#and sometimes that something is the tenderness of quietly blooming feelings growing between people
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(WHILE COLLECTING THE STARS) I CONNECTED THE DOTS
or, how Nesta accepted the bond and decided to give living a try // ao3
Adoption /Self-Discovery/Domestic/Witch!Nesta/Mating Bond/Nessian/found family bc why the fck not/Healing
Heal the scars from off my back
I don't need them anymore
You can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars
I've come home
The first thing she notices is how small the girl is.
Her feet are dangling far from the ground and, even though she’s perched on a stroll and Cassian is kneeling on the ground, he’s still towering over her frame. The top of the child’s head barely sticks above the table. Her tucked-in wings make her look even tinier; tiny and miserable, wrapped up with a blanket like an abandoned kitten.
Nesta’s still high on all the magic. There is dark paint smeared all over her skin and her veins are buzzing with the sheer power that she and her coven has just leeched off the very bones of Illyria. She’s only starting to regain some composer and maybe that is why, for a good few minutes, she stays on the corridor and watches as Cassian patiently asks the girl if she wants something to eat or to drink, if she’s warm enough, if maybe she wants to take a nap, hearing nothing in return except for the stubborn, shell-shocked silence.
It’s only when the child pulls her knees up and hides her face in the material of the blanket when Nesta actually makes her presence known.
‘’Hello?’’ she calls quietly from her place on a threshold, not wanting to spook the girl further.
To Cassian’s credit, he does not whip his head towards her – but, after all, he probably knew she’s been here all along.
He always knows she’s near, just like she does.
‘’Hello, Nesta.’’ He says and there is something so heavy, so terribly dark ringing in his voice that she cannot help but shiver. ‘’Sorry, darling, are you fine sitting alone for a while here? I’ll be right back.’’
He raises his hand as if to pat the girl’s knee, but decides not to half-motion; it falls awkwardly to his side when he slowly raises to his full height.
The girl just buries deeper into the blanket.
Something about her – the clear despair radiating from every pore of her body – pulls Nesta towards her like a siren song. She cannot tear her eyes off her, even when Cassian ushers her to the corridor, his hand burning her lower back.
‘’Sorry for no heads-up.’’ He whispers, face half-obscured by the shadows.
It’s almost dusk; the lovely pink light of the dying sun makes everything less real somehow. Or maybe it’s still the magic, the leftovers of it from the sabbath, she’s not sure.
She knows why he’s apologizing. Strangers still threw her off, especially here, in this – space they’ve created. The space where she walks barefoot and with her hair unbound, only for him to see. But how he knows that she doesn’t feel comfortable with unexpected visitors, she has no idea. Sometimes, she wonders how the hell Cassian even knows half of the things he knows about her, because she doesn’t tell him even a quarter of them.
Unexpected visitors that make her uneasy definitely don’t include little lost girls, though. Especially since there’s an unpleasant pounding in Nesta’s head when her mind starts to mull over why the girl would be here in the first place.
‘’Oh, stop being an idiot. Why did you bring her here? Is she- is her mother-‘’
‘’Gone? Yeah.’’
Nesta closes her eyes so tightly that the whole night sky blooms on the underside of her eyelids.
That’s Illyria. – he told her the first time when he came home reeking of blood, his knuckles scraped to the raw meat. – It happens.
And there was not an ounce of acceptance in his voice, only this defeated helplessness. The same helplessness she’s hearing – she’s feeling – now.
‘’She doesn’t have anyone else left? No family?’’
‘’No one. Her father was killed in the war, as far as I know.’’
It happens. Females disappear. Females evaporate. Females appear with their wings clipped, with blood running down their thighs. Females find themselves in the wrong place, the wrong time… especially young, pretty widows, trying to make a living in any way they can, selling whatever they have, including themselves.
Nesta does not have to ask for more details, does not have to dig deeper. Cassian fixes her stare on the chandelier above her head and breaths deeply and, when she looks down, she can see dark bruises blooming on his knuckles, turning them all shades of purple.
Her hands are still cool from the autumn air. He shivers when her thumbs brush across his tender flesh.
‘’Those who did it to her – they won’t do it again to anyone else, will they?’’
‘’No,’’ Cassian growls, his fingers curling around hers. ‘’No, they won’t.’’
She lets her lips curl into a smile, the one that makes Devlon piss his pants whenever he throws a hissy about her coven, or rather about her dragging the clipped females to the woods at night to howl to the moon, as he calls it.
‘’Good.’’ She breathes out.
Her eyes slide on the wooden panels on the wooden panels, back to the kitchen; through the ajar door, all she can see are the black curls, the small talons on top of the girl’s wings peeking from the folds of the blanket.
She’s just so small. She cannot be possibly older than five.
‘’What’s her name?”
“Nicassia.’’ Cassian answers without meeting Nesta’s eyes and something akin to a laugh bubbles in her chest. Nicassia. What a pretty name, swishing like a mountain stream on the rocks, like the wind in the valley.
Ni-cass-ia.
It seems the irony has not escaped Cassian too, because he smirks slightly at her stunned silence.
‘’What are the chances, huh?’’
‘’Yeah.’’ She sounds a bit breathless. Nicassia. ‘’What - where are you planning to take her?’’
She rather feels than hears his hesitance when he says:
‘’Well. There’s an orphanage in Velaris-‘’
Something tightens like a rock inside her core. Of course.
She bites on her tongue. Stop being ridiculous, Velaris is not the source of all evil in the world. She has no doubt that they will take care of her well there – keep her well-fed and clothed, educate her. Give her the care and attention she needs. Maybe she’ll be treated as something … something else, different, but not worse, Feyre would never allow that. Still-
There’s this nagging thought, coming back to her over and over again as she raises her eyes to the small bundle of misfortune on the stroll in the kitchen Nesta has started to think of as hers – what about the things they cannot give her in Velaris?
Nesta’s been living in the Illyria for three years now; she keeps count of every day while pretending she’s absolutely not doing that. And during this time, she has just begun to grasp the magnitude of her ignorance of how these people live and how they think and feel – but she also knows now just enough to realize that there will be no coming back for Nicassia if she’s sent to the Night Court so young.
No one will teach her the songs to keep the rhythm while sewing – no one will teach her how to sew in the first place, how to weave the promises and good fortunes into the fabric. No one will teach her the strange language, full of whistles and hard vowels, impossible to really grasp for somebody who did not grow up hearing it every day. No one will teach her how to put pebbles on the windowsills for protection or to hang bundles of herbs above the fireplace for prosperity and health. No one will make a rowan necklace for her upon her flowering, every hope, and dream that her mother has for her captured on the rope along with the fruits.
No one will teach her the sacred, secret language of Illyrian females, the rites and rituals of their womanhood. If Nicassia grows up in Velaris, she will be forever an outcast in her own home. Not High Fae and not quite Illyrian either.
She will once sit around the fire with other females just like Nesta does with her coven and she too won’t be a part of the story.
And Nesta cannot bear this thought, cannot help but fixate on it.
‘’Nesta.’’
Cassian’s hand is warm and steady on arm, gentle, when he squeezes it.
He’s always gentle with her now, hesitant almost. She’s trying not to miss the times when he was challenging her with every move, every word, driving her insane. It’s better this way, when everything between them is so delicate, fragile like an eggshell. It’s better like that, she tries to convince herself every day, every night laying alone in her bed, her very skin burning from desire.
Sometimes he sleeps beside her to keep her nightmares at bay, but honestly, she almost prefers the nightmares to this unbearable, painful distance between them.
‘’You cannot – you can’t keep her, Sweetheart.’’
She knows what he means by that – she knows he means all the sleepless nights and the emptiness still present in her eyes more often than not. Her still too-skinny hands, her still-not-quite mastered powers. How she would not touch booze for all days of the year except for the anniversary of her father’s death when she gets so absolutely pissed that she sleeps through the next week. The fact that they share fears and dreams and silence, trade quiet feelings, small kisses, absent-minded caresses every day, but they have still not traded the actual words, did not dare to voice anything they feel for each other.
She knows he only wants to protect her.
But maybe a time for coddling has passed. Not when there is a child sitting in their kitchen, small and alone in this world and this time, she has power – power, and strength, and will – to help her.
‘’Maybe I can’t’’. she says softly, slowly. Nicassia’s dark curls spill on her shoulders. Nesta’s hands itch to braid it the way it’s supposed to be braided, just like Emerie explained to her one time- first parted in two, then divided into four strands and woven together (Health. Protection. Love. Devotion.). Nesta’s no Illyrian, but she can learn. She can ask her coven to teach her, to teach her how to sing lullabies in Illyrian, which bedtimes stories she should tell-
Ni-cass-ia.
Nesta thinks about a boy of five, dumped onto the cold mud, taught over and over again in the most horrible way that he has to kill, beg or steal for every little crumb of love in his life, that it will never be given freely to him, that he will never be worth it.
Nesta thinks of a girl of eight, burning with anger too vast to be contained, only learning decades later how to be gentle, how to allow others to be gentle to her. She thinks of Feyre and Elain, of loving too much and not enough simultaneously, of not knowing how to feel anything without this magnitude of feeling devouring her whole.
Nesta turns around to face Cassian, her hands gripping his too-strongly. There’s fire – fire- burning inside her brighter than any magic ever did, hotter than any rage ever did.
She needs us. – she thinks and then: I need this. I want this.
I want this for us.
She doesn’t remember ever wanting anything more. She doesn’t remember the last time she has felt so much.
How can they continue to pretend they’re walking on eggshells when she feels every rise and fall of his chest as if it was her own? When she could’ve as well grabbed on this bond between them or hang herself on it, that’s how strong it is. Forged from some ancient metal. Hardened in flames.
Cassian kneeling on the floor in front of this girl. Nesta coming home.
‘’But maybe we can.’’
His eyes burn golden, staring down at her. She can almost hear his heart stumbling in his chest. She’s trembling, waiting for him to tell her, no, to tell her that’s insane and wrong, to try to reason with her.
But maybe her own heart is painted on her face or maybe the implication of her words are too vast, too great to grasp, or maybe it’s that fact that all her walls go down for a moment when she’s too desperate to keep them up and he sees her for what she truly is for a moment, or maybe it’s all of those things altogether or something else entirely – but Cassian doesn’t say no.
He looks to the kitchen again, his jaw clenching and eyes turning soft when one of Nicassia’s bare feet emerges from the blanket to dangle above the floor.
‘’Are you sure?’’
One step, two steps before she’s so close she could’ve counted the freckles of hazel in his eyes.
Be brave.
‘’I want this with you. I want her. Do you – do you want it too?’’
And she means more than Nicassia, or rather – she means all Nicassia can possibly mean, the whole ocean of dreams she has never dared to venture into, so deep they could both drown in it.
In her grand romance novels, he would’ve pulled her into his arms, give her a sweeping kiss. But in these books, there seems to always be a perfect moment for everything, the exact seconds when stars align and the realization comes like a lightning strike. Nesta does not believe in this type of love any more- doesn’t believe in the perfect moments. It was always Feyre’s brand of romance. Everything in Nesta’s and Cassian’s story has always been complicated and ill-timed. She doesn’t expect to be swept off her feet or wooed anymore.
She just wants to come home. Finally, after all those lonely years.
Cassian doesn’t give her a grand kiss. Instead, he raises their linked hands to his lips and whispers against her skin – quietly, like a secret, like an oath:
‘’I do. Fine then, love.’’
And for a second she can almost see that small boy entering Rhysand’s mother’s cottage in the war camp, craving family and belonging above all reason once again.
Her body turns soft, jelly; her arm raises up, palm resting in the crook of his neck, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. She’s on her tiptoes before she realizes she has even made a move.
For the first time since they met, they meet each other halfway; his forehead resting on hers, his hand pressing hers to his heart.
‘’Fine then, love.’’ She echoes and, all at once, warmth erupts under her skin like a raging forest fire when the bond tugs on her insides and snaps in place, sweet and familiar, the gravity keeping her feet on the ground.
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from sea to stars
Brian May x Reader
synopsis: from sea to stars, the world is ours.
warnings: brief allusion to depression
word count: 2.6k
a/n: happy birthday sofie ( @drivenbybri )!! i hope you have a wonderful day, you absolute star. this is inspired by the moodboard you made me of holidaying with brian in italy <3
⭒
1992
The sun had gone down hours and hours ago, and yet, Positano was only just awakening.
Twinkling lights and narrow, cobblestone paths wound down the cliffs until the land dispersed and gave way to water, and the starry sky sparkled above a sea shining beneath the newly risen moon.
The tables were being set out for dinner, shop owners returning from their midday naps that had lasted long beyond their prescribed time allotment, elderly women gossiping as they hung up their washing, fishermen returning from the ocean to play their parts in the family scene.
There were young people too. Lovers and lone wolves alike, friends and proclaimed family, they laughed as they ambled half-tipsy down the streets of their village, or shouted to one another as they ran between the alleys and dodged adults who had the mind to complain about the noise.
It was by no means a quiet night in Positano, but then again, no nights were ever quiet on the Italian Riviera, with such a lively population, driven by music and a little bit of madness.
Or those were Brian’s words anyway.
He’d said that as the two of you had wandered along the low wall by the water, and you’d smiled fondly at him as he’d swung your hand in his own, enunciated his words in that particular manner of his, with that slightly-distracted air, which gave way to rapt attention once his thoughts had been spoken.
“A people, a village, driven by music, and just a little bit of madness.” He’d laughed then, a soft, breathy sound, one that you only ever heard when it was just the two of you, shrouded in the intimacy of solitude, where you felt like you were dreaming because you felt like you were standing at the centre of the universe.
And right now, there was nothing more to the universe than Brian’s hand clasped with your own. The lights of Positano caught on his ringlets as he smiled beneath the glow of the full moon.
Somewhere along the way, he pulled you to the side of the path and stopped beside a bush full of crepe-pink flowers. He broke one off from an overhanging branch and proceeded to brush the hair from your face with light fingers before he placed the flower behind your ear.
You smiled up at him again, because how could you not— this gentle soul with his wandering mind and ever-generous heart, who swore he loved you more than you loved him.
But you wouldn’t— you couldn’t— believe him when he said that, because surely, he could not have felt any love greater than the one that overwhelmed you, bubbled and overflowed from your heart, when he smiled at you, when he so much as simply looked at you, and you found yourself falling in love all over again. Surely there were limitations as to how much one person could love another, and surely you had reached those limitations with the way you loved Brian. Except for the fact that each day you spent with him made you love him just a little bit more.
There was always something new to learn about Brian, how he had a different frown for different types of concentration, whether it was music or mathematics, and how he hummed to himself when he thought no one was listening. He could be a grumpy sod sometimes, but otherwise, he had a mild temperament, and his darker moments always yielded far sweeter ones. He was stubborn, but somehow, he always came around when you laid your head on his shoulder and took his hand in yours. He would talk and talk about what was bothering him, hardly taking a breath, quite often on the verge of tears, but then you would look to him and nod.
“I know,” you’d say.
It was hard these days. But you promised him that better ones lay ahead.
He would sigh softly and kiss your forehead, and the two of you would sit together quietly for a little while longer before going about the day.
But here, in Positano, the world seemed to spin more languidly than anywhere else, the sun lingering high in the heavens, unperturbed by its winter curfew, and time was felt much more as a construct than a reality.
At nine o’clock, you and Brian sat down to dinner at a little place that overlooked the bay, mid-way up the cliffs and boasting the best scenery in the village, secluded beneath the lemon and pine trees, with a clear view of the rolling waves and the boats that rocked atop them.
“So,” said Brian, setting down his menu to look at you, “what is it to be?”
“Hmm…”
“Pizza or pasta?” he joked, as the two of you had done since you’d arrived in Italy two weeks ago. You were beginning to like this modified routine of lying in the sun and squealing like a teenager when Brian tossed you into an oncoming wave, winding your fingers through his curls as you kissed him beside cyprus trees, tasting homemade wine on his lips and seeing the sunlight brighten his eyes anew.
“I think it’s a pasta kind of night,” you replied, and within a few minutes, Brian had ordered for the both of you in haphazard Italian.
Somewhere, there was somebody strumming a guitar and whistling, and the sound echoed softly between the close-packed buildings of the village, reminding you of another time. Exactly what other times you were reminded of was unclear, but there was a certain nostalgia to the old architecture, old families, old memories of Italy, and you closed your eyes to drink in the music as Brian’s hand found yours again.
“Someone’s playing guitar,” he said, and you murmured a response. “Makes me want to write a song. Maybe I will.”
You opened your eyes.
Brian hadn’t written in ages.
He associated writing with his bandmates, and, rightfully, found the idea of writing quite painful, without them.
But here he was, saying he wanted— no, that he would— write a song, and you felt the world grow a little lighter.
You tugged on his hand. “Will you write one about me?” you said.
A smile broadened his pretty lips. “I’d write you a thousand songs if you asked.”
“Oh, please,” you scoffed. “There’s nothing about me that warrants two songs, let alone a thousand.”
Brian lifted your hand to his mouth and pressed a tender kiss to your skin. “That is utter rubbish, and you know it.”
You had nothing to say to that, so you settled for a blush and a smile, and glancing down at the table, at heart still the teenager you’d once scorned, but had now come to love for her belief in the goodness of people, for the purity of her love toward those who loved her in return.
You weren’t old, but god, Brian made you feel young.
Young enough to believe that everything would eventually work out for the best, young enough to imagine that the sea and the stars went on forever, and that happiness came to those who deserved it.
It was all very unrealistic, but then again, you had never thought that someone as beautiful and kind as Brian could exist in this world plagued by human cruelty.
“Love?” Brian’s voice called you from your thoughts. He was looking at you concernedly, the crease between his brows for once revealing his age, some of the tragedies which he has lived through. His normally cheery smile hid these little sadnessess, but suddenly, they were as plain to you as the moon shining down from the gradient of the Italian summer night sky. “What are you looking at? Have I got something on my face?’
He lifted a hand to his cheek, but you beat him to the chase, running your thumb softly over his chin.
“No,” you murmured, staring into those endlessly hazel eyes. “Just you.”
His smile melted you. He pressed a lingering kiss to your fingers and said nothing more.
The food came and went, and after the two of you stayed a while longer, as was custom to do in Italy, you rose and ambled down the winding paths of Positano again.
It was an aimless sort of wandering, but that was the beauty of it all. There was nothing to be done, no task to be completed or deadline to be met. There was simply you and Brian, and the hidden corners of a foreign city, begging to be explored.
One such hidden corner involved a bookshop, and Brian was quick to pull you inside before you walked on by it.
You had almost not seen the place, shrouded by overgrown shrubbery riddled by the night-blooming jasmine. Indeed, Brian had not seen it either, but had noticed the aroma of the jasmine, and had glanced over his shoulder to catch sight of the rickety little shop.
Inside, there were books everywhere, stacks on the floor that stretched toward the ceiling in winding towers, shelves overcrowded with books both vertical and horizontal, tables and chairs occupied by novels and fairy tale collections in place of people.
Brian navigated the maze of the shop with purpose, and you smiled bemusedly.
“Anything in particular?” you asked him, as though you were the shop clerk.
He stopped briefly to wink at you. “Poesia,” he said.
You left the shop only ten minutes later, Brian with a tattered book beneath one arm. He led the way down the cliffs, until at last the sea shone before you once more, and the sand sparkled with moonlight like it was made of stars.
As the waves washed ashore and the sea breeze drifted in to accompany them, you looked up at Brian, who cast his eyes about the beach.
“Please tell me we’re not going swimming,” you said, to which he laughed.
“No, it’s a bit too dark for that. And with the way the waves are cresting right now, I’d say we would easily be carried out to sea, from one moment to the next.”
You blinked, puzzled. “So what are we doing?”
“Absolutely nothing at all.”
“Nothing?” you said, considering the purposeful way he had surveyed the beach.
“Well,” he stepped into the sand and pulled you with him, “not quite.” He smiled again, that lovely, secretive smile that was yours alone to witness; he never smiled that way for anyone but you. “Come on.”
He turned to his right, and you perceived a calmer swell of tide, mitigated by a small outcrop of rock which shielded the shore from the wilder waves.
Brian sank down into the sand and drew you with him, easing you down so that your head rested in his lap, and his hand in your hair.
You closed your eyes, as he opened the book and began to read softly, the hum of his words drawing you close to dance with your imagination, to see the lights and colours of the stories he spun, because even if you could not understand the language of which they were made, you could hear the intention, the emotion, of which they had been composed.
It occurred to you then that the most beautiful sound in the world was that of Brian’s voice. It was a striking thought, yet the realisation was so simple to you that it brought tears to your eyes to think that you should have been so lucky as to hear it. He spoke more beautifully than the wind could have hoped to speak, in its whispers through trees, more beautifully than the rush of the ocean could have dreamed to emulate, in its effervescent, ever-changing beauty. You would have given up anything, everything, to listen to him forever, for there was such love in the pensiveness with which he chose his words, such care in the fluidity of his speech, the melody of his song.
But then the lilt of his voice became suddenly unfamiliar, and you opened your eyes to find that he had diverted from the script of the book in his hand, and as his fingers ran through your hair, you realised that they were trembling.
“Brian,” you began softly, sitting up to take his hands in yours. He had stopped speaking entirely, and worry gripped you at the expression on his face— the bitten lip, the watery eyes. “Brian, what—”
But he shook his head, shushed you gently, and you closed your mouth, though your concern did not subside.
With a shuddering sigh, he began anew.
“Il mondo è bello,” he recited, “dal mare alle stelle, e se mi salvi, sarà nostro.”
“I don’t understand,” you murmured despairingly, but he pulled his hands from yours, and your gaze followed his movements as he picked up the book once more.
“Quindi, salvami, amore mio, e sposami.””
The pages fell open then, and at the perfect time, too, because you had been about to question him further, to impress upon him just how little of the Italian he spoke made any sense to you.
But betwixt the pages of the book, as answers often do, lay the only answer you needed.
A little jewel, shimmering atop the circle of a thin silver band.
A ring.
Your eyes abruptly filled with tears, and if you had been able to see more than blurry shapes before you, you would have sworn that Brian’s eyes did too.
His voice nearly failed him when next he spoke, a stutter in his throat to match the one which pulsed in your heart.
“The world is beautiful, from sea to stars, and if you save me, it will be ours. So save me, my love, and marry me.”
You could not speak, for the emotion that had thickened the air in your throat.
Maybe it was the ease with which he had spoken the words, because though he had stumbled through the Italian, there had not been even a glimmer of hesitance in his eyes as he had bid you marry him.
Maybe it was how he gazed at you now, the way you had never imagined anyone would gaze at you, or how he looked ready to surrender himself to shame, should you have said no.
Maybe you were just amazed. Amazed at how he loved you. Amazed by how little you understood of the world, in contrast with how certain you were that nothing would make you happier than to spend the rest of your life with Brian May.
“Will I marry you?” you repeated, as the smile flooded your lips and the tears your cheeks.
Brian nodded silently, his chest rising and falling in a way that betrayed his quickened heartbeat.
You nodded in return.
Brian drew nearer to you until the two of you were leaning forward in the sand, until his fingertips ghosted the sides of your face. “Please,” he murmured. “Please, will you say it?”
Your eyes fluttered closed and the world sank into darkness, for but the lightness of his touch. The word fell from your tongue.
“Yes,” you said.
As the ring found its home upon your finger, the world spiraled out of touch with reality, for surely you must have been dreaming. The salt of your tears sweetened the taste of his mouth as he kissed you, with a tenderness even more beautiful than his words.
Yet, when you opened your eyes again, you knew that you could not be dreaming, because Brian still knelt before you, beneath the midnight moon of Positano.
And suddenly you understood what he had meant.
Because with your promise and his still tingling upon your lips, you knew that from sea to stars, the world would be forever yours.
⭒
a/n: my sincere apologies to anyone who actually speaks/understands italian. i neither speak not understand the language, but i had someone who does look over the grammar. i’m still not 100% sure that it’s right, but hey, i tried :)
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There Can Be Peace
Word Count: 1.4k
Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Reader
Summary: Sometimes the Mandalorian just needs space to talk and a place to be at peace.
Warning(s): None
A/N: This was based of of this post by @swimmingbyrd. I read it and absolutely had to write a little thing based off of it. Hopefully this helps bring it to life a little more!
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You can feel the ache of exhaustion settling into your bones with every step that you take across the metal floor of the Razor Crest. The child rests in your arms, slowly but surely giving in to the pull of sleep as you hum softly and mindlessly to him. There’s no tune, just the gentle vibrations of your voice bringing the little one closer and closer to rest with the help of your careful pacing. It’s become a routine at this point, and there’s something so serene about it all that makes you want to freeze and save the moment every time.
Letting out one last little yawn, the baby’s head finally falls to your shoulder. His big brown eyes close, and he wraps his hand around the collar of the shirt you wear, completely asleep. Your heart swells at the sight, and you don’t immediately put him to bed. Instead, you keep humming to him and walking with him, just wanting to hold onto him for a little longer. Before you’d come onto the Crest with the Mandalorian, you’d never seen yourself as the maternal type, but here you are, caring for this strange little creature like he’s your own.
It’s not what you imagined for your life, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.
You let out a soft breath, your humming coming to a stop, and you step in front of the little one’s pod, leaning down to gently lay him inside. It takes a little bit of work to uncurl his fingers from your shirt, but you’re grateful that he doesn’t stir as you free yourself from his grasp. You take great care covering him with his blanket and tucking him in, making sure that he’ll be nice and warm while the Crest glides through cold open space. Before you leave him alone to rest, you gently stroke his ear with your finger, smiling at the sleepy chirp that comes from the baby at the touch.
With the little one taken care of, you have another job to do, one that’s much more difficult. Climbing up the ladder to the cockpit, you shake your head when you find Din still sitting in the pilot’s seat, staring out the viewport as the ship glides through hyperspace. You walk up behind him, resting a hand on his pauldron. His gloved hand immediately comes up to rest on top of yours, gentle and warm in contrast to the cold beskar steel. “Come on. We’ve got a few hours before we come out of hyperspace. You need rest,” you murmur.
“I’ll be fine up here. Go get some sleep,” he replies. “Did the little one get to sleep alright?,” he asks. You know what he’s doing with the question: trying to change the subject to keep you from pressing him. It’s an old tactic though, and one that you can see right through.
“He’s fine. And you should be asleep too. Now let’s go,” you implore him. He shakes his head, but you stop him before he has a chance to continue arguing with you. “It wasn’t a question, Djarin. Now will you please get up so we can get some rest?”
He huffs out a sigh, and you grin in triumph knowing exactly what it means. He lets go of your hand, and you take a half step back as he rises from the chair. Nodding in the direction of the ladder, he urges you forward, and you make your way back to the hull of the ship. Once he’s joined you, he makes quick work of removing his armor, gloves, and boots, leaving him in his base layer of clothes and his helmet. With the beskar in a neat pile in front of the weapons cache, he turns out the lights, leaving both of you in pitch darkness.
Even with your sight lost to you, it doesn’t take you but a second to find him. He wraps his arms around you when you’re finally close enough, holding you to his chest for a moment. But then you separate from him a bit, just enough for you to be able to reach up and release him from the last barrier between you. You place the helmet on a nearby crate, but then return your focus to Din, smiling gently as a soft, tender kiss is placed on your lips.
As much as he tries to hide it, you know he’s tired. You know it by the way that he leans into you, letting you bare more of his weight, and the way he tries to stifle a yawn by burying his face in your hair. You’ve been around him long enough now that there’s not much he can get past you.
“I don’t know why you do this every time,” you tease him quietly, keeping your voice low to avoid waking the child, “You know it’s a losing battle.”
“One day you’ll give up,” he whispers in reply. He knows you won’t.
“Not in a thousand lifetimes,” you tell him, shaking your head and pressing another kiss to his lips.
You lead him over to his cot, then, and together the two of you work to find a position that’s comfortable on the tiny bed. It’s small, but you’ve found a way to make it work, tangling your legs together and letting him sleep with his head on your chest. His unruly curls brush against your collarbone, and with one hand you run your fingers through them, trying to work out the tangles left behind by the helmet.
As he lies there with you, Din wraps an arm around your torso. His hand works its way under the material of your shirt, where he traces gentle patterns into the skin of your ribcage with his fingers. It’s always tender, soothing touches between you, something that took him a long time to be truly comfortable with. He’d been loved by the Mandalorians growing up, but it was a tough kind of love, different from the way that you love him now. He didn’t realize how much he needed this softness until you came along.
You’ve relieved his soul in a way that he could never thank you enough for.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating softly against your sternum. He’s quiet and hesitant, and so you remain silent, giving him room to say the words swirling around in his head without any interruption or insistence on your end. He’ll say what he needs to or he won’t speak any more. You leave it up to him.
“Sometimes I think about it,” he whispers, “and I never like what I come up with. Things are better with you here. And I know I still keep myself closed off sometimes and I argue with you about things…” He trails off then, letting out a soft breath. You still don’t speak or push him, letting him find the words that he wants. It always takes him a moment, but you’re patient.
“I love you,” Din finally whispers, his voice trembling just slightly with the words. You know how hard it is for him to say them, because he’s lost so many of the people he’s let himself love over the course of his life. You know he’s determined to keep you and the child both from suffering that same fate.
Your hand slowly comes down from his hair until you cradle his stubbled jaw with your fingers. He tilts his head to look up at you and carefully you capture his lips in a tender kiss. He immediately reciprocates, are there are more words in this silent contact than he could ever hope to eloquently speak aloud.
“I love you too, Din,” you finally whisper. And with that any tension left in his body seeps away, leaving him completely relaxed as he lies there with you.
It’s there that the two of you stay for a while, neither of you aware of the passage of time. The only thing that matters is the warmth of each other’s bodies and breathing each other in. It’s in this state, between sleep and awake, that you and the Mandalorian both find peace. A peace that you give to one another and couldn’t bear to live without.
---
Permanent Tags: @theforceofdarkandlight @hail-doodles @aerynwrites @murdermewithbooks @themandjalorian @longitud-de-onda @readsalot73@lovingtheway @talesfromtheguild @mystical-934 @lavenderl3mons @tiffdawg @lokiaddicted @adikaofmandalore @blue-tidal-wave @forever-rogue @flower-petal-blooming@fleurdemiel145 @cable-kenobi @opheliaelysia @pynch-bug@pedropascalito @creamysacrilege @bandofmarvels @paryl @phoenixhalliwell @agentmoonshine1 @randomness501
Mandalorian Tags: @ginger-swag-rapunzel @adlerorzel-blog @mrsparknuts @deputytrash
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in love just a little - part 1
Summary: In a battle between head and heart, which will win out? Will you and Steve let down your walls enough to admit to yourselves - and each other- that there might be something between you?
Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader
Word Count: 4.7k
Warnings: angst, referenced character death, self-depreciation, language, sam wilson being a little shit
A/N: once again, i am SO sorry it’s taken so long to get this posted! life’s gotten in the way a bit but i hope this was worth the wait!
*technically* this is the last part to the fire it ignites, but it ended up being a lot longer than i anticipated so i split it into 2... i plan to post the second part sometime in the next day or so :) enjoy!
Read on AO3 || Masterlist || Series Masterlist
The next few days passed in much of a similar fashion; you and Steve would while away the quiet hours in the compound by watching movies and television, reading and listening to music, the snippets of pop culture that Steve had never had time to catch up on. You had begun to grow more comfortable with one another, awkward exchanges giving way to light-hearted teasing, and where the captain's presence had once put you on edge, you now found yourself looking forward to spending time with him.
Over those three days, your injuries had healed nicely. While you still had to take care, you were now able to move around freely, without fear that you might do yourself more harm. You were, thankfully, able to shower on your own - not that you hadn't enjoyed it when Steve helped you, his bare skin so close to yours that you could almost feel the heat radiating off of him... No. It was for the best that you showered alone. You couldn't allow those thoughts to plague your mind, no matter how much you wanted to. Nothing good could come of it.
Steve's almost constant presence had become... oddly domestic. Once you were able, you helped him cook, though he insisted on doing the dishes himself afterwards. There was a sketchbook of his, along with a pack of charcoal pencils, on the coffee table, and a couple of his sweatshirts draped over the back of one of the armchairs. The thought of him in your space like this sent a weird surge of butterflies through your stomach.
It became a regular thing to relax on the couch with a movie after dinner. To begin with, you would sit at opposite ends of the couch, neither of you wanting to breach the other's personal space. But you soon shifted closer, inch by inch, until less than a foot of space separated you. It was times like those where you found your mind wandering, longing to know how it would feel to press your body up against his, to drink in his warmth, to feel the weight of his arm draped over your shoulders, holding you close.
Sometime during the evening of the third day, the rest of the team returned, sending the previously still compound into a flurry of activity that only waned when exhaustion forced the team to retire to bed.
The sudden change in noise levels felt oddly unnerving to Steve, and in the quiet stillness, he found his mind drifting.
He thought of the team, and their successful mission, and what would need to be done next. He was thankful that there were only mild injuries sustained so, as long as they were given a few days to rest and heal up, he wouldn't have to take anyone off of active duty.
His thoughts, then, drifted to you, and Steve allowed himself to wallow in the feeling that had begun to grow stronger and stronger the more time he spent with you. A feeling that he hadn't allowed himself to feel for another person in so long... Affection.
Steve never thought he could feel this way for someone again, not after everything that had happened. For years he believed that his ability to love like that had died with Peggy, that he would never again get to feel the rushing of his heart when tender gazes met.
And yet, there you were. And Steve had been so blindsided by his own opinion of you, for months, that he didn't see it until you were - quite literally - standing bare in front of him. Inches away, and yet a seemingly unbreachable chasm between you. There was no way that you could feel the same for him, not after how poorly he had treated you. But you'd had a beautiful vulnerability in your eyes that night in the hospital wing, and an openness he had never seen from you before. Not that he had seen much of you at all.
He quashed the guilt rising in his chest, forcing himself to remember the soft way you had spoken to him, the forgiveness that you had expressed. He knew that you were on better terms now, but still the remorse lingered, having taken root in him with an outright refusal to budge. He concentrated on the image of your face earlier, bright with laughter, and the mental picture both comforted and scared him.
But the scariest part was that he had no idea how it had happened. It was like a switch had been flipped, and all of the negative feelings he held towards you vanished, leaving in their wake the recognition of your earlier behaviour for what it really was. A front, carefully designed to keep people from seeing you, the real you, the one you kept hidden under your outwardly prickly exterior. The you that had been broken and mended and broken all over again throughout your life, that wanted nothing more than to help the people who couldn't help themselves. Steve already liked that person a great deal more than the person he had met all those months ago, more than he ever thought he could.
It couldn't be love. Of that much he was sure, he wasn't naive enough to believe that he loved you, not now, not so soon. But there was a softness there, a tenderness that he hadn't felt in years, decades, even. It was new and exciting and perhaps even more terrifying than an actual alien invasion. At least he knew what to do in that situation. But, in matters of the heart, Steve was utterly clueless.
The last time he had felt any sort of affection like this, was in the midst of an actual and literal war. There wasn't the time nor opportunity to act on romantic feelings with an endless stream of Nazis to dispose of, a world to save. (He supposed that that hadn't really changed. The world was still full of threats that needed to be neutralised and, by some cruel twist of fate, Nazis were still a thing.)
Steve was by no means free from responsibility, but now he had a whole team with whom to share the burden. He was no longer 'America's New Hope,' was no longer being pulled in sixty different directions at all times.
Even so, he had never entertained the mere idea of pursuing a relationship with someone. It always seemed impossible to maintain something like that, with anyone. Not to mention that, in his line of work, it was nigh on impossible to meet people for whom he might develop romantic feelings.
So why was this any different? Why couldn't he shake you from his head, the image of you naked before him, the scent of your shampoo, the feel of your soft skin beneath his fingertips? How had you managed to crawl under his skin so seamlessly, take root in the nerves at the tips of his fingers? Meld yourself to his brain so that the only thought he had when he allowed his mind to wander... was you?
Steve scrubbed a hand down the side of his face, sighing, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He knew he wouldn't get to sleep any time soon, and decided to take a walk around the compound. He slipped some shoes and a hoodie on and headed out of his room towards the stairs that would eventually lead to the roof. Before he could make it that far, however, the glow of light emanating from the common room caught his eye and stopped him in his tracks.
As he moved closer to the doorway, he registered the sound of soft jazz music playing quietly, the melody distantly familiar to him, buried under decades of fog. Peering around the corner, he was surprised to see you, standing at the window, looking out at the still grounds, a pensive but relaxed look on your face. You had wrapped yourself up in one of the blankets that lived on the back of the couch and cradled a mug in your hands.
Steve spent several moments, just watching you like that, until he spoke up, his voice startling you.
"I didn't have you pegged as a jazz fan." Your head whipped round to find the source of the sudden noise, your body relaxing upon discovering who it was, a sigh of relief escaping your lips.
"What were you expecting?" Your tone was light, teasing. "Punk rock? More of what Tony insists on blasting?"
Steve chuckled wryly, shaking his head a little, pushing off the wall with his shoulder to come and stand closer to you. "Something like that, I guess." He mentally berated himself for, once again, passing judgement like that. "I suppose I should know better than to make assumptions by now."
You lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, eyes watching the peaceful landscape outside. "It's okay. I forgive you." You met his eyes briefly, and he could see the humour settled there. You shared a soft smile that held a more profound meaning before returning your gaze to the window. "I'll admit, it's not exactly all that common for someone my age to like jazz. It kind of went out of fashion a little while you were asleep."
Steve laughed at that, his head tilting in almost resigned agreement. "That's true." He was quiet for a few moments. "Is there a specific reason why you like it?" He spoke softly, inquisitively, and found himself genuinely curious. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love jazz just as much as the next hundred-year-old man," you laughed softly, and Steve found it hard to ignore the blooming in his chest at the sound. “But I feel like my reason might be a little different from yours.”
You smiled sadly at the window before turning and moving back towards the couch. You placed your empty mug on the coffee table and settled in the corner of the sofa, curled in on yourself, the blanket still wrapped securely around you. Steve approached slowly and carefully took a seat a few feet away from you before he spoke softly.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. You don't have to answer if you don't want t-"
"No," you interrupted quietly, but firmly. "It's okay, I want to answer, it's just... hard to talk about." Steve nodded but didn't say anything, content for you to talk whenever you were ready. Your hand reached up and rubbed at your eyes as you began speaking. "My, um... my parents were really into jazz music. For as long as I can remember, it was almost always playing in the house." Your face took on a faraway look as you paused, eyes glossing over with emotion. "They had this... old record player in the living room. It was second-hand, tattered and worn, but it was almost like a part of the family, you know?" You smiled fondly, wistfully at the memories flitting through your mind. "We didn't have all that many records, but we had the greats... Billie Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald... plus some others from the 50s and 60s.
"Every Sunday evening before bed, we'd put those records on and dance in the living room. My mom and I would take turns dancing with my dad. He'd let me stand on his feet as he moved because he was afraid he'd step on my little toes." You chuckled softly before your expression turned sombre again. "It was our own little world, away from all the fear and the hardship my parents faced. I guess the music just reminds me of those happy times with them.”
“That sounds nice,” Steve said, but there was a sadness that remained in your eyes when you smiled at him. He took a few seconds to figure out how to ask you about it, neither wanting to pry nor upset you and ruin the nice moment the two of you were having. “Do you still have the record player?”
You shook your head, looking intently at your hands folded in your lap.
“What happened to it?” His voice was nearly at a whisper, speaking as gently as he could, trying to convey the fact that it was okay to talk to him if you wanted, but it was also okay if you didn’t.
“My parents…" you swallowed thickly, trying to rid the lump that had formed in your throat. "When they died, it was all taken. The records, the player, all taken along with almost everything else we owned."
"Who took it?"
You shook your head, running your hand across your cheeks to remove the tears that had begun to fall. "I don't know. Bailiffs or loansharks, I guess." You could see the question in Steve's eyes, so quickly explained. "When I was young, my parents... we fell on hard times, neither could hold a job, and we struggled to make ends meet. They couldn't get any bank to give them a loan, so they had to ask other people for money. But it came with a hefty interest rate, and they couldn't pay it back. And when they couldn't the loansharks come looking." Your breath caught in your throat as you relived the painful memory of losing your parents. You buried your face in your hands and let the tears fall freely. You felt the light brush of fingertips across your shoulder, heard Steve calling your name softly, gently.
"Y/N... were your parents murdered?" He internally cringed at the bluntness, but he found himself desperate to understand you, where you came from, how you became the woman you are today.
You sniffled and brought in a shaky breath as you lifted your head back up. Steve's hand trailed down your arm, taking your hand in his. The action was oddly grounding, and you swallowed down your emotions with a sigh, focusing on the soothing motion of Steve's thumb against the back of your hand. "I came home from school one day - I remember, I was really excited to show them the good mark I got on this paper." You laughed almost bitterly. "I found them both on the floor, and the apartment ransacked. They killed them, then took whatever they wanted to make up for the payments. Including our records, and the player."
Steve found himself unable to say anything, not wanting to make the situation worse or offer the typical 'I'm sorry.' It seemed too trivial. You deserved more than that.
So, rather than say anything, he simply shifted closer to you, and pulled you close to him, enveloping you in his strong arms. His embrace calmed you, made you feel safer than you had in years. He held you like that for a long time, music still playing softly over the speakers. Neither of you spoke, just enjoying being in the other's arms.
The music changed again, and the room was filled with the familiar intro to a song he knew and loved. The sound of it after all these years made something stir deep within him. He fell in love with the song the first time he heard it, and it became something of an aspiration to him; back in the 40s, Steve would imagine dancing to this song with the woman he loved, holding each other close and stealing a kiss or two. There was a time when he believed that he would never get that, and then there was a time he imagined that he would be able to do that with Peggy. And now... he wasn't entirely sure.
Before his brain could shut the idea down, Steve disturbed the quiet. "Dance with me?" You uncurled yourself from him to look at him in confusion. But before you could question him, he stood, offering his hand to you, looking at you expectantly, as the mellow voice of Kitty Kallen began. He could see the amusement in your eyes as you took his hand and stood, allowing the blanket to fall onto the couch. With a sudden wave of confidence, Steve took your hand in his, and placed his other hand on your waist, drawing you close.
The two of you began to sway gently, paying no real mind to the beat of the song. You settled yourself closer to Steve's chest, his chin resting lightly against the crown of your head, your free hand resting on his bicep. Your eyes fluttered closed, and Steve's hand tightened around yours as you lost yourselves in the music.
Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again
It's been a long, long time
Haven't felt like this, my dear, since can't remember when
It's been a long, long time
The familiar lyrics held a new meaning for both of you, and the weight of it was simultaneously burdensome and uplifting. Steve pulled you ever closer to him, and you shifted so that your forehead was pressed lightly against the side of his neck, his cheek resting upon your head. The hand that was on his bicep snaked up and round, coming to rest at the nape of his neck, your fingers playing with the soft, short hair there. The sensation made him swallow thickly, the movement evident to you in your position.
You'll never know how many dreams I dream about you
Or just how empty they all seem without you
You felt like you could stay in his arms forever, the steady thrum of his heartbeat next to your ear soothing your nerves, lulling you into a state of calm. You couldn't remember the last time you felt this way, so comforted by a person's mere presence. Your line of work didn't allow much room for relationships, neither platonic nor romantic, so the blossoming feeling in your stomach was foreign, exciting, even, and you never wanted it to stop.
It's been a long, long time.
As the song drew to a close, the room returning to silence with the end of the playlist, both of you stopped swaying. However, neither of you made any move to pull away from the other, wanting to remain in your little bubble for as long as humanly possible.
It was you who reluctantly pulled away, tilting your head to look into Steve's eyes. In the dim lighting, his eyes were oceans you wanted to get lost in forever and, being so close, noses almost brushing, you could just make out tiny flecks of green in his otherwise periwinkle irises. He raised the hand that was holding yours to your face, cupping your jaw. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone while your hand fisted the fabric of his hoodie at the side of his chest. His eyes flickered between yours, searching for a sign, anything to indicate that you didn't want this.
Finding none, he shifted his face closer to yours, brushing your noses against each other. You didn't dare close your eyes, trying to commit every detail of his face to your memory. His lips were a hair's breadth away from yours, so close you could feel his breath on your skin, smell the faint, lingering scent of his mint toothpaste.
Your eyes had begun to slide closed, fingers tightening around Steve's neck, about to push up and press your lips to his, when a loud pointed cough came from somewhere behind Steve, making you both jump apart.
You looked around Steve for the intruder, spotting Sam over by the doorway, arms crossed, with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Your face and neck became very hot all of a sudden, though you found the rest of yourself cold. The two feet of space between you and Steve was suddenly much too far, the warmth of his body no longer pressed up against you.
Your hands fiddled with your sleeve, and you looked around the room, anywhere but at the two men. Steve cleared his throat and spoke in a clipped tone, "what are you doing here, Sam?"
Sam seemed surprised that he was being spoken to. "Hm? Oh, I just came for a glass of water." He moved towards the kitchen, pulling a glass from one of the upper cupboards. "I just didn't fancy a front-row seat to whatever you guys ended up doing on that couch. I am way too tired for that shit." He muttered the last part, but it was quiet enough in the compound that you and Steve could both still hear it.
The air in the room became tense, though Sam seemed none the wiser, as he stood drinking his water leisurely by the sink.
You cleared your throat and buried your hands deep into the pockets of your sweatpants. "Right. Well... Goodnight, Steve." You spoke softly and chanced a glance at him, finding his face full of regret and disappointment, cheeks flushed red. You ducked your head and made a beeline for the door, not looking up as you passed the kitchen, grounding out a terse "night, Sam" as you did so.
You rounded the corner just as Sam responded with a cheery "goodnight!" before you hurried down the corridor to your room. Once the door was shut, you leaned heavily against it, knocking your forehead against it a couple of times in exasperation.
Suddenly overwhelmed by how emotionally exhausting the past hour had been, you stumbled over to your bed. Burrowing into your pillows, you settled in for what you knew would be a restless night of broken sleep.
Steve watched you leave with an expression that Sam could only describe as that of a kicked puppy. Without looking in his direction, Steve slumped off to his room too, his own "night, Sam" a half-hearted mumble. Sam watched him go and, once he knew that Steve was well out of earshot, let out an almost incredulous laugh.
"I am so getting my ass kicked."
---
It was several days before you saw Steve again.
Not that you were surprised, really. You had barely left your room for fear of running into him and the - let's face it, inevitable - awkward conversation that you knew was coming.
Steve didn't come to see you, unsurprisingly, and you found yourself missing him. You had so easily slipped into a routine with him, become comfortable in his presence, that his sudden absence felt... wrong, despite having Nat and Wanda around again. And you seemed to be reminded of said absence at almost every turn; the "Continue Watching" panel on Netflix that displayed the most recent show that you had been binge-watching together. His coffee mug (or at least the one he had claimed as his, the one with his shield on it, that Steve had ribbed you for owning the first time he saw it) left upturned on the draining board after he washed it up. The pair of sneakers left neatly side-by-side by the door.
He had permeated your life, and there was nothing you could do to mask the odd longing you felt in your chest. You hated yourself, for how easily you had allowed him into your life, your heart. You should have known better than that.
And yet, you wanted him, here, with you. You wanted him to yell at you again, tell you how stupid you were, admonish you for your recklessness. Anything, anything but this. You'd take anything if it allowed you to see him, be near him again. Anything would be less painful.
Oh, how wrong you were.
On the third night after your almost-kiss, you finally ventured out of your room to the common area. You were growing tired of the same four walls and figured that it was late enough that you wouldn't bump into anyone while you were there. Thoughts of that night plagued your mind, as they had done every night since, and you were so engrossed in your thoughts that you didn't notice the dim light emanating from the common area as you approached it.
It wasn't until a tentative voice spoke your name that you were startled from your thoughts, and came face-to-face with Steve, an expression on his face similar to that of a deer caught in headlights. You both froze, you mid-step, and Steve with a plate in his hand, part-way to putting it down.
You were the first to speak and break the silence between you.
"Sorry, I was just... going to make some tea." You pointed vaguely in the direction of the kettle and Steve snapped out of his frozen state with a small jolt that you probably would have missed if you hadn't become so tuned-in to his every move.
"Oh! Yeah, that's cool, don't let me stop you." You nodded your thanks and made your way to the opposite end of the kitchen island to where Steve was. He resumed the process of making a sandwich, as a tense silence settled between you.
Needing some way to break the quiet, as well as distract yourself from your wandering thoughts, you attempted some small talk.
"Couldn't sleep?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, but in the quiet of the night, it sounded almost too loud, and you internally winced.
You glanced over at Steve, who had paused at your words. He shook his head and resumed his movements. "No," he said, almost as quiet as you. He seemed to think for a second as if deciding how much to share. "I get nightmares, sometimes." He said it almost casually, but there was an underlying vulnerability there, telling you that this was something that he didn't share often. Even with how tense things were between you right now, you were touched that he felt that he could tell you that. His head shook again, perhaps ridding himself of his thoughts before he turned to you with a slightly raised eyebrow. "You?"
You shook your head in response, turning to reach the teabags and a mug from one of the upper shelves. "Nope, I can't sleep either. Overthinking, I guess." Steve just nodded, and you both turned your attention back to your respective tasks, settling once again into a silence broken only by the sound of metal against china and the whistling of the kettle.
You finished up before Steve did, and passed him with a soft "goodnight," but before you could make it to the door, he called your name, his voice a gentle whisper. Internally cringing, you turned back to him with a questioning look.
He appeared to shy away from your gaze slightly but continued speaking regardless. "Listen, about the other night, I-"
"No, Steve, it's okay, you don't..." You heaved a sigh, fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose. You had known this conversation would have to happen at some point. Still, you hadn't anticipated it happening tonight, in the middle of the common room when you were sleep-deprived. "You don't have to say anything, okay? I get it, it was... a spur-of-the-moment thing, we were both caught up in our emotions." You chanced a glance at Steve's face, finding his expression even more stunned than before. There was a crease in his brow, and you wanted nothing more than to smooth it out with your fingertips, your lips. Sighing again, you said, "I think it’s best if we just... forget it ever happened, okay?" The look you gave him was so pained, almost pleading, that Steve couldn't find it in him to try and fight back.
"I..." he swallowed, then sighed. "Yeah, if that's what you want." His tone laced with resignation.
You nodded, almost too vigorously to have been genuine - though Steve was too defeated to notice - and swallowed the disappointment. "Yeah. Yes, that's what I want." If only that were even a little bit true. The awkward silence returned once more, though it only lasted a few seconds before you spoke with forced cheerfulness. "So, I'll see you at the gym in the morning? Ten, right?"
One side of his lips quirked up into one of his half-smiles, though his knotted brow remained unchanged. "Sure, Y/N. I'll see you there."
You nodded once and gave him your best attempt at a smile before you turned and retreated to your room, rapidly cooling mug of tea clutched in your hands.
You missed Steve's disappointed gaze that followed you from the room, as well as the dejected sigh that escaped his lips once you were gone.
#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers/reader#steve rogers fanfiction#steve rogers fanfic#Steve Rogers#marvel cinematic universe#marvel fanfic#marvel fanfiction#captain america#captain america fanfic#captain america fanfiction#steve rogers/you#in love just a little#the fire it ignites#beth writes
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HAPPIESTPLACEHQ Task 2 - Sally Finkelstein
Playlist you feel best describes your character
Touch In Mine (fingers) - Esperanza Spalding
“Touching surfaces every day
Feeling no spark of tenderness within”
Sally is a very sensitive person, both physically and emotionally: loud sounds, bright lights, strong smells can overwhelm her easily, as well as angry words and open displays of aggression. That is partly why she keeps to herself, to her routines, to her little comfortable bubble; but as she has become older, Sally finds that this existence is now wearing her down, and has come to realize that, even with the friendship of Jack (who is so often locked up in his own world as well) and Zero (who, much like her, keeps to himself), she craves affection and love that, so far, hasn’t experienced neither from family nor friends.
Like Someone In Love - Björk
“Each time I look at you, I'm limp as a glove
And feeling like someone in love”
Just a little love song that very accurately depicts Sally’s sort of clumsiness towards her own feelings, and how she feels she could express them towards a loved one. It is a beautiful, if rather awkward, way to feel for her, one that sticks to her mind and heart and colors her world, filling her with conflicting emotions -giddiness of being lovestruck, fear of being found out, sadness at the inevitability of vulnerability, hopefulness at the chance of being requited.
Your Woman - White Town
“Now I know your heart, I know your mind
You don't even know you're being unkind
So much for all your highbrow Marxist ways
Just use me up and then you walk away
Boy, you can't play me that way”
Even though this is a break up song between a romantic couple, this could very well reflect Sally and her father’s codependent relationship. With no family beyond him, no other place to go and with her low-paying job, Sally is basically dependent on her father for everything; and, similarly, her father, being in a wheelchair and stubbornly determined on never leaving Redwood Hollow, depends on Sally for everything he cannot do himself. Sally does recognize her father’s brilliant mind, his cultured thoughts, his well-read expertise and knowledge, but even though he spouts a philosophy of mutual aid, of small-town solidarity and community that he passed down to his daughter, Sally knows deep down this is pure bull -when he himself seems to regard her as a slave, something he owns and is in his right to mistreat, withholding any sort of affection or praise or kindness, treating her more like a robot than as a child.
Glory Box - Portishead
“Sow a little tenderness
No matter if you cry
Give me a reason to love you
Give me a reason to be a woman
I just wanna be a woman”
Going back to the first song, what Sally wants most is affection, and that means vulnerability both from her part and from whom the affection comes from. Since she was very little she has learned to keep her emotions in check, not asking for much, never be a nuisance. This has also led to her feeling somehow disconnected from her own self, from her gender and age, as well as from society at large. Now that she has arrived to her thirties, Sally feels like she needs to break out of this subservient position she has been chained to, and that means, in part, reclaiming her own self as a person with autonomy, as someone capable of and deserving of love, and as a woman with the capacity to socialize with others, to be nurturing, to be affectionate; and, as well, partly resenting her status as a woman as someone who needs to fulfill that nurturing role, to provide for her father, to cook and clean and do the domestic chores.
Sounds Of Blue - Morcheeba
“A sort of stoned silence
Sat on that boat floating out
The waters left me open
All my emotions fog my lenses”
Despite acknowledging her own sensitiveness, Sally isn’t very good with emotions; she knows the basics of comforting, to leave her shoulder free for someone else to cry on, to be available and listen to someone in need; but she is awful at managing her own frustrations and despair, choosing instead to bottle it all. Sometimes, it can feel almost asphyxiating, to be so full with words she can’t pronounce, with nowhere to pour them. This often makes Sally feel even more alone, like a boat in the middle of the ocean. As she grows older, though, she has begun to try her best and be mindful of what she feels; instead of simply allowing the emotions to overwhelm her, Sally tries to question them, to dive deeper and find the root cause, even if that means giving in and having to have a good long cry about it.
Walking In The Rain - The Ronettes
“When he's near me, I'll kiss him
And when he leaves me, woah, oh, oh, I'll miss him
Though sometimes we'll fight, I won't really care
And I'll know it's gonna be alright 'cause we've got so much we share”
Sally would like to think of herself as the practical sort; but, of course, this doesn’t mean she has a romantic side as well. Being raised by her father, homeschooled, with no distraction beyond books and constantly monitored TV watching, she grew up during her teens with a strong idea of what true love is like: it is instant, it is irresistible, it is everlasting, it is passionate, it is destined... As an adult, she knows this isn’t realistic at all (especially having witnessed, from a distance, the romantic troubles of the rest of the town); but a part of her still wishes she could be whisked away by a prince, somewhere far away, to an idyllic world of tenderness and freedom.
Good Morning Heartache - Billie Holiday
“Stop haunting me now
Can't shake you, no how
Just leave me alone
I've got those Monday blues
Straight through Sunday blues”
Kind of a byproduct of her buried-deep-down idealizations of love, and her repressed emotions and expectations, the weight of Sally’s loneliness can sometimes pull her down to periods of depression. As a full-time worker, both as her father’s caretaker and in her work at Jack’s Attic and in the Community Events Committee, Sally often has to put on a happy face to deal with the daily grind; but, once she has some time alone, she either tries to keep herself distracted, or gives in to that despair for as long as she can allow herself to.
Les Fleurs - Minnie Riperton
“For all of these simple things and much more, a flower was born
It blooms to spread love and joy, faith and hope to people forlorn”
Most of all, Sally feels most comfortable in nature: as at home as she is in her own house, it also feels, increasingly so, as a place of repression, lack of change, and constant surveillance. Nature, especially Redwood Park and the surrounding woodland, feels to Sally as the place where change is required, where it is most clear, where it is most, well, natural. Whether it is a rainy day with the air thick with humidity and the tension of a coming thunderstorm, a sunny afternoon having a small picnic at the shade of a tree in full bloom, or a lovely, glittering snow morning, snowflakes falling quietly and magically from a cotton-clouded sky, Sally loves it when she can be outside, forget about her responsabilities and duties, and focus on the sensation of the world, the real world, around her.
Day Dreaming - Aretha Franklin
“He's the kind of guy that would say
Hey, baby, let's get away
Let's go some place, huh
Where I don't care”
This is also a continuation of her own ongoing matureness and acknowledging of how she tends to idealize the idea of love. Sally tries her best to reject her old teenage conception of a prince coming to sweep her off her feet, but at the same time, especially when she can allow herself some time to doze off and daydream, she still nurses that little hope that, whoever it is that will come along and give her the affection she wants so bad, will wish, just as she does, to explore the world beyond Redwood -it doesn’t matter where, since they would be together, mutually helping each other in their struggles, loving and trusting each other, and that would be everything they would need.
Please Don’t Make Me Cry - Lianne La Havas
“I'll try to let it go, my fingers are crossed
I show you my pretty scars, they make us whatever we are”
Sally knows fully well that she comes with a good deal of issues, and that’s what scares her most when considering pursuing a romantic relationship. She is, however, aware enough of her traumas that she feels she could be honest about it -of course, as long as she manages to not let herself be drowned by them. Honesty is a very important quality for her. The only problem, then, is that while Sally truly wants to confess just how much she feels what has happened to her, she is still afraid to intimidate someone else, to be seen as “high-maintenance”, as someone hard to love. Once more, while love is her goal, vulnerability is her greatest fear.
#sally finkelstein#happiestplacetask#happiestplacetask2#. HEADCANONS { try as i may it doesn’t last }#. TUNES { i sense there’s something in the wind }
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[1:37AM] "thank you so much for saving me. honestly i can't think of what would be of me without you in my life." still a bit immersed in tries of steadying your breath from the previous runaway, you giggle happily in response and hit your best friend's shoulder playfully the moment you heard him talk sweetly, out of this endearing trail of beauty that was his smile you've always thought as better than the sight of the red roses at your house's garden.
without doubts it only took him the simple action of curving his extra thin lips up like he did now, so you'd always feel comfy, no matter the kind of times or hardships you'd be into. even so despite days like this, where you two just ran like crazy down a bunch of streets until you'd get both rescued at your house, to mislead the uptown gang's members whose once again tried to cage moonbin in his magical transformations.
honestly you couldn't believe at all how was it possible to actually exist such few silly people organized like that only to chase after any unusual beings for experiments, in the middle of a modern city. but if you really were to think neither would it be normal for you to have a man who could turn into a whole giant beast right by your side as well, meeting and staying from nights to nights under the moon living the greatest, most hilarious adventures together as long as both of your uni's allowed you two to.
you've known moonbin before as he's been one of your neighbors for years, specifically that kind and friendly type who always talked to everyone in the neighborhood, until he started changing to be more reclusive out of sudden. but since you've got to occasionally find out about his secret, at one night you saw him when you were going to do your laundry and he vehemently asked you to keep it forever or both his safety and search to end his enchantment would be risked, and you promised him to, both of your lives no longer could be the same.
it was just about naturally how you two ended up getting to be good friends and he grew to be one of the biggest source of joy you'd happen to get gifted with by the skies, as of you got to know more the beautiful human he also was. and where ever couldn't you gladly go with him when he'd text you to come in his sneakings to skip out the routine, although sometimes they could bring way too much adrenaline at once. for sure if it came to him, again it'd be worthy for you to do so, over and over. "ahh stop it's nothing, you know you can always count on my guts. and it's just so much fun to."
you state out as your hand goes to ruffle moonbin's dark hair softly, which felt so silky in your fingers, causing both of you to laugh loud in sync by remembering the early scenes. of how you two fooled around the stupid gangers like it was nothing after you've untied him, scared them and made everyone at the late hour on the streets confused to watch both of you running for dear life, all while holding each other's hand between thrilled loud laughs.
just so you kept watching the boy in front of you move a bit closer, you two still sitting on the floor as he started playing with some keychains and laces you had stuck on your long black coat, one habit of his you'd recognize of whenever he felt enthusiasm, his teeth showing off cutely through the way he kept chuckling with his eyes inclined into crescents. "yes it truly was- did you see their faces when i growled though? that was amazing!"
"oh my god bin don't even tell me, it was the best part. next time we really have to bring a camera to record and rewatch it all seriously-"
once again you and moonbin break down in pure amused laughter with your extra remarks, you not being able to help but hold his hand tightly in the process.
moments like these were all you needed to feel that nothing could change or ruin this fulfilling within your chest. out of your repetitive routine there was moonbin beside you, enlightening everything with his presence and standing as your number one supporter. even though all the things that came with his curse, such as his always hungry state specially for rice bowls, hyperactivity and very little sense of his own powerful strength, things as such that nevertheless the trouble they could give, you still liked a lot.
"next time i'll be more careful.. just know you don't have to go through situations you can't handle, i'm the one who's always here to protect you instead, ok?" he said out with clear worry poured over his expression, causing you to let out another tender smile and rub his almost ocean wide shoulders in a comforting way. "i know. but i do this because you're too important to me, that's why i wouldn't hesitate to do it all over again if so."
this time it was the taller one's turn to feel kind of affected by your words, through he strangely felt a beat skip out his heart's pace and a bit of flustering over his stomach, fondness being the only thing to fulfill his pupils with the more he stared at you.
moonbin actually didn't know what hit him to come to act up so weird because of you, nor to make up such a bunch of sensations and warmth all at once. if was it either because of your extremely affectionate eyes, the sweet smell off your hair or just the beyond wonderful feeling of you by whole, but you were immensely important to him too, since when he got the opportunity to be close to you after the night you saw him transforming, but you didn't treat him like the monster he himself knew he was. thanks to you with time he got back to be his normal self before the curse, always bright and talkative, and in some way, somehow he wanted to show you all of this.
"you really should get a reward one day y/n, for real.." he chuckled softly again, as you raised up one eyebrow, wondering what new goofy stuff your best friend would be planning.
"what kind of reward, sir bin?"
with this for some reason moonbin couldn't get his head together at all. lots of thoughts rushed to his mind about what he should better give to you as response, but no one seemed just as right besides what his heart kept incessantly moving him to. so slowly by the proximity you were into, without taking his sparkling eyes off yours he just let his body lean in along to his arms both at your sides through he crawled a bit to you closer and closer to end the gap, stopping when he could touch your nose on his as your lips were just millimeters apart, his hot and a little heavier breathing against yours.
you just stayed still unable to move out of shock, no choices left but to sense your eyes widening the closer he got and the material between your lungs racing like neither of your runaways would be capable to make you feel so. moonbin in the other hand chose to stay this way for a second, sighing while looking at you in such utter adoration, and you swore to dear lord you've never seen something so preciously gorgeous as every inch of his face at that moment, and the fair light blushing tone on it. not even the three am blue moon, compared to all the comets in his chocolatey irises.
"moon, bin.." nervousness took over you in a matter of second through your lids went shut, tugging on the hem of his white t-shirt you gave him last month, which he still liked to wear often. in the same way moonbin closed his eyes too and tightened a bit his strong arms that supported himself at your sides, starting to lovingly rub his gelid nose on yours.
"i want, to do that so bad.."
just when you gulped, flustered by how his soft boyish voice ringed so much more intimate in your ears like he never did near you, before a word could be said moonbin just pressed his lips against your own, the unbearable warmth radiating from him and his typical smell of cocoa shampoo surrounding everything around as well as causing your ears to go off like set on fire, for the first time in a while.
you felt kind of really wrong to do this, since he was one of your most special treasures, one of your most present and sincerest friends ever. yet there he was kissing you slowly, gently nibbling and moving his flushed thin lips that felt too warm, too soft on yours, in a way you'd never express, amidst quiet melting sounds and more attempts to get even closer to you although his much taller muscular figure and large back made you hardly to be seen.
nowhere into your mind you'd be able to imagine any of this happening. but after all it was still him, it still was moonbin, so in the less matter of minute you'd see it there you were already hugging his cuddly waist the way a few times you'd do, and simply letting him go the further he wished to. as through the first opening of his mouth asking for entrance, when you corresponded him it didn't take long so he'd be on top of you, with the heat of his tongue showing up within the kiss to deepen it still ever so gently, and now your hearts to rush loud in sync at the smallest touches, either by your left hand raising unconsciously to touch his chest but soon going back to hold on his waist, or him picking it for a moment to guide your fingers to the warm skin of his neck so he could feel you there.
still it all kind of felt like a dream, even more when after some more softer kisses moonbin pulled away and you were brought back to reality, but everything kept just so clouded of only him. the way he didn't stop staring at you with tenderness overflowing his manly features, the way reddish hues bloomed up his face as he tried to catch his breath, the way the hold of his hand was the same albeit the silence formed among you two. every single thing made the space marked for him grow more and more in your heart, no doubts you've never been so sure.
"you.. are a little sore, right there-" out of sudden you whisper quietly, leaving his hand to brush your thumb besides a little scratch on his cheek, the softest you could. moonbin only closes his eyes for a bit like the creature inside him would when being petted by you and lets out a small blissful smile, what kept your hand in place so you'd just take in the endearing sight.
"i hope you're not mad.."
he spoke a bit more serious although worry came back to his expression one more time, and you could say with your all it was just loving. how would you be ever mad at him, when absolutely nothing about your love for him could change, but increase.
moonbin always made the stars above the city of your world shine bright. and you just hoped more than ever you'd soon enough find how to give back his freedom and get to break his curse. however not having any clue you already did so.
- insp. beauty & beast!au.
#moonbin#astro moonbin#moonbin au#moonbin scenarios#moonbin fluff#moonbin imagine#astro#astro au#astro imagine#mj#eunwoo#rocky#jinjin#sanha#astro fluff#kpop#kpop imagines#kpop scenarios#this was inspired on blue flame era but i only got the courage to post after www dbjfjdjm#also inspired on my fav disney movie and my fav boy <3#anyways hope it's not that bad dnbdjdm#timestamps
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A Degree of Pride
A Patreon release in preparation for my Favorite 12 Fics of the Year post. Originally commissioned by the great @yamadara87, so please have some tender MaS feelings?? 2100 words.
For most of her young life, Haruka Tenoh had considered herself stupid.
She would not have admitted this, at seventeen, sitting cross-legged on the broken couch Haruka could never get clean, not really, in front of the window in her apartment, a magazine on her lap that she was only half-reading, her school notes tucked into her bag, far away from prying eyes. As if her mother would care, even if she left it pinned to the empty fridge.
She wouldn’t have needed to read them. Haruka certainly didn’t. They always said the same things, and had since she was a little girl. Oh, it always started out with compliments. Haruka was eager. Haruka was very gentle with the class guinea pig. Haruka tried to help the other girls with their backpacks and muddy boots. But they always went the same way, descending gently down the slope, and her grandmother’s smile always turned into a frown.. Haruka seems to struggle with reading. Haruka has trouble with her temper and gets frustrated easily. Haruka’s test scores need to be discussed.
All of it boiled down to a simple fact that Haruka had come to learn very well: She was stupid.
Michiru had never accepted any of this. From the time she had come to know Haruka, and more importantly, to love her, Michiru had always expressed admiration for Haruka’s mind. She was quick to point out Haruka’s skill in the garage, the way her mind looked at machines and seemed to instinctively know where the gears went, where the belts connected. She would point out pictures of Haruka as a child, noting how she created such beautiful structures from the patchwork of bricks and legos and tinkertoys Haruka had managed to gather. The way a car or a motorcycle or any such thing seemed to mold with her body instantly, responsive.
Not all of intelligence is found in a laboratory or a recital hall, she would say, and Haruka would believe that she believed it, but that didn’t make it true, anymore than it had been true that Usagi could save the world without hurting anyone or anyone being hurt. Usagi believed that too, with her whole heart.
But it didn’t matter that she was stupid. She was handsome and athletic and independent and got to work with cars, and this would carry her as far as she needed to run.
And then, she wasn’t anymore. Usagi’d been wrong, you see.
It had been thirteen years since Usagi had been wrong. Since her whole world had burned to dust, the few blooms that she had in her favor withered and dead. Since Haruka Tenoh saw the big red mark at the top of her life and had quite nearly considered dropping out of it altogether.
But because she was stupid, she hadn’t realized in that moment that things do grow back. Gardens can come to life again. She’d figured out how to take care of herself again, and even more so discovered that sometimes it was no sign of weakness to let Michiru lower a kitchen countertop or Mina grab her a soda from downstairs. She’d designed her garage to be played in once more, and smelled of oil and grease and contentment. She had found she quite liked playing basketball, and was better at it that she’d thought she’d ever be, and once more a jersey rested in the corner of her room. She even caught herself, from time to time and more and more, looking in the mirror and smiling at what she saw, her warm Papa aesthetic softening her edges to a gentle but undeniably handsome effect.
Color had reentered her life, and these things combined with the unspeakable joy of her children had made her life a happy one, and mostly Haruka Tenoh would say that her life was a pleasant one, minor frustrations be damned. But still there remained the bare spot that had ever been, as much as Haruka nodded and agreed when people said she was gifted in a mechanical way, it never meant anything to her. She had barely graduated high school. She was not meant to be a smart person.
Why she had written in to Tire Track, she wasn’t entirely sure. Well, she was sure, they had been wrong about the discussion of grip between asphalt and concrete on race tracks, but why she’d written an entire rebuttal over her keyboard while Kimi had napped instead of doing the laundry, that was less certain.
What had been even more surprising was Tire Track’s request that she form the rebuttal into a one-off column.
It had been one audited class in Writing for Journalism, just one vain hope that she could maybe write a few more pieces, that she could have a little side job. That it wouldn’t just have to be hobby mechanics anymore, but that she could have a small paycheck that they never needed.
If it had just been about money, Michiru wouldn’t have gone to work for the symphony. It was about pride, too.
M.A. had been five when Haruka’s journalism professor talked her into enrolling. She’d wheeled through the front doors as a freshman, and she’d pored over her Algebra and Biology and English books every night, and Michiru had beamed from the door of their living room, and Mina had practiced English with her every day, though Haruka still wasn’t sure if every word she taught her was completely the way Mina seemed to define them.
At the end of her first semester, Haruka had come home from her last final to find Michiru’s studio spirited up the attic stairs, and the room she had been using with a lovely dark wood desk in the corner, a soft a comfortable couch up against the wall with a neat table and lamp next to it, low, long, bookshelves opposite them.
She’d tried to protest. This was Michiru’s studio, and the room in the attic was smaller, and she didn’t need an office, all she did was type out a few articles here and there and take a few classes. But Michiru would hear none of it.
“Haruka, my darling, don’t be absurd. We can hardly have a columnist and a scholar in the family without a proper study.”
Haruka could still hear her. The strength and pride in her voice, the smile as she looked about the office she had so obviously taken such care to customize for Haruka.
Haruka moved from her thoughts, and studied herself in the mirror. M.A. was thirteen now, and full of vinegar, and while she would never be so young again to call Haruka Papa (Haruka was rather grateful when she moved to Pop, after a brief attempt to call her Haruka was immediately answered with Michiru’s quick correction,) and while she would claim that her parents made her crazy, she still sometimes flopped down on Haruka’s couch to text her friends or read a magazine, Kimi and Haruka quietly studying across from each other at Haruka’s desk. Haruka could not have imagined that her little two year old would prove be such a genius, but here she was, ten years old and already tackling the algebra that hadn’t reached Haruka until she was thirty.
Haruka was no genius. It had taken her eight years of slow work, but here she was, sitting in front of the mirror in their bedroom wearing a graduation gown. Here she was, an official columnist for a top car magazine. Sometimes, now, when they went to events and galas, it was because Haruka had been invited, and Michiru was the plus one. Haruka had gone to Germany, something not even Ami had ever managed to do.
And yet, she could not quite get that flower to bloom, the one that believed that she wasn’t stupid after all. It still seemed like they would take her degree and claim they’d made a mistake, Haruka hadn’t passed after all. She rubbed at her pants, straightening them once more under her gown. Why it seemed to matter that they weren’t wrinkled when no one could see them, she wasn’t sure, but it suddenly seemed crucial.
The tie looked ugly. Why had she picked that tie? She pulled it off her neck and tossed it on the bed, sighing heavily as she rolled back toward the closet. Why was she even going? She should just have them mail the certificate instead of showing up there, a nearly forty year old woman among a bunch of kids who were younger than she’d been when she’d had a kid.
“Haruka?” Michiru’s voice preceded her into the room, and its owner followed as elegantly as as a whisper of perfume.
Haruka stared at her ties for another moment, and then wheeled around to face Michiru, unsnapping the button at her throat.
“I don’t think I’m gonna go.”
Michiru paused a for a moment and looked at Haruka, who did not meet her gaze. “Well,” she continued kindly, “Makoto will be disappointed, she’s made quite the cake for the occasion.”
Haruka shrugged and ran her hands along the rims of her wheels. ‘We can still go out to dinner or something. I know you’ve got it planned.”
Michiru sat down on bed and delicately crossed one leg over the other. “May I inquire as to the sudden disinterest in the ceremony? We can, of course, simply go to the dinner, but I do believe there are a great many people looking forward to seeing you recieve your degree.”
Haruka wheeled over close to her and shook her head. “I dunno.”
“Haruka, please.”
She sighed, but did not argue. It was silly to play games, when she and Michiru knew each other so well and for so long.
“I just--I’m old to do this, and it makes me look--I” She huffed, but then put her hand up and allowed herself a moment to collect her thoughts into an expressible condition. “I feel stupid. I feel like this was way harder than it should have been, and I’m, you know embarrassed.”
“Hm. Yes.” Michiru thoughtfully glanced up at the ceiling, and then took Haruka’s hand, placing her other on top of it. “Haruka, you and I have never had a conventional life, or a conventional course. Would you not say that is fair?”
“Yeah.” Haruka rubbed her thumb against Michiru’s hand.
“If we believe this to be true, why should this be any different? You were rather occupied with raising a family, and, might I add, creating a career for yourself, both of which you have done successfully.” She slipped her hand away to touch Haruka’s cheek. “Even after all these years, you struggle to see what you are. You are a writer and an athlete and a wonderful wife and mother. They are only students, and have a great deal of growing to do. When I think of you, I think of your many, many, talents, and how you chose to pick something a bit harder. Because you, as always, are ever so brave and tireless.” She kissed Haruka softly. “I am so very proud of you, Haruka Tenoh. You are a wonderful example to our girls. And to me. To our friends, all of which are so delighted to support you today. And I imagine you are to your classmates as well.”
“I love you so much.” Haruka nuzzled her forehead against Michiru’s, and blinked back a tear. She leaned back, and nodded. “I want to go.”
“Now, you old softie,” Michiru giggled, “I do admit this tie was a bit of a misstep. You have so many lovely ties, there’s no reason we can’t find something striking.”
Haruka pictured herself wheeling up the stage, of shaking the dean’s hand and taking her diploma. Usagi would be there snapping pictures, as Mina grinned, a gleam in her eye. Rei would huff and glower but she would have a neatly wrapped gift, the card reminding Haruka of how she’d tutored her in communications and math and attempted to tutor her in literally every other subject, including ones she had never taken before. Her girls would see how hard she tried, and how much she worked to be a Papa they could be proud of.
She would look at herself, and see someone she could be proud of.
Somewhere, in that little patch of earth that could be called Haruka’s heart, a flower bloomed.
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A Thrill I’ve Never Known (Chapter 33)
Back Down To Earth
Arthur and reader return to camp after their wonderful night together, and quickly remember that the rest of their lives aren’t so peachy. Some tension and conflict in this one. Hope you enjoy!
(All chapters tagged with #ATINK and also posted on Ao3, username PorkChop)
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Waking up without a tender ache in my hip was a very nice change, the soft bed giving me an appreciated restful night. Arthur was still sleeping when I opened my eyes to him; laying on his front, his head resting on his folded arms. I sat up and stretched, feeling oddly vulnerable in the light of day sat atop the bed completely nude. Of course, Arthur was just as naked as I was and I struggled to resist letting my eyes wander down his spine; all of those masculine ridges of muscle at his shoulders, the dips in his lower back above his backside, his backside, looking soft and round and cute. I very nearly pinched myself, wondering how on earth I'd been lucky enough to end up with such an attractive man.
I turned onto my side, tucked a piece of his caramel coloured hair behind his ear; it'd gotten real long, stopping just above his shoulders, parted at the side and swept over, looking like some sort of prince. Goodness he was handsome. How was he so handsome?
I retracted my hand and moved away from him, stopping myself from gushing over him any more. Poor man deserved his undisturbed sleep. I decided I'd get up and have myself a bath, it'd been so long since I'd had a hot bath and I stayed in there for as long as I could. Even so, Arthur was still sleeping when I got back to the room to collect my things before heading out, just like I said I would the previous evening. I left him to sleep, figuring he deserved a lie in, and left him a note to remind him where I'd gone off to.
So I took a short trip into Saint Denis. I was curious about how the place had changed and had planned on having a wander around before carrying out my main objective, but stepping outside and walking up two streets had been more than enough exploring for my evolved tastes. I remembered when I was a youngster, trips to the city were exciting to me; the busy, modern, fast-paced atmosphere was something I didn't experience in any other place. I grew up in the swamp, in a small house with no neighbours for a good twenty minute walk in all directions, it was always so quiet and uneventful and as a child, boring.
Growing into adulthood and losing my family, spending time alone wandering from place to place and mostly avoiding civilisation for the sake of my hunting success, had certainly changed the way I viewed the city. Just that short time outdoors during the day, with so many people passing by, acknowledging me only to size me up… well, I felt incredibly anxious.
So, I headed straight for the place I wanted to visit, pleased that it still existed, and made a purchase I had not made in years.
Letting myself back into the hotel room was a pleasant relief. By the time I had done what I needed to do, Arthur had woken up and appeared to have taken a bath himself; he was sat on the bed with a towel wrapped around his waist, a second in his hands scrubbing at his hair.
"Morning," I greeted him, watching as he pulled the towel free from his head to look at me, his hair was sticking up all over the place and I couldn't help but smile at the sight of it.
"You're back," he seemed pleased, "done what you needed to do?"
"I have," I grinned at him, coming to sit next to him on the bed with a cardboard box on my lap. "I trust you slept well, you were out like a log when I left."
"I sure did. Haven't slept so well in years," he smiled, standing up to gather his clothes. He tossed them on the bed when he turned back to me, dropping the towel around his waist unceremoniously.
I felt myself flush and averted my eyes only after getting a good – though accidental – look at his naked body. I heard Arthur chuckle.
"Sorry, sweetheart, I thought you wouldn't mind," he said, his voice a little teasing.
"I certainly don't mind," I said, feeling warmth bloom in my belly, "but warn a lady next time, won't you?"
"I surely will, never meant to catch you by surprise, ma'am," he said, picking up his union suit and stepping into it.
I allowed myself to look at him, my eyes immediately going to what was between his legs purely by accident, or perhaps it was curiosity, or human nature… whatever it was, Arthur didn't miss it and when I met his eyes he appeared amused, though with a healthy splash of colour in his cheeks.
"You're a fine man, Arthur Morgan. You can't go 'round flaunting it all so suddenly, you'll make my head spin," I giggled, watching as he buttoned up the suit and covered himself up.
Arthur didn't seem to know how to respond to that, looking surprised.
"You don't realise just how fine you are, do you?" I queried, tilting my head at him. He breathed a bashful laugh and pulled on his jeans and his shirt, tucking it in and pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders. "You always laugh like that when I compliment you," I noted.
"Do I? I guess I just ain't used to hearing that sort of thing from a lady such as yourself," he murmured, coming to sit back down on the bed next to me. "I don't know where it comes from, truth be told."
"Comes from looking at you," I twisted and wrapped my arms around his neck, scooting closer. "I'm a lucky girl, getting to be this close to a man like you. I reckon my mama'd say I've done mighty well for myself."
"You think so?" He snorted, not seeming to believe me but putting his hands on my waist anyway. I brought one hand to cup his cheek, my thumb drawing down and across the bottom of his mouth, tracing under his lips.
I leaned in and pecked his lips, they were so soft and plush under mine I could've done it again right away, but I held back. Instead I kissed his cheek, then his jaw, slowly, tenderly.
"It's no secret I always thought you were easy on the eyes," I whispered to him.
"It's no secret I've always been confused about it," he said and the corner of his mouth lifted; I kissed it. "After all, look at you."
I pulled back minutely.
"You're an incredibly beautiful woman, I don't even have the words for it," he said to me, his voice all low and silky in my ears. I pulled back a little more to look into his eyes.
"Goodness, Arthur," I breathed a quiet laugh, "you're making me blush."
"Was that too silly? Sometimes I worry things'll sound silly coming from me."
"No!" I grinned, kissing him again then pulling him in tight for a close hug. "God, last night was perfect. Everything is perfect with you. You make me a very happy girl."
"Well, if I can make you happy, that matters a whole lot to me."
I gave him a final quick peck on the lips, then pulled away and presented the cardboard box I had in my lap to him.
"For you. Or, us," I shrugged.
Arthur looked down at the box with interest, it was a plain white thing, not very big, and when he lifted the lid, he chuckled.
"A little treat. I went to the confectioner's. Pa used to take me and my brother there every time we visited the city and he'd treat us to a cake. We'd share one between the three of us, but I figured I'd buy us one each today, since I'm in such a good mood," I smirked at him.
Inside the box there were a pair of individual little sponge cakes, layered with strawberry preserve and thick servings of cream, lots of powdered sugar and a pretty spiral of sliced strawberries on top. The things were a few inches tall, the cake to filling ratio being at least fifty-fifty. It was the same cake I had as a kid, and I remembered carving a small spot in heaven every time I sat down to eat my helping. I would close my eyes and take the tiniest of bites, making it last, savouring, licking my fingers and plucking the crumbs off my skirt to eat them as to not let a single piece go to waste. Though, I hadn't eaten anything like it in years.
"This is… you know, about all I've eaten for as long as I can remember is meat and canned vegetables, and whatever Pearson puts in his stew. Sweet stuff like this just doesn't come my way. Angel, this is one hell of a treat," his smile was wide, and it was such a pure, untroubled smile that it touched my heart.
"Well then, eat up. Nothing like cake for breakfast, huh?"
Arthur and I moved on the bed, scooting back and turning to sit facing each other, cross-legged, with the box between us. We each took a cake and wasted no time in tucking in, both of us letting out appreciative hums at the first bite. The cake was so fluffy and moist, sweet and decadent and every bit as delicious as I remembered from my childhood. Cream squeezed out and coated my tongue and Arthur caught some of his own in his palm before it dropped down the front of his shirt. They were messy to eat but I'd argue it only added to the experience.
"Christ, that's good," Arthur groaned with his mouth full, then licked away the cream on his hand. I giggled, nodding in agreement.
The sound of chewing filled the space between us, along with the odd noise from the street outside; horses hoof beats, chatter, the bump of wagon wheels over cobblestones. Arthur and I were quiet, though. Nothing like tasty food to shut people up.
About half way through the cake I quickly began to wonder if it was such a good idea to eat a whole one to myself, it was becoming very sickly. That didn't mean I stopped eating, though, it was far too good and the treat was far too rare for me to want to let any of it go to waste. So I pushed through and stuffed my face, licking up the cream that had escaped onto my fingers and my lips. I had to admit to feeling a little sick after the whole thing, but it was worth it, I'd say.
"What're we doing today, going back?" I asked and Arthur turned his nose up a little before composing himself.
"Do you want to?"
"Do you?" I countered and Arthur let out a small sigh.
"No, I don't reckon I do," he said quietly.
"Well, I'd be happy to stay away for as long as you want, but…" I began, looking down, "ain't you worried what folks will think if we stay away too long?"
"Not really, wouldn't be the first time I've spent a few days away from camp without announcing it to everyone."
"Yeah but, it ain't just you this time."
Arthur was quiet for a few moments. "You worried about what people'll think we're up to?"
"No, though I assume they'd think we're doing exactly what we did last night, whether it was the case or not. I'm more worried about Dutch thinking I'm–" I stopped, second guessing whether it was a good idea to speak my mind on the matter.
"Dutch? What you worrying about Dutch for?" He frowned lightly, concerned. I kept my eyes focused on an embroidered tulip on the bed sheet as I thought.
"Maybe it don't matter."
"No, it does. Has he said something to you?" His hand reached out to cup mine.
"Jus' something I overheard when you was with the O'Driscolls. I don't know what he meant, really," I shrugged.
"Talk to me."
"Well, when they came back without you, and Micah said he didn't know where you were, I panicked. I was askin' Dutch what he was gonna do, and he weren't being all that helpful with his answers– he was pissed off, understandably so. I reckon he was worried about you, but he was talking about not doing what Colm expected–" I shook my head and stole a look up at Arthur, his eyes were dead set on me but unreadable.
"Anyway, he wanted rid of me, and Hosea, bless him, took me away and calmed me down. But as I left, Micah told Dutch I had a crush on you," a small laugh escaped me at that, "and Dutch goes; that's all we need, or something like that. He didn't sound happy about it."
Arthur stayed quiet for a moment longer and I felt compelled to carry on.
"Then he kinda brushed me off when you got back, I don't reckon he knows about us. At least not the full extent. And I guess I've just been worried that he and some of the others might think I'm distracting you or taking you away from the gang," I admitted.
I met Arthur's eyes, both of us remaining quiet for a few seconds before Arthur seemed to snap out of a stupor and he cleared his throat.
"Well, you ain't distracting me, not from what needs doing. I've been doin' all I'm supposed to, so nobody can moan at me for that," he muttered.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to piss you off," I began, sensing a tension in him that I didn't like.
"No, you haven't. You did the right thing, telling me what you're worried about. I assure you, though, you ain't taking me away from nothing. And if anyone gives you trouble, you let me know," he said, his voice deep and intense, sending goosebumps rising on my arms.
"I will," I nodded.
"And I ain't going back now to keep them lot happy, they can live without me for one night and one day. We can have today and go back this evening, if you want."
"I'd like that," I smiled at him.
"The gang," he started, pressing his lips together in thought before continuing, "they're like my family. But lately, certain things have reminded me that while that may be true, they ain't all that matters."
"Yeah?"
"Listen, I can see Dutch has doubted you from day one. At first I could understand; you were new, everyone's cautious around the new person. But the thing is, you've been here long enough now, shown enough loyalty, done enough for us, for him to start treating you like one of us. God knows he was pattin' Micah on the head sooner than this," he spoke monotonously, a little harshly. He was definitely pissed off.
"I don't mind. Truth be told I don't care all that much for the man," I exhaled in a hollow laugh, unable to let go of his inaction when Arthur was in trouble, his reasons be damned.
"Yeah well, I care for you a whole lot," he said firmly, "and if Dutch, the man I'm supposed to blindly follow, makes you feel like you ain't on the same level as the rest of us, then I do mind."
I stared at him, eyes wide. Arthur cupped my cheek and pulled me in for a harsh, fiery kiss.
"I tell you one thing, I ain't keeping this a secret from nobody no more. You're important to me, and Dutch and everyone else is gonna know about it," he murmured against my mouth before kissing me again, barely giving me a moment to catch my breath, pushing me down onto the bed and blanketing my body with his. My head spun and I opened up for him, letting him smother me in his need and affection.
We made love again, not emerging from our room until hours later, both of us finding it incredibly difficult to pull ourselves away from one another. I was completely, undeniably infatuated with him.
-
We rode back to camp after sundown, Sadie was on guard duty and she smirked at us when we arrived, though didn't say anything other than a polite greeting. We dismounted from Jet and I took the chance to give Rayna some love before Arthur and I walked into the main camp. It looked like people were finishing up with dinner as Susan was washing some dishes and everyone else was lazing about the place, the atmosphere felt flat in comparison to the previous night when everyone had been partying. It seemed the novelty of the house also wore off pretty quick considering most people were sitting outside.
Arthur and I helped ourselves to the last of Pearson's stew and took seats at the table. Susan had her eyes on us from the moment we arrived and it wasn't long before she said something.
"You pair can wash your own dishes, considering you both got out of helping with the clean up," she said snarkily.
"What clean up?" Arthur asked.
"From the party, of course," she chuckled. She didn't seem all that annoyed, thankfully.
"Oh, well neither of us made the mess, in all fairness," Arthur said.
"Oh, so you snuck out last night, not this morning?"
I wasn't going to say anything, but Arthur did.
"Yeah," he said, "though I wouldn't call it sneaking out. Charles knew where we was going."
"And where was that?" Susan asked.
"Saint Denis," Dutch strolled over from his spot by the fire, eyes focused on Arthur, "don't worry, son, Charles told me where you were just as soon as I started worrying you'd wandered off with the O'Driscolls again."
"You were worried about that?" Arthur asked, voice rising in pitch. "Come on, Dutch, I leave camp all the time."
"Truth be told I don't know what riled me more, thinking you'd been taken by those bastards again, or knowing you'd waltzed right back into Saint Denis not ten minutes after being searched for by the law," Dutch's overly pleasant tone made me nauseous.
"John and I got away without being seen, they didn't know it was us. 'Sides, we went nowhere near that cemetery, didn't even stay on the streets long," Arthur muttered. I cocked a brow; cemetery?
"So where did you go, son?"
"Ain't that obvious?" Arthur said. I felt Dutch look at me, and kept on eating my stew to distract myself from my growing anxiety. "You're thinkin' it, don't make me say it."
Dutch hummed to himself, his eyes still on me. "Just, think with your brain, Arthur. We don't need any complications," he said, patting his shoulder once before sauntering off.
I met Arthur's eyes and his were apologetic. I didn't say anything for quite some time and after a stretch of silence, Arthur dropped his fork and stood up.
"I'm gonna explain to him–" he began, but I grabbed his wrist.
"Explain what?" I hissed.
Arthur looked at me in surprise. "That it was my suggestion to go to Saint Denis and it ain't nobody's business if we were there or not, anyway."
"Oh, just leave it. He's dropped it, be thankful," I shrugged.
"He's got no reason to be mad about it, if I wanna go to Saint Denis I'll go to Saint Denis," his voice raised, both in pitch and volume, the way it did when he was irritated, I was quickly understanding. "Never cared all that much before when I disappeared, so I understand."
Oh.
I stared at him for a moment, thinking back to the O'Driscolls. I never stopped to think whether Arthur actually felt anything about the way Dutch handled that; I knew that it pissed me off to no end but Arthur had always been so understanding and accepting of these things when it came to Dutch. Though, I hadn't exactly helped the situation by relaying what had happened that night to him.
"Arthur, it might just be in our best interests to let it go," I said quietly, sensing stares from around the campfire. One glance there had me catching Charles' eyes. "Eat your dinner, you ain't had a proper meal today."
Arthur's eyes dropped to his food and after a moment, he slumped back down in his chair heavily. We finished our food in silence and when I went to gather our plates to wash them, Arthur got up and told me he was going to get an early night. It broke my heart, watching him walk away towards the house without me, left on such a sullen note. I had no idea where things had gone wrong, I wished that Dutch had left us alone, that Arthur hadn't taken what he'd said to heart.
We'd had such a beautiful time together away from camp. Why did it have to come crashing down as soon as we returned?
Charles silently sidled up to me when I was washing the dishes to help me dry them. He didn't say anything at first, but eventually, he spoke in a low, even tone that was difficult for even me to hear, let alone anyone else around us.
"I can't help but feel responsible for that," he told me, "I'm sorry. I felt I had to tell Dutch when he started looking for Arthur this morning."
"God, Charles, no. Don't feel responsible, you ain't. Whole reason we told you was so people wouldn't get worried if they realised we were gone. It's okay," I reassured him, "if anything, I'm sorry. We put that on your shoulders. Of course, didn't really anticipate this turning into a drama."
"Me neither."
"Don't worry about it. I think I said something above my station today, soured Arthur's mood a bit."
"You two have an argument?"
"No, we didn't argue," far from it, I thought. "I don't think Dutch likes me very much."
"Why not?"
"Well, I'm stopping Arthur from being capable of using his brain, apparently," I snorted.
"Arthur isn't dumb."
"I know he ain't. Doesn't stop Dutch from treating him like he is, you saw what happened just then. Worst part is, I can't tell who Arthur's mad at; him or me," I turned to Charles, wiping my hands on my skirt and leaning my hip against the table.
"Only one way to find out," he shrugged, gesturing with his head towards the house.
-
I entered Arthur's room, poking my head around the corner first to see if he was asleep. The lantern was still lit and he was sat up on his bed, writing in his journal. He looked at me and waved me in, and I crossed the room and sat down on a storage crate.
"Sorry for leaving you like that," he spoke first, surprisingly, "needed to get my thoughts in order."
"That's alright," I nodded. Arthur sighed loudly and snapped his journal shut, putting it away in his satchel before looking at me head on.
"I didn't mean what I said about Dutch not caring about me going missing. That was dumb of me, I know full well him coming after me would've been a bad idea. Heat of the moment, and all," he shrugged his shoulders. "I ain't more important than the rest of those folks out there."
"Well, if it's any consolation you only said how I've been feeling about it. Maybe I'm just selfish because of my feelings for you, but I weren't happy with Dutch over that," I admitted quietly, squeezing my hands together in my lap.
"Don't let it bother you, he did the right thing."
I shrugged, neither agreeing or disagreeing.
"He ain't been making all the right decisions lately, but that one needn't come into it. All that shit with the Braithwaites and the Grays, though…" he shook his head and laughed drily. "What a mess. None o' that felt right to me from the start."
"I know," I nodded.
"And now look at us, camping right outside of Saint Denis, closest we've ever been to civilisation. I don't know why we aren't heading west already, taking our chances getting by Blackwater, only so we can get back to more open lands, regain a little freedom. But what do I know? That's probably a bad idea, too."
"This life is relatively new to me, I've never had to run from the law. I couldn't tell you what that idea was, good nor bad. You having freedom, though, is all I want," I sighed, staring sadly at him. I hated seeing him this way; so sullen and conflicted.
"It seems like we're just getting involved with more and more bullshit. You know, Dutch wants us to go to a party at the mayor's house. We've moved up from working with sheriffs to schmoozing with high society, when we're wanted all over the damn place. It's like he's forgotten how to do subtlety," he narrowed his eyes, shaking his head incredulously. He was speaking very quietly, now.
My brows raised and I tried to imagine Arthur and Dutch rubbing shoulders with the likes of Saint Denis' mayor. "I see why that puzzles you," I laughed humorlessly.
"I know that we need money. I know that we need to look for leads. I know that I should trust Dutch 'cause he knows what he's doing. But… I just don't like this shit. But I ain't got the ideas myself to counter with, so what's the point?" Arthur sighed heavily, gnawed on his lip for a moment and I waited for him to continue, it looked like there was more to come and I wanted him to get it off his chest.
"I've always just followed Dutch. Been with him since I was a boy, everything I know he's taught me. In a way he made things easy for me, I always knew what to do cause he always told me what to do, I never questioned it. But now I find myself questioning and I– what do I do?" He looked up at me, and my heart thudded at being put on the spot.
"You've never had to think for yourself before?" I wondered, hastily adding, "no offense."
"None taken. You hit the nail on the head," he shook his head.
"Well, what changed?"
"I don't know. Things feel different, with the gang I mean, we've gotten sloppy. Maybe Dutch is just feeling the heat, or maybe it's Micah; things were fine till he joined. I don't know. I just don't know. Running off to Saint Denis with you was the clearest my head has felt in weeks, I thought I was just permanently messed up by my run in with the O'Driscolls, but no. Turns out it's being here, I don't know what to think no more."
"You ain't upset with me, then?"
"You? Why would I be? All you've done lately is make me happy," he swung his legs off the edge of the bed and leaned towards me, taking my hand in both of his.
"I don't want to drive a wedge between you and Dutch."
"You ain't," he shook his head.
"I've never had much, but these last couple of months I've spent with you, they… it's like nothing I've ever known before. Happiness comes easy when I'm with you," I mumbled, feeling embarrassed by the words leaving my mouth, but wanting to be honest with him. "I just wish that things were simpler."
"Me too, princess. All I can hope for is one day being able to give you somethin' better than this. And maybe it's a little selfish too, Lord knows I'm happiest when I'm with you," he admitted, and it touched me.
"Don't you worry about Dutch. And don't feel responsible for the way he acts, things ain't been going too well for a while now. You know about Blackwater, Hosea; he tried to warn Dutch that it weren't a good idea to do that job, but he never listened. Listened to Micah instead," he grumbled out the last few words, "I guess I'm just in a weird place right now, I need– I don't know what I need."
"Arthur, you know I want to support you no matter what. I care about this gang, and I'll do all I can to help these folk and I'll always pull my weight. But my loyalty lies mostly with one person, and it ain't Dutch. Just know that," I gave him a direct look. Arthur nodded his head slowly.
"I guess I'll… let's see what this party is all about at the mayor's place, see what Dutch pulls outta his sleeve. I'll tell you one thing, though; I am not looking forward to it," he huffed, shaking his head then pulling his hands away to run them through his hair. "I won't lie, my stomach twists itself in knots just thinking about it."
"What if I asked Dutch if I could come, too?" I suggested on a whim, and Arthur looked up at me in surprise, "it's to look for leads, right? All those rich people there. Dutch knows acting is my forte, I could fit right in at a fancy soiree."
"You'd fit in a damn sight better than me," he laughed.
"I'll ask. Worst he can say is no, but maybe he'll see it as me making myself useful and like me a little more," I smirked, "that's if me being there'd give you a little moral support, and you fellers don't plan on shooting the place up. 'Cause then, no promises I'll be any use at all."
"Somehow I don't think we have to worry about that," he smiled, then moved to lay back down on his bed, "but I reckon having you there might be nice."
"Yeah? Alright then," I rose to my feet.
"Get Hosea on your side, first. He's the voice of reason, when Dutch'll listen," he advised.
"Will do. I'll leave you to get some sleep," I approached him and bent down to kiss him. Our lips lingered for a few moments, dancing together and leaving us breathless when we finally parted. "Goodnight," I whispered.
"Goodnight, my darlin'."
#rdr2#red dead redemption 2#arthur morgan#fanfiction#arthur morgan x reader#atink#arthur morgan x female reader#reader insert#rdr2 fanfic#dutch van der linde#charles smith
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jkj. | connection compulsive disorder.
He’s ill in the head, but he’s never gotten the proper check-up. He sends off therapists before the could give him prescriptions, denying a professional’s help simply because none of those fools could really handle it. Not really. After all, if they all run off already, then how could they ever dream to understand him?
He knew himself best. Knew all the twists and cracks of his core, where it all was wrong and needed help. But he’s so littered by it that he didn’t know where to begin, and the wounds never stopped festering. It’s a horrid thing, his being, and he thought to himself: there’s just no way he could be healed.
He shouldn’t blame himself really, it only piled up the guilt and self-loathing, but if he stopped now he’ll just grow bitter of the world. This horrible place he’s trying to love. And oh, love and the heart, wasn’t that just another bag of problems he wanted to throw away? Because now he’s got a cavern in his chest, running deep and as unknown as what lied within the deep sea. He knew it was stuffed before, filling up like cotton in a fluffed up doll. But now it felt light, too empty, after everything within it was simply ripped out down the the last speck.
It’s empty, and he’s become hungry. Yet it hurts, tender and vulnerable every time he tried to shove something inside. Like the dark matter put in between his wounds trying to stitch him back together. Connections, people, relations, such a thing was a nifty cure for that certain illness. He grabbed all that he could and sometimes he thought of how many times he’s so close to seeking something more than just platonic.
He thought of a face, a version lost to him now and the only thing marking their meeting was the faded memories of that man’s touch on him and a moonshine bottle that lost its cap. A prime example of a good medicine that healed him up but made him reliant, and then its gone and the illness is back but more painful than he imagined. Which led to finding more medicine, or whatever other ones he had ( wasn’t he such a horrid one, comparing people to medicine now ).
That’s why he’s here again, more clingy than before. Another cure drug that he indulged in to fix him up. He fished out the key in his pocket ( god, how could he even be trusted with the keys? such a whipped fool but he’s no better ). It’s dark and he’s trying to ignore the shadows around him, the raging voices that only he could hear, concentrating on opening the door. Once it was open, he managed to quickly, but quietly, shut the door. With practiced ease he heads to his target, who’s on bed as expected, and plopped down next to him without a word.
“Hey.” A simple greeting, because he’s still trying to keep himself afloat and put together. Strained smile and tired eyes look over to the other, and he hated the warmth that spreads through his body and the trust that bloomed in him. Because he had that feeling too, not too long ago with the same man another ( for he’s a glutton you see, and he hears Death saying that was his sin all along ‘you hunger to be loved’ ).
@letalisav
#threads. | if you love me do end me.#jkj. | connection compulsive disorder.#( welp this got long oops )#( hope this was ok skjfd )
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When a psychopathic Narcissist asks you to marry them, run away with them, and live with them happily ever after in a house in the middle of nowhere…what do you do?
This sounds like the premise of a slasher horror movie, but I was once faced with this exact choice in August of 2016.
At the time, I did not know that I had BPD. All I had just discovered was that the person who I loved madly was a psychopathic Narcissist. As far as life-defining moments go, this one still makes the top of my list. All the research I was finding at the time was stigma infused and utterly shocking. I was appalled at what I was learning about Narcissism; I was even more repulsed, scared, and heartbroken by what this meant for our relationship.
My Narc and I had known each other for a long time, seven years to be exact. We’d had on-and-off periods, with the most recent one being from the summer of 2013 to my Narc’s sudden reappearance in May of 2016. It didn’t take long for her to turn my life upside down, of course, but what I remember the most was the thrill of it all.
Just days into our renewed contact with each other, she sent me a lovely text message that was as vibrant and promising as the blooming weather:
Hey I had this wonderful plan. I plan on buying a lot of land in the middle of nowhere, on which I’d put an ‘eco home’. I’d grow my own food and have a horse as well as my small pet now. Wanna come?? (Serious offer).
Remember when we used to dream about this stuff in high school? Well guess what, it can happen now! Haha.
The thought of living with my best friend was already dreamy. We had indeed planned to move in together ever since high school. I think it really speaks to how deeply we had grown to be comfortable in each other’s presence, how close we’d become, to the point that our future plans always included each other without question. Of course, these were also the early indicators of co-dependency, but we just did not know it at the time.
We were quite happy to chat excitedly over the phone while we browsed interior decorating magazines and giggled about choices of furniture. We sighed over houses we could never afford. We fantasized about places we could never live in, most notably Chicago, because that was where one of our favourite bands was from so obviously we would have to live there, too.
We philosophized over the colours of curtains and which kinds of scented candles we would have upstairs and downstairs. We could have cats or dogs. And better yet, both! Years later, we would quietly discuss the prospect of adopting children and we solemnly vowed that if we weren’t married for love (particularly to each other) by the age of 30, that we may as well never get married at all.
When my Narc used to work exhausting factory night shifts, I would prepare a series of cute text messages for her to read while she was relaxing in the bath after work. Circumstances being what they were, we had to maintain a long-distance relationship at that point. This was my small, imaginary means of greeting her with a kiss on the cheek when she came home.
I would poetically describe a different scenario each night: cooking and eating dinner together, massaging her feet while we watched a movie, taking her coat off at the door and sweeping her into my arms, making her coffee in the morning, going shopping together, having her sneak up behind me and surprise me with a searing kiss while I was working at my computer, bringing her breakfast in bed…my imagination offered an endless supply of domestically blissful scenarios in which we found ourselves, and my Narc was quite a willing and able participant in our shared fantasies.
We meant no harm. I guess that in our minds, we already functioned like a happily married couple. There was just this little thing called reality that kept getting in our way.
Like all the best laid plans, our plan to live together never became a reality. It’s worth pointing out here that my relationship with my Narc was my only most serious and intense one. I have always been a hopeless romantic, but my Narc is truly the first person with which I imagined a life-long future with. I wanted the whole nine yards, as they say: professional fulfillment, personal happiness, a joyful family, and a wife with which to share this miraculous life with.
I was completely captivated by the connection I felt with my Narc. It took my breath away to know that she seemingly reciprocated my feelings and that I was not alone in my visions for the future. I loved her for taking my loneliness away, for encouraging me to explore my desires, and for never once trying to constrain my emotional intensity.
My Narc and I pushed the limits of each other’s imagination with graceful ease, never pausing to wonder for a moment if we were being realistic. We did not care about fracturing reality, about facts and feelings sometimes being mismatched. All we cared about was the high that we got from being together. That was enough. God, that was more than enough.
Over the years, and especially near the end of our relationship, we somehow tacitly gave each other permission for our shared imaginations to become a safe place for us to explore…darker thoughts. Sometimes we would text or email them to each other, despite feeling that it was risqué to put them out there like that.
Yet the rush we got from doing so was incomparable. I was hesitant to share my sexual fantasies with her at first, but she prompted me to be forthright about them. She told me that she didn’t mind at all, and that in fact she wanted me to be even more detailed.
It got to the point that we didn’t even have to wonder if we shared the same needs and wants; we explored everything between us from the most tender, sensual possibilities to rough, careless, wicked trysts that seemed to drip with fiery passion even through the screen.
Our influence on each other was corruptive. In our imaginations, we could do no wrong. Moral considerations paled in comparison to the power of feelings. Whatever we thought of, instantly became our reality. The greatest element of our seduction was the fact that we shared this potent, intoxicating reality.
We were, I supposed, always just on the brink of making our imaginations come true. This lent a kind of super charged energy to our interactions over the years: the promise of something more, just teasingly out of reach, yet conveyed through just a touch or a gaze. I still shiver just thinking about it.
So in truth, my Narc’s marriage proposal shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did. She’d practically foreshadowed it a few weeks prior during one of our many late-night text fests:
You always catch me off guard. When i really love someone, i want them to be like you…
I guess what i was trying to say is when I was hopelessly in love with my ex, i wish he would’ve had half the devotion of you.
If people put the effort in as you do, no one would be divorced.
When I was a little girl imagining the love of my life and my wedding, it just didn’t cross my mind that I would fall in love head over heels with a psychopathic Narcissist. That kind of reality never factored into my imagination.
But I was abruptly faced with it in August of 2016. I’d spilled my heart and soul out to my Narc, knowing full well that she was a psychopathic Narcissist, and declared my undying love for her. More important than my message, however, was the way in which I said it; to my knowledge, I think that my Narc was exceptionally moved, caught off guard, and immensely pleased, which led her to text:
I don’t know what to say but i know that I’m blessed to have you. And everything that you are and will ever be. I hope its gonna be the rest of our lives.
Then a few moments later, she sent me eight simple words that made my breath catch in my throat:
Marry me and run away with me, ok?
And that’s how it happened: the love of my life just proposed marriage, and even though I had just discovered what NPD was, I was still seriously tempted. I remember being so excited that I ended up staying awake all night evaluating the seriousness of her proposal.
One the one hand, my feelings made no sense. I was struggling to process my already present shock, devastation, heartbreak, and rage regarding her abuse and the discovery of her Narcissism; this clashed viciously with a bewildering tenderness, hope, euphoria, arousal, and undeniable love that swirled within me like an intoxicating brew.
My imagination demanded that I surrendered to the intensity of my feelings, and just as I had become accustomed to doing, I gave into this pattern of fantasizing.
That’s why on the other hand, I was considering how profound our connection was. How striking my Narc’s presence was, and what a gorgeous young woman she was. Deeply troubled and damaged, to be sure, but then again…I already knew that.
I had plunged head first into our relationship from the start and never once wanted to let go, until holding on compromised my very life.
Come to think of it, my Narc is not exactly someone that you can easily say “no” to. We’re both very stubborn when it comes to handling rejection. But my point is that my Narc had an utterly compelling aura and charisma to her, to the point that I just had to share my observations with her:
Tonight there was such an intensity to your eyes. You looked at me once or twice with something that made my heart stop. Now I know I’m not completely unhinged okay. I just noticed a playful, wicked gleam, and something…else. Darker, even. It was fun and honest. Something that made me want to stare at you and never tear my gaze away, something to your sly smile that made me want to say yes to whatever thoughts were rattling around that pretty head of yours.
On the night my Narc proposed marriage, I did not say “yes.” I also didn’t say “no.”
Instead, I lost myself in fantasies of us together, or us against the world. Most interestingly, I found myself revisiting her most human moments:
Her penchant for drinking Dr. Pepper and crunching on Doritos. Her enjoyment of Christmas and assorted Christmas music (especially listening to Michael Buble and Frank Sinatra by the crackling fireplace). Her charming laugh. The way her rare smile illuminated her face. Her strong hands.
The photographs she showed me of her as a baby. Her blue toque. Her love of wearing all black. Her battered MP3 player. Her flowing hair spilled across the pillow, bathed in early morning light. The way she said my name.
And I never told her any of this, but these were exactly the moments when I knew most profoundly that I was irrevocably in love with her. These were the moments that could not be faked or manipulated. Their truth was fully in how they felt. I wanted us to share those moments for the rest of our lives. Together.
At least, that was the plan.
During the moments when my circumstances overwhelm me, when reality gets in the way of all our plans, I retreat into the house we never lived in together.
This place has become a sort of refuge. I imagine that it’s in the middle of nowhere, in a cleared-out field, surrounded by tall pines. If you listen closely, you can hear a wolf howling in the distance. That’s how very far away from civilization we are.
Every time I came to this house, I would acquire a new identity, a new voice, a new purpose, a new way of being me. It is a place where my Narc and I are allowed to be alone together and to seek pleasure without consequence.
I imagine that the woman I am when I walk into that house is always different than the woman I am when I walk out of it.
Maybe it’s the way I style my hair. Or perhaps it’s the coat I put on. The meals we’ve shared. The things we’ve talked about. The nights we’ve spent. The arguments and reconciliations we’ve endured. The feelings we’ve drowned in. I am so sentimental.
Every room of the house holds a different memory, although my wish to see my Narc there remains the same. This house is where I can freely admit that I want to see her again without needing to castigate myself for this unhealthy thought. I’m simply free to think and to feel. And just like in reality, this is the place where my Narc lets me cradle the filthiest thoughts, but won’t approve or consent to them, which makes me feel dirty for even having them at all.
I am aware that using my imagination like this is known as maladaptive daydreaming. The problem is, I cannot stop. And to be perfectly honest, I cannot stop because I don’t quite want to.
You can speak to me without boundaries. I’m always intrigued by your mind. You never fail to amaze me.
My Narc and I imagined without boundaries. All things considered, this was far safer than living without boundaries. I maintain that the greatest thing we ever did was to make our minds unbound, to not put restrictions on our imaginations by sharing them earnestly and honestly.
But after a while, my mind stopped creating fantastic realities.
I clued into my hollow, aching loneliness in the face of reality. I admitted my deepest fears to my Narc once:
Another thing that frightens me is even if I have all I could ever want in life-including a loving, happy, respectful relationship-I will always somehow crave you.
And no, I don’t mean your False Self or all the ways you pretend; I do mean you.
Turns out I’m a hypocrite, too; I guess that’s only human. I’m worried that in all of my small, quiet moments, like when I’m making coffee, or getting dressed, or before sleep, or when I’m driving somewhere, I’m always going to find you-because I want you to be there.
I can’t give in, but I want to. I think…I also need to. In some moments it’s tiring to pretend otherwise.
I need it like a heart needs blood to beat, and I want it the way a desert wants rain. I used to be ashamed of my feelings for you, especially after I found out about your Narcissism, but not anymore. It’s pointless to carry shame for feelings, and in my case it’s impossible because I literally run on pure, intensified emotion.
You said once that you were glad you found it within yourself to reciprocate the same feeling I gave you (namely, love, only you didn’t admit that). That’s exactly why I need reciprocity, because if I don’t have it, then I feel empty.
Your reciprocity would be my euphoria.
So really, my pain isn’t coming from the fact that I’m in love with someone I can never have; I could have you. We could have each other. That’s not the problem. Sure, I put in place fail safes. Because I know my weaknesses. Many people are here to support me and ensure that I don’t crumble; I made it all but impossible for you to intrude into my life again.
What I struggle with actually is how right it feels when I’m with you (until it all goes wrong, of course). How easy it would be for me to completely give into what I want.
You.
In the face of these fears, our house in the middle of nowhere became the safest place for me to go, somewhere that her and I could see each other again, far from the mocking world. A place where this fear is not a fear, but the spark which lights desire and makes us come alive.
Some days I pray we don’t run into each other ever again. Other days there is nothing that I want more than for us to hurtle into each other’s’ arms, just the way we used to do.
But here’s the thing about imagination: it only builds on what you already know.
I know that my Narc is abusive. I know that her cruelty and cold, emotionless façade had become immensely tiresome. I know that I resented her apathy and hated her for every single way that she hurt me.
When I consider what I know, rather than just what I feel, I find that I cannot stay in our house for long. So let me rephrase my original question:
When an abusive psychopathic Narcissist asks you to marry them in order to emotionally manipulate you, insists that you compromise your own health, safety, happiness, and work to run away with them, and implies that you should drop all your family, friends, connections, and goals to be confined to a house in the middle of nowhere…what do you do?
If you follow in my footsteps, you will go No Contact.
Survivors talk about recovering from their abusers, yet no one seems to talk about how hard it is to retrieve your own feelings from them. Recovery is supposed to mean that you hate your abuser, that you despise them, that someday you are numb to them and could care less about their existence.
You’re supposed to change your number. Change your locks. Change cities. You have to stop listening to all the songs you loved. Stop visiting your old haunts. Stop stalking their social media.
You must especially stop having feelings for your abuser. You’re simply not allowed to. It’s wrong. And it’s wrong even more so when you have every reason to celebrate going No Contact with an abusive Narcissist.
I know all this. But since I am living with BPD, I also know that my feelings just go on and on and on and on.
I wonder, when will it all end?
In the aftermath of love and abuse, the truth is that I still love my Narc…my abuser. I still wonder about her and what she’s doing. I have to particularly turn my thoughts away from considering if she’s married or if she has any children. I stop myself from wondering where she is and who she is with. I don’t want to know who she’s become. Dwelling on that too much would take away whatever sanity I happen to have left.
And whenever I find myself at the doorstep of that house I imagine for us, I let my hand rest softly on the doorknob.
Because I still want to find her there when I open the door.
#hold onto the memory...it's all you've got; I know you'll be there to soak up blood lost...#I may do more of these article-style posts!#anyway this one is very important#enjoy!#cluster b#bpd#borderline personality disorder#npd#narcissistic personality disorder#narcissistic#narcissism#Mental Healh#psychology#mental illness#abuse#healing#recovery#resource#article#non-fiction#writing#spilled ink#spilled thoughts
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“Go. Just go.” (( angst??? didn't have many options with that one, but thought I'd send one anyway~))
DirkGently doesn’t know everything. In fact, on certain days he derives akind of grimly sardonic, sometimes strategic, yet always utterlyself-deprecating delight from inferring he doesn’t know anything.It’s both a convenience and a joy to disguise oneself as abenign ( though occasionally somewhat accidentally death-inducing )idiot. Especially one of the sort that makes even just the implication of privatedetecting seem like an absurd joke. The easiest mask to uphold, Dirkhas always sagely believed, is one that is glued on by severalstrata of truth. Uncomfortable realisations about one’s own nature have a tendency to STICK, after all. As such, he’s quite aware thatthe role of the blundering fool suits him in the very bespokest ofways: he certainly is a fool. He might perhaps be best advised toprint the very definition of blundering on his business cards so asto spare others the embarrassment of having to point out hissituational incompetence to his nose. In short, it makes it mucheasier for all parties involved to confess overtly to his ownshortcomings. But rather more often thanhe would like, priding himself on his idiocyleads to … well, this. People forgetting thatthere’s a brain to be foundeven in jelly-brainedness. People assuming he doesn’t notice when something is very clearly, very acutely WRONG.
Even Todd still seems to fall for the impression of complete naffness. Which does mean a lot, considering that he is the man who knows Dirk best, who’salways seen right through him { at least after they – granted –laid aside the whole selfish-obliteration-of-the-truth thing thatsadly overshadowed their first days together; though of course they were, at the time, rather too preoccupied with severed corpses and the gravitational pull of their souls toward each other to notice the toll their dishonesty was taking }. How strange. This is the man who continues tomake certain Dirk feels loved from his constantly stumbling toes tothe most bouncily unruly hair on his head ( the one that escapes anycomb the same way Dirk tends to evade his tax-relatedresponsibilities ). And yet, this gorgeous, flawless man thinks he can put up a pretence between them and make it grow into an unconquerable wall.
But that’s … okay, in a sense of okay-ness bordering on a wobbly cross between comfort and heartache. It’s okay because Dirk knows and has alwaysknown that flawlessness, in their case, comes with rather a large package of flaws. It’s aknotted-up convolution of illogic only they could pull off in such an effortless manner, all of it directly connected to the fact thatthey’ve been broken in a way that ensured their individual fractureswould fit perfectly together. An act of constructive destruction ifDirk has ever seen one. Where he is all crunchy, glass-like,needle-sharp splinters of abandonment, Todd melts seamlessly againsthim in an embrace of unflinching, reality-overriding loyalty. Thelittle mosaic pieces of Todd’s often-rehearsed self-loathing arepillowed by the infinitely solid foundation of Dirk’s devotion, wherethey MIGHT one day end up forming a picture Todd will be able to lookat without frowning. When Dirk is comprised of nothing but blindlyfeeling hands and dry, hollow-chested sobs, Todd is there to decant asense of belonging into his very centre, like a second heartbeat thatblooms in Dirk’s formerly lonely palms. And Todd? Sweet Todd, acomplexity of guilt that is sometimes so fragile to the touch,frequently crumbles against the softness of Dirk’s confidence inevery beautiful thing he is composed of. So, truly, it isokay that Todd forgot hisboyfriend is a detective who detects for a living. Frankly, perhapshe’s a little SILLY for thinking he could possibly hide his painbehind his own mask — but they are a small eternity of acceptances, and Dirk supposes a little silliness can be excused. Particularly one that isso bloody Todd-ish in its belief that Todd’s agony doesn’tdeserve to be acknowledged. Despite being a detective ( oh, he neversaid he was a good one!), Dirk hasn’t the slightest idea what’s plaguing his beloved today. But heis certain of this: there isn’t an ounce of meanness in the crackedvoice that tells him to leave. Nothing but exhaustion and big floodsof that age-old shame jostle in his boyfriend’s unshed tears, demanding to fallinto the world and create what Todd must surely think of as justanother sign of his unloveability. Unloveableness? It doesn’t matter,because Todd is all things but. Todddeserves the world. And Dirk isn’t going anywhere.
“ No, ”he says, the first word to leave his mouth that day that isn’tdrenched in tenderness, but firmly standing its ground. “ I’mexactly where I need to be, thank you. And, even better yet, where I WANT to be! ”He lets his back sink against the really quite ugly wall of theirshared little bathroom and flops gracelessly to the floor beside hisboyfriend. If this ridiculous, endlessly cherished man decides to slump here in a heap of shivering miserableness, eccentrically snuggled upto the shower curtain as if he found a new best friend in its flappyplastic embrace, then Dirk shall keep him company during his peculiarbathroom vigil. After a moment of sitting quietlyshoulder-to-shoulder, Dirk wiggles and shifts his bum across thefloor-tiles in search for a more comfortable position. The problemwith their bathroom, he acknowledges in mute resentment, is that it’s greatly unaccommodating to anyone taller than a hobbit, and that, in addition, it’s beenstuffed with all kinds of useless, cluttery crap. That lattercircumstance being undeniably Dirk’s fault. He regrets the decision to use this room as a kind ofevidence storage only now that his socked feet scramble for even thetiniest uncrowded space into which to push their be-pineapple’dglory. Eventually, he ends up with his legs propped on the closedtoilet lid, hands drumming away loosely on his belly in a restlesslittle rhythm, gaze fixed on the patchy ceiling as if trying tomake out constellations in the manifold water stains.
In fact, hedoes soon spot somethingthat causes him the greatest amusement, despite the gloom andhurt Todd radiates beside him. He delivers a gentle elbow-nudge tothe approximate vicinity of his boyfriend’s kidney, lips twisted intoa badly suppressed grin. “ Todd! Do you see that? ” The detectivereaches over to encase Todd’s chin in an affectionate hold, and guideshis head back until he is certain they’re both gaping at the sameassembly of greyish splotches. Dirk is giggling unashamedly now,cuddling closer into his boyfriend’s side and finally letting hishand fall down to rub loving circles into the tightness that isTodd’s all-too heavily burdened chest. “ It looks like a — ! ”Again, an onslaught of giggles, then he leans over and clothes his observation in an offending whisper. Of course, he makes use of theopportunity by placing a series of feather-light kisses against thepearly shell of Todd’s ear, prodding him playfully with his nose ina most likely fruitless attempt to lighten the mood. “ Is THAT whyyou come in here all the time? ”
All in all, Dirk isdaftly glad to know that this hellish little architectonic faux-pas,barely more than a fold between a gang of self-conscious walls, hasat least one element of cheer to elate Todd’s heart whenever hethinks it fit to hide away from Dirk. The rest of the decoration fails spectacularly at the job. Yes, he can see now,from this spot, that the milky-eyed wax animals he aligned onthe wobbly shelf are achieving quite the opposite effect,staring devilishly down upon them as they are. But they’re important!Or, perhaps, going to be important. Maybe. Arguably. Come on, thelast surviving specimen of an entire COLLECTION that simply vanished overnight, along with the house that contained them and their very owner?There’s got to be something about all this, something that will no doubtresult in world-shifting consequences ( though upon closerinspection, he doesn’t much like the look the hippopotamus is givingTodd. He makes a mental note to store it away in the bedside tablelater ). But for now, there are more pressing matters at hand. Dirkcups his darling’s cheeks in both palms and kisses him, kisses themask of I’m-fine-ness until he thinks he can taste the truth beneath, until he forgets about indecent water stains anddaunting animal figurines and strange cases, until they’re bothfinally stripped down to their sincerest essence: not a blundering fool and a lonesufferer, but Dirk and Todd. Just Dirk and Todd, Todd and Dirk. Them. Together.
“ You can’t send me away, darling. ” His fingertips dance acrossthe front of the man’s scrunched-up shirt, pertly undoing button afterbutton so as to let him breathe, mapping out every inch of cool,well-treasured skin he encounters along the way. God, he loves him.He loves him, and he is going to give him anything he needs.Anything. If Todd lets him, perhaps they’ll start with a bath. And then, bit by bit, the universe he was promised. “ Can’t send away what’s yours. Sorry, sweetheart. I did warn youabout this when we became a thing. A thing.Two parts of the very same thing, completely inseparable. I’m not ... leaving you. Not ever. ”
#[ wtf this got so long i'm cryingggg#anyway!!! you're not getting Real Angst because those two are always so good and soft to each other#idk what this is ?? the todd being unable to deal with dirk's past thing we've been talking about?#or. well. it doesn't even have to Be a Thing. it can just be a ... stand alone ... thing. jdsgjsd :') ]#protectiveforce#love is too small a word for our forever. ( dirk/todd verse )#[ ugh ugh ughhhhh do you ever just. h a t e your own writing#i know that this sucks and i'm sorry jhgdfhjgf ;A; ]#[ I blame it on me being sick :'D ]
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@annambates asked for: Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.
The night is cold, but John doesn’t mind. Tonight, he doesn’t really want to sit in the servants’ hall.
The other servants keep bringing up his lordship’s missing snuffbox. Egged on by Thomas and Miss O’Brien and out of earshot of Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, the possibilities of its whereabouts are examined over and over again. Daisy thinks that a spirit might have taken it. Gwen wonders if Lord Grantham might have misplaced it without even realising. Thomas and Miss O’Brien keep smirking at him and dropping hints about it fetching a pretty price for someone. No one else, thankfully, seems to think he has anything to do with its disappearance, but it does not help the knot of anxiety in his stomach. So here he is, out in the cold just to get a bit of solitude.
The back door opens.
“Mr. Bates?” Anna’s voice floats towards him, her broad Yorkshire lilt making his stomach flutter for an entirely different reason. “Are you here?”
“Yes,” he calls out. Any desire for solitude shamefully flees at the prospect of spending a quiet five minutes with the head housemaid. He hears her heels clicking on the flagstones, and a moment later she rounds the corner, immediately fixing on him. He likes this stack of crates because it’s at the right height to lean against with ease, putting no extra pressure on his knee.
“Budge up,” she says without preamble, and he is helpless to resist her. He shuffles to his right to accommodate her, and she hops up on the crates beside him, her feet swinging slightly. She is several inches off the ground, and the sight is almost unbearably endearing. He tries not to think too much about how much he likes tilting his head down when he’s speaking to her.
“Are you all right?” he asks her. He is genuinely interested in her answer, but sometimes he just needs to distract himself from the thoughts in his head.
She nods. “Yes. Just a bit tired. It’s been hectic today.”
It certainly has been. And the weight of the missing snuffbox presses down upon him, making him anxious and tired in an entirely different way. Still, he musters a smile for her benefit, hoping that his troubles don’t show on his face.
He isn’t successful. Doesn’t seem to be successful at anything when it comes to her. She makes him feel a thousand things that he has no right to. Her smile is safety and danger all in one go.
It terrifies him.
Anna turns her gaze to the sky as she says, “Never mind you asking me if I’m all right, it looks as if I should be asking you that question.”
“I’m fine,” he says. It comes out snappier than he’d intended, and he softens his tone. “It’s like you said. It’s been a very long day, that’s all.”
“They’ll find the snuffbox, you know,” she says quietly. “Just wait and see. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not,” he says, a lie of the highest order.
Anna seems to sense that he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. She lapses into silence. He’s grateful to her. It’s one of the many, many things that he loves about her, the fact that she knows when to ask a question and when to leave someone to their thoughts.
He feels guilty for even putting the word love in the same sentence as Anna’s name. He has no right to love her. Has nothing to offer her. He’s frittered the best years of his life away on a marriage that was always doomed to fail. Ruined himself with a criminal record. Brought shame on himself by being a drunkard. Even without Vera hanging around his neck like an albatross, lost somewhere in the world like a soul left behind to haunt him, he wouldn’t have anything to offer her. He is damaged goods, and Anna is so good. So pure.
For a long time, neither of them speaks again. It suits John. He likes that he can just sit there with her without being expected to talk. He likes that she has never once expected him to be anyone other than himself.
It only adds to the danger, to the deepening feelings that grow within him like tender seeds. How she isn’t married yet is beyond him. What is wrong with the men of Yorkshire? Are they all blind and stupid? Anna Smith is the strongest, most incredible woman he has ever come across, and how her merits have been lost on the others is a mystery to him.
He tries not to think of that too often. Of the fact that one day a man might catch her attention. That one day he might have to endure watching them together, might have to see her smiling at someone as if the world starts and ends with them. Might have to sit and force a smile at her wedding. At a Christening.
It does not bear thinking about.
So he pushes it aside. Surprises himself when he offers, “I wish I knew where to find the snuffbox so this whole thing can be put to bed.”
If Anna is surprised that he is continuing that line of conversation after all then she doesn’t show it.
“I know you do,” she says softly. “I wish the same. Perhaps we can team up and find it together.”
“Like Sherlock and Watson?” he jokes weakly.
“Why not?” Anna’s lips twist in a rather sardonic manner. “I happen to make a very good sidekick.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t be a sidekick,” says John. “You’d be Holmes, I’d be Watson. You’re intelligent and lightning quick and you know how to read a situation in a split-second. I’d have no chance of competing.”
She tilts her head to the side, offering him an enticing view of her pretty, pale neck. “Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Bates. I think you’d compete very well.”
He flushes hot all over at her words, swallowing hard and averting his eyes. There had been a flirty edge to her voice, he can’t deny that, but he has to resist the temptation to read anything in to it. Nothing can come of it, no matter how much he might want it. He has no right to it. She is not to be his.
More silence. Their little exchange has killed off his ability to think of anything to say. He’s never been like this before, so tongue-tied in the presence of a woman, like a boy with his first crush. Everything about their friendship, as much as it is his solace, frightens him too. He is walking a fine, blurred line between the two distinctions, and he isn’t sure what he can do to stop it. Doesn’t quite know how to interpret Anna herself. Doesn’t want to admit to himself that there might be feelings on her behalf, too, because it is only doomed, and he doesn’t want to be the one to break her heart, inevitable though it is. He needs to find a way to distance himself from her, to silently let her know that the boundary must never be crossed.
But he can’t seem to find the way to do it. As much as he wants to keep her away, he finds himself irresistibly drawn to her too. So instead he sits there in silence, mind whirring, very blood crackling with the weight of things left unsaid. There are a thousand possibilities in that silence. Is she waiting for something? Anticipating him carrying on the flirtation? More?
There’s definitely something troubling her. In her lap, her hands twist together. He’s noticed that she has that habit, her fingers toying with each other as she turns something over in her mind. It fascinates him, even though it shouldn’t, as everything about her does.
“There’s something that I’d like to say,” she says at last.
“What is it?” he whispers.
“It…it might not be what you’re expecting.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“Not really.” Anna takes a deep breath, her voice shaking slightly. “You see, there’s something that’s been on my mind for a while. I’m not sure whether I should say anything or not, but I’ve always felt that honesty is the best policy, whether the risk pays off or not.” She turns back to him, her eyes like blue flames. His heart contracts in his chest, and he finds himself mesmerised by her, desperate to tell her to stop for fear of her breaking things between them, helpless to do anything but listen—
“Anna? Are you out there?”
At the sound of Mrs. Hughes’ voice, Anna jumps, and hops guiltily from the crates, as if she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
“Yes, Mrs. Hughes!” she calls, straightening her dress.
“Lady Sybil has rung the bell. You’d better come.”
“I’m coming,” Anna says. She turns to him then, shifts from foot to foot, heaves a deep sigh as if she is carefully selecting the words in her head.
“Mr. Bates, what I wanted to say…” she says tentatively.
He feels his heart threatening to break free. “Yes?” He should stop this.
He can’t.
She’s staring at him in a most disconcerting manner, a miasma of things in her eyes. There are too many strands to disentangle, flashing with so many things that he can’t focus on one to decipher. All he can do is wait.
For a moment, the air is heavy with the weight of a thousand things. For a moment, he sits poised on those crates, his stomach fluttering wildly, waiting for her to break the silence.
Wondering what he truly wants her to say when she does.
For a moment, it seems as if they’re on the cusp of a hundred thousand possibilities. For a moment, a whole future seems to bloom irresistibly in his chest, his heart aching for the want of it.
Love.
Her.
But then Anna shakes her head. She tears her eyes away from his face and drops her gaze to the floor. Everything else falls away with it, until he’s back in the present moment, until he’s back to being an ex-convict with a wife and nothing to offer anyone.
“Never mind,” she says, and walks away.
#John Bates#Anna Bates#Anna x Bates#Banna#Downton Abbey#my fanfiction#AnnaxBates#Anna/Bates#Team Bates#OTP: thank God and you
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If Ever
Spiritassassin Week 2017, Prompt 5: Confessions
(Warnings: Slightly NSFW. Implied child abuse.)
“I broke the vase on purpose.”
They are tangled together, a heap of unclothed limbs, skin against skin, warming each other all over in the chill of the breeze that finds its way into every room in the temple, every room in all of Nijedha, no matter what the structures are made of, no matter how sturdy or insulated. It's just how it works, and Baze does not mind it so much anymore, not when he can use it as an easy excuse to spend the night like this, pressed together, wrapped up, even if Chirrut fusses about how his hair gets into his mouth, even though Baze is sure to be pushed to the very edge of the bed, right into the wall, while his companion spreads and kicks and flails. He thinks that he would sleep in much more uncomfortable positions just so long as he could spend the moments with Chirrut, wrapped and covered and completely lost in him; he never sleeps better than when they sleep together, when he can feel the rise and fall of Chirrut’s chest as he breathes or listen to the mumbled prayers that fall from his lips even when he is dead to the rest of the world. Sometimes Baze will just press his ear or his hand or his lips to Chirrut’s chest--depending on the message he is trying to send--to focus on the workings of his heart where it lies deep deep inside him, as far away as if it were in another galaxy it seems, pumping and steady and dear. Dear like everything about Chirrut is dear even the million and a half things about him that can be frustrating.
Like odd little confessions made in the middle of the night when their fingers are flitting, making it harder to concentrate. Making it harder for Baze to concentrate at least, though Chirrut never seems perturbed. Chirrut is the type of man who can carry on ten things at once. Chirrut can run his hands over Baze’s back, drawing quick lines with his fingers, pressing into the skin enough to draw shudders and moans from his partner, all the while discussing the theological distinctions between two books on the Force and expecting Baze to contribute to the discussion when all he can manage to do is suck marks onto Chirrut’s thighs that will bloom pink and purple like flowers, marks that Chirrut threatens to showcase like inkwork, teases that he will throw his robes wide the next day, stalk around the temple courtyard in the altogether and let everyone see Baze’s handiwork for themselves. It should be an empty threat, but nothing that Chirrut says is a completely empty threat; there is always the possibility lingering there, like something dark and reflective at the bottom of a pool of water waiting to be reached for and picked up, that Chirrut will go through with what he says in order to prove a point, a point to the masters, a point to Baze, a point to himself, a point to the Force; it’s hard to say. Chirrut has so many people watching him, so many people--and things if the Force counts as a thing, maybe it is a person, too, maybe it is all people, maybe it is cognizant fleeting energy or maybe it is as insouciant as the breeze on Jedha, touching everything, knowing nothing--expecting things of him that he feels like he needs to make points, needs to prove himself constantly. Most of the time, though, proving himself means showing that he is him even when others might wish him not to be.
How anyone could want Chirrut to be other than what he is seems unfathomable to Baze because he loves every little bit of this man. Loves the wild, reckless way that he throws himself heedlessly into danger after danger, trusting Baze to be at his back, trusting Baze to follow him up, just trusting Baze to catch him when, if ever, he falls. And he does fall. In more ways than one. Not just the physical tumbles, for those are always the easiest, always the ones that he springs back from, arms wide, shouting, like a fool, that he is fine even as he limps on a twisted ankle, even as he hides an oozing cut, even as his face turns yellow and purple from a bruise, even as the healers set a break. He is fine, he is fine. He is always fine by his own accounting, always ready to go again, always ready for the next adventure, the next ill-advised thing. Chirrut is constantly running, bright as the strange fires that happen in the sands when the skeleton trees that survive there are struck by wayward lightning in the weeks before the rains. Baze has watched quite a few of those from the landings of the stairs that wind around the outside of the temple, watched the curling smoke, watched the bright bright gleam of the fire as it consumes until it exhausts everything within its reach and dies out; it is always a quick process, always over in an hour or less because those groves of trees are small and sometimes spread out across great distances. Flash, burn, gone. Flash, burn, gone. He could not bear to see Chirrut flicker and fade out like that, would stand beside him always with sticks and twigs and chaff to feed into the furnace of his flame to watch it burn, burn bright and high and always. Baze will tend him always; Baze is good at tending things.
The harder falls are when Chirrut, Force soaked, Force loving, Force loved, seems to tire of it, all of it, draws himself back and away, hides his head in the corner and just prays because the world is too much sometimes, and Baze understands this feeling, sinks into it far more than Chirrut does even if the things that lead him there are different. Baze and the Force have no real understanding, have no actual conversations, no knowledge of each other that he knows except for a sort of body warmth that one gets standing in the sun. It barely makes an impression on him, and sometimes he thinks he makes it up because he wants to feel it, he wants to sit next to Chirrut and talk about what he has experienced in the Force even if it is so little, even if it is barely anything because Chirrut will perk up, Chirrut will hold his hands or his face and press him, want every little detail, want to eat it up because it is so good. And Baze has trouble denying Chirrut anything, holds his hands out, open, constantly, gives everything he can and fetches what he does not have so that he can give that too.
But the rest of the world, the press of it, the want of it, makes impressions on Baze’s body, on Baze’s mind. He speaks seldom and, other than time spent with Chirrut, he prefers his own company or the company of the younger initiates, likes books, huddles into things that do not remind him of the streets of his youth, of years spent bouncing from place to place, hardly any of them good, hardly any of the people kind, and the only thing he could do was hunch his body over his heart to protect it and learn to defend it any way he could whether that be with fists or feet or teeth.
Baze came to the temple dirty, wild, had to have years of street fighting eased out of him with meditation and calm hands and tenderness. And his great heart responded. And his great heart sang. Singing that maybe led Chirrut to him, he thinks, might have played some part in catching Chirrut’s eye. Chirrut who knows so much more than people should, and even more than people think he does because of the glib smile, because of the boundless antics, because of the trickery and the teasing and the refusal to settle like a stone. Chirrut will be flower petals in the breeze always, a spinning top that never falls. At least when people are watching, at least when people can see. All the people judging him, all the people expecting things of him, great things, Force things, as though he were a Jedi, which he is not, which he could never be, which he does not even want because they read the words together, they read the concepts and the dictates and the rules, and Chirrut sat there, faced screwed up, face pulled in anger, in the most blatant expression of fury that Baze had ever, has ever, seen on him--Baze was sad more than angry, hurt more than enraged because none of it seemed fair and all of it spoke of separation if Chirrut ever wanted to consider it, though he was too old, of course, but it was Chirrut, and Chirrut would find a way to get what he wanted if he set his mind on it--and then he gripped Baze’s face and said, “They’re fools. They’re fools if they think you grow stronger for tossing things like love away,” and kissed him. There was no more discussion of the Jedi after that, and whenever anyone else brought it up, Chirrut just clicked his tongue in that dismissive way of his and refused to even enter into the conversation. “We know the Force better than they do,” were his only words on the subject.
When he falls, when the top finally runs itself itself out and tips on its side, Baze is there. Chirrut will sit quietly in the darkness, huddled into corners, lips moving through the mantras, and Baze will sit beside him or across from him, touching him only lightly to ground him, and they will pray together. Or sometimes Baze will make tea and read aloud, letting his voice fill the spaces of their room for once, walls that are far more used to Chirrut’s echoing cacophony than his own voice, which seems to sink more than soar, which seems to cover more than echo. But he will read or he will pray or sometimes he will just sit in silence and watch and wait because what is time anyway. He has time, would give Chirrut all the time he could load into his arms if the other wanted that. There is nothing that has to be done in a certain time. They make up the concept of it themselves, they create the press and the rush of it. The world, the Force, knows little of it, does things at the speed with which they need to be done. Flowers bloom and rains come and fire burns as they will and not looking at a chrono to make sure that the time is right. So it doesn’t matter to Baze how long it takes for Chirrut to right himself, for Chirrut to crawl into his lap or loop his arms around him, pressing bodily into his back, to kiss him or tease him, to come back from wherever he settles when he needs the silence. Baze can give him all the time he needs for he is patient, everlasting.
Chirrut is less so, which he proves with fingers purposefully dragged across Baze’s upper thighs to call his attention back to the present because has has not been answered yet, has barely even been acknowledged. It is a good way to get his attention but not a great way to make him focus because now all Baze can think of is Chirrut’s hands on his thighs and how close those nimble fingers are to his cock, and that makes him stir, makes him start to grow hard at the thought of it all even though he should pay attention to the words. Chirrut is so many words wrapped into flesh, so many sounds and so many stories and so much talking. After they met, Baze started reading, read everything he could get his hands on, spent hours hidden in the library devouring all the words he could because he needed to be able to keep up, he needed to master words so that he could understand Chirrut. The greatest thing he learned was that there is always more, always more words, always more layers, always something else to understand, but it helped, and he loves them both: words and Chirrut, words because they are of Chirrut and of themselves and Chirrut because he is Chirrut.
“I said,” Chirrut starts, his tone slight accusation though still bright enough to indicate that he takes no real offense to it, “that I broke the vase on purpose.”
“Hmmmm?” The question is almost just a sound, just a low noise of the moon shifting beneath them, of the kyber humming in the caves, and the rush of all the water there. Chirrut has said that Baze sounds like Jedha, that he is carved from the moon itself and that it why it is so hard for him sometimes to be his human self because his rock self, his water self, his kyber self, is so much stronger. Baze knows, of course, that he is not kyber, but he feels like the rest of the sentiment could be true.
Chirrut huffs, a sigh against his chest that he follows with a kiss, a nip to the bared skin, and Baze shifts with that because all the blood is rushing to one place and this is not the best way for Chirrut to have a conversation with him, but he will try. “Have you forgotten the vase? I did not think you would ever forget the vase. Are you the same man who still nags at me about the leap from rooftop to rooftop that I did not clear five years ago? I thought your memory astounding. Or perhaps I was beneath your notice then.” Now his other hand is threading into Baze’s hair, tugging at the strands and stroking over his scalp, none of which is fair because this kind of touch is Baze’s biggest downfall, and Chirrut knows it, presses him to never cut the locks because he wants something to hold on to, because he needs a way to capture his full attention. As if Baze has ever had eyes or mind for anything other than him. As if Chirrut needs to do anything other than exit to capture his full attention.
“Never,” he mumbles, words barely loud and clear enough to be words rather than just another noise made deep in his chest, though Chirrut would understand either way.
No, he remembers the vase. The blue one, made of stone carved so very thin, so very fine that it was almost translucent as though made of glass. He marveled at it when he arrived, had not dared to touch it or breathe on it because he was worried about breaking it, ruining its perfection.
He used to think of Chirrut like that. Chirrut who he had spied in the halls. Chirrut with his beautiful mouth, and those twinkling eyes. Chirrut in the training rooms all fine muscle and toned. Chirrut who could beat anyone, best anyone, lift anyone even initiates thrice his size with ease because he was that strong, that dedicated to the art of his body. Chirrut who people spoke of either in hushed, awed whispers or annoyed sighs. Baze had seen him. Baze had marked him and sought him out in crowds with his eyes and his ears alone but never dared stray near him because, oh, what a boy, what a star, what a beauty. And Baze had been Baze, all the course things of Jedha in one package. What would a starboy ever want with a sandboy, he had asked himself. Nothing was the obvious answer so he had stayed away, lingered, let the masters tame him, let the fights bleed out of him, let his heart heal and thrum and sing, been convinced that his path and the starboy’s would never cross and was fine with that because he could still dream.
And then the vase.
“I remember the vase.”
Lovely, perfect blue. And the noise that was it shattering, the awful crack that was it hitting the floor and then the crescendo of it splintering into so many pieces that no amount of care could ever mend it again. It seemed like it had happened in slow motion, it seemed like time and the universe had ceased to move at its normal pace so that he could watch it, experience every moment as it broke. His favorite thing. His favorite thing in all the universe obliterated. And he had worried it was a sign, he had worried it was a marking that this life was going to spiral into something dark and dreadful and painful like everything that had been before.
Only it wasn’t. It wasn’t anything like that; it didn’t mean anything like that.
He had stood there, looking down at it, at the pieces, at all his dreams cracked and broken beyond repair, almost on the verge of tears because he wasn’t sure he could stand the loss of this good life after having just found it, when there was a hand at his elbow, when there was the scent of the wind and sweat and something like jasmine under it. “Don’t look so sad, Malbus. It’s just a vase.”
And it had been Chirrut there. It had taken all his breath away, it had taken all his strength not to sigh and say, “But it was you. That was you. That was my wish of you.” Instead he had said, like a fool, like an idiot, “How do you know my name?”
Chirrut had laughed like only Chirrut could laugh, head back, the sound a sound only like itself, the sound a sound that filled the whole hall, filled the entire temple, a sound so big not even the moon could contain it, but Baze took it and pressed it inside of his body, as much as he could carry, for later. “I know you,” was the only answer and then his arm threading through Baze’s arm, so forward in touching, and Baze, normally contact shy, completely okay with it because it made sense, because it touched some chord in him that he had never known before.
“You only had eyes for that stupid vase,” Chirrut accuses, biting at his throat, which makes Baze tilt his head back to give him better access, giving in to him completely.
“It was safer to look at the vase. It was safer to love the vase.” His voice is breathy, broken, ground out slowly, a fight to keep talking at all, which Chirrut knows but will keep pressing anyway because he loves these bedroom confessions, loves it when Baze comes undone with words and kisses, loves when he can pull every ounce of emotion from his lips.
He bites at his collarbone, and Baze’s fingers clench tightly into the flesh of his thigh, which will leave more wanton marks for him to threaten to put on display. “Stupid vase,” he repeats.
Baze laughs, and it is rocks falling down a mountain. “You were jealous of stone.”
“Shut up,” Chirrut says, surges forward, capturing his mouth, drinking down any new words that he might say, and Baze loses himself in it. Here, here he could drown, Here, here he could linger forever in the embrace of this man who was jealous of a vase because it caught and held his attention when he wanted it. It is as endearing as it is strange.
“Dear,” he whispers when Chirrut pulls away slightly, enough for them to both gasp, lips kiss full and dark. “Beloved. Prettier than any vase. It was my substitute for you. I didn’t think I’d ever be worthy of the real thing.” Love drunk, touch drunk. Words always spill better, faster this way when he is love intoxicated and reeling from lack of oxygen after being thoroughly kissed.
“You think too little of yourself, love,” Chirrut murmurs, a condemnation with no sting, and then there is no more time for words because they are caught in the undertow of the emotion, of the gravity that pulls their bodies together.
Chirrut’s fingers ghost over his cock, and he moans, grips, tugs Chirrut even closer if such a thing is possible because sometimes he cannot tell where they stop, they melt together, edges blurring like a painting left in the rain, colors all running and mixing, overlapping. He would fold Chirrut into the great expanse of his body if he could, carry him everywhere, protect him. Chirrut would never accept that, of course, doesn’t particularly like being coddled or kept, and Baze is fine with this, loves it, but it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it, if he needed to or if Chirrut wanted him to. Protector, guardian, lover, friend. These words are all one and the same to Baze. They all mean the same thing, to be there, to follow, to catch him if ever he falls.
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