tale of mystery and horror?”

The younger of the two shook his head slowly and firmly. “No! Honestly, where do you come up with these frivolities?”

Very simply, Jihyun replied almost carefreely, “Luciel had told me it.”

“Oh, great. Well, if you’re interested in telling me another one of those silly stories, you’re out of luck. The last one was annoying enough.” Haughtily, he wrinkled up his nose, before suddenly, Jihyun had caught him off guard with a question only two milliseconds later.

The angelic smile and blinking wide eyes on the light blue haired man’s face was the perfect epitome of faux-innocence. “Which one was that, Jumin?”

“The one about the monster in my family’s mansion, back in our old neighborhood,” he allowed graciously, desiring to entertain Jihyun for the rest of their summer nights. His heart fluttered; nothing, not even the cream puffs, were sweeter than the picture of V smiling beautifully and innocently in front of him - he wanted to preserve it forever and ever despite knowing it simply could not last. Jumin pushed aside this gentle pain; there was more to their future than this.

A dulcet giggle sounded from the ex-photographer, as he eyed Jumin with those fox-like eyes once again.“Oh, that one WAS good! I remember now. I overheard that one from a few of the servants… Hanging in the castle was the portrait of a middle-aged man. At night, he’d sneak out of the painting and steal the maids right from their beds!”

“Jihyun… this is ridiculous. I don’t need to hear it again-”

Jumin was quickly silenced by his own intrigue. It was a milder version of being hung by his own leotard, he remarked mentally, except he would never in his right mind even dare to wear something as frivolous as that kind of garment. Still, he, with a bated breath, waited for V’s tale. “Heehee. I’m not sure I told you the ending to that one… On a moonless night, a maid heard footsteps coming from a dark hallway. Everyone else was asleep, so where do you think those sounds were coming from?”

“I don’t know. Where?” Jumin gazed at Jihyun curiously like a cat.

The teal haired man’s face lit up as he answered, “She was too scared to look, so she hurried off to bed. The maid couldn’t sleep a wink! When morning came, she rubbed her sleepy eyes and headed to work… Except everyone in the castle was acting odd and speaking in hushed whispers. Then, when they rounded up the maids, half of them had vanished!”

“Wha!?” His listener sputtered, partially because it sounded like another story being passed around by the mansion’s old maidservants. It probably was.

Jihyun took a deep breath before continuing. “The maid asked around, ‘Where are the other girls? "If they overslept, they’re going to be in trouble!’”

To his delight, Jumin became one shade paler, forcing himself to stay calm but he couldn’t as his guest leaned over him. They were close, so close! At first, it was pleasant to have V on top of him - it was like the rough housing of their earlier days. “Wh-what did the servants tell her?!”

With a voice as deep as a mummer's, V whispered in Jumin’s ear even more theatrically than what Jumin imagined to be Zen’s work, “They said, 'What maids? We’ve never heard of them before…’”

The tempo of Jihyun’s voice sped up as he pulled the black haired man closer to him. There was a painful pause at the start before Jumin uttered out a meek sound: “Huh?!”

Almost immediately, Jihyun started up again. “The poor maid searched the entire castle, but couldn’t find a sign of them. The maids’ rooms were completely empty- as if they’d never existed! Then she remembered the painting, and she knew. It was him! He’d come for them!”

The fast pace and the close proximity he had to his best friend made Jumin feel dizzy. Covering his ears, he let out a loud gasp and strangled yelp as V got up and tackle hugged him from behind.

Despite this, the story did not stop, not yet. Perhaps what made the next few words more frightening was that they were told in a whisper. “The maid wondered why she’d been spared. Was he coming back for her?”

“Jihyun…! I asked you to stop! It’s too scary. It’s TOO scary! Thanks to you, I’m probably going to have nightmares for a month!”

Gently, the storyteller patted Jumin’s back and rubbed it with both hands in a soothing circular pattern before suggesting, “Well, then, if you want, you can remove the bolster from our bed and sleep with me properly.”

“Y-You don’t mean that way, do you?”

V nodded before winking at him. “Unless if you want me to.” Jumin lightly whacked V on the side with his napkin before laughing.

“Alright, I will take up on your offer,” the CEO conceded with a sigh, “but I will have you know I am far too old to be afraid of these antics between you and Luciel, and far too old to be afraid of the dark, too.”

Jihyun only smiled serenely. “Haha, are you sure about that?” Time would tell.

Jumin Han had never slept so soundly and peacefully before, except in a long while. He, of course, woke up first to order in breakfast before pulling the covers over the teal haired male gently. The rest of the day was relatively calm. They had gone to see, or rather, hear a musical at a festival nearby, put on by an independent troupe of actors. Every time V had smiled or clapped to the beat of the show tunes when he thought no one was noticing, he gazed at the older male especially tenderly. Jumin swallowed a gulp, trying to speak as minimally as possible for the remainder of the day.

In the early twilight, he finally got up the courage to continue speaking naturally to V.

“What’s wrong, Jumin? You seem a bit troubled,” his companion remarked before carding slender fingers through locks of shiny raven black hair.

“That story you told earlier… I’m surprised you were able to remember. Was it difficult?” He managed to keep his cool. Good.

Jihyun started to scratch his own head in thought. “No, the fun part was seeing how you reacted, although I’m sorry if it irritated you instead.”

“A long time ago, the students at our school used to gossip about you,” the younger man admitted. “They said you were weird, weak and frail. That something was wrong with you - like you couldn’t communicate properly. They poked fun at how… effeminate you are.” Well, he couldn’t deny V had a slender, refined figure. “I… I should have done more. I silenced them whenever they treated you so uncouthly if they joined a conversation of mine. Now I know I ought to have doubled my efforts…”

“Jumin-”

Gently, he intertwined his fingers with Jihyun’s and brought his hand up to kiss its knuckles sweetly, courage and adrenaline breathing new life into the gesture. “They were wrong. They had no idea how kind and beautiful and strong you are.”

“It was a long time ago, Jumin. Please don’t fret over it.” The mint haired male smiled uneasily at him. “Thank you…”

“No, thank YOU. You were my one source of light these days and in previous ones. You have no idea how special you are to me. I should have spoken up more. I’m sorry.”

“I should be the one apologizing; you’ve always had to stand up for me whenever I was too shy to to do it myself,” V insisted, holding onto Jumin’s hands tightly, now with both hands. “I’ll become even stronger for you and everyone else then.”

The businessman glanced over the other man’s profile carefully. “Is that so?”

“Yes, but you should try harder too. You’re very kind to everyone in the RFA, but you know, you can trust them more like you do for me and Elizabeth the 3rd. Sometimes you need to be reminded that we’ll patiently try our best to help you in any way we can.”

Nodding his assent, Jumin watched Jihyun watching him and realized that they all were getting older - yet, the sweet boy that Jihyun once was never had left. It filled his heart with warmth. They stayed like this for a while too, under their bed covers, until they slowly drifted off to sleep.

Their goodbye the next day was a particularly tough one. Both men were fighting back an urge to cry, so instead, they hugged each other, this time more firmly than they could remember. There was something ominous in V’s tearful smile - those pale, unseeing and misty eyes reflecting back a darker truth he wished he didn’t have to handle. “Will we talk soon? Will we talk soon?” Jumin had asked him. Jihyun only shook his head. He said he didn’t know. But it wasn’t all sad; they had stopped by the duty-free goods shops at the airport and they found a selection of very cute stuffed animals. Particularly, Jumin took a liking to the one like his own cat; he already missed her dearly, but at least the fun he had made it all worth it.

“Oh, it’s beautiful. Wouldn’t Elizabeth be afraid of her replacing her like the little princess she is?”

Jumin chuckled. “Oho, not at all. It’s a boy. I’m thinking of naming him Jihyun, after you.” V blushed at this, and he patted the former photographer’s back before he suddenly searched with blurry eyes for a black cat himself. V was pouting, and it was quite adorable.

“I refuse to go without one of my own then! I’ll name this one Jumin!”

It was then that the businessman had smiled more than he could ever bear to remember. It made parting so much easier when Jihyun had to leave for his flight. He bit his lip. There would have been more pain if he had tried to kiss V, Jumin supposed. It was a heavy thing to accept, that he was in love with his best friend.

Until he had disappeared into the aircraft shuttle, silver orbs followed Jumin’s best friend until they could no longer see him.

That was the last time Jumin Han had seen Jihyun Kim alive.

#juminvweek #juminv #juv #vumin #day two #reunited #fic #mystic messenger #jumin han #v #jihyun kim

[angel-gidget]

Stars Unearth Your Fires (ch4/?)

Title:  Stars Unearth Your Fires (Ch 4/?)

Fandom: DCU, Teen Titans, Red Robin (preboot)

    Rating:  PG  | Words: 2800  | a03 link 

    Summary: Tim Drake never thought of himself as a troublemaker as far as Robins go. But a passing accusation quickly escalates into a case of stolen memories, technologically backwards clues from his past self, interdimensional hijinks, reflections on the good old days, and possibly the rekindling of a foregone romance. Eventually Tim/??? Mystery ship!

Ch 4: Tim has to look up an old friend or two before he can dig up his (hopefully existent) clue.

A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the lateness of this chapter. It’s ended up becoming my longest one yet. Thank you so much for the amazing reviews! While there is sadly no Core Four in this chapter (Bart tried to elbow his way in, he really did), they will make more appearances soon. It’s time for Tim to reconnect with a few non-caped companions. My lovely beta Kiragecko took a much-deserved break this week, so all mistakes are 100% me. Sorry if I missed anything!

He and Ives were still friends. He was pretty sure. Mostly. At least, the guy hadn’t taken it too personally the last time Tim had visited out of the blue without speaking to him for over a year.

If anything, Ives had been shocked that Tim wanted to hang with him when he was in the middle of cancer treatment, as so many other friends had flaked out when things got too intense. Tim had just been grateful to have warning, for once, that one of his friends might die. He wasn’t usually so lucky, though he didn’t know how to tell Ives that without telling him way too much.

Two rings. Three. And then—

“Does my caller ID deceive me, or is this richest and dorkiest of my foul weather friends?”

“Don’t you mean fair-weather friends, Ives?”

“No, no, I don’t. You should brush up on your Shakespeare. And cheap surfer-stoner productions in the park don’t count, by the way,”

There were voices in the background, and music too. If anything, Tim would have sworn Ives was in the middle of a… club?

Ives continued, “I do mean foul-weather. That’s what you call people who stick with you when life is sucking but unexpectedly ditch you when it’s time to party. Case in point: I’m throwing a party and you’re not here. Because you never pick up your damn phone, you ass.”

Oh. OH! “Congratulations on your remission, man.”

He could hear the smile through the phone. It wasn’t the same as being totally forgiven, but Ives wasn’t the sort of person who could be happy and hold a grudge at the same time.

“Thanks. It’s my one-month anniversary of the big NED. Looks like for the time being, I’ve rolled a twenty on breathing. It’s worth celebrating.”

Smooth opening. Here we go.

“Feel like doing a more personal celebration too? Maybe something nostalgic? Like digging up our time capsule from the 8th grade? I’ll buy the pizza.”

“Oh, man. Yes. You better, Prince Midas. Hold up.”

He was distracted, clearly talking to somebody else at the party. Tim took a moment. It was just as well that he’d caught Ives when he was distracted. The guy didn’t do parties much. Introvert that he was, they took a lot out of him, including his tendency to say no to things. Even before he’d been sick. Tim didn’t have many childhood friends, but they were bookish gamer geeks, the lot of them.

Ives voice came back on the line.

“I got a friend who wants to come with. The dude’s curious about everything, a real Nancy Drew. Wants to know about my nerdy little 8th grade self. I told him the biggest difference was that I was little and in the 8th grade, but he’s bored and I promised to include him in more stuff.”

“That’s cool. Saturday, noon?”

“That’s high noon to you, buckaroo. And yes.”

——-

He’d outgrown his best nerd shirts.

Tim didn’t even know when it had happened. It wasn’t that they didn’t fit him through the arms and chest—he was wiry enough that they did—but he’d gotten so long in the torso, that the edges of his shirts rose up obnoxiously from the waist of his jeans, constantly baring strips of skin.

When this had happened to Cassie, she’d embraced it and pulled off the sexy belly-shirt like a pro. Tim… couldn’t do that. Or rather, he couldn’t do that without pulling out a persona.

Ives had an meet-up with Tim Drake, not Mr. Sarcastic. So belly nerd shirts were a no-go.

He’d yanked out what appeared to be his least-expensive hoodie and Alfred-purchased designer jeans, and hoped for the best. This was supposed to be about nostalgia for Ives, though Tim had mixed hopes.

What would be worse? Finding nothing but exactly what they had buried years ago, and pretending to laugh with his friend while secretly pulling out his hair over a dead end of evidence? Or finding the evidence he needed in its place, but then having to somehow cover for the oddness of whatever they found by lying to Ives again?

It had been a while since he’d had to lie to someone he loved, and Tim wanted to keep it that way. (And lies of omission didn’t count. Especially to Bruce. And to Dick. And to whomever else he’d been lying to by means of omission lately.)

“Best not to overthink it,” Tim muttered to himself. He had been ten minutes early to the discolored tree that had been the site of his and Ives’ 8th grade paint-ball fight. Also, the site of their only paintball fight, because apparently nobody had told Ives that there tended to be bruises from such a thing.

If Ives was anything like his old self, he’d be five minutes early, and… yup.

Tim smiled and waved as Ives’ old Chevy pulled into the park’s lot. He was about to say hello, when a second person slid out from the car, following after Ives with a growing Cheshire grin on his face.

Tim gasped, “F@*#$ing hell.”

Bernard Dowd.

Ives new Nancy Drew pal was Bernard. Fragging. Dowd. The nosey-est (and therefore worst possible) person to have on a dig that might or might not yield incriminating signs of inter-dimensional antics.

“Why Timbo! With a greeting like that, one would almost think you weren’t pleased to see me.” Bernard bumped the car door closed with his hip as he balanced a brand new shovel on one shoulder.

Ives blinked, “You two know each other?”

Tim scratched his head, “You two know each other?”

“As I’ve told you both,” Bernard set the shovel down by the largest tree root, “I know everyone who’s anyone.”

As if to prove the solidity of his nonchalance, Bernard took his best guess as to which patch of dirt housed the capsule, and made a sweeping ‘you first’ motion with his arm at Tim and Ives.

Tim pulled out Alfred’s trusty gardening hoe, and braced himself as Bernard began to snicker. Because he’d brought a hoe. Because, for all his eloquence, Bernard was emotionally twelve. Ives stared at them both like they had doubled their number of arms and limbs and turned green.

Tim felt his eyes narrow in suspicion in Bernard’s direction, “You knew I’d be here.”

Bernard pulled back his laughter into a finely-controlled smirk, “When dear ol’ Sebastian told me he had an eccentrically neglectful, ridiculously rich childhood compadre named Tim… well, I did the math. But I waited for a face-to-face to be sure,” He winked, “It’s more fun that way.”

Tim purposefully and carefully ignored that entire description of himself as he stared incredulously at Ives.

“You actually let him call you Sebastian? Him?”

“It was the only way to get him to stop calling me ‘St. Ives’ along with several other unholy variations of my surname,” Ives took a deep breath and pitched his own shovel into the dirt, “Now lets get this show on the road.”

Once the digging began, it was a simple matter to let Bernard dominate the conversation, explaining to Ives that he and Tim had gone to the aptly-named Grieve High for a semester together. Until the Aquista gang war had come to their front door step.

Tim’s mind remained vaguely on Bernard’s story, but mostly on the ground they were unearthing. There was a reason Bernard had been able to see the digging spot. It was especially uneven compared to its surroundings, overgrown with grass that was clearly seeded, a slightly different color than what was surrounding it.

Which was suspicious, considering Tim and Ives hadn’t laid down any grass seed when they were kids. Not that someone responsible for the park couldn’t have laid something down, but it didn’t look quite right. It had been what? Six? Seven years since he and Ives had buried the thing? It should have blended with the rest of the milieu perfectly. But it didn’t. Not quite. As though it had been dug up again at least once in the interim.

“Earth to Timinator,” Ives poked him in the forehead, “Is it true?”

“Is what true?”

Ives looked like he wanted to smack Tim with his shovel and Bernard looked… oddly serious.

“Did Bernard’s dream girl turn into a super villain and try to kidnap you?”

And this was why he didn’t want Bernard here. There was the guy’s ongoing conspiracy theory habit, and then there was the fact that he had actually seen way too much.

“No,” Tim heard Bernard begin to protest, but he continued, “Darla didn’t try to kidnap me. She tried to make me into her personal moral compass and I told her where to get off.”

Bernard stared, “You what??? But she—you—she dismantled my car! She had these… these…”

Ives jumped in, “Phenomenal cosmic powers?”

“Yes,” Bernard continued, “And you just told her to go jump off a cliff? And got away with it? What the hell, Timothy!”

Tim blinked. He had forgotten about that. When Darla Aquista had died and returned from the dead with dark magic powers via one of Robin’s enemies, she had sought out her friend Tim Drake out for “advice.” Tim had forgotten that she had gone to Bernard first. He had never bothered to call Bernard and let the guy know he was okay. For all Bernard had known, he’d sent Tim’s untimely demise to his door when he told Darla where to find their former classmate.

Tim put the shovel down for a moment.

“I’m sorry I scared you, Bernard. I meant—I meant that if Darla wanted to be a hero, and she did, she couldn’t rely on me to tell her right from wrong and hold her to it. Heroes take responsibility for their actions. She gets that now. She went off with a superhero team called Shadowpact. She was okay.”

“And you?” Bernard exhaled.

Tim grinned.

“I’m always okay.”

Neither of his friends looked like they believed him.

Ives returned to digging, “See this is why you should call me more often,” He grunted as his shovel finally struck metal, “Your life gets really, really weird without me. Dating undead superheroes, Tim? Really? Oy vey.”

“We didn’t… never mind.”

He could have pulled the chest from the remainder of the hole without grunting, but watching Ives and Bernard wheeze and strain from the physical activity set a good bar for Timothy Drake Wayne’s level of sluggishness. So he panted along with them.

“Makes..nnghhh… a lot of sense in hind sight, though.” Ives breathed.

“What does?”

“Cancer probably doesn’t look like so bad of a boss battle after you’ve seen the fire and brimstone.”

“I…” He could be honest about this much. He could. “It made me glad for the people who are alive. However long they’re alive. Y’know?”

Ives gave him the most earnest smile Tim had seen all day.

“Okay, geeks! And Tim, for all your previous disguise, I see now that you are—in fact—a geek. It’s time to unbox this baby.” Bernard crowed.

Their “time capsule” was less a futuristic tube and more pirate-chest themed lockable luggage from the nearest department store. It had space for stuff, and it looked cool. Even as an adult, Tim felt he could stand by that choice.

Three seconds to blow off the dust. Forty-two to smash the lock. (He and Ives could both remember Tim swearing when they were kids that he would remember the combination, but well, he hadn’t.)

“A moment of silence for the defunct game boy who’s grave we have disturbed.” Ives mock-solemnly intoned, as he pulled out the old system preserved in plastic.

Tim blinked, “You buried your game boy? You loved that thing.”

“Exactly,” Ives poked him in the chest, “I was committed to this project. Unlike you.”

Tim frowned.

“I was too committed. Behold,” he lifted a green mud-crusted travesty that had not aged well, “Rusty the water pistol. Never got in a water gun fight without him. And look! My pog collection.”

“You mean my pog collection.”

Tim shrugged, “Our pog collection.”

“You are both the nerdiest nerds who ever nerded in the eighth grade. I don’t know why I expected differently.” Bernard sighed.

“I did warn you, buddy.” Ives laughed.

Bernard muttered something unintelligible, but it set Ives off on a lecture about the impact of popular culture. Tim took it as a much-needed distraction.

It wouldn’t have done Tim any good to have remembered the lock combination anyway. The lock wasn’t as old as it should have been. And while the capsule was filled with mementos from younger years, there were two small evidence bags at the bottom that were Batman standard issue.

They were hair samples.

Easily researched. Easily pocketed.

Tim breathed a sigh of relief as he quietly slipped them into the back of his jeans.

That had… not gone nearly as badly as he anticipated. He reminded himself that it wasn’t quite over yet. After all, he owed Ives pizza.

Ives and Bernard were still arguing amicably.

One of the reasons Ives never had too many friends as a kid was because most people couldn’t understand that the guy’s favorite form of conversation was a heated debate. When he felt like conversing at all outside of Wizards and Warlocks.

Bernard… well, Bernard just decided when someone was his friend and treated any attempts to escape his friendship as an amusing joke. It worked for him. But he also had a tendency to look down his nose at people who fit too neatly into a category, and Ives tended to wear his categories loud and proud. So it was… curious.

“So, how did you guys meet?”

Ives and Bernard paused and then grinned in unison.

“Elizabeth Spillgrave.”

Who? It took Tim a moment. Right.

Elizabeth Spillgrave. Real name: Jodie Weise. Internationally recognized alien conspiracy theorist, and one of Ives favorite authors. Or least favorite, depending how one looked at it. He always holed up in his room on the day one of her books released, reading voraciously. He would spend the next two weeks debunking her entire book paragraph by paragraph. Sometimes with charts if he was feeling particularly zealous and homework wasn’t challenging him enough.

Tim blinked, “And you became friends over this?”

It didn’t seem possible. Because while Ives was the sort to spend two weeks disproving the sort of theories that were the woman’s bread and butter, Bernard was just the sort to spend the same amount of time proving it. Or perhaps editing how such events would be possible, turning each paragraph into a spring board for his own theories. He would stop short of making charts, though. Bernard thought excessive chart-making was for nerds.

Ives shrugged, “We were both late to her book signing last year, and had to team up on scalping tickets to get into the VIP meet and greet.”

“We shared mutual disappointment that she could but spare us two minutes each, even after all that hassle.” Bernard sighed.

Ives rolled his eyes, “And then he started going on about his idea that the UFO’s mentioned in her last book might be Kryptonian. From a hundred years ago.”

“Magic is a thing, Sebastian.”

“They’re aliens, Bernard. Superman is vulnerable to magic. He’s not going to carry around something that could kill him.”

“Humans do it all the time.”

They continued on as they packed up their tools and piled into Ives’ car. Tim didn’t get a word in edge-wise to ask where they were going, but he quickly recognized the route Ives was taking. Pizza Planet, appropriately enough.

He pulled the clear evidence bags from his pocket to glance at them once more.

One contained extremely short snips of dirty blond hair. The other contained a single jet-black lock that looked like it had been curled around someone’s finger before getting cut.

Both sets were sufficient for a DNA database search.

Tim sat back in his seat.

First pizza, then catching up with the two civilian friends who were still speaking to him, maybe some nostalgic passing around of ye olde Game Boy, and then…

Answers.

#stars unearth your fires #tim drake #Red Robin #fanfic #gidgeblog #batfic #Sebastian Ives #Bernard Dowd

[nirah10]

All I have to say regarding Hunter Biden’s love life and a wonderful story to help you understand why...

For once, I’m going to put my comments/responses before the submission. First of all, I would like to thank Maddy-Jane very, very much for sharing her story. She does encourage people to comment as she is curious but please remember that you would be discussing the very intimate life of a person, not a random bit of code on the internet, and that, while differing opinions are fine, personal attacks are not acceptable and will not be posted.

Maddy, your family sounds amazing and I am so happy for all of you. I really wish that the world was the kind of place where your family could be open and free about who they are.

For those of you who may not know, there’s a lot of buzz regarding Joe Biden’s son, Hunter, because he has recently started dating his brother’s widow, Hallie. I’m sure you can work out that Maddy’s story includes a similar family dynamic and I strongly encourage you all to read it.

A lot of people asked what I think about Hunter Biden’s current situation and this is what I have to say:

1) I think this is a cruel move and a cheap shot by political entities to try and dirty the Biden name. Obama and Biden ran the country together for 8 years without a single sex scandal, and what few scandals did pop up were stupid and shallow and nobody really cared because they didn’t matter. It looks to me like Joe Biden’s political opponents and members of the public who dislike him as a political figure are desperately clawing at something perfectly normal and attempting to make it something ugly and scandalous. I have no respect for it and I strongly believe that those people should be ashamed of themselves.

2) While it is unusual, I certainly don’t believe that there is anything wrong with Hunter dating his brother’s widow. They are both single. They have no blood relation (so, despite what some people seem eager to claim, there is absolutely nothing incestuous about their relationship). They are not breaking any laws. They have full support from the family, so it doesn’t even look like it’s causing any kind of discord there--and even if there was, that still is no business of anyone’s outside of their family.

3) The fact that Beau named his son after his brother only means that they were close and nothing more. Anyone suggesting otherwise is desperately reaching to try and make it look like there was an extramarital affair, and they’d only be doing that because they know that their supposed “scandal” is weak and pointless. My mum named some of us after people she loved (though she did it with middle names, rather than first names). My brother is named after my uncle. My nephew is named after my brother-in-law (his uncle). My hypothetical baby names include naming my daughter after my sister and my son after my brother-in-law. People have been doing that for freaking ever and there’s nothing weird about it.

4) Think for a moment about how hard it would be to lose your husband--someone you love so completely that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with them. Not only is he gone, but he was sick and suffered and you had to watch him wither away. Now imagine what trying to create a new relationship (let alone a new marriage) would be like after that. It is a common problem for new spouses of widows to experience feelings of jealousy over the deceased, especially when kids are involved. They can feel like they are in constant competition with a dead person and then they feel guilty for feeling that way. It’s common for the widow and/or their children to feel like they can’t talk about the loved one they lost because they don’t want to hurt the new family member’s feelings. It causes strain and it can be hard for those who are grieving (and, trust me, things get easier but you never really stop grieving) because they feel like they need to bottle up their feelings about the loss and avoid sharing happy memories of the person they lost. It sucks. For everyone.

Now imagine that that didn’t have to happen. Your new spouse also knew and loved the person you lost. They share your grief with you. They share the happy memories. You can keep photos of the spouse you lost on the walls and mementos of them without feeling guilt. You can speak openly about them. Your kids can speak openly about the parent they lost--both the good memories and the sadness of missing them--without worrying about hurting the feelings of their stepparent because their stepparent has and is going through those experiences with you. They loved that lost person just like you and your family did. They miss that lost person just as much as you and your family do. There is no tension. There is no feeling of being left out or out of place. There is only another person to share that pain with while you all support each other move on with your lives.

Is it really so bizarre to think that a widow would find comfort with the brother of her lost husband? A person who grew up with him and loved him and misses him? Someone who might have his eyes or share his sense of humour and who probably feels proud to hear you think that rather than feel jealous that you were married to another man once? Someone who has known your children closely since birth, undoubtedly loves them, and who knows how to comfort them in their grief? You could move on as a family without feeling any kind of pressure to hide or try to forget the person who is missing.

If I found myself falling in love in that kind of situation, there’s no way in hell that thinking “maybe people will think that it’s weird” would stop me. My concern is what’s best for me and my kids, not public opinion.

5) I applaud Joe Biden for addressing the relationship publicly. One person commented that they thought it was a strange choice and could harm his political career, but I disagree. It would harm him if he tried to keep it private because it would imply shame. It should be private, because it is someone’s personal love life and is nobody’s damn business, but the Bidens are clever enough to know that that kind of privacy is simply not given when you’re a public figure. Joe standing tall and proud and saying he supports his son ends the gossip because it’s hard to gossip about something that isn’t supposed to be a secret and has no shame attached to it.

In conclusion: The Bidens have nothing to be ashamed of and I’m very happy for them. The people who should feel shame are the ones who are preying upon them and trying to make them seem depraved and incestuous and like they’re dishonoring the memory of someone they loved dearly--it’s no different than when people try to claim that gay people are sexual deviants riddled with STDs. It’s truly pathetic and despicable behaviour, in my opinion.

Maddy-Jane has welcomed conversation regarding her personal story so, please, offer your opinions (just remember to be respectful!). Hunter and Hallie Biden, however, have not given us that same permission. The concept of marrying a relative’s widow is open for discussion, but, public figures or not, the Bidens have a right to privacy and I’m going to ask that we not discuss their personal relationships any further.

I hope this covers everything and thank you once more to Maddy-Jane for sharing her story :)

From Maddy-Jane

The Joe Biden son thing that is all over the media (I’m sure everyone here has heard of it if  they go on Facebook or listen to the news) and in a way it actually reminds me of my own childhood.

My mom and dad were childhood sweethearts.

They met when they were fourteen, dated for four years in high school, married just out of high school at 18, had my brother when they were 19 and I was born just after my mum turned 21, their is just less than two years between my brother and I.

My mom was amazing. Beautiful, smart, funny, lovely, pretty, kind and was just amazing. I was so young when she died but I have tightly held onto those memories. I still miss her so much everyday. She died just before her 28th birthday, I was six, nearly seven and my brother was eight.

My mum had a younger brother, who was nine years younger than her: he was nineteen years old when she died.

Same mom and dad, but the little brother was just a very (very)  unexpected surprise when my grandparents were in their mid-forties. They already had two daughters (9 and 11) and hadn’t expected anymore.  

Mom died in a car crash: my grandfather, my grandmother, aunt (29  at the time, unmarried and no kids yet) and my uncle were in a horrific car crash on the way to visit my grest great aunt in the state over, it was a long drive and to save money the five were car sharing. Grandad was driving and it seems he had a stroke and the car went into a tree.  

My dad stayed home with us two kids as we didn’t really know how great great aunt enough (that they were meant to be visiting) to visit and we had school.

Four of my family members died that day. My aunt, my mom, my grandmother and grandfather. My nineteen year old uncle survived, but gained a spinal injury. The doctors thought he would never walk again. The injury looked pretty bad and they didn’t give him a lot of hope,  but surprising things happen.  

Every member of my mom’s family died expect my uncle, she only had her sister and parents and we didn’t really know anyone else. I was only six but I remember feeling like I had lost my whole world.

My dad was beyond repair it seemed. I was only six but I remember that part clearly. He and mum would had been in love since they were fourteen, married at 18, a kid at 19 and then another at 21 and still strong as a couple, and to lose her at twenty-seven when they had their whole lives planned out was a huge blow. I remember him crying at night.  My brother and I would sneak into his room at night and listen,  crying as well.  

Little kids hear things they aren’t meant to. They are great at snooping. And I remember hearing my dad’s mom tell my granddad she was worried they were going to lose their son. I didn’t really know what it meant at the time, listening in, pretending to be asleep in the car, but I knew it sounded scary.

Anyway, my dad, despite his pain was still a good guy and knew someone else was really hurting.

Our nineteen year old uncle, who had been in his third year of university one day and then BAM the next day lost the ability to walk, lost his loving mom and dad and his two older sisters. He only had four direct family members, his parents and his two siblings and he lost them all and the ability to walk all on the same day at nineteen years old.

He wasn’t in a good state and tried to commit suicide in hospital. (I only found out about the suicide attempt recently and it shocked me). He refused to go back to university and fell into a depression the nurses and therapists couldn’t get him out of.

My dad didn’t really know his brother-in-law that well. With a nine-year age gap they hadn’t really had much in common or spent a lot of time together when they were younger.

But my dad knew mom wouldn’t want her baby brother to feel like he had no family, so dad got him to move in with us, despite my uncles protests at first that he didn’t want to be a burden on us.

So after months in hospital, our uncle came home with us.

The first year was hard as everyone was grieving and my uncle refused physical therapy at first.

But he started going, my dad starting helping him at home, and slowly he regained the ability to walk again. It took several years but he did it. He even started running in marathons deciding never to take his legs for granted again.

We went back to university at 22, and finished his law degree. He is a lawyer now.

I think it was during the time when my dad started helping my uncle with his physical therapy that they fell in love.

Kids notice stuff and it was about two years after mom died that my brother and I started to notice changes in the relationship between our father and uncle. We only only 8 and 10 at the times,  but we knew something was developing. That something was changing.  

People don’t realize how perceptive little kids are. But we noticed. Touches, smiles, and the fact our uncle despite regaining the ability to walk and going back to university was still living with us.

I don’t even think they realized they were falling in love.

They started dating about a year after my brother and I noticed they were acting weird. I would have been about 9 at the time and my brother about 11.

My uncle came out as gay and my dad came out as bisexual.

I was curious and I wanted to know if mom knew he was bisexual. Dad said she did, as he worked it out when he was about sixteen and already dating mom and confessed he had the biggest crush on Tom Cruise but would never cheat on her as he loved her (aw,  teen romance). Mom also admitted she had the biggest crush on Tok Cruise. Who was hot back then I guess, it was years ago before Cruise went crazy.

Mom convinced dad to set up a LBTB group at school with her, they weren’t really a thing back then and they ran into trouble setting it up but eventually got it and their is a photo of mom and dad in the year book holding the LGTB club sign. Dad showed me the picture and I keep it today.

My mom was that kind of kickass woman.  Straught but wiljng to fight homophobes in an act of solidarity with her bisexual boyfriend.  

When dad and our uncle arrested dating openly they  faced problems with dad’d own family. They didn’t get the fact he was bisexual.

They had four  main problems with their relationship:

1.) a same sex relationship. Same sex marriage wasn’t even legal in Canada at the time.

2.) the nine year ago gap. When they started dating my uncle was 23 and my dad was 32.

3.) and the whole in-laws thing. They thought it was wrong to date your late wife’s brother. That was the biggie. Expect for the really homophobic relatives.

4.) us kids were brought into it as a reason as well, they claimed it would be confusing for us for our uncle to become a dad like figure. We loved our uncle though and us kids saw how close they were getting before even dad knew. So they couldn’t really try and turn us against them, as we were supportive. When you lose a big chunk of your family, you tend to hold onto the family you have left with your claws. And dad was dad and our uncle was a huge connection to our mother.

For little kids who had lost their mother and their mother’s family,  for uncle was that childhood tie for us and in a way it made accepting him as our step dad easier. For us at least.  

 I wish my dad’s family was as supportive as Joe Biden was of his son.  But they weren’t and they lost contact.  

But wrbstuck it out. And my parents are   still together today.

We became a family.

They entered a civil union (like a marriage) when I was ten and my brother was twelve.

We stopped calling him our uncle in public at about that time. We call him either dad or by his first name and simply to people call him our step-dad or dad.

They gave us a little sister when I was twelve and my brother was fourteen.

A friend offered to be a surrograte and they used my step-dad’s sperm. Lol,  those nine months waiting for a little sister were so exciting for us. 

My step-dad has the same eyes as my mom (while my bro and I have dads eyes) and our little sister was born with mom’s eyes as well. Or I guess technically great-grandma’s eyes if both siblings shared them.

So biologically our little sister is actually our cousin (our step dad was the sperm donar, not sure why,  maybe because dad already had two of us and didn’t won’t a third little monster,  lol :P) but despite biologically being our cousin she is really our sister. Dad raised her too and we were brought up as siblings. We consider her our sister and she had been raised since she was a baby as our sister.

I’m twenty-four now, my brother is twenty five and our little sister is ten.

Our parents got married in 2012 after it became legal in America but have been together for about 15 years now: and at ages 45 and 36 are still going strong and so in love. You would never guess dad is 45, being married to a 36 year old keeps him young I guess. :P

I looked after my ten year sister last week so my dad and step-dad could go away for a romantic weekend to celebrate their anniversary. My sister and I had amazing girl time, she is in grade four and is the cutest little thing ever. Despite the fourteen year age gap, I have a feeling my sister and I are going to remain really close. My brother and I are also close, and so is he and our. Little sister.  All five of us are close,  we are a knit knit family. 

We still talk about mom a lot as a family and it is not weird.

My uni friend also lost her dad but never really talks about him at home, as her step-dad has no connection to him and gets jealous. And I feel dad for her as it makes her mom not really want to talk about him anymore and so she doesn’t hear many stories. 

That doesn’t happen in our family, as our step-dad loves and adores our mom as well and we all talk openly about her.

Growing up we would hear our dad tell stories about mom.

And we would also hear our step-dad tell stories about mom, as his sister.  

Dad tells high school tales and fun early marriage tales and our step-dad tells stories of mom as a little kid, some he saw himself and lots from what his parents told him about what his two sisters got up to when they were little . He tellss a lot about what mom was like with her family.

They both loved mom and there is not hiding mom in our family and we grew up with two people who loved our mom and who were always willing to share stories.

And the stories were different as they had different relationship with mom so they were always refreshing.

I am not sure what mom or our grandparents or aunt would think of our little family.

But I hope they would be  happy for us.

As I honestly don’t think we would be this happy or tight knit if we didn’t have our uncle here.

He and dad helped each other at a very dad time. They needed each other, were both in a lot of pain and they helped each other thought it.

Both were really struggling and in a bad place and their love, both for the ones they lost and for each other was what got them though.

Mom might be angry or feel betrayed (or be app for them)  or maybe our aunts and grandparents would be disgusted, they didn’t know our uncle was gay or dad was bisexual, so I am guessing they would be pretty dammed shocked, but I hope they would be happy for us.

My brother is getting married next weekend, and our little sister will be the flower girl and I love my family so much. :)

And our step dad and little sister is a huge part of that.

We don’t tell a lot of people about our family’s history. I wish my dad’s family was as supportive as Joe Biden was of his son.  

And some people judge my dad. They think he’s some perv who was in the closest and went after his late wife’s barely legal little brother.

But it is not like that. Dad loved mom so much.

But people don’t understand. So I call my uncle my dad. And call my little sister my sister although she is biologically my cousin. As she is my sister and he has helped raise me since I was a little girl and is a dad to be.

Unstopped callif him my uncle as it confused people.  Now he is just dad or step dad. 

 it is weird to others and so i don’t often talk about it.

But I know some of you guys are big Joe Biden fans and this is all over the media and I worry this will gross people out and make them question their love of Joe Biden. Some have said this would have ruined Joe’s political career if he had actually decided to run for president as he was openly supportive of his son.  

But I shared my story as I don’t think it is bad as the media makes it sound.

I’ve heard a LOT of bad stuff about the brother and wife in Television and in facebook comments and it makes me mad.

As people are judging without understanding the emotions and heartache that might be involved here.

People find each other in heartbreak.  It doesn’t mean the Biden brothers didn’t love each other. 

Sorry about my weird and long story.

I am just biased as I grew up in a similar situation?

Should the media stop judging Beau Biden’s brother for saying his brother’s wife? Or Beau’s wife for falling for his brother?

That family has suffered a lot of tragedy and by all accounts were very close. What do you think?

Should the media leave them alone?  Should people stop saying Joe is a bad dad for supporting this? 

Is my family’s story really that weird?

I’ve never really told anyone, since the backlash from dad’s side of the family when we were young. We normally keep it quite how close the family is realated.

I don’t mind people talking about my family if anyone has questions,  I’ve been secret about it in public our of necessity to avoid judgment but I love and am proud of my family and welcome genuine questions from people who want to learn as some of these online responses to the Biden thing online makes me sad.

 As people on facebook and twitter and news need reporters have been rather nasty and saying awful things about the Biden children and the wife/sister in law involved. 

Sorry about that long post. I am just passionate about this as it hits close to home. All responses, positive and negative are welcome. It has been a long time since I have talked about this issue and I am curious.  

#hello friend #this time it's personal #robron1994 #submission

[darnedchild]

Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Part Deux - Day 7

A/N : Seven fics in seven days.  I am done with the angst for awhile after this one (I hope). 

On FFdotNet and Ao3

Molly Hooper Appreciation Week Part Deux - Day 7 - Free For All (Anything that didn’t fit into a themed day that focuses on Molly)

The Box

Molly stared down at the box that had been entrusted into her care.

She had hoped that she would never have to open it.

When Mary had brought the unassuming box to her so many weeks ago, Molly had assumed the other woman was being paranoid.  (Even more than usual for an ex-spy who was married to a known adrenaline junkie and good friends with the world’s only consulting detective/danger magnet.)

Mary had set the box on Molly’s kitchen counter and jumped right to the point.  “I’ve got to leave for a while, I don’t know when I’ll be back.  I need you to hold on to this until I do, or until I can’t; in which case, open it and you’ll know what to do from there.”  

Molly had shaken her head, clearly confused.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“Something from my past is coming back for me and I can’t risk leading it to John and Rosie.”  Her eyes begged Molly to understand.

Strangely enough, she had.  (You didn’t spend years in Sherlock’s inner circle without learning to just assume everyone had something to hide, and at least a twenty percent chance of having a secret backstory worthy of an Ian Fleming novel.)  So, she’d taken the box and its mysterious contents and hidden them away.

Now it was time to open the damn thing.  

Molly procrastinated a few minutes longer by opening a bottle of red wine and pouring herself a small glass.  She didn’t want to get tipsy, Rosie was asleep in a cot in Molly’s room and it didn’t look as if John was going to be in any fit state to take care of his daughter any time soon.  She just wanted a little something to take the edge off if whatever was in the box was too . . . much.

Eventually there was nothing else to do but sit on the sofa and pull the thing into her lap.  The lid came off easily enough.  Inside were half a dozen discs with notes taped to the sleeves and a letter.

She took a fortifying drink, then began to read.

Molly,

Assuming you aren’t just taking a peek for a lark, then something has happened and my luck has run out.

I need you to do some things for me.

I know it’s a lot to ask, especially when I know full well that you’ve probably already stepped in to take on a lot of the responsibility for Rosamund’s care while John grieves.  He’s a good man, Molly; but I remember how he was when I met him, still trying to deal with his grief over Sherlock’s death. He will let his sorrow and pain swallow him up if someone doesn’t step in.

The first disc is meant for Sherlock. You won’t be able to just hand it to him.  He needs a bit of mystery to ensure we’ve got his attention.  

Molly frowned down at the letter.  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.  Read.  Why does everything have to be a bloody puzzle with you lot.”

There are instructions on the disc on how to get it to him.  

I’m going to ask him to do something difficult, and probably very dangerous, to save John.  I need you to not interfere.

“Fuck that,” Molly snorted.  

He’s going to need to push himself to the breaking point.  At the very least, please don’t get in Sherlock’s way unless you feel you have absolutely no other choice.  This is important, and Sherlock knows his limits.

“The hell he does.”  Mary and Sherlock may have been the best of friends since he returned from the dead; but Molly had known the man far longer than that.

The second disc is for John.  Hold on to it until he’s stable.  There are instructions for delivery on that disc as well.

The other four discs are for Rosie. I want her to hear me say “I love you, Rosie”.  I want her to know what her Mummy’s voice sounds like.  

You’ll know when it’s time to give them to John.

Finally, Molly, I want to say thank you. I only had a chance to know you for a little while, but you have been a great friend to me.  I am forever grateful for the day John introduced us.

I still laugh when I think of my hen night and the stripper.  I have no idea where Maurine found one willing to dress up as ‘The Boffin Detective’, but the look on his face when you told him he should have brought a magnifier lens because the real thing was much bigger . . .  How much had you had to drink by that point?

“Too much.”  Molly remembered that night, and the way she’d tried to stammer her way through an explanation involving a certain detective who had a habit of wandering around his flat in only a sheet.  She’d pointed out that John had probably received an eyeful more than once, but that didn’t seem to help her cause any.  If anything, it only made things worse.

You were there for me through the roughest parts of my pregnancy, and I will always be thankful for your support when I felt so alone.  I don’t know what I would have done without you, Molly.

You’ve been the best Auntie that Rosie could ever hope for.  I’m devastated that I won’t be there to see her grow up, but it helps to know that you’ll have you to turn to when she needs a woman’s touch.  

Take care of her for me, Molly. Take care of our boys.  All three of them are going to need you more than ever.

Love,

Mary

She swallowed the last of her wine.  Even though she knew with absolute certainty that she was going to regret it, Molly reached for the first disc and read the instructions Mary had given her.

#molly appreciation week #day 7: free for all

[steampoweredstrawberry]

Under the Wings of the Hawke (CH 1)

Pairing: Anders x OC FHawke

Rating: Explicit

Warnings for this Chapter:

Suicide mention// Suicidal thoughts// Depression// Light Gore (blood mentions/lacerations/someone receiving medical stitches; none are very descriptive)// Light Swearing

AO3 Link

It got better.

That was what his therapist told him when he was grieving, when he was in his depressive state. When he was considering suicide and his cat was the only thing preventing him from going through with it. It would get better she told him, like a sick mantra he was supposed to repeat or hear or try to make his life every day until he was fooling himself into believing it. Anders didn’t see how it would get better. Not after finding Karl's lifeless body, wrists slit and bleeding out into the bathtub. A victim of suicide. The note he left said it all. He was depressed. He was tired of fighting. Only death brought him some form of comfort. Not their relationship, which was an on-again, off-again sort of affair, but they were together when Karl had took his life.

They were together.

Or, so Anders believed.

Karl wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t emotionally displacing himself, except for the depression. But, Anders was busy with his job, with trying to secure a loan so he could go to medical school and become a practicing doctor for real. He liked his job as a nurse, but it was never his intention to stop there. All of this kept him busy enough to not see how Karl deteriorated, how the light faded from him until he was little more than a shell of the man Anders had fallen for.

Finding Karl like that and dealing with the subsequent police investigation brought out something in Anders that he had previously believed he had under control. He slept more than he was awake, scarcely ate. Was plagued by thoughts of suicide. If not for Pounce, he probably would have gone through with it. Everything that he once loved and took pleasure in was difficult to handle, even on the best of days.

It felt like years. In reality, it was no more than a month and a half. But even so, by three weeks in, one of Anders' coworkers put him in contact with the therapist who drilled the mantras into his head. He saw her bi-weekly. She was nice. An older lady who showed him techniques to deal with the mania and depression, even if he believed she was full of shit, initially. When he expressed a desire for medication, she sent him go a psychiatrist willing to write the prescription.

Even that, he thought was not working.

But, it did get better.

After the first week, the sun shone a little brighter each morning. The birds sang a little sweeter. Pounce's fur was s little softer. Anders was able to draw enjoyment from activities he previously partook. Even work was bearable.

By two and a half weeks on medication, he felt good. Almost like he used to before the episode. He still grieved for Karl. He still woke up in the middle of the night, grappling for his partner after the nightmares became too real to handle. Anders still wept. A tightness still formed in his chest when he saw saw happy couples and thought that could have been us.

It still hurt. And, he would have been a fool to say it didn't.

But, it got better.

Work helped him keep his mind off the pain in his heart.

Being an ER nurse kept him busy most days, and even when it wasn’t, he could distract himself with something. His duties mainly included checking and maintaining vitals and providing aid to the doctors when they needed it. Occasionally, he provided emotional support to the patients after the loss of a loved one; it was something he was intimately familiar with, so it came naturally. Likewise, he had enough experience under his belt—and the proper certifications—to allow him to perform more intermediate tasks reserved for the doctors. Things like suturing wounds, setting broken bones. He didn’t get to do such things every day. Only when they were short staffed or the doctors were busy.

One day, he would go back to school, get his medical degree and be able to do such things routinely. It had always been his intention to go back to school. He liked being a nurse, and he managed to save up some money to put towards getting his degree. But, Karl didn’t have any family to speak of to cover funerary costs; Anders had to spend all of what he had just to give his partner a proper burial.

That afternoon had been a busy one.

Around noon, the ER admitted several people. Victims caught in the crossfire of a gang turf war. They had already been short-staffed that afternoon, so all of the doctors available were working to keep the patients alive. It was a bit cynical of him, but Anders hoped that he would be allowed to help with the patients.

He wasn’t.

The doctors had everything under control, which meant it was his job to keep the patients comfortable, to replace IV drips and fetch more pillows. He didn’t mind, but he would have preferred being in the thick of it. He would have preferred making a real difference, saving lives. No one’s life was saved because their nurse brought them a pillow or changed the channel on the TV for them.

He was on one such run. The wife of one of the admitted patients wanted a glass of water. Usually, they weren’t responsible for such things, but Anders was disheartened, though not more than she; her husband was unconscious. The doctors did what they could for him, and were giving him twenty-four hours’ observation time. He felt bad for the poor woman; the least he could was provide her with something to drink.

One of the nurses came up to him on his way back. A middle-aged lady named Lirene. Sweet. She liked to show off pictures of her daughter during their breaks. She took a glance at the cup of water in his hands and her face went pale.

“Oh, you’re busy.” Anders could easily hear the upset in her voice.

“Not at all. Is there something you need?”

“Yes, actually.” It was then that he noticed the chart she was fidgeting with. “A young lady was just admitted about ten minutes ago. I performed the prelims on her, and she’ll probably need stitches. One of the police officers questioning the victims of the shooting came in to sit with her. She—the police officer, I mean—is a bit intimidating and asked me to find someone to treat the patient. I was wondering, if you aren’t busy—“

“—If I could treat the patient.”

“Yes.” She let out a burdened sigh. “All of the doctors are busy, otherwise I would have consulted one of them first.”

“It’s no issue.” He gestured at the chart she had with his free hand. “Is that her chart? I’ll go see her now, if you could just run this water to the patient’s wife in room 1023.”

“Not a problem, Dear.”

They traded objects. Anders took a glance at the chart before collecting what he would need to administer the stitches and heading to the examination room. The patient’s name was Claudia Hawke, twenty-four years old. Her vitals were all good. Other than the recorded laceration on her left arm, her chart made her appear healthy.

Before heading to the room to check in on her, Anders made a stop at the medical supply closet to get what he would need suture the wound shut.

The first thing Anders noticed in the examination room was the woman-shaped brick wall. She wore a standard-issue police uniform, with her ginger hair pulled into a low ponytail. She wore a look of disdain for the woman on the examination table: his patient.

She was pretty. Her hair was an impossible shade of red that seemed almost too dark to be natural. It was only after he noticed her hair did he see the blood-stained towel she had wrapped around her left forearm.

“Good afternoon, Miss Hawke.” He said, a bit formal. Anders rounded the examination table and put his tools down on the counter. “My name is Anders, and I will be suturing your arm today.” He glanced at the towel wrapped around her arm. “Is your wound still bleeding?”

“No.” She said flatly. “It stopped bleeding a few mintues ago.” She shrugged a little and snorted. “I'm just paranoid that the second I pull the towel away, it'll start spurting everywhere like a horror movie.”

“Okay. Good. That makes my job easier. Well—not about the horror movie thing.” He grabbed the things necessary to clean the wound and walked over to her. “I will need to clean your injury before I can suture it up.”

“Yeah, no problem.” She removed the towel with a hiss through her teeth.

With the towel gone, Anders could properly see the injury. It was smaller than he thought it would be; no more than six or seven sutures would close it. However, it was deep. And swollen. Her skin around it was stained with blood.

He grabbed an alcohol pad from his supplies, but not before he washed his hand and put on a pair of rubber gloves, and walked over. Anders hesitated before pressing it to her tender wound. “This may sting.”

The woman—Claudia—winced as he placed the pad upon her skin, but she did not make a noise like she did before. He patiently cleaned as much of the blood from her as he could; by the time he was done, his alcohol pad had turned pink. Anders tossed the used pad into the biohazard bin and grabbed another alcohol pad in order to clean his tools.

While he did so, the police woman scoffed at the one on the table. “Has this taught you anything about your profession?”

“That I need to be more careful about the sort of implements I choose and switch to nonviolent sorts? Sure did.” The sarcasm was practically dripping off her words.

“That wasn’t what I meant, Hawke, and you know it.” The police woman sounded unamused.

“You sound like my mother, Aveline.”

“Does your mother even know what you do for a living?”

“Nope. She thinks I’m an actress. And we’re going to keep it that way.”

“And she really believes that people become actresses to pay for college?”

“She believes I would become an actress to pay for college, which is all I need.”

Anders had to refrain from snorting in humor at the conversation the women were having. He couldn't say he had ever head of someone using an acting career to pay for college, except those child actors who got in young and changed their minds about what they wanted to do with their lives somewhere down the line. He hid the amused smirk he wore decent enough, mainly by reminding himself that this was a patient.

But, his implements were sterile, as was her wound, so he needed to get to work.

“I'm just going to rub a bit of numbing gel on the wound before I get started.”

He pulled up the stool and a small rolling table for his tools and got to work.

It was quick work. Quicker still given Miss Hawke's steady arm. The numbing gel he applied helped with the pain, but Anders knew from personal experience that, even with the gel, getting sutured up was never a pleasant thing. Still, she distracted herself from the pain as well as he would have expected, either by conversing with the police woman or by cursing the Maker's name. She even kicked the examination table once or twice. Why, he couldn't figure.

Anders managed to suture it up well. The stitches were straight, clean, and even. He cleaned the wound once again for good measure, but not before explaining to her what he was doing. She was only paying attention partially. Judging by her vigilant defense of her career. Whatever that was.

“Okay, you're all patched up. Don't put too much strain on it, and keep it clean and dry. The sutures should dissolve by themselves within two weeks; you should make an appointment with your primary then to have it looked at. If it becomes infected or you break a stitch, you should come back to the ER immediately.”

She rubbed at the skin outlying the sutures, which caused Anders' heart to leap into his stomach and his eyes to go wide. He could just imagine her breaking a stitch right then, and him having to fix it. She, however, surprised him, by using only the pads of her fingers and by avoiding the sutures completely.

“I can go to work tonight, then?” Miss Hawke asked.

“Depends.” He said simply, tidying up the mess that suturing up an arm created. “If your job is something that could compromise your sutures, you should probably call in today.”

“It won't compromise it if I modify some things a bit.”

He didn't understand what that meant—modify some things. But, he wasn't about to ask, either.

“Then you should be fine to go into work.”

The red-haired police officer cast Miss Hawke a concerned, if frustrated, look. Miss Hawke shrugged and wore an amused grin.

“Okay, cool.” She turned to the police woman. “Is it okay if I hitch a ride back to Hightown with you in your cruiser?” A pause. “Isabela dropped me off, since my car is still in the shop.”

“I have to question some of the victims of the shooting, but I'll drop you off when I'm done.”

Anders offered a goodbye to the women once he finished cleaning up, as well as offering to show them out of the ward. They refused. With that matter settled, however, he was left with nothing else to do for the next hour. Several of the patients caught in the shooting crossfire were released, and things started to slow.

It was one of those times, when he was occupying his time with menial tasks that were normally left for the orderlies did the same nurse from earlier come up to him. She was holding a phone. It had a simple black case, but with the words 'fuck the chantry' on the back. He snorted, humored. Anders couldn't imagine it being hers.

“I don't mean to bother you again while you're busy, Dear, but one of the orderlies found this in the examination room where you sutured up that young lady's arm and I was wondering if it was yours.”

“No.” Contested Anders with a singular shake of his head. “My phone is in my locker. It must be Miss Hawke's.”

“She must be missing it terribly. I'll go see with one of the ladies in billing if they can pull up her record and find an alternate phone number so we can notify her.”

“That won't be necessary.” Anders held out his hand, informing her that he would like to get a better look at the phone. She did so, skeptically, but without too much hesitation.

Anders clicked the side power button and instantly, the screen came to life. The lock screen was of a pair of teenagers, brother and sister, if he wasn't mistaken about the resemblance. Bother were in graduation caps and gowns, proudly displaying their high school diplomas for whomever was taking the picture. A gargantuan mabari could be seen only a small distance behind them, carrying a slobbery stick in its mouth.

He curiously swiped his thumb over the screen, and it unlocked! Anders had expected to have to input a passcode, or use the finger scanner function many phones had these days. But, he didn't.

“You're some sort of tech wizard!” Gasped the woman.

“Not really.” He argued humbly. “I can't do much more than what I already did. Let's check who Miss Hawke called last and see if they can come pick up her phone.”

Anders tapped on the call logs app with the side of his thumb.

Several names popped up. Many of which read 'mom'. Some were mens' names. The most recent call was made to someone named 'Isabela'. Anders had heard her mention that name when she was still at the hospital, so he figured them to be close. Several more entries were dedicated to this 'Isabela' person.

He tapped the 'call back' button.

Anders swiftly pressed the speaker button and waited. It rang three times before he heard the rustling on the other line.”

“How did it go, Claudia? Got your arm all fixed up?”

“Hello?” He asked.

“Shit. You're not Claudia! How did you get her phone? How did you get into her phone?”

“My name is Anders and I'm an ER nurse at Andraste's Mercy hospital. Your friend forgot her phone here. I was just calling to see if there was a way to get in touch with someone who could come pick it up for her.”

“You sound cute.” Anders froze when he heard those words; he wasn't accustomed to hearing such things about himself. “I told her to put a passcode on her phone and enable the fingerprint scanner.” There was a noise that sounded like typing from the other side, and some words muttered from this Isabela person that he was sure were not directed towards him. “I'm a little occupied at this moment, but maybe later we can meet up.”

“Well, it will have to be after my shift is over.” He wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of having to meet a stranger. But, he also knew that returning the phone was the right thing to do.

“I'm meeting up with Claudia later. I'll text the address and time to her phone. You can make it to Hightown, right?”

“I should be able to.” He could take the bus; he did it before.

“Okay. After I hang up, I'll text you the information.”

The call ended.

#anders #hawke #oc hawke #handers #fhanders #modern au #fan fiction #my writing

[jordanrosenburg]

My Week in Israel

Most students go home to work, catch up with friends and family, and relax over their winter breaks from college. I did all of those things, but not every student has a chance to go over seas on a free trip. I am Jewish, and therefore I have the birthright to visit my homeland of Israel.

In October 2016, my older sister and I began our application process with URJ Kesher, and in November it was confirmed that we were accepted to go on our birthright trip. 

DAY ONE:

We flew out of JFK International Airport on Sunday, January 15th at 10:50 pm, and landed in Israel at 4 pm. Thirty-two Americans waited for their tour-guide. We were also greeted by Israeli soldiers, who I initially thought would be with us for extra protection. This was not the case.

The eight Israelis were there to experience birthright with us. They each got a week off from the army to go on this journey with us. A lot of people have preconceived notions about what Israel is like. I felt completely safe the whole time. We had a security guard with us the whole time, and he was one of the nicest people I have ever met. There aren’t bombs going off every second, and there aren’t military people walking the streets with guns. In fact, if you didn’t know that Israel was in a controversial area of the world, you would think it was one of the most peaceful places on Earth.

The weather was gorgeous the entire time, or at least I thought so. I am originally from Boston, so going from 20 degree weather to 60 degree weather made it feel like Spring time. This was cold for the Israelis, and for some of the Americans who were from down south/the west.

The first three days were jam packed. We had a lot to cover in seven days. The first night we did a lot of stuff to get to know one another, that I was expecting. 

DAY TWO:

The next morning we were up early, and we wouldn’t be returning to a hotel until two days later. The food for breakfast was interesting. There was pasta with sauce, different kinds of salads, fish, dessert, and much more. They had eggs and cereal and toast as well. I will say that everything I ate tasted totally fresh and delicious.

After breakfast, we hopped on the bus, and headed to the old city of Jerusalem.

I was literally walking on history, thousand year old ruins were before me. We were able to see King David’s temple, and walk where our ancestors walked. Our tour guide was absolutely incredible. He would explain the history of where we were, and then connect it to why it is important today, and explain why we tell these stories.

We walked a little further, and we found ourselves at the Western Wall.

This was an extremely emotional experience for me. I wrote a personal note, and was able to put it in the wall. I touched the wall and really felt the energy run through my body. I felt truly blessed to be at one of the holiest sights in the world.

Then we got a lunch break. We got to walk around for a bit, and I tried falafel for the first time. It was absolutely delicious. After that, we took a two hour bus ride out to the desert. We stayed with the Bedouin people and experienced their hospitality.

The first thing we did there was ride camels.

Riding a camel is an odd experience. I don’t like roller coasters, and the way the camel had to get up off the ground scared me a little. I was only on it for twenty minutes, but at least I can say I rode a camel in the desert.

Later that night, we got to meditate under the stars with no light pollution. I’ve never seen a more beautiful sky. After that we ate a Moroccan style dinner and it was so delicious. Eating real pita in the Middle East is oddly satisfying. 

After dinner, we played a bunch of games that the Israelis had to come up with for us. We played a name game, they taught us Israeli slang, and a couple other games that had some meaning behind them. When the games were done, we all sat behind a fire, talked, and played some music. It was a great way for us to get to know each other even better. We had to be up at 5am the next day, so I called it a night around 11. We all slept in this big tent on these little mattresses. We were given sleeping bags as well. I was smart enough to take a sleeping pill, so once I fell asleep, I stayed knocked out until my alarm went off. It was very cold in the tent, and a lot of people did not sleep well. 

DAY THREE:

I remember hearing a lot of different alarms go off that morning. My sister, who slept next to me, stayed sound asleep. I gave her a little nudge and I told her it was time to get up. 

We were up so early because we would taking a hike up to Masada to watch the sunrise. The actual hike up was only about twenty minutes. It was a little bit of a struggle for me, but I felt really good once I made it to the top. It was a little cloudy, but we all still saw the sun rise together. 

Masada is an extremely important place for the Jewish people. It was where King Herod built his home. It was where the Jews tried to fight off the Romans. It was one of the few times in history that the Jews really fought back, using their brawn instead of brain. After our tour guide explained all of that to us, we took a group picture:

Then we walked around the ruins and got to see a lot of really cool architecture. We walked through King Herod’s actual bathhouse. which he based off of a Roman bathhouse. It was cool to see how he lived. 

Walking and seeing the desert was incredible. It looked like a much larger version of the grand canyon. It looked like it could go on forever. 

It was time to hike back down the mountain to go get a much deserved breakfast. But this would not be twenty minutes like before. Instead, we took a snake trail back down which took over an hour. The rocks were really rubbly so of course I slipped and fell right on my knee. I didn’t get seriously hurt, but it was sore for the next couple of days. Luckily one of my friends was walking next to me, and he helped me up, and made sure I didn’t slip all the way down the mountain. I heard my sister yell a little further up, “Are you okay?!”, and I yelled back, “Yes! Be careful!!”. 

We ate breakfast at a hostel/resort and it was absolutely incredible. This time they had fried eggs on toast and potato filled pastries. There was still dessert and salad stuff, so that really must be the culture. 

After breakfast we had some time to rest up on the bus, we were headed for the  Dead Sea. When we got there, we stopped at a factory. This factory makes organic creams, gels, washes, etc all from the natural minerals, clays, and water found at the Dead Sea. So we each bought a little something before driving down to the private beach. 

Here’s what you do at the Dead Sea: you rub the clay all over you that you find in the shallow part of the water (it helps make your skin soft and smooth), and then you go in the water. They have rules there, however, no swimming on your stomach and no splashing. Why? Because there is so much salt in the water that it would burn your eyes and if you drank like a cup of it, you would die. Magic happens when you lay on your back though. You float. Any person can float in the Dead Sea due to all of the salt. We were all laughing and freaking out, because a lot of us don’t usually float in water. 

We had a long bus ride back to Jerusalem. I could not wait to take a real shower. I rinsed off at the bathhouse at the beach, but the Dead Sea leaves you feeling a little slimy. So we all took our showers, changed our clothes, and headed down for dinner. This consisted of more pasta, salad, and bread. 

DAY FOUR:

This was the toughest day of all. We got up early, had breakfast and packed all of our stuff up. Then we had a political discussion as a group. We talked about Israel and Palestine and what the fight was really over. I won’t get into everything that was discussed, but I have a much better understanding of both sides of the conflict now. 

All of the Israelis had to be dressed in their uniforms this day. We were going to Mount Herzl which is a large, beautiful cemetery where important leaders and veterans are berried. When we got there, our tour guide asked us what Americans do on Memorial Day. A lot of them said they party and get drunk. I sat there with another girl, disgusted. She saw that I kept shaking my head, and she asked me if I had any family in the military, and I said yes, but that wasn’t why I was so disgusted. For the Israelis, their Memorial Day isn’t about celebration, it’s actually quite somber. Since everyone in Israel has to join the army, that means they probably had a family member or close friend die in the war. Back here in America, if you don’t know someone personally, you probably have a friend of a friend of a friend. The Israelis use their Memorial Day as another day to grieve and mourn, not drink and party and have cook outs. We also talked about how in America, Memorial Day is commercialized, and that also makes me sick. Stores have big super sales because they know everyone has the day off. That’s not what our people died for, in my opinion. 

After we discussed all of that, our tour guide explained who Herzl was, and why he was so important. He was the first big leader of the Zionist movement, so his grave is at the top of the mountain, and his children are berried right next to him. Our tour guide took us to where a lot of the presidents and prime ministers of Israel were berried and their importance. Then we went to the veterans part of the cemetery. I felt something strong in the pit of my stomach. 

The last time I was at a veterans cemetery was over the summer, in Sarasota, Florida. My papa passed away, and it was, and still is, extremely hard for me. So being back in such a sacred, beautiful place, put those awful memories back in my head.

Before we walked to the graves, our security guard wanted to read us a story that he translated for us. It was about a man named Jon, and how Jon would never get to do basically anything again. This got to me. I cried the whole time he read the story. All I could think of was my papa. No, he was not a young man who died in battle. He lived through his time in the service, and lived a long, happy life. But, he would never get to meet my boyfriend, he would never get to see me get married (some day), he wouldn’t get to come to my college graduation. Even though I feel his spirit with me, and I know he’s watching over me, I would obviously still rather him be physically here. I would give anything to hold his hand one last time. 

After our security guard finished, I asked a friend for a tissue, and ran over to my sister. I gave her hand a squeeze, and kept walking. All of the Israelis had a story to tell that day, each one of them more heart-wrenching than the last. We all cried that morning. Out of respect of where we were, I did not take any pictures, but believe me when I tell you, it is absolutely breath-taking. 

We took a break from the heavy stuff, and got to walk around a market place in the new city of Jerusalem for lunch. One of the Israeli girls took a few of us to her favorite pasta place. You could choose from a list of pastas, sauces, and whatever you wanted in it. It was a very delicious, and filling lunch. It reminded me of something I would eat in America, and it almost made me feel a little better. Plus it was nice to have a break from my usual lunch, falafel and pita/hummus. 

Walking around the market place gave me some perspective, and I’ve been telling this story to everyone because my ignorance, in this moment, was pretty funny. So, my sister and one of our new friends and I were walking, and we walked by a wine and cheese shop, so I say, “Oh my gosh! Look, they have a wine and cheese store here?! We have those! That is so crazy.” And behind me I hear one of the Israeli boys laughing, and I turn around and say, “Wow, that must’ve sounded stupid, of course you have stuff like that here.” And he said, “Yeah, and the best part is, you can even buy stuff with actual money, you don’t even have to trade your camel.” This made all of us laugh, so for the rest of the trip, that was our joke. Anytime we saw something we have back in America, we would joke about it with him. And he would say something funny like “Yeah, we actually have things here, it’s not just desert people.” But it really was funny because they don’t teach us how modern everything is there. It kind of looks like Florida or New York, depending on the area that you are in. 

Play time was over after lunch, our next stop was the Holocaust Museum, once again, I did not take any pictures out of respect. Every inch of this place had some sort of significance. The architecture of the inside of the museum had significance. The woman who explained everything to us did a fantastic job as well. Everything she talked about, I had basically already learned, but there were a lot of small details that I had never learned that she brought up. There were also a lot of screens set up so you could listen to survivor stories. 

I’m not going to discuss everything I saw at the museum because I just can’t do  a lot of it justice, but I want to talk about the room they have at the end. At the end of the tour there is a big dome shaped room. When you look up, there are pictures of those who died. And around you are shelves of black books filled with 4 million people’s names. These are the recorded people who died in the Holocaust. There are also empty shelves for the other 2 million people they don’t have the names of. This room is chilling, and should remind us: NEVER AGAIN.

I didn’t think the day would get much heavier, but I was wrong. That night we all learned about this database that if you swab your cheeks, you can be matched with another Jewish person, and you can either give them your blood or your stem cells. A woman who had leukemia spoke about how she matched with someone from a birthright trip, and it saved her life. So I swabbed my cheeks, and now I’m in the database. This was my mitzvah for the trip. 

After having such a heavy day, we were able to have a little dance party in one of the rooms in the hostel we were staying in. It was a lot of fun. We were all able to unwind after a somber day. It also gave me time to talk more to the Israelis about their every day life. One of them told me he was self conscious about his English. Let me tell you, all of the Israelis were very easy to understand, and their English was incredible. He said the hardest part was understanding some of our slang, and when we were being sarcastic due to our tones. I loved listening to them talk about their lives and the way they grew up. 

DAY FIVE:

This was one of the first days we did not have to be up super early, and I was grateful for the extra sleep. However, my throat started feeling sore, and I ended up having an awful head cold for the next three days. 

At this point and for the rest of trip, we would be in Tel A’viv. After breakfast, and a brief history lesson from a university professor (he gave an in depth lecture about how/why the Middle East got divided up the way it did) we got on the bus, and headed to a place called Jaffa (a town right outside Tel A’viv). 

As you can see, it was a gorgeous day out. We got to walk around there for a little bit, these pictures are actually at a historical sight. We were sitting and standing on thousand year old steps! 

Then we got to go to this giant market place in Tel A’viv. The girl in the picture above stuck with me (after I asked her to be my shopping buddy) and she helped me haggle in hebrew. We had a nice lunch together and I got her perspective on what it’s like to grow up in Israel and deal with what they deal with everyday. I had such a wonderful day with her, and it was one of my highlights from the trip. 

That night, we all got together to do Shabbat. I grew up going to a conservative temple where the Cantor would chant the prayers from the torah. This trip, however, was reform, not conservative, which means we had a reform Shabbat. The only difference really is that the prayers are sang to a different tune played by a guitar. It was sort of tough for me because I knew all of the prayers, but I kept getting tripped up by the different tunes. This was also another time that I cried on this trip. During the service you say a prayer if you are mourning someone, and the minute the woman who was studying to be a rabbi spoke up about this, I began thinking of my papa. He was my nannie’s second husband, but was around ten years before I was born, so he’s always been my grandfather. He was catholic, so when he left us, we had a catholic ceremony for him, I never got to pray for him in hebrew. I looked over, and saw that my sister was crying, so I went over to her in the middle of the prayer, and we held each other and we cried. I didn’t care that people were looking at us, we needed each other. Later on, one of the Israeli boys told me that was a very beautiful and powerful moment, and he enjoyed watching us comfort each other. I was happy to know us getting emotional didn’t weird anyone out like I thought. That moment gave me a little bit of closure, getting to pray for him the way I knew how. 

You’re not really supposed to do much on Shabbat, so after dinner, we all hung out and played games and listened to music. We also had a mini talent show which was very entertaining to watch. Since I wasn’t feeling well, I went up to bed after hanging out for only a little while. I also spent most of the time talking to my boyfriend on the phone when I could have been a little more social, but with the time difference I took any chance I could to hear his voice. 

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

DAY SIX:

Another morning we got to sleep in a little late. I even slept through breakfast. This was the worst day of my head cold, I did not want to get out of bed, but I did. We concluded our Shabbat service, and by the time we did that, we went down to lunch, and I made sure to have some orange juice. 

This was a very chill day. We went for a walk, and saw a couple more sights, and we got a chance to grab some ice cream which I had been craving. Everyone was really excited for the night to come. We’d be going to a dinner and then to a night club. So everyone got dressed up.

We broke off into groups when it came to dinner time, some people got sushi, some people got pizza, and of course my group just had to go to a hummus and pita place where I ate falafel for the fifteenth time, but it was still fun.

We were told to meet at a corner so we could all get into the club together, and of course we had to take another group picture. 

This is one of my favorite pictures of a few of us, I can’t really explain why, but I just love it. 

The club was so cool! One of the Israelis set it up for us, he knew the owner so we got these wristbands, and anytime we ordered a drink we would get a free shot with it. We even got the whole upstairs pretty much to ourselves. They played really awesome music too. Lots of killer throwbacks and stuff from now. They even played the “Friends” theme song and we all freaked out. 

Did you really go to the club if you didn’t take some selfies to document it?

We had to leave a little after midnight which was sort of lame because we were all having such a great time. A lot of people stayed up late that night, but of course, I still wasn’t feeling well, so I socialized for like twenty minutes when we got back, and then I went to bed. 

DAY SEVEN:

We got up early, it was the last day of the trip. The week flew by insanely fast, and even though we were trying to have fun throughout the day, the sadness of having to leave kept creeping into the backs of our heads. 

We got to walk around Tel A’viv a little more, back near Jaffa. We got to walk closer by the water, and the view was just beautiful. 

Then we went to a farmer’s market, where I got a very fresh fruit smoothie. My friends went to get more falafel and I just couldn’t do it. One of the Israelis went with me to get the smoothie, he also wasn’t feeling the falafel. 

After lunch, we got to go to this really cool building where the CEO of birthright was, and we got to learn about a lot of the technology that was invented in Israel, they are super advanced over there! 

When we were done with all of that, we went back to the hostel for the last time. We sat in one big circle, and the CEO of birthright sat with us. We went over all of the stuff we did throughout the week, and then we had to fill out a couple of surveys. Our last task was to go around and talk about our expectations of the trip, and our highlights of the trip. I talked about how it was such a good surprise to see how safe and normal everything was there. It was also a good surprise to see that the Israelis were silly just like us. At the end of the day, their still young and trying to have as much fun as possible like the rest of us. They aren’t these overly serious military people like I thought. My highlight was when my sister and I came together at the Shabbat service, and of course I cried when I brought that up, and I remember there was an Israeli sitting between my sister and I. He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze, and my sister and I held hands. I truly felt like we were all one big family.

Our last meal was burgers and fries, super American. The goodbye at the airport was bittersweet. This was where the Israelis had to leave us. Once again, I cried. I wish I had had more time with them. They were all so wonderful and I really wanted to keep getting to know them. I became friends with all of them on Facebook, but that didn’t make me feel much better. 

We got our boarding passes, walked through the airport, and got on our plane back to America. After we had all gotten through customs, we had another goodbye. A bunch of Americans sharing tearful goodbyes after such an important journey. We were all friends on Facebook, and some were even already talking about setting up a reunion. This was such an amazing group of people and I’ll never forget any of them.

My sister and I made a quick pit stop to change, and then we went to find our dad, who was waiting for us. We ran to him and we hugged, and after being on an 11 hour flight, we now had a four hour car ride from New York to Boston. 

POST TRIP THOUGHTS:

I am so incredibly glad that I went on this trip. I am also thankful birthright offers seven day trips, they used only offer ten day trips. I was happy to return home,  but at the same time, I wish I was still there. I would love to go back some day. My new Israeli friends said we could call them anytime if we returned and they would tell us where to stay and where to go. Being able to go on this trip that was basically free was so worth while, and life changing. It made me think about a lot of things in my personal life and the world around me. I’ve always been proud of being Jewish, and I always thought I was a good Jew. Being able to be with only Jewish people was nice for a change. I go to a college in New Hampshire, so there aren’t a ton of Jewish people around. This trip reaffirmed that my heritage is a good one. I wouldn’t be who I am now if I wasn’t Jewish. The stories of my people are important, not that I ever thought they weren’t. But hearing those stories in basically the same places they happened, being immersed in that history is something I will never forget. I’ll go back to Israel again some day. Being able to take this journey with my older sister was also something I am grateful for. We aren’t super close, but now we have this. We shared this trip with one another, and that’s really important to me. I don’t think I would have been able to do this without her. Being able to grab her hand, or lean on her when I needed to meant more to me than she’ll know. 

For those of you who are Jewish, and are of age for a birthright trip, I strongly suggest you go. Just do it. Fill out the application. You won’t regret it. 

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