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bokutoslittlebird · 4 years

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As The Sun Sets

King!Oikawa x assassin!prisonser!reader

Warnings — implied noncon, implied smut, trauma and traumatic pasts, Bokuto’s back, Kuroo x Alisa ship, Ushijima x Yachi ship, chains, collar, leash, not pet play, I wrote this and haven’t looked over it since I wrote it so read at your own risk, implied past abuse, alcohol (champagne), arguments, cheating.. kind of

The loud noises around you never stopped; the switching of guards at every 6th hour, the occasional thief thrown into a cell near you and leaving within the same day after Kyōtani disciplined them, it never stopped. Each and every day, you’d sit down in the cell and wish Oikawa would instead cut off your arms and legs instead of his harsh touches and never ending conversation. Time had passed to the point, you weren’t sure if your own kingdom was waiting for your arrival back home, perhaps Bokuto actually spent time with his own queen.

Your thoughts were cut off by the familiar click of heels on the marble stairs. The time of arrival of Oikawa was sooner than expected, your dead eyes looking up to meet his bright and cheery ones. “How’s my favorite captive?”

“You seem awfully chipper. Is it time for my daily lashings?”

“Someone’s masochistic,” he shoots back, his grin turning to a smirk, before it washes off. “No lashings tonight.. if you’re good. I have a special dinner planned and you’ll be accompanying me as a plus one. It’s just me and my court, no one special,” he’s cut off by Hanamaki slapping his shoulder. “Okay, mostly nobody special. Just a dinner and then we can explore the castle. If you’re bad, however,”

“I’m sure Iwaizumi and Hanamaki would have me dead before I dared to lay a hand upon your precious skin,” you quickly reply. Oikawa seems to smile at that, enjoying your awareness of the situation. “That or I’ll be forced back into my place with an audience, which is it?”

“I’d rather have your blood staining my garments and splattered on my dish than have anyone have a glance of your skin, my darling,”

“That’s gross,” Hanamaki cuts in. Oikawa gives him a look, but he just shrugs. “I’m sorry, but you’re kind of weird. Do I need Iwaizumi to smack some sense into your head?”

“Can he even handle a smack from Iwaizumi? That guys had biceps the size of my head,” you interject, reveling in the pout on Oikawa’s face.

“If he holds back, yeah Oikawa can handle it. Then again—”

“Both of you, quit it! Formal invitation to a dinner with me, I’ll pick you up before the dinner. And Makki,”

“Yes, my king?”

“No cream puffs for you!”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

Oikawa and Hanamaki left right after, but their retreating footsteps made your chest ache. It’s better to be with someone, even if it’s the people you hate, you conclude. Hanamaki makes you laugh occasionally, usually with his quick retorts to Oikawa. Even when Kindaichi comes down, he’s actually talking to you when he delivers your food. Kunimi disapproves of it, but he doesn’t do anything. Kyōtani and Yahaba are still distant, but that’s expected when they have a stick up their asses. Matsukawa and Iwaizumi are hardly down here, but Iwaizumi is usually accompanying Oikawa for his late night activities. He never looks at you, turning to stare at the other side of the dungeon or leaving the dungeon completely while you suffer. Although he left the dungeons in the beginning, now he mostly stayed back to stare at the wall.

You wonder if it’s because his moral compass wants to help you. Oikawa invited him to join, but it was quickly turned down, claiming there was no joy in torturing prisoners more than necessary. Although he was always there and never talked to you, he was close to Oikawa. He didn’t stay down in the cells to hear your screams, but his hand on his sword said he was ready to move had Oikawa’s screams joined yours. Your restraints prevented your hands from doing damage, but he’s well aware your legs and mouth are able to do a bit of damage.

Laying in the cell, you watched as the guards switched. Kunimi and Yahaba were switched to Kindaichi and Kyōtani, complete opposites. Kyōtani was more animalistic than you originally thought, going off instincts first and he had sensitive hearing, eyes glancing to your form whenever you shifted. Kindaichi was there to make sure Kyōtani didn’t do anything he’d regret, that’s all. But you wouldn’t make any unnecessary movements.

Though the wait eats you up inside.

It is what feel like hours before the Oikawa comes down, the sun lowering itself in the sky as orange rays lay across your face. Oikawa clears his throat, disturbing your peaceful nap. “Time to get dressed. Hope you can walk.” Two handmaidens enter the cell, one holding a gorgeous aqua blue dress and the other holding silver accessories. Hanamaki is down there with him, ready to attack should you make a move. The diamond shackles come off, you releasing a sigh once your wrists are freed from the heavy confines.

Oikawa doesn’t seem scared, even as he stands beside you while his handmaidens strip you and dress you up. Your wrists ache and your legs are unstable, finding the lack of shoes to be a blessing in this state. The blue gown is not too elegant, but it’s strange to be in such a formal gown when your position in the kingdom is below a commoner. Silver accents line the bodice and litter the skirt, with some being simple sparkles while others shape into different flowers. Fabric is simple, mostly tulle as it feels lightweight and easy for your weakened body to handle. Oikawa himself places the remaining silver accessories to complete the outfit — the chains. Shackles are clasped to your wrists, leading to a silver collar that is secured into place. There’s another chain leading from the collar, but the end of it is a sapphire gem, secured in a diamond crystal. Extravagant and unnecessary, but Oikawa drops the crystal and you fall down with it, unable to hold your body weight up.

“Fantastic, everything’s in order,” he says. You growl as you try to get up, but the crystal keeps you from going too far. Oikawa picks it up and gently ushers you out of the cell, dismissing the handmaidens. He walks beside you, making sure you’re able to walk comfortably, with Hanamaki trailing behind. Supporting your weight as he guides you up the stairs and lets you go at your own pace. The cold marble on your bare feet is almost burning, but the ache in your legs is from not using them for so long. The chains don’t help, adding weight to your body while Oikawa holds the end of the metal leash in his hand. It’s a struggle to get up the stairs.

Making it above the dungeons, you’re practically hissing at the brightly lit corridor. Every nook and cranny is well lit, with soldiers standing guard few in between. One soldier gets your attention, however, who has a familiar frown you’re usually only blessed to see under glimmering crystal light. Iwaizumi comes over and nods, sending Hanamaki away and down the corridor, leaving the three of you alone. “I’m sure you remember Iwa-chan,”

“Yeah, he’s always down with you. I remember him,”

“Well, this time, you’re seeing him in a new light. He’s my guard and my best friend, so enjoy the new side of him while you can,” Oikawa speaks as if he’s talking to an old friend, waving his hands around as he leads you down the corridor. The aqua colored curtains and silver items seem to bring more light into the castle than before, even as the sun takes its final breath over the horizon and plunges the world into darkness. “You should take this opportunity to ask questions, my dear,”

“Iwaizumi, will you kill me?”

“Not unless Oikawa commands it,” he’s quick to reply, as if he was expecting it. You sigh and shrug.

“Okay, fair. Why do you stick with Oikawa?”

“We grew up together. Our fathers were friends, so it was only common sense for us to be so close. I’ve seen him in every kind of situation you can imagine. He’s usually crying over a girl, though,”

“Iwa-chan! You can’t be mean to me when we have a guest!” Oikawa immediately whines, covering your ears as if you can’t hear them still. “I’m the king, I don’t cry!”

“No offense, my Lord, but you cried when you tried to drink coffee in front of Lady Kiyoko, only to then sputter and cough because it was too bitter. She downed hers black and you requested hot chocolate. With extra milk.”

“Iwa-chan!”

“Oh, we starting early?” Another familiar voice spoke. Oikawa’s hands fell from your ears and you looked at Matsukawa. He’s as tall and imposing as the day he caught you running from the throne room. “Nice to see you’re still thriving. How are you?”

“I’d be better if I wasn’t caught by a horse,” you smirk, moving to cross your arms when the chains clink and stop you. “Suffering by the hands of your king, but still alive,”

“I’m sorry, but that’s a precaution,” he finishes, patting your cheek before turning to Oikawa. You have half a mind to try and punch him but Iwaizumi’s hand falls on your shoulder. “Everyone else is seated, my Lord. Is there anything you request?”

“Have Watari sitting next to [Y/N]. She should be close to someone nice,” Oikawa commands. The doors open after he speaks, Matsukawa holding the door open as he urges the group inside. Oikawa tugs you forward, with Iwaizumi following right behind you. Watari stands from his chair, bowing to you in a brisk meeting before pulling out your chair.

“Oh, thank you, Watari,” you bow to him. Oikawa seems to have his eyes fixated on you as you settle into the table. Looking around, you seem to notice how everyone seems stunned by your arrival, but their eyes seem to be trailed to the chains and collar.

Oikawa settles down next to you, clearing his throat. Holding up his glass, full of a shimmering golden liquid, he encourages everyone to do the same. The chains clink together, but you manage a weak hold on the glass, getting Oikawa to smile. “Tonight, let us toast to those who have lost their lives and those who have joined us. With that, we shall discuss the topic of the evening: the impending threat from Nekoma and Fukurōdani.”

“Eh?” You squeak out, drowned out in the cheers from the men around you. Oikawa gently clinks his glass against yours, putting your hand down after. You lean closer to him to whisper in his ear, “should I leave? This shouldn’t involve me,”

“Oh, don’t worry. Any news spoken of will never reach their walls. You’re stuck with me,” he chirps, patting your head before turning to Iwaizumi. “Any updates, Captain?”

“A group of ten went into the forest and only two came back. They’re being treated for trauma, but they won’t speak of much besides the ‘monsters in the forest’ and ‘they’re gonna die soon’, so we don’t have much.”

“I didn’t know Oikawa’s face was in the Dark Forest. Guess Lady Kiyoko showed it around town,” Matsukawa snickers at Hanamaki’s comment, who is grinning at a glaring Oikawa. “Speaking the truth, my liege,”

“We should decree a law where you don’t say the truth unless asked, Makki. You’re much to comfortable with loose lips,”

“Well, then who’s going to tell you you’re being weird or annoying? Matsukawa, would you?” He turns to the man sitting next to him, who has a large piece of meat stuffed in his mouth. He bites down and drops it, in a rather inelegant manner.

“I could never come up with good things like you. How ever would the castle live in Oikawa was unrestrained in his rule, never to be stopped?” He dramatically sighs, an eye opened to glance at a fuming Oikawa.

“You make me sound like a tyrant! I’m a good king! [Y/N], am I a good king?” With eyes on you, you pause in your eating of the mashed potatoes. Looking at him with no emotion whatsoever, you reply.

“You tie me up and force me in chains. Do you really want my opinion? If you’re looking to a prisoner to be on your side, I have a feeling you’re below a-” yet you stop, seeing Iwaizumi’s eyes boring into yours. “Below a tyrant, but not quite the kings I’ve come across.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he nods, sitting back down. “Anyways, Nekoma and Fukurōdani will be hard pressed to reach if we can’t bypass the Dark Forest,”

“Kuroo and Bokuto.. they’re strong, but are they smart enough to know we’re infiltrating?” Yahaba asks, downing the last of his champagne.

“We could ask Ushiwaka,” Matsukawa suggests, but it’s quickly overruled by Oikawa’s firm ‘no’. “With all due respect, you’re allies with Shiratorizawa. Use it to your advantage?”

“Ushiwaka bested Oikawa’s army and they signed a treaty to be allies so Aoba Johsai wouldn’t fall,” Kunimi interjects. “Why would Oikawa-sama want to call on him for help?”

“Because we keep losing soldiers? Let’s have the Shiratorizawa soldiers die at the hands of forest ‘monsters’ instead of our own,” Matsukawa said as if it was obvious. The talk of the allegiance between the kingdoms was good news. News you could take and run with. Not only that, Oikawa confirmed that he is looking to go to Fukurōdani and is going into the Dark Forest. This is vital information.

Now only if you could leave.

The bitterness of those words evaporates your appetite, you setting your cutlery down as you stare at the unfinished food. It’s the first real food you’ve gotten since coming here, yet you no longer want it. Oikawa seems to notice you’ve stopped eating, ignoring the remarks from his court as he scoots his chair back. The action has you turning to him, only to have your body moving into his lap as you squeak. Your noises have attention on you as Oikawa cages you in his arms. “You need to eat, you know,”

“I’m.. I’m not hungry,”

“Lies. Your stomach is growling,” he puts potatoes on his spoon and holds it up. “Say ‘ah’.”

“I’m not a—” he shoves the spoon in your mouth, humming in satisfaction as his hand holds over your mouth. If you had an ounce of common sense, you’d swallow and not spit. Risking a beating or worse over eating isn’t worth it.

“Good girl, look at you,” he coos, giving you another spoonful. “Eating so much,”

“He got weirder,” Hanamaki chimes in. “Remember you have an audience, Oikawa,”

“Makki, hush. She’s enjoying it, aren’t you?” You don’t respond, simply looking at him. “That look says yes,”

“Actually, how-” he cuts you off with more food in your mouth. He seems so happy, stuffing your face with food. It’s almost the only thing you’re focusing on, had it not been for the chains and the men talking around you.

Matsukawa’s voice, once more, catches your attention. “Wish that was you, huh? Need someone taking care of our big, strong captain?” He makes a heart with his fingers, with Hanamaki doing the same beside him.

“As if. If anything, Oikawa needs to be fed properly because he’s always off doing something weird,” Iwaizumi retorts. His eyes occasionally glance at the two of you, his eyes catching yours.

“Oh yeah, earlier Oikawa was fixing his hair in the mirror before going down to the dungeons. Making strange poses, like this,” Hanamaki tries to demonstrate, puckering his lips and winking while pointing at you. You giggle at his pose, although Oikawa seems to be fuming. “Or like this,” he winks and holds up a peace sign, putting the other hand on his hip. “It’s quite disturbing, actually.”

“Oh, did he do the kissy face?” Matsukawa then winks and blows a kiss to you, who’s now fully laughing at their actions while Oikawa puts his face in your hair.

“I don’t do weird poses! I have to make sure I look elegant and kingly!”

“You act like a woman who’s never seen themself in a mirror, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi interjects. Oikawa then pouts, but you pat his arm. He seems hopeful when you do, but his eyes fall as you grin at him.

“You always look at yourself in the diamond bars, too. You love yourself that much? Narcissistic king,” you snicker. Oikawa’s jaw drops as Hanamaki and Matsukawa start to howl, as if you said the funniest thing ever. Iwaizumi sports a small smile, but he hides it by chewing on his food.

“Well, someone’s comfortable,” Oikawa pouts, but he keeps you on his lap. You’re no longer being fed by his hand, but he does take care to check if you’re still eating.

The dinner is mostly uneventful after that, turning into a mostly political discussion that involves Aoba Johsai’s army and possible future cooperation with Shiratorizawa. Oikawa keeps you secured, perfectly perched on his lap the entire time. Eventually, a guard comes in to interject, telling Iwaizumi that there’s a problem he needs to go oversee. Matsukawa and Iwaizumi leave, with the rest of everyone eventually being dismissed.

Oikawa takes you on a walk of his castle. With no other guards, you find yourself more open to talk and Oikawa opens more to you, encouraging your own tale in exchange for his. He takes you to his throne room, the place you two technically first met. He tells you about his father, how he brought him into the throne room for the first time to watch a petty thief beg for his life. A horrible story, one that makes you feel like you have to give him another story of your own. Torn between telling him your secrets and telling him nothing at all, you tell him your parents abandoned you at a young age.

“Both of them?” He asks. You nod, but his eyes show the sorrow you don’t feel. “You’ve been on your own for so long, not even a childhood friend?”

“One. We were close, but things changed as we got older. He.. changed. His mission was to protect and mine was to attack. Opposing sides, yet you’d think our friendship would outweigh that.” The tale is true, but elements are missing. Oikawa doesn’t pry, moving onto another topic. The trail down the corridor is familiar — back to the dungeons.

Oikawa comes and visits you at random times of the day, now. He offers his hand to take a walk around his castle and orders his handmaidens to dress you in some gown of his own choosing. Each walk breaks down more and more walls, soon enough you’re looking forward to talking to someone. Oikawa doesn’t pry more than he needs to, but he does encourage you to vent all you want. He’s there for you and your secrets are sealed behind tightly shut lips.

Your secrets are brisk, hardly showing too much vulnerability and brushing over the kingdom you’re from, or even what king you work for. Oikawa has an idea, but he doesn’t ask for you to go into any details. Oikawa tells you of his father and how he was cruel, saying only those who carried out his orders without questions were loyal. The ripe age of 16 wasn’t kind to Oikawa, having to wake up and find that the captain of the guard had poisoned the king, then himself. Iwaizumi was almost tried for treason, but he had been out on a mission with other soldiers and was pardoned per Oikawa’s request. They grew up together and Oikawa trusts Iwaizumi with his life, even if Iwaizumi shall turn on him one day.

It isn’t until the last walk do you spill the secrets and the names. Aoba Johsai’s garden is gorgeous, with blooming white and blue flowers, white marble fountains that hosts swans and other living creatures, frolicking in the crystal clear water. Oikawa makes it unbelievably awkward, with his constant closeness as he journeys with you around his garden. He brings up that his mother was beheaded before his eyes and his father told him that women are only meant for childbearing and are cruel creatures, only because she didn’t love his father. Oikawa has no Queen because he focused on growing and securing his kingdom, yet now he is expected to marry and have an heir by the end of the month. It isn’t harsh, it shouldn’t have broken you, but him settling on a bench in front of a red rose bush and crying has your walls shattering like glass.

“It was my mother’s favorite flower. That’s why I made so many blue and white flower bushes. This was the last thing she gave to me,” he had said, through his sobs. It was heartbreaking to see a prideful man cry in front of you, so you hugged him and told him the truth.

Your mission was to kill him under King Bokuto’s orders, sent as his personal assassin. You’re under his rule because you failed a previous mission. Finding comfort in Oikawa’s tragic past, finding it to be something nobody should carry alone, you console him. An assassin and a royal mistress for Bokuto, you abide by each one of his orders lest you find your own blade turned on you. Oikawa turns to hug you, letting you cry into his own chest and just sit in the garden, under the setting sun, ranting about anything and everything.

“Bottling things up isn’t good, you know. That’s why I have Iwa-chan. He seems mean, but he’s never once attempted to hurt me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Bokuto seems like a tyrant,”

“He’s a good guy, he’s just... he’s the best warrior in the kingdom and prides himself on being the best king to live. He used to be cruel and merciless, but he has his moments. He can be soft and has his down moments, he just hides them behind closed doors. He was cruel to me, but he’s changed,” you try to reason, but Oikawa looks at you. “Really.”

“What would you get if you killed me? Let me guess, freedom? He would let you go? After you killed the king with security tighter than his? If you managed to kill me, you wouldn’t make it past the entrance of my castle,” the confirmation of accepting a doomed mission is bitter in your mouth. “You’re valuable. Bokuto wouldn’t just let you go like that. He’s not planning to give you freedom,”

“No, that’s— that’s wrong, he promised-”

“But I can offer you salvation. It’s not freedom, you’ll be stuck here, but you’ll be able to be free of Bokuto’s clutches. Will you take my hand?” Oikawa leans back, showing you his hand. Looking st you, you don’t move.

“What.. what is it?”

“Be my queen, [Y/N]. Bokuto can’t reach you if you’re here with me. Can you honestly tell me you want to go back?”

The thing is, you can’t. Taking his gloved hand, he brings you into his embrace and presses his lips to yours. For the first time, your hands clutch his shirt and you kiss him back.

It’s only a promise in the garden, yet the next morning, you find yourself in Oikawa’s bed, laying next to the naked king. It’s a strange thing to wake up to, but Hanamaki is entering the room shortly, quickly covering his eyes. “I saw nothing,”

“Hanamaki, not to be rude but, you’ve seen me change like 20 times. Why the hell are you turning away?”

“I’m a respectful man! I wouldn’t look at a lady and my future queen with such indecency,” he says, only go and try to wake up Oikawa with closed eyes. His words stun you, having the previous night really settle in and Oikawa actually asking for your permission before indulging in your body. Then the questions pops into your head, remembering Oikawa’s offer. A look at your hands — chains are gone and a silver ring with sapphire is on your finger. That settles that dilemma.

“I’m up, I’m up! What is it?!” Oikawa shouts, popping up from his cocoon. Hanamaki sighs, eyes still closed.

“I know you had a busy night, seeing as we could hear you, but you have responsibilities. Tonight is the banquet with the other kings. News of you getting a queen spread like wildfire, so they’ll probably want to deal with that before anything else,” Hanamaki explains. Then he points in your direction, though it’s at the wall. “And you need to be ready for their onslaught of questions. These kings prefer political marriages over marriages of love, so you need to know how to defend yourself.”

“No need. They wouldn’t dare ask her any questions if I’m taking care of them. I’ll be down shortly, let me dress.” Hanamaki bows and leaves, letting you heave a sigh as the door clicks shut. “Don’t worry, my dear. Bokuto won’t be able to lay a finger on you.”

“Bokuto’s going to be there?! He probably thinks I’m dead, Oikawa!” You panic, getting out of the bed to dress yourself. “I can’t— Kaori will be there too, yes? I can’t do that,”

“You’re untouchable, completely safe in my arms,” he’s behind you, hugging you close. “I’ll have you seated beside me and put Ushiwaka’s queen next to you. She’s harmless and sweet, you’ll be fine. Bokuto will look, but not touch. Trust me.”

Trust him, you do. As the day passes, you’re thrown into different outfits and putting on heels that make your feet hurt. Your hair is done elegantly, as if you haven’t been living in a dungeon for almost two months. Make up is done to make your face look a bit more lively, compared to the dead inside look you normally have. By the time Oikawa sees you again, it’s time for the dinner. You’re brought to the doors of the dining hall, listening to the chatter from inside. Bokuto’s voice is loud and clear, making your insides churn. But Oikawa is right next to you, smiling and letting your hand rest of his arm. Iwaizumi announces the two of you and lets you both walk in.

Avoiding Bokuto’s eyes, you settle down in the chair, but you feel him staring at you. Kaori has a small gasp that is quickly overlooked, but you’re sure it’s because of you. Ushijima and Kuroo seem to be on edge, but another king you don’t know of seems at ease. Oikawa settles down and clears his throat, requesting the food to be served.

“Oikawa, what is this?” Bokuto speaks through gritted teeth, yet his eyes are on you. Oikawa grins, holding your hand for him to see. “She doesn’t look like anybody we know about.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Bokuto-san,” Oikawa begins, ready to spin the tale of your meeting together. “We met as she was tending to my garden. She would offer me an ear and listen, then I would listen to her troubles. Soon enough, we were both falling in love. She told me her family is going to have to move soon and I offered her a reason to not leave. Her position is but a commoner, yet I love her as if she was royalty,”

“Oikawa, shouldn’t you focus on expanding territory or a political gain over love?” Ushijima interjects. His booming voice startles his queen, which prompts him to lay his hand on her head and apologize. “If you want love, there are mistresses you can take up,”

“Yeah, Oikawa, love isn’t the reasons we get married. You have options, you know? Some nobody gardener isn’t worth it,” Bokuto’s words cut deep, even if they’re based on the lie spun. Kuroo interjects, before Oikawa can say anything.

“I don’t see a problem. I married my queen for love, so it shouldn’t be a big deal?” He tries to ease the tension, smiling warmly. Bokuto’s quick to create more tension.

“Kuroo, you married Lady Alisa because you expanded your territory to the Northern continent and gained three new ports. Love or not, she came with political advantages,”

“Ushiwaka, didn’t you marry for love, too? Yacchan didn’t have much political gain, the Princess of a kingdom in the southern isles. You got a port and some handful of new citizens, not that great,” Oikawa says, folding his hands and smiling at Ushijima. Yachi mumbles to herself and twiddles her thumbs, but doesn’t do much else. You pay her arm and smile, trying to make her less uncomfortable.

“To be fair, unless you go to another continent, there aren’t any women who can stand up to the challenge of being a queen,” the strange king says, then gestures to his queen. “Mai was given to us as an offering by the previous Dateko tribe,”

“Futakuchi, I don’t think that counts as either political nor romantic reasons for marriage,” Oikawa says, but quickly dismisses it. “The point is, I’ll marry who I want to marry and I chose to marry this woman. She will be my bride and give me an heir. That is final.”

Nobody speaks against him, but the seriousness of the situation has you feel queasy. Leaning over to Oikawa, you tell him you’re not feeling good. “Iwa-chan, take my queen-to-be to her room, she isn’t feeling well,”

“Yes, your majesty,” he bows and helps you out of the chair. Guiding you out of the room, you take a quick glance to Bokuto, seeing him still watching you. It makes you feel even worse. The doors shut behind you and Iwaizumi leans down to whisper to you. “Do I need to walk you to your room or do you need fresh air?”

“Some fresh air, please. I don’t really want to go back,” You mutter. Iwaizumi nods, then gives you directions to the garden. “Thank you, Iwa-chan,”

“Don’t push your buttons,” he growls out, waiting for you to leave before entering the room again. Seeing as you’re mostly alone, you sigh and take in shaky breaths. You’ve never felt so helpless before, unable to do anything or save your pride. Kaori and Bokuto expected you to be dead, not sleeping with Oikawa. But now they— no, he knows. He will find you and use honeyed words to bring you back, but you must be strong.

A throat cleared behind you has you whirling around. Expecting someone you’re familiar with is a given, but you didn’t expect to see Bokuto standing at the entrance. “Hello, my little bird,”

“Go away, Bokuto. I don’t want to deal with you,”

“I told you to kill Oikawa, not sleep with him. Now you’ll be his queen? Do you not want your freedom? Or is this an elaborate plan?” His arms are wide as he moves towards you. You back up, watching his face drop and pout. “Not a plan, is it?”

The lack of care in his words make you think he’s gotten rid of any guards nearby. Deciding your life is better than telling the truth, you lie. “I’ll come back. I got caught my first day, so I need to wait for an opportunity.”

“That’s my girl,” he’s close enough to hug you, pressing your body close against his. “I’ve missed this. You next to me. Me inside of you,”

“That’s vulgar and very gross, sir,” you cringe. He laughs, but it’s short. Then, he’s tilting your head up by your chin. “Boku-�� he cuts you off with a kiss, pressing his tongue against your lips. Wanting him to leave you alone as soon as possible, you let him kiss you and bury your fingers into his sleeves. His grip on you tightens, a growl from his throat as he lets his hands brush against your ass. Feeling his intentions go beyond a simple kiss, you retreat and look away so he doesn’t pout. “Not here. Not now. You have to wait.”

“Then I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you to be with me once more and I await the news of King Oikawa’s lifeless body. Remember what I can give you. Oikawa wouldn’t grant you freedom, only I can,” he murmurs the last bit in your ear, pressing a kiss against the shell before leaving. The wind blows as you retreat further into the garden, feeling your cheeks wet with tears.

With only the sun setting as your companion, you find yourself wondering if you made the right choice.

#haikyuu x reader #oikawa x reader #oikawa x you #king Oikawa series #tw.alcohol #tw.noncon #tw.abuse #Mr. Tōru #tw.cheating #Oikawa.Angst

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angstyaches · 3 years

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Again, this is quite heavy for this blog. Please heed the warnings! DM me for a summary, if you don’t want to actually read it because of any of the tags (I’ll make a post if anyone asks on anon). Stay safe, friends.

CW: disordered eating mention, alcohol, heights (inc. character struggling with fear of heights), angsty and dark thoughts, relationship problems being discussed, very brief but intense death ideation, mention of gore/injury (described by character, not real), danger of falling, mention of broken glass, emeto, food mention, blood mention

___

Shayne had hoped the bad thoughts would take longer to find him, but they were waiting for him just on the other side of his bedroom door in the townhouse. For the past two weeks, he’d eaten three meals a day with Charlie at his parents’ house, even if some of them were small, and he’d been imagining himself keeping it up once he got back, but now that he was alone, the shame and the feeling of helplessness that had always surrounded food came flooding back.

When dinner time rolled around that evening (he knew it was dinner time because his stomach remembered), he felt Madelyn’s phantom breath on his neck and ignored the hunger. He crawled into his bed and tried forcing himself to sleep before his body could realise it was being deprived.

But god, he was just a needy, greedy little black hole of a creature, a sap on the world so long as you’re not fulfilling your duty, an insult to flesh and bone, nothing but darkness and hunger and waste and –

Shayne sat up in bed and squeezed his head between his hands. He’d gotten so used to Charlie’s constant presence and warmth, that he was already feeling unbearably lonely without him.

Stupid Charlie, he thought, feeling a flutter of affection in his chest as he pictured Charlie’s head resting on his shoulder. And then, a sinking feeling.

In the absence of Madelyn’s voice in his head, Shayne realised how… quiet everything else was. Ryan and Nancy were probably still travelling in Europe, but Elliott and Felix should have been here.

He’d half-expected Felix to come pounding on his door around this time, raving about whatever he was cooking and asking questions about Shayne’s Christmas. But the fact that the townhouse was this silent was extremely unpleasant.

Shayne let himself into the hallway, pausing and holding his breath, scanning for any signs of life. He could have done this easily if he’d been in a forest, but houses and urban settings were always trickier. He picked up a flash of something, a thrum of a heartbeat, but it sent his head spinning and he had to stop concentrating. It seemed to be coming from Elliott and Felix’s room, even though he hadn’t heard a single stir in there since he’d gotten home.

“Hello?” he asked softly, pushing the door open slowly.

He wasn’t surprised that it was cold in the bedroom beyond, but a breeze took him right in the face. Papers had been gently blown across the floor, and a vase holding a fake rose had been knocked from the windowsill onto the floor.

Nobody was in here. This wasn’t where he’d sensed somebody.

The view of the town was incredible from this height, four storeys up. It was around dusk, so there were lights blinking to life in houses and office buildings even as Shayne stood by the open window and rested his hands on the sill.

“Elliott?” he called out quietly, leaning his head outside. The distance from his face to the street below was dizzying.

“The fuck do you want?” came a curt reply, which made Shayne look to his right. The moulding on the outside of the building was about a metre wide, enough for Elliott to slump against the brick wall with a glass balanced on his knee and a bottle grasped in the opposite hand.

His hair was loose of its usual ponytail, as well as being greasy and dishevelled from having fingers constantly dragged through it. He was scraping it back with his left hand at that very moment, eyes glazed over as he looked up at the sky.

“When’d you get back?”

“Uh, today. Earlier.” Shayne could hear how high-pitched his voice had gotten, but what could he do about it? He couldn’t stop wondering how Elliott’s weight wasn’t forcing him to slink further down, legs pulling him over the edge. “El, what are you doing? Someone’s gonna see you out there.”

“So?” Elliott shrugged. “Maybe I’ll become a Reddit legend.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Shayne sighed. “What’re you doing out there? Are you okay?”

Elliott blinked, the motion slowed by the darkness and an unknown amount of whisky. “Come here, and I’ll show you.”

Shayne would have really preferred not to, but it didn’t look like Elliott was coming to him anytime soon. He turned around and sat up into the windowsill, slowly shifting his legs around so his feet touched the moulding. He breathed hard, tried not to look at the fall below, and told himself that if it could hold Elliott’s weight, it could hold his.

“You know, inside, there are floors and – and chairs,” he stammered, edging closer to Elliott before lowering himself to a seated position. He didn’t slump like Elliott though; his hands were pressing the concrete, stiff as pillars. “Lots of nicer and safer places to sit and drink whisky.”

“Mmph.”

The words barely seemed to reach Elliott’s ears.

“So, what’s up?” Shayne asked.

When Elliott smiled, it was a sick thing that twisted the lower half of his face without touching the rest. He looked past the rim of his glass and out across the town. Shayne wouldn’t have been surprised if his glare had caused a sudden flash of lightning to tear through the clouds.

The silence seemed to press in further, the sound of traffic fading away as though a bubble had descended on the rooftop.

“Where’s… Felix?” Shayne already had the feeling that the answer wasn’t going to be good.

“I don’t know.” Elliott pursed his lips. “Think he’s left me.”

A cold stone seemed to drop through Shayne’s stomach. He couldn’t begin to imagine what the equivalent of that felt like for Elliott. “What? Why?”

After a slight roll of his eyes, Elliott reached into the pocket of his trousers, fidgeting with something before pulling out a ring. He twirled it between his thumb and his figure, examining it up-close for a second before holding it out.

“Oh.” Shayne eyed the ring for a moment before reluctantly lifting one hand – one of his supportive pillars – and letting Elliott place it in his palm. “I take it he said no?”

“No, he didn’t say no. He didn’t say… anything.”

“Is that – is that better, or worse?”

“Fuck if I know.”

“Sorry, El.” Shayne gulped and stared at the ring, only managing to hold onto it for a couple of seconds. Elliott had already taken his eyes off of it, his attention snagged by his drink again. A slight breeze across his skin made Shayne shudder, as though it could possibly throw him off balance. Mostly, it was just cold and unpleasant. “Here, take it back. I’m gonna drop it or something.”

“Why would you drop it?” Elliott asked with a grunt, reaching to pick up the ring. His fingertips lingered a moment as he realised how badly Shayne’s hand was trembling. “Fuck, man, are you okay?”

“Mmm.” Shayne put his hand down next to him again, fingers aching under the pressure he was putting on them.

“What’s up?” Elliott scoffed lightly. “You gonna hurl?”

“Maybe,” Shayne admitted. “I’ve never been up this high before.”

“Jesus, you’re such a drama queen.” Elliott planted a hand down and pushed himself to his feet. His movements were as swift and graceful as a panther, even while drunk, and he seemed to tower unreasonably high over Shayne as he straightened his back and stretched his arms over his head. He almost reached the roof tiles that jutted out over the top floor. A strong gust of wind could probably have toppled him, especially considering how much whisky was probably flooding his system.

Elliott’s feet made a scraping sound on the concrete as he lowered his arms, laughing deep in his chest.

“Elliott, stop! Just sit the fuck down.”

“Why?” Elliott’s voice was no stronger than a breath. He closed his eyes for a worrying amount of time, his shoulders swaying slightly as his arms hung by his side like weights. “Would you care if I fell?”

Shayne got a sinking feeling, for what seemed like the hundredth time in ten minutes. “What kind of question is that?”

“Do you think I’d die, actually?” Elliott perked up again, unnervingly so. He opened his eyes and lifted his glass slightly. He craned his neck to look over the edge of the moulding. He hummed, like he was pondering whether he should buy a pair of shoes in black or in brown. “I’m fairly sure that fully-developed vampires can only die if they’re burned alive, but… I wonder how thoroughly that’s been tested.”

“Elliott –”

“I’ve had a decent run. In human years, I’m almost seventy, you know? That’s longer than a lot of people end up with…”

Shayne didn’t know if he should have been trying to grab Elliott to stop him from teetering so close to the edge, or if that would make everything worse. He could barely breathe, let alone think.

“It’d still fucking hurt either way, though.” Elliott threw back the last mouthful of his drink and smacked his lips. “Bones poking up through my organs, probably bits of me exploding on impact –”

“Elliott, seriously, you’re just being an asshole now, just sit down!”

“Would it make him come back, if I was injured like that?” Elliott demanded, his golden eyes piercing and intense. He was beginning to lapse into clumsy arm gestures, his voice rising higher with emotion. “Would it put everything into perspective, Shayne? Would it fix everyone’s problems if I was maimed? Or if I was completely and utterly de–?”

Shayne’s stomach turned, his hands flying to his face, as the whisky glass shuddered and dropped out of Elliott’s hand. It disappeared from view, faster than the sick grin could fall from Elliott’s face.

The shatter was tiny; Shayne had to really strain his ears to hear it. He watched Elliott blink tears down his face and slowly lower himself to his haunches. He opened his mouth wide, like he was going to scream, but no sound came out.

“Hey,” Shayne whispered, letting go of a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He stretched out one hand, trying to gently catch Elliott’s attention. “El. Elliott.”

Elliott didn’t move. He stayed crouched, one hand gripping the edge of the moulding, his face hovering over the side. When he blinked, tears fell and missed the building completely, dropping straight to the sidewalk that was four storeys down.

“El, come on.”

All the way down to the sidewalk –

“Elliott.”

He turned his head, swaying a little, and for a moment Shayne thought that was it, that he was gone, he’d lost his balance. Shayne sat forward on his heels, instinctively making an uncalculated grab for his cousin’s hand, but luckily Elliott was reaching back too; two fumbling hands happened to fumble in the right directions at the right time.

“Fuck,” Elliott whimpered, steadying himself on his feet again. Shayne could feel both their pulses in their joined hands, Elliott’s almost explosive. “We should… We should probably get off this thing.”

“Oh, you think?” Shayne snapped, though he clung to Elliott’s hand like a toddler to a parent as the two of them edged back over towards the window. He hopped in through the window first, turning to make sure Elliott was following him. The taller man hit his head on the open window, making the frame shudder as he shut his eyes and winced.

“Shit, are you okay?” Shayne held out a hand to help him make it the rest of the way.

“I’m fine, get off me,” Elliott growled, shoving Shayne away from him and storming over to the bed.

“Fuck heights,” Shayne murmured, pulling the window shut with more force than was probably necessary. It released some of the fear that had been pinching his nerves though, and his head felt clearer. “We should probably go down to the street and clean that glass up before someone –”

“Shut up.”

Shayne shrugged, gazing at Elliott as he sat at the edge of his bed, head resting in his hands. “Is – is your head okay, or –?”

“What’d I just say?”

“You said to shut up, but how the fuck do you expect me not to ask you if you’re okay? You almost fell off the fucking… roof!” Shayne smacked his hand on the bedpost as he walked by, partially on purpose. “Fuck you, Elliott.”

“Calm down, man,” Elliott snarled, his head shooting up from his hands. “Come on, you seriously think that’s the closest I’ve ever come to dying?”

“You can’t…” Shayne stopped by the door to the hallway, eyes lowered. “You can’t do shit like that, you can’t talk like that. I don’t care if he’s left you, if the world’s falling to shit, if you think nobody cares about you being around, you can’t…”

A sob broke the air, and Shayne froze, turning to watch as Elliott hunched over at the edge of the bed, his head ducking and disappearing from his silhouette.

“I’m… sorry.”

Having never heard such a heart-wrenching sound from Elliott before, Shayne found himself hurrying back to the bed. He sat down next to Elliott and let him sink his head against his shoulder and cry, his body convulsing with what seemed to be days’ worth of pent-up agony and sadness. Shayne felt utterly useless; he couldn’t guarantee that everything would be alright with Felix, because how the hell could he possibly know that?

“Ugh, fuck,” Elliott exclaimed, his shoulders jerking forward with a sob so deep that it sounded more like a hiccup. He clamped a hand over his mouth, the other lifting to tentatively cover the front of his head, where he’d hit it on the window.

“You okay, man?” Shayne asked hoarsely.

Elliott shook his head, face paling even in the dull light.

“You gonna hurl?” Shayne murmured, wondering if the irony would be lost on Elliott in his current state. He was already getting to his feet, remembering that Felix kept a metal bin under his desk.

“Mmmph.” Elliott nodded furiously, only releasing his mouth from his hand once Shayne had thrust the bin at him. Saliva glistened on his lips as he hovered, breathing heavily. His eyes were red and swollen and he was still gently kneading his head.

A deep retch rolled his shoulders and made him duck his head further into the bin. Shayne grimaced and almost put a hand on Elliott’s shoulder before remembering that that would have been a terrible idea. He stood by the desk instead, arms folded around his waist, flinching in time with Elliott’s horrifying gagging.

When Elliott’s face resurfaced, he was gasping and spitting out mouthfuls of thick bile and saliva, tinged only slightly with the golden hue of the heavy liquor.

“Jesus,” he choked out. “How hard did I hit my head?”

After a disbelieving glance towards the window, Shayne scoffed. “Your head? What about the god-knows-how-much whisky in your system right now?”

“Alright, whatever,” Elliott groaned. He pawed at a thick strand of his hair that was stuck to the side of his face and trailing into the bin itself, tossing it over his shoulder. Just in time too, since the next retch was deep and abrupt and dragged a rumbling belch up alongside a gush of foamy alcohol and stomach acid.

Between gags, Elliott let thick liquid drip from his mouth into the bin, body shivering with the effort it took to bring everything up. It went on for so long that Shayne was certain Elliott was going to fall asleep with his head in the bin.

Eventually, Elliott sat upright, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand and dragging it across the lower half of his face. He tossed it into the bin and reached for another one.

“Want me to get you some water? Or, like, blood?”

“No.” Elliott sighed deeply, dropping the second tissue into the bin before he began to scoop his hair back from his face and neck. “I’ve been drinking on an empty stomach for two days. I wanna go get chips.”

“Chips?”

“Yes. Can you grab one of Felix’s scrunchies from his side?”

Shayne did as he was asked, mostly in a daze, rounding the bed to get to Felix’s bedside locker. There was a pile of hair ties sitting alongside a handheld cassette player.

“Can you even eat?” Shayne asked, leaning across the bed to hand one of the hair ties to Elliott. “You know, with all of your full-vampire shit going on?”

“Seriously, you little asshole?” Elliott snapped, his voice scratchy and weak. “My life is falling down around me and you’re trying to deny me chips?”

Shayne quickly shook his head, a little bit grateful for the bloodcurdling glare that Elliott was currently treating him to. He got up from the bed again as Elliott tended to his hair. “Let me just grab a jacket.”

#idk how I originally wanted it to end but I can't look at it anymore #Swallow the World #StW Thicker than Blood #vampire emeto #emeto #emeto fic #emeto sickfic #angst fic #angst #death mention #death ideation mention #alcohol #alcohol mention

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laequiem · 4 years

Text

No tricks, only treats [ONESHOT]

/ Cardan and Jude join the rest of the family to enjoy Halloween in the Mortal World.

Part of Tales from the Mortal Realm, a collection of random moments in the lives of the Queen and King of Elfhame.

"Is it strange that I find you attractive dressed as such?"

I was looking at myself in the mirror, assessing my outfit, when Cardan sneaked into the room. His training with The Ghost was paying off, he was as silent as ever.

"Strange? Yes. Surprising? No."

Read it on ao3

"Is it strange that I find you attractive dressed as such?"

I was looking at myself in the mirror, assessing my outfit, when Cardan sneaked into the room. His training with The Ghost was paying off, he was as silent as ever.

"Strange? Yes. Surprising? No."

I saw him prowl towards me through the glass. He slid his arms around my waist, staring at me through my reflection.

Today is October 31st and Oak insisted we join him in celebrating Halloween. Of course, this means we all need costumes. I decided to go as the one character I knew more than anyone else.

Cardan.

I looked through his wardrobe for my outfit. It was quite hard to find a top that was loose enough to account for my breasts, as most of his clothes were tailored to fit him perfectly. I also found a dark blue coat, its collar covered in iridescent feathers. I gave up trying to find pants in his collection, as my hips would never fit, and just wore a pair of black leggings with black combat boots.

"What do you mean, dear Jude?"

"The only thing you love more than booze is yourself."

He raised his brows, making a show of looking offended.

"Your capacity to lie to yourself will always impress me,” he said then plucked a kiss to my temple, “I love you more than I love wine."

I don’t think I will ever get over him being caring . It felt as if he was a completely different person from the boy who would disturb lessons just to get attention.

Cardan turned me to face him, then inspected my face. “Something is missing.” He took my hand and directed me to his personal vanity. He opened the drawer and pulled out some cosmetics. He lined my eyes with kohl and coated my lashes with dark mascara. I suppressed my laugh when I saw he was so concentrated that he had stuck out his tongue. Then, he took out some glittery gold powder and applied it on my cheekbones.

He took a step back to look at his handiwork and smiled.

“And the final touch,” he said as he plucked his crown off his head and put it on my head at an angle, “Voilà!”

I looked at myself in the mirror. I did not bother with any kind of wig. I put my hair up in elaborate braids, letting a few short curls hang in a few places. Yet, even without his signature dark hair, I still looked like him. I made faces at myself in the mirror, trying to get his grin right.

Finally, I got up. “Your turn now, dearest Cardan.”

When Heather learned that Cardan would be coming too, she started suggesting outfits for him. She even went as far as drawing some of them. Something about his otherworldly looks inspired her. Maybe it's the tail, since a lot of her designs included it: a devil, sexy cat man and my personal favorite, a cute puppy.

In the end, I chose my own, petty idea. I walked in the closet and pulled out the outfit I had the servants clean for the occasion.

“A King needs his Queen,” I grinned as I revealed the Queen of Mirth dress and crown.

Cardan threw his head back laughing. “You sure know how to hold a grudge.”

Thankfully, my husband was a team player, and he went with it. Even in this, he looked strikingly handsome. Or pretty, I guess. Unfair.

We landed in Maine in the early afternoon. It was strange to be awake so early, but Cardan did not seem bothered at all. We met up with Vivi, Heather, Oak, Taryn and Garrett at the entrance to FallFest, some kind of harvest festival that was held every October in the local park. It had everything from harvest contests to food stands, a section with typical carnival games, a small hay maze and even a haunted house.

I was not surprised to see my eldest sister dressed up, she went crazy for Halloween every year. Vivienne would dress up for a week straight before Halloween, even when she still lived in Elfhame. She was wearing a tight black bodysuit with a tail and claws as well as a black leather mask with cat ears. Heather dressed up as some kind of … plant lady? She had a short bodysuit made of green ivy leaves, green stockings and a long red wig. Oak was with them, wearing a reddish pink shirt with a big yellow star on it. I can only assume they went for pop-culture references I am unfamiliar with.

The real surprise was seeing my twin Taryn and her quiet lover also dressed up.

"What are you dressed as?", Cardan inquired, cocking his head to the side, "You ought to have dressed as Jude, you have already proved to be so good at it."

I snapped my head at him and slammed my foot as hard as I could on his. He was joking, of course. But the peace between me and Taryn was still fairly new. We mostly kept to ourselves and rarely talked. Garrett was back with the Court of Shadow and we were friendly, but he kept his professional and personal lives completely separated.

Cardan was hopping on one foot, scowling at me like he did not understand why I was upset. Taryn understood, though. She was sheepishly looking at the ground.

"I… I'm sorry for tricking you, Cardan."

I tried finding something to say to end the awkwardness. I wanted Cardan to apologize for what he said, but I knew he would not. Fae don't apologize.

Thankfully, Vivi broke the silence. "C'mon guys, we're here to HAVE FUN!" she complained, "What ARE you two dressed as?"

"Phantom of the Opera." Garrett replied.

"Nerds."

"Says the one dressed up as Catwoman." Garrett mocked.

The bickering continued, though less mean-spirited than Cardan’s original comment, as we walked down the main path. Our first stop was the pumpkin carving station. Each couple got their own pumpkin to carve, though Vivi and Heather’s pumpkin was mostly Oak’s handiwork and the couple making sure he did not stab himself. Taryn and Garrett made some intricate flower design on theirs, Garrett being the one doing the carving of course. As for us, well… Cardan had creative ideas, but no skills with a blade, and my skills were more of the stabbing variety. We settled on giving our pumpkin a traditional jack-o-lantern face.

After the effort of carving pumpkins, we were starving. Oak was complaining, dragging his feet on the ground so much that Vivi and Heathers were holding both of his hands to pull him along. Behind them, I saw Taryn with her arm looped around The Ghost's.

I was suddenly very aware that Cardan and I were the only ones not holding hands.

Nobody knows us here. We needn't keep the appearance of the power couple, together to rule and nothing else.

I took my hand out of the pockets of my borrowed coat and tentatively brushed my fingers against Cardan's hand. I saw him whip his head towards me, and I blushed when I witnessed the surprise in his face. Soon enough, he smiled. One of those smiles he kept for me and only me, blissful and happy. The smile he gives me when we have the time to spend hours cuddled together in bed, enjoying each other's presence.

Cardan took my hand and squeezed. I squeezed back.

We spent the rest of the afternoon eating good food, trying to guess the weight of giant pumpkins and visiting a haunted house. Cardan was fascinated by the weird human traditions and absolutely ecstatic about the food. Pumpkin-spiced flavored food will become the new trend in Elfhame, judging by his reaction.

When the sun started to go down, Taryn and Garrett left for Madoc’s, who decided to try giving out candy to the trick-or-treaters. Heather and Vivienne had initially volunteered to take Oak trick-or-treating himself, but when one of their friends invited them to a party, we offered to take him instead. Oak was excited to spend more time with me and “Uncle Cardan”.

I had not gone trick-or-treating in...10 years? Maybe 12? Since my parents died. Cardan, obviously, had never gone. So, dressed up as each other, with Oak dressed as some cartoon character, we roamed the residential streets of the city to beg for sweets.

“If it is called ‘trick-or-treat’, does that mean I can make bargains if someone refuses to give me candy?” Cardan asked as we watched Oak go up to a house.

I gave him my best ‘I’ll-strangle-you-if-you-do’ stare. “No. No turning people into cats, no curse making them hear imaginary insects buzzing around their ears.”

“Why is it called trick-or-treat, then?”

Vivienne told me they had to explain this to Oak, too, a few weeks ago. Someone at school had mentioned being excited to go trick-or-treating and my brother had been very confused.

“I don’t know.”

Cardan hmmed and smirked, “Perhaps the Folk were involved when the holiday was first established.”

I crossed my arms.

“If that’s the case, not all traditions need to be brought back.”

He laughed at that, then reached around me and pulled me closer to him.

“You win. I won’t trick anyone,” he crooned in my ear, “but I want a kiss for being well behaved.”

I rolled my eyes dramatically. “So needy.”

Once again, I had to remind myself that nobody knows us here. Nobody recognized our costumes today: in the mortal world, dressed as each other, we were only The Guy In An Ugly Dress and Fashionable Emo Boy. Nobody knew we are King and Queen of Elfhame, therefore there are no expectations to be the hedonistic king and his murderous wife.

I slid my hand behind his neck and pulled him down. I felt him smile as I captured his lips with mine.

“Ew, gross!” Oak’s voice came from the other end of the driveway, “Stop that, come here.”

Reluctantly, we pulled away from each other and looked towards the house. Oak was in front of the opened door, talking with a couple.

“Honey, look,” the tallest woman exclaimed as we walked down the driveway, “She’s dressed as High King Cardan!”

“Oh my god,” the other one replied, sounding so very human, “that sounds kind of profane. Do you think he would have her hung for this?”

As I looked at the two women, I realized that Oak had stumbled upon the house of a Fae couple. They saw through his glamour, and he saw through theirs.

“This is my sister Jude,” Oak started, “and this is my Uncle Cardan.”

Both females had gone completely still and were staring at Cardan with wide eyes. Simultaneously, they bowed deeply.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty. We weren’t expecting you.”

“We so rarely see our kind around here,” the shorter one said nervously, “we… wanted to meet who little Oak was with.”

“We have tea, if you would like.”

I dared a glance at Cardan and noticed he seemed amused. Was he delighted to make them uncomfortable?

“That won’t be necessary,” he said as he took my hand, “My wife has us on a tight schedule, we have other houses to visit. Have a nice evening.”

I caught the emphasis on wife and realized they only recognized him as royalty. ‘ Your Majesty ’, singular. I could tell from the two females’ expressions that they also understood their mistake. I felt bad for them knowing they had no ill intent, probably unaware of the situation in Faerie. Yet, I could not help the grin that crept on my face. I worked hard to become High Queen. I fought and killed my way through the ranks, almost dying. Multiple times. I made decisions that will haunt me until the day I die. I am High Queen, and the Folk must know.

“It was nice meeting you,” I say as I take Oak’s hand, “You are welcome to visit us at the palace if you wish.”

My memories from before Faerieland were to blurry, I did not remember getting so much candy. Did Taryn and I get that much? How could we possibly have eaten all of that? Cardan and I each had a smaller bag, only accompanying Oak to some of the doors, but Oak had multiple full bags. Once he went to sleep, Oriana was more than happy to give us some. She had learned how bad candy was for children’s teeth - even little Fae kids. She filled little bags for us to take back to Elfhame.

Like anyone eating candy for the first time, Cardan went a little crazy. He wanted to try everything. Faeries might be different in a lot of ways, but I now have proof that chocolate is addictive even to them.

The High King of Elfhame ate so much candy that he fell asleep on the couch, to the former General’s dismay.

#tfota #the folk of the air #cardan #cardan greenbriar #jurdan #judecardan #jude duarte #the cruel prince #the wicked king #queen of nothing #holly black #fanfic #fluff #laequiem

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debu-neko-kun · 4 years

Text

Brand New Moo

A brand new story, idea courtesy of the ever-excellent commissioner (https://www.deviantart.com/doom7951) I really really liked working on this for ideas that may be obvious! Stay tuned for more flubby boys soon-ish! Contains: male weight gain, ssbhm, male lactation, human to boy-cow, cute fat gay stuff

James slumped down in the seat. It felt so wrong to be waiting here, he thought, thinking about what his boss would say if he saw him sitting here… he tapped his foot on the floor, hoping that would make him feel busy, but it just earned him a dirty look from the receptionist, so he opted to just slump deeper into his chair.

“James Rode?”

He sat up, smoothing out his button-up shirt. “Yes?”

“The doctor is available to see you now. Please enter the door to the left.”

James entered the office, expecting to see a sterile hospital room with gurneys and little jars of tongue depressors… Instead, he found himself in a carpeted room, the walls all wood paneling and decorated with diplomas and woodsy paraphernalia like bundles of herbs and wooden carvings.

Perhaps he knew less about this therapy stuff than he thought.

“Hello, Mr. Rode. I’m pleased to see you’ve made it; have a seat, if you’d like.”

James hesitated by the door. ‘I would *like* to go home…’ he mumbled, but stepped his way to the wide couch situated in front of the desk. He gently lowered himself into it, feeling more than a little small with his slender frame surrounded by so much empty seat.

“A little introduction, if I may.” the therapist smiled, tapping the plaque on his desk. “Dr. Maxwell Sweet. I used to own Sweet Farm Dairy, if you can believe it.”

“Never heard of it.” James spoke.

“Ah, well, can’t impress every time.” he chuckled, continuing on about his schooling, but James was already zoning out, sizing him up in his head. Dr. Sweet was slim, pale, well-dressed… probably didn’t spend too much time outside anymore, if the dairy story was to be believed. He wore glasses, making him seem bookish, and the clean-shaven face and well-kempt part in his smoothly combed brown hair made him seem concerned with appearances… not much to go on yet, but James felt like he’d make a respectable adversary in the boardroom regardless.

“…but I felt genetics wasn’t as fulfilling by itself. Are you okay, Mr. Rode?”

“Hmm?” James snapped out of his focused expression, taking a moment to rub his sharp blue eyes. “Sorry, a little tired. Late meeting yesterday…”

“Do you have a lot of late meetings, Mr. Rode?”

“James,” he corrected, “But yeah, I suppose I do. It’s the only way to stay ahead out there, you know?”

“I understand.” Dr. Sweet smiled, scribbling something on a pad on his desk. “Would you say this is the main source of your stress? The pressure to succeed, that is.”

“I, uh-” James stammered. “Are we starting already? I thought you would say when we were starting.”

“Just building a picture, that’s all. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to let you know when we get into the real stuff, if you’d like.”

“Okay, well… thanks.” James wilted a little. He wasn’t used to this, showing his cards so openly…

“Stress is the main reason you’re here, correct?”

“Yes… I mean, well, I’m here because of my boyfriend… I didn’t notice anything, but my boyfriend Kriss says I’ve been acting stressed.”

“Stressed in what way?”

“Distant… angry, sad, stuff like that. He says I haven’t been eating either, but I mean, when do I have the time? There’s just a lot to do, and nobody gets that. Nobody understands how hard it is to keep doing the same damn thing day after day, never getting a moment to just stop and relax. It’s not my fault I have to stay a few hours over every day, it’s not my fault I miss the train, it’s not my fault I have to stay with this job or else-”

James stopped, noticing the psychologist watching him intently, a furrowed-brow intensity in his expression.

“Sorry.” James sighed, folding his arms over his ribs, his gaze drifting back to the dried lavender on the wall. “Yeah. Just stressed.”

“I see,” Dr. Sweet said, underlining something on the pad with a quick scratch. “Well, I’m very glad you came to see us, James. I think this treatment will be very helpful in getting you into a better state of mind.”

“Yeah… that’s what Kriss said, too. What is this treatment, anyway? Are you just going to ask me about my past and… give advice, or something?”

“Oh, nothing like that, no. You see, I specialize in a sort of blended treatment. It’s quite ahead of its field, really. Good for people with a lot of stress and little time on their hands.”

Dr. Sweet drew a pile of papers out of his desk, dozens of forms and documents all neatly compiled into a novella of legalese. He set it gently on the desk, in front of James, and extended a pen out for him.

“…Provided you’re willing to participate, that is.”

James took the pen and the papers, sitting back to read over the front page. It was mostly filled out with his insurance information and medical history, employment information from his company, current address… everything except his name. He flipped it over, just finding more information about liability and “understanding patient responsibilities.” Just thinking about pouring over fifty sheets of legal information outside of the office, and for free, made him flip back to the front.

“Alright… well, whatever gets me out of here faster, I guess.” he murmured, scribbling his name at the bottom of the paper.

“Excellent! If you don’t mind, I’d like to get started immediately.”

Dr. Sweet’s drawer slid open, and out he pulled a small bottle of milky white fluid and a syringe.

“W-What is that for?” James asked, shocked at the sudden development. The therapy scenes in movies certainly hadn’t mentioned needles.

“Just something to help you become a little more pliable. We need you like putty for the hypnotherapy to take hold; don’t worry, it only lasts for a few minutes, and it’ll keep you relaxed for the rest of the day. That’s not so bad, is it? I promise you won’t have to keep up with any medication from here on out.”

Despite the cold sweat forming on his brow, James rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm. Dr. Sweet drew some of the liquid from the bottle with a casual precision, stood up, and slowly approached the nervous patient.

“Hold still, and…” James felt a small pinch, followed by the dull ache of the injection. “That’s it. You’ve done wonderfully already, James.”

“Hmm… thank you, I guess.” he grumbled, letting out a heavy sigh.

“The medication should activate momentarily. While we wait, why don’t we pass the time with a bit of word association?”

The room around them was already starting to feel a bit… warmer. Familiar, even. He adjusted his collar a bit, leaning back against the couch.

“Do you know how this works, James?”

“I just say the first thing that comes to my head?” he asked, stifling a yawn with his palm.

“Correct. Alright now… your first word is “barn.””

“Tractor.”

“Good.” Sweet smiled. “Your second word is ‘pasture.’”

“Uh… grass. No, hay.” He muttered hazily. He felt like laying himself down on a soft patch of land, sunlight warming his pale flesh,,,

“Very good, James. Don’t think too hard about them. Now, your third word… ‘milk’.”

“Moo…” he spoke dreamily, still thinking about the sunlight and the field. A bubble of lucidity popped to the surface suddenly, bringing a blush to his face. “N-No, I, uh, I mean cow. Cow, that’s it.”

“Excellent.” Dr. Sweet continued, scribbling more notes on his pad. “And when you think of cows, what are some words you think of?”

“Big… u-uh, soft? I don’t really know…”

“That’s fine, James. Imagine a cow standing in a field… what do you think it’s thinking about?”

A warm, electric tingle trickled down from the top of his head, flowing into his spine and down his back. He tried to focus on the words… what does a cow really think about?

“Uhm… eating? How nice the sun is on its back?…”

“And how do you think it feels when it’s warm and fed? Do you think that would make a cow happy, James?”

The tingle turned into an odd, pulsing sensation, coming from somewhere in his core… or maybe deeper than that. A warmth in his cells.

“Y-Yeah… doctor, this feels… weird…”

“The medication can be a little strong, especially the first time. But just focus on my words… would that make you happy, James? Softness, warmth, food… nothing to think about but being tended to? I like to think so.”

“Hmf… y-yeah, that’d be nice…”

Soft… warm… hungry…

“Good,” Sweet began, suddenly dropping his pen. James jolted upright, forced free from his mental drift as quickly as the pen hit the desk. “That’ll conclude our session. Remember what we’ve talked about today; it’s always good to stay in touch with that simple, wholesome part of yourself. Try and slow down a little, and indulge it; I think you’ll be feeling a lot better if you do. See you again in a week?”

“Y-Yeah… yes, that’d be fine.”

“I look forward to it. Be well, James.”

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

The sun was just beginning to set by the time James arrived home. Warm wafts of sweet and savory air swept around him as he shuffled through the threshold, inviting him straight through the living room and into the kitchen. There, a tall, clean-shaven man with swept back blonde hair stood, whistling to himself. The creak of the floor alerted him to James’s entrance, the apron-clad gentlemen turning to greet him.

“Oh, hey! I thought for sure you’d be running a little late, I’m not totally done with dinner yet. How did your appointment go?”

“Mm, that smells wonderful…” James murmured, slumping into one of the dining chairs. “God, I’m starving….”

“Here,” Kriss, his boyfriend of two years, spoke, setting a dish of buttered buns in front of him. “But don’t fill up before you get to the ham. I worked really hard on it as a nice reward for you finally going to that clinic. Speaking of…”

Kriss sat down in front of him as he stuffed a bun into his mouth, propping his face up on his hand. “You didn’t say how it went.”

“The appointment? Right, sorry… it was okay. Good, actually. It was good. It was kind of weird, and I didn’t think I’d need a shot for psychotherapy, but… it was nice. I feel all calm and… gooey? I can’t really explain it… really hungry, too. Mostly hungry, actually.”

James reached for another bun, nibbling on it gently.

“Well, I guess it’s working already. I haven’t seen you eat like that in… well, ever. It’s nice, honestly.”

The oven alarm beeped as James polished off a third bun, absentmindedly chewing while Kriss got up to retrieve the ham.

Soft… warm… hungry… the words bounced around his brainstem, burying themselves somewhere in the middle of sub and thoughtful consciousness. He remembered saying them, but the meaning was mostly detached… regardless, they just sounded so right.

His ruminations were interrupted by a loaded plate being placed in front of him, also interrupting his roll supply. He breathed in the delicious scents of brown sugar in the ham, cinnamon in sweet potatoes. It was like nothing he’d ever smelled before; it was comfort, it was calm. It was… “Mmf, Kriss, this is incredible. Is this a new recipe? I could eat this forever!” he lit up, happily nibbling on the ham slice with gusto.

“Oh, uh… we had it last week, actually. Whatever they gave you sure made you hungry, huh?” he chuckled, looking a little confused, but relieved at the new development. After all, it was healthier than watching him starve himself on coffee and the occasional stick of gum. In only a few moments, James had the entire plate polished off, and returned to munching on bread rolls. “Want some more? I made extra in case you wanted to take some to work, but-” “There’s more?”

Kriss hadn’t seen him this happy since he’d said yes to their first date.

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

“A-Ah, Kriss-!”

“Shh, we’re almost there.” Kriss cooed, shouldering the bedroom door open, his boyfriend carried bridal-style in his arms. Normally, this would be like carrying a bag of flour, but after his uncharacteristic gorging, James felt more like a sack of potatoes. Or, perhaps, one large sack filled with one very large, round, painfully full potato in the center.

“I’ve never eaten so much in my life…” James whispered as he laid out on the bed. He immediately curled onto his side, holding his stomach in his hands. “I can tell… are you sure you’re okay, babe? You can tell me anything, you know.” “I-I’m fine, honestly… just ate too much.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” A familiar silence crept out of the dark now, cutting into the dim room between them. Finally, James spoke, “Kriss, I just- well, I’m not good at this, I haven’t… been there, like I should have. We’ve been together for a long time now and I still haven’t really… opened up.” Kriss sat down on the bed next to him, looking at the sheets next to James. James reached out, grabbing Kriss by the hand. “I’m sorry. Really. I’ve been too into my job and I want to spend more time with moo-”

He hiccupped, covering his mouth in sudden embarrassment. “You! God, I’ve had cows on the brain lately…”

“You certainly eat like one.” Kriss smiled gently, poking his stomach. “H-Heh… so, uhm,” James said, “Will you give me another chance? To show you the real me… not the work me. Actually me?” Kriss leaned over, brushing the tousled hair out of James’s face. “Of course, sweetpea. You know I’ll give you all the time you need to get back in your own head again. And while you’re still trying…”

Kriss cupped his cheek, and leaned in to plant a little kiss on his soft lips. “Maybe I can do something to keep you motivated.”

“C-Careful, my belly’s still sensitive…!”

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

Kriss woke before James-- given his “work early, work late” schedule, this was an uncommon occurrence, but not an unwelcome one. He liked the way James looked peacefully slumbering; it reminded him that he could still stop and relax, that at least he wasn’t hard-wired to run until he dropped. That the hamster wheel didn’t spin forever. He snuggled up closer to his slumbering partner’s back, looping his arm around his side in a gentle embrace. Kriss’s fingers brushed his chest, expecting to feel cool, taut flesh on ribs… instead, his hand touched soft, plush breast.

“H-Huh?” he muttered, startled, his hand recoiling instantly. He knew James, and had never known him to be any more than twiggy at best. Panic rising, he threw off the sheets and flipped on the bedside lamp, exposing the tubby imposter. There, on the bed, was James-- or, at least, he thought it was… same messy black hair, same little blotchy brown birthmark on his shoulder, same pink underwear. This James would have been a perfect replica, if it weren’t for one big thing:

This James was fat.

Well, fat was pushing it, but he definitely had a lot more of it than when he went to bed. His back, once a bony map of shoulder blades and ribs, was now a padded mat of pale pudge, the vaguest hint of love handles forming at his sides. Butt fat pulled his briefs tight, the waistband receding back to squish the tops of his cheeks into two blubbery cupcake tops. His thighs, once slender and toned from his constant jogging around the office building, smooshed together like gently dimpled bags of thick jelly.

“Mmmn?...” he stirred, sitting up. His round face squinted against the harsh light, and he raised a chubby hand to shield himself from it. Kriss’s green eyes darted up to his rounded arm, down to his puffy chest, back up to his cutely dimpled chin, back down to the subtle dome of his belly.

“Kriss?... Oh no, did I oversleep?”

The words clogged in Kriss’s head; what could he say? James was nervous, prone to panic at the slightest change… “You’re… you-” he choked quietly, staring in disbelief. James, following his line of sight to his belly, let out a little yelp of surprise.

“W-What happened to me? I-I didn’t eat that much, did I?...” he stammered, poking the peachy flesh of his abdomen gingerly.

“Impossible…” Kriss whispered, stepping back towards his boyfriend. “Maybe it’s just… water weight? Temporary swelling? Are you allergic to anything?”

Pressing the gentle swell of his arm, it was impossible to think this could just be temporary. “I don’t think so…”

“Well, in any case, I think we should call a doctor.” Kriss said, stepping over to the dresser. “If I can find my phone…”

“Just… use mine.” It took a moment to tear his eyes away from his freshly-plush body long enough to reach for his cell, thumb tapping the home screen. The time-- 5:55 am-- appeared on the screen.

“Oh! No no no, I’m going to be late!”

“James, the doctor-”

“I’ll go after work! I need to get ready; how did I forget the early meeting? I never forget!”

James scrambled to his feet, butt bouncing in his underwear as he bounded into the bathroom, the door shutting quickly behind him. “Kriss, can you find a white shirt for me, please? And my good watch!”

“If they still fit…” Kriss mumbled with a sigh, shuffling to find his clothes. So much for the fast-track relaxation therapy.

‘Give it time,’ he thought, ‘Nobody changes overnight.’

But as he pulled out the obviously too-small button-up from the closet, he suddenly began to doubt these words.

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

James rushed into the office, speed-walking his way through the lobby to the elevator. He barely managed to squeeze by in time for the doors to shut, his belly bumping against the metal as he slipped in.

“Ouch…” he murmured, regarding his sensitive new softness with a little rub. It was only with this did he notice how stressed the buttons were on the shirt, or how a thin sliver of belly fat was drooping out of the bottom. He quickly pulled his pants higher to disguise it, tucking in the shirt like he wasn’t covering for a freak medical condition. Not like it helped much… the fabric was still ungodly tight against his chest, outlining his newly-blossomed moobs like half-filled water balloons in cloth, and similarly highlighted the uncharacteristically pudgy belly beneath. At least his pants had always been a little big for him… they, at least, did a little better at preserving his modesty.

He waited impatiently for the ding, and squeezed through the doors before they’d fully opened, managing to narrowly avoid two coworkers on his way to the meeting room. They said something he didn’t quite hear, but he heard the word “wide”, which was enough to make him flush gently. No time for that, he thought, walking as fast as he could muster with what felt like fifty extra pounds bouncing on his frame. Sweating lightly, he finally arrived at the meeting room, slipping in just before the last coworker. They scoffed at his speedy entrance, but upon seeing his unusually rounded face, decided that it wasn’t worth starting a fight over-- he was clearly suffering enough if he looked like *that* after just one day.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen…” James’s boss began, addressing the crowd. And so it was, James thought, letting the voices around him whisper out into the back of his mind. He’d wait until his name was called, he’d give his report, and then he’d be back to hammering out the numbers until home time. The daily routine… though, there was nothing ‘routine’ about today, as the chair was quick to remind him. Where he used to sit at the edge of the seat, he now filled it out plentifully; so much so that the chair arms touched his sides if he fidgeted an inch or so in either direction. It was an alien feeling, being so plump- he couldn’t even bring himself to say it, but the words hung there in his mind.

Round. Chubby. Soft. Thick. *Fat.*

He grabbed his thigh amidst his anxious ruminating, fingers squishing pliable blubber beneath the trouser fabric. The sensation sent warm, pleasing tingles across his flesh, rumbling deep into his core. It felt… nice?

He scanned the room, making sure nobody could read the feelings passing through his mind and body, but everyone else seemed to be knee-deep in their own happy places too; zoning out to cope was half of the job, after all. A sudden, deep gurgle bubbled in his belly, his hand shooting up to grab at his belly. Where his thigh had been plush, his belly was absolutely pillowy… the silky smooth glob of fat oozed around his fingers where he pressed, sending out another wave of delight across his body. As if to respond to his pressing, another gurgle rumbled against his palm, and he could feel his stomach rising like slow baked dough with his breaths. In, out… warm, soft. He couldn’t help but smile, sucked into the world of squishy comfort. Even as his belly rose in the *out* breath. Even as the chair began to press into his sides ever so softly. Even as the buttons stressed and strained, struggling to keep up with his widening form until-

*PING* The first button on his shirt reflected off a steel mug, snapping everybody out of their stupor with a jolt.

“What was that?” the boss asked. Everybody looked around, but thankfully James’s airy belly was covered by the desk.

“Hmm… well, in any case, that’s the long and short of it.” the boss shrugged, shuffling some papers in his hands. “James, you’re up.”

James looked up, half-lidded in a relaxed daze. “Huh?...”

“Your numbers. You *do* have your report, don’t you?”

Like an apple in a cauldron of caramel, the thought of the report slowly bobbed back to the top of his focus.

“O-Oh, right, yes sir, I uh…”

He reached for his briefcase, grasping at air beneath the desk.

“Is everything alright, James?”

Everybody in the room shuffled, slumped, retreated back to the comfort of the sounds and sights of desert islands and snowy cabins. Meanwhile, he was out in the open, and floundering.

“They’re, uh… late. Late client.” he smiled nervously. The boss looked at him, eyes narrowed in confusion, but simply shook it off.

“Just have them on my desk by tomorrow, okay? Now, who’s next?”

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

Back at his desk, (and with his pants hiked higher than ever) James let out a deep sigh, wincing as his buckle pinched sensitive belly fat.

“Just keep it together, James....” he whispered to himself. He tried to bounce his leg, but found that it just made the rest of him bounce too, and stopped. He logged into his computer with one hand, the other squeezing the stress ball on his desk, but it only reminded him of how much softer he was…

Throwing the ball in the trash can by his foot, he decided his best bet was to focus on his work. Not on the fat ass threatening to blow out the seat of his pants, not on the small overhang his belly would surely be creating if he wore his pants correctly. And not on the strange warmth rushing to his head… just financial information, market watches, and emails.

Five minutes later, and he was still staring at his home screen, unable to bring himself to start working. There was just something at the back of his mind, something creeping up on him; a deep hunger that swelled up inside of him like a consumptive balloon.

“That’s it… just hungry is all…” he assured himself, pushing away from his desk. All he needed was an early lunch, and it would be back to work as usual. Something light…

Before he knew it, he was sitting down at the cafeteria with three hefty cheeseburgers and a heaping plate of thin fries drowned in cheese.

James took a thick, mouth-filling bite of a burger, losing himself in bliss.

“Mmf, so good…” he moaned to himself, prompting a blushing intern to speedwalk to the exit. One hefty gulp down, he sucked down a glob of sugary vanilla milkshake, chasing it with a handful of fries and another bite of burger. Not only did it chip away at the hunger, but his worry too. Suddenly he felt okay; eating like this felt *right*. He absentmindedly rubbed his belly, the gentle touch enough to rip away another button and rub cheese onto his shirt. He didn’t care; why should he? The belly beneath his hand was soft, fat, and jiggly, and it was fun to pat and wobble. And the more he ate, the more he was able to wobble it. One burger down-- and another button popped-- he felt twice as comfortable. Arm fat billowed out in his shirt, small rips forming that pushed dollops of fat through. Pant fibre finally reached capacity, pulling back from his pudgy calves as his thighs claimed ever more real estate within them. Fingers and toes chubbed into cute little sausages. Wrists, ankles, and neck slowly became less defined. Cheeks chubbed, chin flubbed; his masculinity was smudged by the heaps of fat, androgyny taking the wheel.

But still he munched, a happy grin on his face as he grazed the haystack of fries. The warm feeling in his head turned hot, two points burning the warmest… but two points on his chest gained his attention the most. His chest-- rather, his breasts-- ached terribly, prompting a whine from the freshly cherubic gentleman. Pudgy fingers pawed at the last button left on his shirt, but it was simply too tight to be undone. Instead, he opted to just rub at his moobs beneath the fabric, gulping his shake heartily. Finally, the button popped, and he let out a sigh of relief as his fat breasts plapped onto his belly. The sudden motion forced milk out of the little pink nipples in small rivulets, drops running down the curve of the swollen mounds and dripping onto his belly.

“G-Guh…” he groaned, scooping the last of the food into his maw just as his belt buckle burst off. He was exhausted, but sated… for now. Already, his mind was feeling clearer, and already he was starting to regret the sudden gorging… he was huge! And was that… milk?! “Sir, if you’re going to be in here, you need to put on some clothes-”

The security guard looked taken aback as James turned and unsteadily rose, his pants open and his shirt hanging free. His ass fat rose behind him like two fat pumpkins squeezed into a pair of briefs, rising up with plentiful flesh visible.

“A-Are you okay?...”

James huffed, wobbling on his feet as he attempted to center himself. “I’m- *bruuuarp* o-oh, sorry…”

The guard just stood, watching him slowly lumber out of the cafeteria and off towards the elevator.

“They don’t pay me enough for this…”

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

The slow drive was filled with a quiet anxiety, wondering if Kriss was right: what if he had just gone to the doctor in the first place? Why didn’t he just go to a real hospital to see why he was dripping milk all over the upholstery? That was it, though. He knew why he was like this… where else could it have come from?

Doctor Sweet.

Sweat dripped from his apron of a belly as he squeezed in through the front door. The receptionist simply buzzed him through, and he waddled straight into the pastoral office.

“Aha, James! Right on schedule. Please, have a seat.”

James panted heavily, taking the time to rest on the doorway before he entered.

“What… did you do?” he huffed, continuing on towards the desk. “Look at me! This… has to be some kind of reaction… to that medicine!”

The doctor smiled, unfazed by his bloated appearance. “I’ll say. I’d be more than willing to explain it, if you’d just have a seat.”

James stopped, the exhaustion he felt quickly overtaking his urges towards aggression. “F-Fine…”

The massive boy collapsed in the seat like a falling boulder, nearly taking up the whole couch with his bulk.

“Excellent. Now then… you said there was a reaction, yes?”

James gestured to his body.

“So… chills, fever…?”

“I’m fat! I’m huge! I’m… l-leaking!” he burst out, wobbling in anger. Try as he might to seem imposing, he felt like a bowl of pudding.

“Oh. Oh dear, I see the problem… you must’ve skipped the waiver.” Dr. Sweet sighed, shaking his head. “Well, too late for take backs now, I’m afraid.”

James put his hands on his belly in worry. “W-What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’d read the waiver… you’d see that this therapy involves a permanent genetic alteration.”

“G-Genetic?...”

“Yes. We force a mutation-- I won’t get too deep into it now, there’s really no use-- to shave off the rough edges, essentially. I felt it would be important in your case to emphasize the potential for softness, and it seems your body agreed. Surround yourself with soft, and become soft.”

“That… that’s-” James struggled, trailing away quietly.

The doctor continued. “You see, I was like you at a time. Angry, frustrated, stressed, upset at life… but my time as a dairy worker gave me new insight. Being surrounded by gentle docility at all hours of the day taught me to be gentle and caring myself. But this process took years... once I started in medicine, I spent endless hours trying to find how to distill this process into a formula, to turn the experience into a chemical.”

James watched him with confusion, hands gently kneading his fat to keep himself calm.

“Well, I discovered it alright. It’s a bit unwieldy, but with a little guided thinking, it works wonders. Really brings the farm experience home, wouldn't you agree?”

James looked down at his belly, at his nipples streaming milk onto his bellybutton. “Y-You’re saying I’m turning into…”

“A cow, yes. You’re well on your way, in fact. Here, take a look.”

The doctor withdrew a handheld mirror from his desk, and held it up for James to see. He felt like he was staring into a barber mirror, only instead of finding himself with a new haircut, it was fuzzy cow ears and a set of tiny, nubby horns on his head. And somehow, it didn’t feel wrong… in fact, he felt pretty cute.

“Oh… woah…” he murmured, poking the ear gently.

“See? Nothing to worry about! And just as stated in the forms, you’ll be paid a weekly sum for participating in this new therapy. I doubt a cow would be acceptable in an office building, aha.”

James patted his cheeks, a smile forming on his face.

“And if you’ll allow me…”

The doctor set down the mirror, and withdrew a familiar milky white bottle.

“...I’d like to finish what we started.”

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

Kriss waited in the kitchen, checking his watch every few minutes, waiting for James to get off of work so he could take him to the hospital. He shouldn’t have even let him go to work… what if he was more sick than he thought? What if it wasn’t just swelling? What if-

*Thud* The front door shut, and Kriss sprang up from his chair, scrambling into the living room.

“James-”

The breath caught in his chest as he took in the full scope of his boyfriend. The 200-and-change chubster who had left that morning had blossomed into a wide, easily 600 lb. wall of blubber. He stared up at his polished, nubby horns, at his furry ears, down at his absolutely shirt-shredding tits… blood rushed into his face so fast he stumbled, nearly falling forward.

“Oh no, are you okay?” James asked, bright blue eyes full of worry. He waddled forward, belly rippling against the front of each knee as he slowly walked like he was wading through waist-high waters. His chest swayed back and forth, barely contained by a tiny stretched-out tee. Despite being more than three inches taller than him, Kriss suddenly found himself pressed face first into warm boy cleavage, peachy flesh enveloping him. James’s flabby, pillowy arms pressed around his back as he cuddled him in an embrace.

“What… happened?” he breathed, head spinning as he tried to process the changes in his boyfriend.

“O-Oh! Right… it’s part of the therapy! Dr. Sweet made me into a big cuddly cow, and I really like it!” he smiled, clasping his chubby hands together. “Though, we may need to get some new clothes… these shorts are kinda tight on my butt.”

For added emphasis, he slowly turned around, revealing the skin-tight shorts had all but retreated into his huge, bare ass, the rolls of his back flab sagging down to nearly meet the top of them.

“A-Aha... “ Kriss said, woozy once more. He clutched the wall to keep from falling over.

“Do… do you not like it?” James asked, timidly pushing his fat thighs together. His ears twitched gently, sending an arrow straight through Kriss’s heart.

“When I read the waiver, I didn’t expect it to be like, well… all of this. Babe… you’re so adorable my head is going to explode. ”

A happy smile brightened his face once more, and James let out a little laugh. “G-Gosh, don’t scare me like that!”

Headrush fleeting, Kriss managed to push off the wall and back into the arms of his lover. He pecked at his blubbery neck, giving him gentle kisses up and across his cheek.

“O-Ooh, these are nice…” Kriss murmured, squeezing his arms around his chest. “You’re like a big stress ball, I love it.”

“H-Hey, careful, they’re still a little full…”

Kriss moved in for a kiss on the lips, pulling away to give his chest another little squeeze. “Full? Like… with milk?”

James nodded. “You’ll have to milk me until the pump arrives, otherwise they’ll get too full and I’ll start to ache… that is, if you want to. I can still just go to the clinic-”

Kriss tugged at his shirt, freeing one of his blubbery boobs. His thumb traced the nipple gently, practically melting James into a puddle.

“A-Ah, god, have you done this before?...”

“No…” Kriss said, bringing the breast to his mouth. Sweet, creamy milk flowed onto his tongue, which he swallowed down. “But I can learn.”

#male weight gain #fat male #male lactation #ssbhm #boycow #moo

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schmokschmok · 3 years

Text

witches are real, and you think this is just a funny fic title

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Martin K. Blackwood x Tim Stoker

Characters: Martin K. Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Danny Stoker

Wordcount: 12,166

Freeform:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

No Fear Entities

Supernatural Elements

Witch & HOH Tim Stoker

Danny Stoker Lives

Halloween

Tim Stoker Deserves Nice Things And I’m Giving Them To Him

Summary:

Martin fakes his way into the Magnus Institute, a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard likes to call it paranormal) encounters. He expects the people working for the institute to be kind of weird but Tim Stoker takes his commitment for a spooky aesthetic to a whole new level.

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070366

The thing is: Martin knows what to do with crooked smiles and superficial, flattering words. He knows how to smile politely and stumble through a thank you when someone compliments the jumper he’s wearing, not knowing that he made it himself. He knows how to accept an absentminded nod as gratitude for the tea he’s making every day for the whole archival staff. He knows how to get through a wide array of flirty remarks that concern his appearance, dignity mostly intact. He knows how to smile through a detachedly welcoming nod of a co-worker for years that answers his greeting by name.

The thing he can’t handle, under any circumstances, however, is kindness. Never been good at it, not even as a kid.

He knows his mother had been kind when he had been a child, had brushed and braided his hair every single night and told him fairy tales and stories, she had stayed up with him after nightmares and during thunder storms, had told him she loved him even when he was angry with her. And she hadn’t expected him to love her back, is the thing, hadn’t wanted him to brush her hair or hold her hand or meet every of her stories with one of his own. Maybe that’s why he gives back now, loves her even if she doesn’t love him back, brushes and braids her hair even if she doesn’t want to look at him, tells her stories of his work and the friends he doesn’t have but fabricates just to maybe ease her mind. (And if she doesn’t want him coming back, then he will stop. Kindness, sometimes, is about the things you’re willing to give up for the ones that you love. �� On some days she calls him cruel for coming back and coming back and coming back, but she doesn’t tell him to leave, doesn’t tell him to stay away. So, he returns like a record broken, jumping on the same syllable until she stops the needle digging into him.)

His father had been kind, too, he thinks. Had to be to be loved by a woman like his mother once had been. Martin doesn’t remember anymore.

Mostly, the kindness directed his way is about bargaining favours and weighing the things he does against sweet spoken words. Which is alright, he thinks, because giving his last shirt for a sincere thank you has been his modus operandi since his father left. He wants to give and give and if that leaves him curled up on his bed on a Wednesday evening at eight o’clock then it’s just because he’s not strong enough to carry the weight of his own thoughts.

It starts like this: Martin takes up work in the institute with no real credentials to support his curriculum vitae or his claim of knowledge about anything, really, but he’s tired of working minimal wage, of cooking mediocre food late at night for his mother who wants to move out desperately to stop being all on her own in their empty flat, of working three shifts in a row in two different jobs and still struggling to meet ends. Martin’s tired of burning on a borrowed flame, shovelling hollow coals on a dying candle.

So, he’s faking CVs, so many that he loses count of them. He sends them to every job listing he finds, twisting and tweaking the details, staying up late at night on his battered laptop that takes almost five minutes to boot. He shows up to as many interviews as he can manage but he never gets called back in. Until Elias Bouchard phones him on a cloudy day and tells him that he can start working in the library, if he’s able to move to London in the next month that is. He accepts, of course he does. His mother would never forgive him declining the only job offer that would get them to pay their bills on time and pave the way to a nice nursing home where his mother doesn’t have to be alone anymore.

Martin moves to London. His mother doesn’t.

He starts working in the Magnus Library which is a capital L kind of library as he gets told on his very first day. It’s a joke, he thinks, a library science master’s joke that he doesn’t get but laughs about anyway. (It’s a Magnus Institute’s joke, but Martin doesn’t know that yet. His hands are full juggling the Dewey Decimal and his customer service smile while looking at the impatient faces of half of the faculty members trying to loan basic material books he hasn’t ever heard the titles of.)

It’s not a secret that he’s incompetent, Martin thinks, they all know it, and no one says anything to his face which is probably meant as kindness but feels like cruelty. Because Martin isn’t daft, Martin isn’t incapable of learning, Martin isn’t unwilling to put every last ounce of himself into being better. But nobody seems to think that he’s important enough to be corrected. They see his misfiled loaning records and his misplaced books, and they say it’s not a problem, don’t worry and they take care of it without offering to teach him any better. And Martin, well, Martin is too embarrassed to ask them how to handle it in the future. He will figure it out, he thinks, in time.

(He’s right, but he doesn’t know that yet. It takes almost a year for him to memorise the layout of the library with its seemingly everchanging bookshelves and corridors. It takes almost one and a half for him to get to know every Library staff member and their preferred way to drink tea. It takes almost two years for him to remember the faces of the faculty members that don’t visit the library regularly. It takes almost three years for him to know that it’s Research and Archives and Library and Artefacts but human resources and accounting and information technology. It’s around the same time that he feels like maybe he’s part of the team now; the same time that his co-workers stop looking at him like he’s a bumbling fool without any skills; the same time that he stops calling his mother every three days or so even though she hasn’t picked up in a long time.)

The very first week that he works in the library is filled with many apologies, too many to keep record, a much and much of awkward apologeticness. A few conversations are held, he gets to know Rosie „the heart of the institute” Martinez and Lydia „from HR” Yılmaz. They are good people and talking to them makes the muscles in his back relax just the tiniest bit, although the panic never stops flaring up in his stomach that, somehow, they will know that he’s a fraud.

It’s the first day of his second week and he feels slightly more prepared because he used every minute of the weekend to pull up every article ever written about the institute and its library. He tried reading published papers, too, but without the institute’s access they’re securely locked behind a paywall he can’t get through without a credit card and loads and loads of money to spare. He snacked on canned peaches while reading about filing systems, but in the end he’s none the wiser.

So, he comes in an hour early and unlocks the front entrance of the institute with his key card. It’s eerily quiet in the dark lobby and hallways leading into the back of the building. The noisiness of the street and the embankment gets swallowed by the thick walls and the closing door behind him and the only thing he can hear is the tapping of his own shoes on the marble floor. It’s a mixture of unsettling and peaceful, but he’s not sure which takes precedence in his sleep addled mind. The unfamiliarity of the cream-coloured walls and the polished, almost black floor makes every shadow move in a way Martin can’t comprehend and he turns to look at them a few times only to realise they’re potted plants or laminated notes hung up next to different door frames. He passes a few glowing exit signs and the door to the stairwell that leads up to the second floor.

When he approaches the entrance to the library, a weight gets lifted from his stomach at the prospect of a light switch he can use to chase out the darkness that slowly gets more unnerving than comforting. Spinning the key card in his hand to keep busy and hold his anxiety at bay, he rounds the last corner and stops dead in his tracks. Because sitting right in front of the door is a person only illuminated by the harsh, cold light of their phone. Right the second Martin loses hold of his key card and it meets the floor with an echoing plasticky sound, their eyes snap up and fixate on Martin.

“Oh, lovely, you’re here,” they say, standing up from their hunched-up position without even touching the floor with their hands. (Martin takes a moment to envy that movement because every time he thinks about sitting down on the floor he has to either make sure something’s in close proximity to help him lift himself up or the ground’s not too dirty, so he doesn’t have to wash his hands right the second he stands upright again.) “I was starting to get worried I’d have to wait another hour for someone to open up.”

“Uh–,” is everything Martin gets out before the stranger picks up his key card and hands it over to him. They smile at him, slightly deranged but without a doubt handsome in a way that makes Martin’s breath catch in his chest. While Martin reaches out carefully to grab the offered card, they say: “Sorry for dropping in unexpectedly and unannounced but Veronica will have my arse if I don’t hand in this follow up today.”

Silence falls over them when Martin doesn’t react in any way and just continues staring at the stranger who keeps staring at him as if Martin should know who Veronica is and how important it is for them to do their follow up. (As if Martin should know what a follow up even is.)

“Tim,” the stranger provides when Martin doesn’t show the slightest inclination to do anything other than, well, stare at them. “I’m working upstairs in Research in Veronica’s team.” They wait for an agonising moment for Martin to return the introduction – which he fails to do, still trying to process that he’s really in an actual conversation with another human being before seven a.m.

“As lovely as it is standing here with you, …” Tim continues, allowing Martin once again to submit his name. Which he fails to do, again, because his mouth feels so dry he’s afraid if he opens it now there won’t come out anything else than a pathetic cough. Tim doesn’t seem too stressed about it. „I really need to go in there,” Tim gestures over their shoulder to the library, “and cross-reference a few things and brush up a few of my foot-notes before it’s time to clock in again. Veronica is really adamant about this follow up laying on her desk at eight thirty sharp.” The manila folder in Tim’s hand gets lifted for emphasis and apparently that’s all Martin needed to get it together and finally move. Without him intending to do so, his lips form a customer service smile that’s been ingrained into his very being from years upon years of working in ice cream shops and pizza restaurants and a movie theatre that’s long gone now.

“Yeah, uh, yeah no problem!”

He steps around Tim and presses his key card against the sensor underneath the door handle. After the soft opening click of the lock, he steps aside to let Tim enter the room behind him and he searches for the light switch with his outstretched arm because he’s pretty sure that one has to be on the wall to his left.

“Thank you, really, you’re doing me a favour, mate,” Tim says and legitimately bows with the biggest grin before he’s off into the depth of the library, swallowed by a shelf Martin could swear hadn’t stood there on Friday when he left.

Finally, he lets go of the door and gets closer to the wall to search with both hands for the switch, until the little finger of his right hand bumps against the hard plastic shell of a set of light switches.

“Gonna be bright for a second,” he warns loudly, unsure if Tim’s even able to hear him or not. Then, after a few seconds, he presses the switch and the lights above his head sputter and blink to life with the solid snugness of old halogen lamps.

His eyes take a moment to adjust to the brightness, then he treads over to the counter, rounds it and closes his eyes for just a heartbeat or two. He’s got this. Tim wandering somewhere, hidden behind shelfs, is not going to change the fact that Martin’s got this. His brain, heart and stomach just need to be convinced, that’s okay, he can handle a wee bit anxiety and nervousness.

Without further ado, he pins his name tag to his monochrome button-down (because that’s what adults wear at work) and starts to open the various drawers underneath the counter to catalogue the innards.

There's probably a system, stapler and pen and pencils in one drawer, neatly arranged in a compartment next to sticky notes and paper squares in bright colours and an uncountable amount of paper clips. In the drawer underneath, he finds envelopes, more paper in various shapes and forms and sizes. Another drawer reveals the minute book in which Martin should document Tim’s presence. (Probably? He’s not entirely sure if the minute book is for every research assistant or students only.) Right next to the minute book, Martin can see the keys for every terminal in the library, and a few personal items of his co-workers which should not be in there as far as Martin’s been informed. The last two drawers contain RFID tags, barcodes and printed ID cards. The space reserved for lost and found is surprisingly empty. (Martin thinks he remembers Janette taking everything back into the small storage room in the back on Friday afternoon.)

It takes almost fifteen minutes for him to open and close every drawer (multiple times) and he's still not sure if he memorised the most important things. It's quarter past seven, however, and he couldn’t find a single position plan, which is why Martin steps around the counter and starts to make his way through the maze that is this library. Clipboard and pencil in hand, he outlines the approximate layout of the outer walls and tries to draw in the shelfs he passes, marking them with things like Local History A—V and Ghosts (general) J—Z, scribbling down letters and numbers of the signatures that seem important to him. (He's got a run down last week but the library uses the most arbitrary synthesis of Dewey Decimal and an intern system that the first library staff must have implemented before trying to shove the Dewey Decimal into the small space left.)

Martin's good at making maps, if he's allowed to say so. He can read a map, he can draw a map. (It wouldn't hold up against a professional map but his always worked fine enough.) So, he feels righteous indignation when someone steps into his space, throws a glance on his makeshift map and says: “This isn't accurate, sorry.”

Martin furrows his brow, but the customer service smile is on his lips again before he’s able to will it away.

“Why wouldn't it be?” Martin asks even though he doesn't want to know what Tim has to say. “I mean, yeah, you couldn't do an accurate projection, but it's not meant to be. It's about the order of the shelfs, the signatures.”

“As much as I hate to disappoint you,” Tim says and lets his finger hover half a centimetre above Martin's map, “but the ghost section is three shelfs down to the right next to Russian literature. I walked past it a few seconds ago.”

“Well, the only reason this map says ghost is because I walked past the ghost section,” Martin retorts (and feels very brave about it). The desire to snatch the map away from Tim's finger and hold it close to his chest so that Tim can't spare another look is strong but Martin also knows it's childish and he shouldn't indulge in such impulses.

“Well, Martin,” Tim must have seen Martin's name tag, which is nice because Tim says his name with an exasperated fondness that Martin shouldn't have earned yet and it spares Martin from the mortifying ordeal of introducing himself after his fauxpas this morning, “I don't know if nobody told you but this Library is like the rest of the institute: A big pile of magical bullshit.”

Tim grins and the skin next to their eyes crinkle with mischief as if they're sharing an inside joke with Martin, as if Martin should understand. (And like every other time someone implies or references something Martin doesn't understand or jokes about something Martin doesn't know, he gets this violent urge to scream into the knowingly smiling face in front of him. But he chokes it down, more or less successfully.) And he smiles.

“Don't beat yourself up,” Tim continues, unaware of the wee bit of hatred Martin feels in this very second, “a map won't help but soon enough you'll get the hang of it.” Tim winks. “When I first started using the Library, I swear to you, every single shelf I walked up to was sporting the cryptid selection. Every single one. I stood between two shelfs and it didn't matter in which direction I turned, there it was: The cryptid section.” Tim's eyes don't leave Martin's face for a second, which is kind of unnerving but at the same time strangely reassuring. As if Tim's more than just aware who they're talking to. “This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space.”

Tim laughs again and Martin tries to join in, but it gets caught in his throat. Tim's flittering fingers and Tim's sing-songed “spooky!” only elevate the closed up feeling in Martin's chest and the knuckles on his hand that still holds onto his clipboard turn white in their effort to not drop it.

A quick glance to the watch on Martin's wrist puts a stop to Tim's easy posture and they say: “Fuck, I should really get going. Veronica's still waiting.” Then Tim hesitates and smiles at Martin again. “It was nice to make acquaintance with you, Martin. This won't be the last you'll see of me, but if you every think about going for a drink after work, hit me up. Sam or Rosie should have given you access to the institute's instant messaging system. I think you would get along well with Sasha — she's also in Research — and me.”

Tim shoots Martin a finger gun (which is incidentally the most obnoxious thing Martin has ever had to witness) and strides past Martin towards the library's exit.

And then he's gone like the first soft layer of frost in November after the first rays of sun.

It's quarter to eight and there's not much time until one of his colleagues will try to open up the library, but Martin uses the remaining time to lean against a shelf and stare at the ticking clock on the wall above the counter, trying to will his heart into a slower rhythm not dictated by anxiety or the sudden realisation that Tim had been close and Tim had been beautiful.

And like everything else in Martin's life: He fails.

This could have been the end and Martin's been sure that it would be. When the clock above the counter strikes twelve however and Martin gets ready to leave the library to go down to the in-house cafeteria, the door to the library gets shoved open and Tim stumbles in, closely followed by a no less beautiful stranger who Martin assumes could be Sasha.

“Martin!” Tim exclaims right before they're fist crashes into their chest right above their heart. “Thank the Lord, you're still here!”

The-stranger-who-could-be-Sasha-but-might-not-be rolls their eyes but smiles, before shoving Tim out of their way.

“Ignore him,” they say and turn a smile on Martin, he can't help but answer with one of his own. “He can be a bit …” They make a circle shaped gesture with their rolling wrist in clear search of the right word. So, Martin tries to jump in: “Dramatic?”

“Yes,” maybe!Sasha says at the same time Tim declares: „Oh, please, I have flair that's something entirely else.“

“You're a theatre kid,” maybe!Sasha says, ignoring the dismissive hand Tim waves into their face.

“Martin, you should ignore her,” Tim presses on before maybe!Sasha gets a chance to say anything else. “When I got back to my desk, I realised we never exchanged surnames which are crucial for the instant messenger.” Martin nods, slightly dazed and not at all sure if he understands the importance of Tim’s surname. “So, Tim Stoker.” He bows outlandishly.

“And Sasha James,” maybe-or-rather-definitely-Sasha jumps in, curtsying with the same kind of derisiveness. “Glad to be of service.” She rests her elbow on Tim’s shoulder and leans forward, just the tiniest bit, but it makes Martin feel strangely included. “You want to get lunch with us?”

The smile spreading across Martin’s face feels real, digging into his cheeks and showing dimples he kind of forgot he had. He casts a look at the clock above his head and says: “Yeah, sounds lovely.”

The thing is: Martin is a dreamer, day and night and dusk ‘til dusk ‘til dawn. He likes to think about all the possibilities he will never ever take, the wonderous things he wishes to happen but knows will always remain a fantasy.

When he was a child, he used to dream about his father coming back and apologising to his mother and explaining that it was all just a big misunderstanding, innit, he never would have left willingly, especially not without further notice. Martin would dream up every reasoning in existence, if his father would have come back Martin would have already heard his excuse. He’d just have to wait and find out which one was true.

When he was a teenager, he used to dream about mending the relationship with his mother, of sharing a smile with her instead of directing it at her disapproving or distant face. And he dreamt of a boy without a face but with calloused hands and experienced lips that would come and sweep him off his feet – literally at first, and figuratively when he hit that growth spurt in tenth class.

When he became an adult, he started dreaming about working nine to five and a two-day weekend. He dreamt about working in a café or restaurant and earning enough to sustain his mother and himself. He dreamt that one day he would open up his own place, a small restaurant or a flower shop or a shop selling something with turquoise. And he dreamt that he would meet a man, a nice and good man who would make everything just the tiniest bit more bearable; who Martin would like to be around and who would like to be around Martin. A man not merely tolerating him but seeking his presence.

Martin is a dreamer, but he’s not delusional. Or at least not anymore. The older Martin grew the simpler his dreams became. Now that his income is secure, he dreams about the domesticity of a social network and a warm body next to him when he tries to fall asleep. (And it’s the first time his dreams seem to be within his grasp. As if he can reach for them and cup them in the hollow of his hands. He just has to believe.)

It goes like this: Martin slowly grows desperate because the Magnus library doesn’t make any sense at all. One day Local Myths is on the shelf next to the counter, the next the shelf is empty, and the one after that Martin sees Vampires and Werewolves neatly arrayed on it. It doesn’t make sense, and frankly it makes Martin angry. This is a library for crying out loud, and Martin’s a librarian who can’t even fetch a monograph without getting lost. (Or is he a library assistant? Is Yvonne the only librarian? Everyone in this institute always seems to be an assistant, maybe Elias Bouchard is the only person with an actual degree in here.)

“Is something bugging you?”

A voice comes out of nowhere, causing Martin’s head to snap towards the frowning face of Tim Stoker. It’s been three weeks since their first getting acquainted, and Tim and Sasha drop by at irregular intervals to chit-chat for a bit. At this point, it’s something Martin has come to accept and look forward to but not necessarily expect to happen. Usually, they tell him about their research (it’s creepy and Martin never ever wants to enter artefacts, thank you very much) or their co-workers (including one Jon who Martin is yet to meet but who’s apparently really close with both Sasha and Tim) or the things they did on the weekend (they’re both incredibly busy all the time). But it’s not like they’re self-centered by any means, they ask about him, too. On a normal day, he hates this part of the conversation because he can’t really tell them nice stories about meeting friends and going out of town to kayak or whatever because he spends his time with his mother or home alone with knitting needles either documentaries or heteronormative romcoms queued up. And, let’s be honest, that’s not a compelling story to tell.

Today however Martin’s almost glad someone’s asking him about his mood because he does have an answer: “You were right! My map isn’t accurate. And I don’t get why!”

The startled look on Tim’s face makes Martin realise that he’s a bit loud and his tone is maybe a little aggressive. He ducks his head, heat spreading over his face, and continues in a more dignified manner: “It’s really not that bad. I’m just trying to shelve the returned books. But I can’t find the shelfmarks. It’s a little frustrating, is all.”

He tries to smile through his outburst, but he feels bad almost immediately. It’s not Tim’s responsibility or amicable duty to listen to Martin’s displeased rant, and they don’t know each other well enough for Martin to burden him with unimportant stuff like this. (The thought that Tim seems to be genuinely interested in what Martin has to say and that Tim complains all the time about uncooperative clerks and impossible to keep deadlines which likely means that he would be alright with Martin complaining a teeny-tiny bit crosses Martin’s mind but he tries not to dwell on it. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he would be mistaken.)

“You’ve been here for, what,” Tim says, his index finger tapping against his chin, a questioning look on his face, “like, a month?” Martin nods. “It’s absolutely normal to get confused. Like I told you: This Library is more a Feeling than an organised space. You can’t go about it with logic.” At this, he shrugs dismissively. “After that Cryptid incident, I literally brought my pendulum to work just to locate the sections I was looking for. And guess what, the Library didn’t care. It sent me running around the shelves nonetheless.”

Martin can’t help himself, his face scrunches up in a grimace. He should have anticipated weird antics when he first started working here, the Magnus Institute is a research and archiving facility for magical and supernatural (or as Elias Bouchard calls it paranormal) encounters. But Tim had seemed like a normal guy.

Quickly, he schools his expression into a more neutral one, before he says: “No offence, really, I hope I’m not intruding but using a pendulum seems kind of, well, esoteric?” The moment the words leave his mouth, he feels awful. Who raised Martin to be this impolite? Certainly not his mother. So he tries to backtrack: “I– I mean, I don’t want to impose or, uh, ascribe something to you or, or invalidate you.”

“It’s okay,” Tim interrupts him with a smile. He doesn’t seem mad. “I’m a witch, so everything I do is kinda esoteric. Can’t hold that against you.”

The wolfishness of Tim’s grin makes Martin think that this is an inside joke, too. Or, oh no, maybe it’s Tim’s religion and Martin’s a real jackass about it. Is witch a religious term? He has heard about wicca and druidism, but he has no idea if they call themselves witches. He doesn’t want to disrespect Tim or his belief system, but he also wants to know. Is it disrespectful to ask Tim about his religion? Martin wouldn’t do it if they didn’t know each other, but their friends (somewhat, kind of) and asking as a friend is more considerate than intrusive, right? (Or is he just rationalising and justifying his own curiosity, while masking it as attentiveness? Is Martin overthinking this?)

“So,” Martin starts and it’s an out of body experience where he sees himself driving against a wall without the chance to stop himself, “does that mean you’re wiccan?” He bites his tongue, waiting for Tim to tell him he’s an insensitive twat.

“Oh, no. I’m agnostic,” Tim replies, still wearing the same expression of content and reassurance.

For a moment, they’re both quiet. Tim leans against the counter, his elbows on the surface and his face almost in Martin’s space. It could be unpleasant, but he rather likes Tim’s complete disregard of personal space. (In part because he has seen Tim interact with Rosie who dislikes physical touch to a stark extreme in a respectful way, always keeping his distance. He knows if he ever were uncomfortable Tim would back off. And that’s reassuring in its own way.)

“Give yourself some time,” Tim says eventually. “Let the Library get to know you.”

“You talk about the library as if it were conscious.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yeah,” Tim chuckles. “Yeah, I do.” He sighs and straightens his back. “It’s not, though, so don’t worry.” The way Tim says it, though, makes Martin think that this is not the whole truth. That there is something Tim’s not telling him. But it’s not Martin’s place to inquire further, he thinks. There’s definitely a plausible explanation for all this, Tim just likes to pull his pigtails.

“Shouldn’t you be out today?” Martin asks to change the topic and feels incredibly rude at the same time. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but it’s still quarter an hour to lunch.”

“Came back earlier than expected and thought I could mob you ‘til twelve and kidnap you for a lunch date,” Tim replies so nonchalantly, warmth spreads across Martin’s face and he attempts to swallow down the laugh that wants to escape – but he fails. (He has never been mobbed, and even though Tim doesn’t think of this as a date date, Martin wants to indulge in that thought. At least for a moment.)

“I think,” he says slowly, and a little bit mischievously, “I could take my break early today.”

The thing is: Even though Martin thought Sasha and Tim would grow bored of him sooner or later, they don’t. They stop at his desk when they use the library for their research, they pick him up sometimes for lunch or ask him to meet them outside if they’re doing field work. Martin gets roped into pub nights and trivia quizzes, Sasha takes him to her pottery class and Tim invites him to a poetry slam where his brother performs. (This is remarkable because of two things: First and foremost, because Martin has never been invited to meet family members of anyone except for the parents of a few classmates when he stayed for lunch. And secondly, because Tim and Danny are as close as brothers can be, and it feels like a seal of approval – or as if Tim needed Danny to approve of Martin before he could spend more time with him. Martin’s not sure which way round it is.)

It goes like this: Despite the cool September night air, Martin is way too warm in his thick knitted jumper. He runs hot, always has been, but today is not the day he wants to be soaked in sweat just by existing. (Truth be told, he never really wants to be this warm, but there are at least times where he doesn’t mind as much. Meeting Danny Stoker for the first time is not one of those times. But he’s also pretty sure that he can’t take off his jumper because he’s been too hot for too long at this point. Tonight’s going to be fun and he just needs to power through.)

Martin tries not to shift his weight from one foot to the other too often, instead he’s focusing on the way the soles of his shoes line up with the asphalt of the pavement and ground him. He counts his breaths, his hands burrowed deep inside the pockets of his trousers. He can absolutely do this, he has known Tim for a few weeks now and he doesn’t think Tim would introduce Danny and him if he’d think they wouldn’t get along. (This may be more of wishful thinking though.)

A small part of him wishes, Sasha would come too, to ease the tension in his shoulders and uncoil the knots in his stomach. But she's with her family, celebrating the birthday of one of her cousins, and the text she sent him a few hours ago sits in their chat, mourning her absence and telling him to enjoy Danny's performance, it will likely be one of a kind.

Right when he seriously starts contemplating to go home again and fake a stomach bug, Tim rounds the corner with a man just a few years younger than him who looks like a referenceless, free-hand drawing of Tim. Which isn't a bad thing, by any means, just noticeable in how alike they look, just different enough to not be mistaken for each other.

When Tim's gaze falls upon Martin, his face splits into a wide grin and he waves enthusiastically, almost smacking Danny in his face in the process. This causes Danny to look directly at him, too, and his eyebrows shoot up while grinning almost half as wide as Tim. (If there had been any kind of doubt about them being brothers, now there weren’t.) Danny turns his head slightly and nudges Tim with his elbow. When Tim turns to look at him, Danny says something to him, moving his hands in unison, that makes Tim stop grinning for a second and start furrowing his brow. It doesn't last long, only three or four steps, then he looks at Martin again and his face softens. (Martin desperately wants to know what Danny said because people looking at Martin and whispering usually means something bad. And if Danny already wants to make fun of him, then Martin needs to go. Immediately.)

“You came!”

While Martin was still weighing his options, measuring staying, but anxiously against going, but anxiously, Tim and Danny have come into earshot. And Tim sounds pleasantly surprised as if he had been unsure if Martin would come.

They come to a halt in front of Martin and Tim pulls Martin in for a quick hug, which isn't a surprise per se but still unexpected. Subsequently, he turns towards Danny and introduces them. (He says this is my friend Martin, I told you about him. He says friend, not co-worker. Which, yes. They're friends but it's still new and nice and positively overwhelming to hear him say it out loud.)

“Hey,” Danny says, his smile unwavering. He's either a good actor or doesn't hate Martin on sight; at this point, Martin gladly takes both over open hostility. "Tim told me so much about you. I'm really pleased to make your acquaintance." He pauses to make room for Martin returning the sentiment. (Which he does, thank you very much, just because he's a useless gay around beautiful men and can't handle surprise small talk at arse o'clock, doesn't mean he can't hold a conversation.) “I gotta be honest with you, mate, I need your help tonight. This is my first slam and Tim’s a shit critic. I need some real feedback.”

A reassuring smile takes over Martin's features because, of course, Danny is nervous. Martin would be, too, he supposes. The thing Danny had said had probably nothing to do with Martin per se and everything with meeting someone for the first time at his first performance. (And maybe his only if Sasha is right.) However, before he can retort in any way, Tim jumps in: “Danny, bro, Martin is probably the last person you should ask to tell you how awful your skid is. You didn't practice it once and he’s a nice guy.”

“Well,” Danny replies, mischief in his eyes and a mocking tilt in his voice, “I'm just gonna wing it.”

“You're lucky, you're a Stoker.”

“You're just jealous because you didn't inherit that gen,” Danny shoots back before turning to Martin and stage-whispering: “Everyone always thinks that Tim is naturally gifted and everything comes to him easily. But in reality, he has to learn things and work for them. Embarrassing, right?”

Getting roped into friendly, brotherly banter. That's good! That's involvement in a good and workmanlike manner! And, actually, way out of Martin's comfort zone right now. (Is this a test? Is Danny teasing Tim in front of Martin to see if Martin jumps in and practically stabs Tim right in the back? Or does he want Martin to disagree with him and stand in solidarity with Tim? Or is Martin’s brain just overreacting like, well, always?)

“You’re embarrassing him,” Tim accuses Danny, before shoving at him and laughing. It’s obvious he doesn’t mind Danny teasing him or Martin, because it’s good natured. (Or at least Martin wants it to be. He desperately wants it to be.)

“No, I’m honest with him,” Danny retorts, before shoving Tim back which causes him to almost crash into Martin. “Someone needs to take you down a peg or two. Once in a while at least.” He grins and it’s more on the boyish side.

“I think Sasha’s doing a good job keeping Tim in check,” Martin interjects bravely. With every second in their presence, the fists in his pockets lose a speck of tension and Martin can feel his nails easing out of the heel of his hand. He feels weird being the only one neither knowing nor using sign language while talking but he’s thankful that they’re including him, talking loud enough for him to hear. (It’s a whole new side of Tim Martin has never seen before, it’s nice. Very nice, actually.)

“I love Sasha,” Danny sighs wistfully, batting his eyes. Before Tim slings his arm around Danny’s neck and pulls him in, he says: “We’ve been through this, Sasha’s way out of your league.” (And probably aro, Martin thinks, if the small pride flag pin Martin spotted on Sasha’s satchel bag is any indication.)

“Yeah,” Danny says. “True.” Then his eyes fall on the clock inside the display window of a chemist on the other side of the street. “We should head in.”

They make their way into the pub, through a small crowd consisting mostly of people in their twenties and thirties, milling and chatting in wait for the poetry slam to begin. Danny makes a beeline for a bar table, even though multiple tables with chairs and benches are empty. Martin wants to point out that he doesn’t think standing for multiple hours is something he wants to do, but right when he decides that he can at least try, Tim grabs Danny’s arm and steers him toward a round table with four chairs at the back of the room.

“You won’t make me stand through your performance,” Tim proclaims loudly, then he sits down and pats the seat of the chair next to his. Demonstratively, Danny sits down on Tim’s other side – closest to the stage – and Martin rounds the table to sit next to Tim. While Tim and Danny shrug off their coats, Martin once again regrets his choice of clothing. (Maybe a beer or two into the evening will ease his nerves enough to pull off his jumper. Now he takes a deep breath and focuses on the soft chattering of the crowd.)

Underneath their coats, matching shirts come to light. An Aegean blue with white lettering, a loopy script proclaiming bestoked with the tiny caricature of a witch with a pointy hat on a broomstick. Below that, Martin recognises small print that reads: Witches are real, and you think this is just a funny t-shirt slogan. He chuckles.

Tim makes a questioning hmm-sound and Martin points at their shirts, saying: “It’s funny.”

“Yeah,” Danny replies, exchanging looks with Tim. “Sasha made them for us.”

“Why witches?” Martin asks. Opposed to standing outside having to face both of them, sitting next to Tim puts Martin at ease. (It feels more organic sitting alongside Tim. Most of the time when they head out together, they sit on one bench with Sasha on the other side of the table. This is almost the same, Martin tries to reason, Danny is just another Sasha. A person Tim loves and wants him to like, too. No big deal.) “Isn’t Bram Stoker known for Dracula?”

“Yeah, he is,” Danny says with a shrug and Tim adds: “Our name’s Stoker and we’re witches. It’s pretty niche but most people think it’s funny.”

Martin tilts his head in confusion, he opens his mouth through an irritated smile. Before he can actually speak though, someone on the makeshift stage steps up to the microphone and welcomes the crowd to the pub’s bi-monthly poetry slam.

“First up: Gerry with their poem osedax!”

The crowd claps and their conversation is completely forgotten. They listen to Gerry describing a life under water and a life dependent on death. It’s a bit early for spooky Halloween vibes but Martin thinks it’s probably a metaphor for Gerry’s life that’s beyond Martin to understand. (He loves poetry, writes his own in his spare time, but he’s not big on interpreting poems outside of his own limited world view. He likes reading poetry, imagining the lives inspiring the words, and applying them to his own situation. Seeing someone putting their innards on display for dozens of strangers to see, is something entirely different. It feels like trespassing, somehow, trespassing into the soul of another human being. Martin decides that he hates it here.)

Gerry concludes their poem with ragged breathing and closed eyes. For a moment, the pub is silent. Then applause rings out and Tim leans toward Martin and whispers loudly: “Gerry is the one who put the bee into Danny’s bonnet that performing here would be a good idea.”

Danny shushes Tim, swatting at him without looking. Absentmindedly, he says: “It is a good idea, though.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, while watching Gerry retreat from the stage and head back to a group at the long side of the room. They congratulate Gerry, and Martin thinks (for just one measly second) how it would feel to perform one of his own poems. One about his mother or the alienation he felt his whole life. But he’s not a word magician like Gerry, he doesn’t have plausible deniability for the things he talks about. His poetry is descriptive and more of an endeavour to capture a feeling than an analogy in form of a convoluted metaphor.

Next up is someone talking about a hamster. Martin senses a theme.

Tim and Danny stare intensely at the stage, absorbing each and every word being said. And Martin’s torn between getting up and buying drinks, and waiting quietly until the poem is over. He’s unsure about the custom. If it would be impolite to talk during the performance.

In the end, however, it doesn’t matter. They end their poem and thank the audience before they leave the stage. Martin leans into Tim’s space (a bit like Tim would do with him in this situation), his shoulder lining up with Tim’s and when Tim turns around he whispers: “I’m gonna get drinks. Can I get you something?”

“We can just get a pitcher,” Tim whispers back, before checking in with Danny: “You’re not up next, right?” Danny shakes his head and Martin gets up to get them a pitcher and three glasses. (He takes the opportunity to breathe in and out a few times. He thought they would talk more. That Danny and he would have to interact more. But, apparently, Tim and Danny are really into poetry slam and don’t want to disrespect the artists. Which is, well, nice. Considerate. And, yes, he shouldn’t be surprised about that.)

Martin orders a pitcher and pays right up, then he tries to balance the three glasses and the pitcher through the crowd back to their table. He puts everything down and almost misses the staff member announcing Danny’s performance. Lost Johns’ Cave.

With a spring in his step, Danny stands up, makes his way to the stage and takes his place behind the microphone. A small smile on his lips, he clears his throat and starts speaking: “So, John was lost and so was I.”

He pauses.

“It’s a fact and everybody knows that John got lost in this cave. It’s a deep cave, a dark cave, a cave that swallowed us up like a ravenous, soft-teethed beast. It starts with a slope, grainy and wet, and there’s only one way, so it’s impossible to get lost, even though John did.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“John was lost and so was I. I don’t know where he went, and I didn’t come to look, but one moment Kadir and Aylin where there and the next they were not. I didn’t reach the chockstone, I didn’t reach the climb. Three hundred and seventy-five feet and I was lost as John in his cave.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. While he spoke, Martin’s sure he could recognise the spelling of John, but Danny doesn’t spell Kadir or Aylin or at least Martin’s not able to spot it.

“John was lost and so was I. Seconds after minutes after hours after years, no climb in sight, just the steady flow of the stream and my hitching breath. It should stop sometime, I thought, it should give way down to his cave and I will not be a John. Because John was lost and I won’t be.”

He pauses again, a heartbeat or two longer than before.

“John was lost and so was I. No measuring of my position with a pendulum, no signal for my phone, no chance to be heard through the thick walls of the cave. The rush of the stream died down albeit the map depicting the stream and the slope correspondent.”

The air of the pub is filled with suspense and eerily quiet for a crowd as large as this one.

“John was lost and so was I. Limestone encased me and silence took over.”

Danny stops speaking, one and a half minutes gone. If Martin’s right, Danny has three minutes and fifteen seconds left. Every other contestant spoke for about five minutes, so Danny has plenty of time left. But he doesn’t say a thing. Seconds tick by and Martin gets squeamish in his seat. He glances towards Tim, but Tim seems unwound and relaxed. As if it were to be expected of Danny to pull something like this.

Danny remains silent, and Martin uses the tense atmosphere and the quiet audience to take an unnoticed look at Tim and Danny. They really do look alike. They share the same thick, expressive eyebrows, same dark brown hair and eyes, the same sharp jawlines. But Tim is soft around the edges, he doesn’t look as muscular as he is, his tummy rolling underneath his Aegean blue shirt. Up close like this, Martin can see the hearing aid Tim is wearing, and the moles that scatter across the slope of his neck. Especially the two moles that rest approximately half a centimetre wide of his tragus.

So preoccupied with Tim’s, well, beauty, Martin almost misses Danny moving on stage. He extends his right fist, before he opens it, while dropping it a few centimetres. At the same time, he mouths something that could be the word drop but Martin’s not sure because he can’t read lips. Then Danny spreads the fingers of his left hand, holding it flat and vertically aligned in a hundred-twenty-degree angle to his upper body. His right hand is spread in the same way and he moves it towards his left hand. When the pads of his fingers connect to the palm of his left hand, he lets his hand bounce back. The movements of his right hand two sides of an equilateral triangle. Again, he mouths something and if Martin would have to guess he’d say it was echo.

By minute three, Danny has been silent for one and a half minutes and has been through two repeats of the two words. (In all honesty, Martin is surprised that the crowd still watches Danny. That they hang onto his lips like a drop of water at the rim of a cup.)

Then he starts speaking again: “John was lost and so was I. I entered his cave and I got off the right path, I fell into darkness and somehow I came back. I’m not one of the Johns, I’m a Joey deep down. Because John was lost but I am found.”

A smile tugs at Danny’s lips, then, after a moment, he bows outlandishly (in an unbelievably tim-ish way) and says: “Thank you.” Then he leaves the stage in a beeline towards their table, while the audience starts to clap hesitantly.

When Danny sits down at their table again, Tim and he exchange a few quiet sentences. (In most circumstances this would make Martin’s anxiety spike up again, but to his own surprise it doesn’t. It’s just nice to see Tim interacting with his brother. Martin doesn’t have to be included to feel like he’s part of this.)

Martin takes a sip from his drink and throws a glance at the stage. After Danny there are still four people left. The performances are about existential fatigue, about childhood fears and dreams, and (in one memorable instant) about an imaginary soap opera the poetry slammer claims to watch in their head.

When the poetry slam is finally over, Danny grins at Martin and asks: “So, comments or questions?”

“Impromptu interpretation is not my strong suit,” Martin tries to escape the discussion of Danny’s depression? Outing? He’s not lying, he can’t interpret something like this in a few minutes. Especially not while looking right into Danny’s face. “I’m not sure what the cave is a metaphor for.” His tone is apologetic, but Danny laughs startled and says: “It’s not a metaphor. I literally got lost in a cave.”

“Oh,” Martin blurts out. “Well, then … I’m not an expert by any means. But I think it was pretty good, very compelling.” His ears are burning and the coldness of his drink seeps into the palms of his hands, contrasting the warmness in every fibre of his body.

Danny grins and says: “I like him.”

“Yeah, I do, too,” Tim affirms. His smile, however, is more delicate than Danny’s. (And Martin doesn’t want to think about the possibility that Tim likes him, too. Likes likes him. He’s still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he didn’t only acquire a job three months ago but friends, too. It shouldn’t matter that Tim is nice to him, because Tim is nice to everyone. Martin isn’t special.)

The thing is: Tim is so very nice. Nice in a way no one has ever been nice to Martin. He’s nice unconditionally, doesn’t wink suggestively at Martin when he hands him a cup of tea exactly the way Martin likes, doesn’t expect Martin to do anything in turn when he lays his hand on Martin’s shoulder in a silent display of support or affection, doesn’t want him to say thank you and how much do I owe you whenever he brings lunch in that he cooked himself, enough to share it with Martin and Sasha and even Jon, if he would ever want to. Tim’s nice and considerate and most people don’t seem to see it. They take Tim’s jokes and pop-culture references as a demonstration of his whole personality, take in the beauty of his face and simmer it down to the essence of his existence.

Tim is beautiful and he is funny, Martin’s the last to argue with that. But Tim is more, Tim is beyond, Tim is the soft are you alright when Martin must step out for a second after a reprimand from an assistant, Tim is the curious no, I want to know what you think about it, Tim is the reassuring you’ve got this and the understanding and if you don’t, I’m still here. Tim is every post-it note on Martin’s desk that says delighted to see you here and you look nice today and take time for yourself.

Tim is so very nice without even trying that Martin can’t help himself but fall in love with him. Embarrassing, right?

It ends like this: Martin doesn’t argue with Tim about his insistence that he’s a witch, because: Who’s Martin to deny Tim anything at all. Yes, he would like to know more about Tim as a person and about the things he does on weekends and, yes, getting cryptic answers like hanging out with the coven is a bit frustrating, but Martin also must confess that he admires Tim dedication.

It’s almost Halloween and since the start of October, Tim has been wearing a pointy hat to work. Which is kind of ridiculous but endearing at the same time because Sasha assures Martin that Danny does it too and that they do it every year in October. (It’s not one of his finer moments, it’s true, but he couldn’t help himself asking Sasha is this is some kind of meme. A Stoker inside gag that everyone is in on, but Sasha just smiles at him and says: “Oh, Martin, love, no. It’s not a meme.”)

When Martin asks him about the hat, Tim tilts his head in mild confusion and replies: “I’m a witch, Martin. Witches wear pointy hats.”

And Martin who’s got enough practice now dealing with Tim’s antics, retorts: “No, I mean, yes, I know, I mean: You didn’t wear it in the summer, why?”

“Usually, I wear my hat to rituals and stuff because channelling energy is way easier with a hat. But in October my coven wears it to let the spirits and the fair folk know they shouldn’t fuck around with us,” Tim explains. And Martin looks him dead into his eyes and says: “Makes sense.”

Three days before Halloween (or Mischief Night as Tim likes to call it), Tim drops off a bottle of essential oil at Martin’s desk. Before Martin can ask about it, Tim says: “I brought you essential oils for your headache.”

“Because,” Martin starts and stops hesitantly, wondering when he mentioned his headaches in front of Tim, without coming up with an answer, “you’re a witch.”

Tim nods, adding however: “But, you know, essential oils don’t need magic to work.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, for the simple reason that he doesn’t know what else to say. This is getting ridiculous, but he doesn’t want to be the buzzkill. He wants to be Tim’s friend (or date, despite the whole witch-thing) and friends are supportive of each other! Friends don’t judge you for your oddities.

Tim changes the topic: “Do you have anything planned for Mischief Night?” Martin shakes his head. “Then I would like to formally invite you to celebrate Mischief Night with me.”

“Wouldn’t a formal invite require an invitation card?” Martin asks back, propping his chin up on his hand, a curious tilt in his voice.

“I’ll get to that,” Tim replies, while he suppresses a smile that threatens to take over his face. “So, it’s a date?”

Martin closes his eyes, short enough to be mistaken with a blink, and says: “Yeah, it’s a date.” The aching in his chest makes him wish Tim would be a little less nice and a little more without ambiguity. Even though he wants it to be a romantic date, this is just a friendly outing with a guy claiming to be a witch.

Fortunately, Mischief Night (or Halloween as everyone else seems to call it) is a Saturday, which means that Tim can pick Martin up at his flat in Stockwell. Neither Tim nor Martin own a car, but Tim borrowed Danny’s well-loved VW Beetle and it’s only about thirty-seven kilometres until they reach Bocketts Farm.

Martin’s glad the midday fog has eased up, and the sun warms the skin on his forearms, since he rolled up the sleeves of his jumper. Tim is right beside him, his pointy hat decorated with probably fake cobwebs.

“I’m a bit disappointed you didn’t pick me up on your broomstick,” Martin says when they walk through the entrance of the farm. Despite the slight fear that Tim will take offence and abandon him on this farm, he feels comfortable enough to make a joke like this. He thinks he knows Tim well enough to know that Tim would tell him if he were overstepping any boundaries.

Tim’s answer is a little more defensive than Martin anticipated: “Flying is hard, okay. Usually, I ride shotgun.”

Martin gapes, for lack of a better word, and almost walks into a fencepost if it weren’t for Tim pulling him aside. Instead of letting go of Martin’s arm, Tim threads his own through and links them in the most casual way Martin has ever seen. This is nice. (Tim is nice.)

“What do you want to do first?” Tim inquires when Martin doesn’t say anything else. “I personally am inclined to start with apple-bobbing.” He points to a small group of people around a water filled barrel. Martin makes a noncommittal sound, shrugging his shoulders at the same time, and Tim steers him softly towards the event.

“Supposedly, the barrel symbolises the cauldron of rebirth,” Tim says while they walk the remaining distance. Martin casts a look in his direction. He’s a bit preoccupied with the thought that Tim wants him to stick his head into ice cold water to fish for an apple with his teeth, so he only says: “Makes sense.” Even though he’s not sure in what way rebirth is connected to divining the first letter of your future spouse’s name.

When they come to a halt in front of the barrel, it doesn’t take long until they have their turn. Tim yields to Martin and he sighs before he steps up the barrel, takes a deep breath and dives in. The water is freezing, tiny pinpricks on Martin’s skin, and it’s really, really hard to actually get his teeth on an apple because every time he touches on, it submerges and sideslips. (It’s frustrating. Like shelving books in the Magnus library is frustrating. He knows he got it right but in reality he doesn’t.)

It takes forever or at least it feels like forever, his face in cold water and his fingers in Tim’s hand. (Wait, when did Tim grab his hand? Did he grab Tim’s hand? Oh, he must have sometime between their arrival at the barrel and his endeavour to bob for an apple.) But then he catches a small one between his teeth and gets out of the water as fast as possible. Tim lets out a loud whistle and his free hand pats Martin’s shoulder in congratulation. Whereas Martin’s free hand gets rid of the water in his face and pulls the apple out of his mouth.

“This is terrible,” he says through a chuckle because he can’t be mad with the sun shining into his face like it’s late summer and not autumn. “It’s your turn.”

Martin has to let go of Tim’s hand because a member of staff hands a knife to him and he starts peeling the apple in one unbroken strip.

Apparently, Tim’s either more practiced in apple-bobbing or he’s really a witch and helped himself along with magic, because it takes him not nearly as long as Martin to catch an apple. He waits for Martin to finish peeling his apple and relieves Martin of the knife.

“You have to throw it over your left shoulder,” Tim explains earnestly. “It’s the side of the heart. It won’t work otherwise.”

“Makes sense,” Martin says, and it kind of does. Still he waits for Tim to finish peeling his own apple. Then they hand back the knife and stand side by side, throwing the peel on the count of three over their left shoulders.

“It looks like a T,” Tim says, when he catches sight of Martin’s apple peel, tapping the tip of his index finger against his chin.

Martin laughs, he's not entirely sure why but he can't stop himself. He replies: “It looks like a C, all of them look like Cs. And if they don’t, then they look like Os.” He points at Tim’s apple peel. “Look, yours looks like a C, too.”

“It’s just a tad short,” Tim retorts. “See, it started to form a small M but only came around to curve into a small N.” He laughs, too. “The apples have spoken, Martin. We’re destined for each other.”

“Well,” Martin says and he can’t shake the soft warmth that curls underneath his solar plexus, “if the apples say that, it must be right.”

They spend a good few hours on the farm, carving pumpkins and turnips, wandering through the maze and passing by goats and sheep and pigs, before they get to a bon fire Tim wants to sit down at to warm up a bit. The afternoon had been warm, but now that the sun has set cold creeps into their clothes and Tim complains about his between-season jacket. Martin who’s still warm despite the cold breeze gently extends his hand for Tim to hold.

For a few moments they fall quiet, only listening to the cracking of the fire.

But it doesn’t take long for Tim to reach into his pockets to fish for something and bring four conkers to light. He presents them to Martin and says: “Do you want to?” And Martin nods, only in part because Tim could ask anything of him and Martin would gladly do it.

They place their conkers in the flames respectively and when Martin’s first one cracks, Tim questions: “Did you name them?”

Martin shakes his head. Only a moment passes by, then:

“Did you name them?” Martin asks, and he doesn't look at Tim. His eyes are transfixed on the two conkers resting side by side. The left is already cracked. Tim doesn't look at Martin either, but he answers nevertheless: “I named both of them Martin. Didn't want to take the risk.”

And this, precisely, is the instant, Martin realises this could indeed be a date. A date date. A rendezvous Tim has asked him on, waiting for Martin to make a clear step towards him or not.

“Is this a date?” Martin blurts out, finally looking at Tim who ducks his head and blushes. He doesn’t want to sound incredulously, but the sheer ridiculousness of the situation sends his head spinning. A laugh bubbles out of his chest before he can stop it. “Tim, is this a date?”

“Well,” Tim starts and has the audacity to sound something akin to shy, “I thought it was a date. It was implied, I thought I explicitly said it was a date.” His gaze falls onto their joined hands. “I thought you knew we were dating.” Then he pales. “Oh, this is really awkward. I’m sorry.”

Tim attempts to let go of Martin’s hand, but Martin holds onto him.

“No, no, no, it’s okay,” Martin says, the laugh still on his tongue. His chest feels lighter than ever and he can’t keep the bright smile off his face. “I wanted this to be a date, honestly. I just didn’t think it could actually be one.”

“Oh, that’s,” Tim clears his throat, finally looking back at Martin’s face, “that’s good. Nice. Toit.”

“Does this have deeper cultural meaning, too?” Martin asks after sitting between stacks of hay on top of a wagon. He’s not sure if he’s a tiny bit sarcastic or if he finally accepted Tim’s commitment for his aesthetic.

“No,” Tim replies, while he sits down cross-legged next to Martin. “I just think hayrides are neat.”

“I’ve never been on a hayride before,” Martin says, before he moves closer to Tim, so that his thigh slots underneath Tim’s knee. “It’s kind of romantic.”

“Is it?” Tim teases, leaning into Martin’s space with ease. “I didn’t notice.” Then he pauses for a second, his eyes flicking down to Martin’s lips. “As soon as the tractor starts it won’t be anymore, so if you want to use the magic of hayride romanticism to kiss me, you should do it now.”

Martin moves in closer, too, now he can feel Tim’s breath on his skin. He says: “So, hayrides are magical.” But Tim doesn’t answer him. Instead he closes the remaining distance between them and kisses Martin. (And maybe, only maybe, hayrides are magic.)

Their kiss only lasts for a few seconds before the engine of the tractor starts and the hayride begins. (They’re extremely lucky or magic is involved because they’re alone. The only other option is that hayrides are typically for children and their parents and it’s too late for them to participate. At this point, Martin doesn’t care. He’s surrounded by hay and Tim kissed him.)

Martin laughs breathlessly when they break apart because he catches sight of Tim almost losing his pointy hat due to the jolt of the wagon and says: “You’re right. Romance is dead.”

“My greatest virtue and my greatest curse is always being right,” Tim replies, readjusting the hat on his head. “I’m kind of glad tomorrow is the last day and I can take this thing off afterwards.”

For a second, Martin contemplates saying that Tim doesn’t have to wear it now. That if his aesthetic gets in the way of his everyday life, it’s alright to break out. But he doesn’t. Because this is nice, and he won’t tell Tim what to do. If Tim wants to wear a pointy hat, Tim gets to wear a pointy hat.

In search of changing the topic, Martin looks around the wagon and his gaze falls onto a small lantern at the back of the wagon. It’s supposed to be lit so that crossing folks can see the wagon; like the backlights of a bicycle or car. The lid isn’t fully shut, though, and the steady breeze of the moving wagon has extinguished the flame.

Martin pats his pockets from the outside, before he turns to Tim: “Do you have a lighter?”

Unfortunately, Tim shakes his head. More unfortunately, he says: “Doesn’t matter.” Then he leans forward, opening the lid fully and reaching into the lantern. The tip of his finger connects with the wick of the candle and by the time he pulls it back, the wick ignites and a small flame flickers to life.

Martin, once again, gapes. This is magic, Tim is a witch, Tim is a witch, o my fucking god.

“What?” Tim asks as he sits back down next to Martin.

“You’re a witch,” Martin says, and to his own surprise without the exact amount of disbelief he feels. “This is magic and you’re a witch.”

Tim smiles through his irritation and ripostes: “Martin, dear, I told you I’m a witch.”

“Yeah,” Martin responds and maybe he sounds as hysterical as he is, but this is ridiculous, “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“What did you think I meant every time I told you I was out with my coven?” Tim inquires bewildered, and everything about his demeanour suggests that he’s going to burst into laughter at any given moment.

“Honest?” Martin doesn’t wait for Tim to answer. “With all the essential oils I kinda thought it was a MLM.”

Tim furrows his eyebrows, the laughter dying on his tongue. They stare at each other and Tim says slowly: “My coven is not a group of Marxists who Love Marketing.” He stops dead in his tracks. “Men Loving Marketing?” Tim screws up his eyes. “I don’t know if you’re insinuating that I love men, that I’m a comrade or part of a pyramid scheme.” Before Martin can interject something, Tim says: “I’m working for the Magnus Institute, so where’s the lie?”

He pauses, then he says: “Witches are real, and you thought this is just a funny multilevel marketing meme.”

This breaks something lose in Martin and he honest to God starts giggling: “You’re terrible. Do you know that?”

“I’m doing my best,” Tim retorts, laughing as well.

After their laughter dies away, Martin says: “Is this why you said the institute is one pile of magical bullshit?” He thinks better of it. “Is this why you said the library isn’t conscious? Is it a witch who’s rearranging the shelves?”

It takes a moment for Tim to answer: “No, it’s a ghost.”

“A ghost is rearranging the shelves,” Martin repeats. “Okay, alright, sure. A ghost. Is there something else I should know about?”

“I don’t think so. His name is Jürgen, he died in the tunnels underneath the Institute and thinks it’s really funny to fuck with us.” Tim grabs Martin’s hand again. “You can talk to him and tell him to fuck off, though. Sometimes it works.”

Martin makes a noncommittal sound and lays his head on Tim’s shoulder even though their shoulders line up and it’s incredibly uncomfortable. This is weird and this is nice and they will have to talk about this, but their ride is almost over and Martin wants to bask for a few precious minutes in Tim’s silent company before they have to get off and head back.

Tim draws nonsensical shapes on the back of Martin’s hand with his thumb, and Martin feels content and warm and perhaps a little bewitched.

Before the ride ends, Martin asks: “Do you have any plans for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Tim says hesitantly, “we’re going to celebrate All Hallow’s Day. My coven’s going to light a fire to ward off evil spirits and ghosts. The ashes of All Hallow’s fire keep calamity at bay and we use it for augury.” He sounds apologetic. “But I could come by afterwards.”

And it’s the first time, Martin doesn’t hesitate or feels that his words are tinged with an exasperated confusion when he says: “Makes sense.” So he adds after a moment: “That would be lovely.”

#the magnus archives #martim #martin k. blackwood #tim stoker #tim stoker x martin blackwood #alternate universe #witch tim stoker #schmok writes #fanfiction #hhhh martim rights

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pigeontheoneandonly · 4 years

Text

Lemongrass

So this was nominally supposed to be about a cooking lesson (loosely prompted by a post from @dr-ladybird), but it came out much more bittersweet and melancholy.

Thanks to @pushingsian for the beta!

NB: In my version of Mass Effect, Nathaly Shepard is vegetarian, and Kaidan Alenko's mother is Thai.

Lemongrass

The haunting quiet of a Canadian night along the Sunshine Coast still kept Shepard awake, even after two months. She missed the endless creaking of the ship, the muffled voices coming through the hatches and decks, the hum of the drive core lulling her to sleep. Everyone thought space was silent. She snorted and wrapped her arms around herself as she shivered on the porch, drawing a blanket close like a shawl. This was silence, this… lonely wilderness.

Footsteps fell soft on the cabin’s wooden floor. She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Kaidan padding barefoot to the door, still rubbing his eyes. Her face broke into a smile despite herself, quiet, tired. “Hey.”

“It’s cold out here tonight.” He rubbed his arms. “Can’t sleep again?”

“You don’t need to get up,” she replied, sidestepping the question.

He glanced out over the property, towards the coastline a half-acre away. “It wasn’t this quiet when I bought it.”

This was where he’d sunk his L2 reparations, into this piece of earth, though the house came after the war. His neighbors weren’t ever sitting in his lap, exactly, but a fair number either hadn’t survived or hadn’t returned. But the lack of people wasn’t the problem. “It’s a planet. It’s never going to be—”

Shepard stopped herself just in time. But her startled guilty glance, at the near slip, said it all anyway. His shoulders sank. “Come inside.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He put his arm around her and gave her a tug. “Come inside.”

The door swung shut. The main room was cozy in a hand-made sort of way. Kaidan’s mother had sent a seemingly endless stream of crocheted blankets, which now hung off every chair back and piled across the couch. Shepard made the metal-framed furniture herself in their own backyard. Kaidan spent his free hours scouring local extranet ads for books, and a coffee maker, lamps, cushions, anything anyone was selling or trading in the mostly cashless post-war economy. Earth could barely manufacture essentials, much less everyday comforts.

Now he walked over to the small corner defining their kitchen and lit the stove. She hiked one of those blankets higher on her shoulders. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll sleep better with something warm in you.”

She joined him, putting her hand on his hip, leaning towards his ear. “I can think of something warm you could put in me.”

That got her a quick snort of a laugh, as she hoped. “That just wakes you up more.”

But his brown eyes sparkled in the dim light of the slumbering house.

She heaved a sigh, but pushed a lock of red hair behind her ear, and switched gears. “Need a hand?”

Flirtatious interest turned to surprise. “You want to help me cook.”

“Come on. I haven’t boiled a pot dry in weeks.” A touch defensive, but hell, she had been trying. It wasn’t her fault she never had reason or opportunity to learn to cook. At this point, her molecular composition verged on 100% military-issue freeze pack meals and MREs.

“That’s true.” He jerked his head at the cabinet. “Find me the coconut milk, and the stock.”

Kaidan’s kitchen staples came as something of a surprise. Beer and bacon she expected. His mother’s influence, not so much. Not that she knew a whole lot about Thai food to start with. “Where do you get this stuff?”

“My mom is friendly with every southeast Asian family in Vancouver.”

“Sure. But… citrus?”

“You’d be surprised how many people keep a tree in their condo. I’m negotiating for one, but nobody wants to give it up.”

“It’s just as well.” She pulled out a box. “I’ve killed every houseplant I’ve ever had.”

“You’re doing all right with the herb garden.” Kaidan said it with a straight face, despite them both knowing he did most of the work, especially after he caught her burying leftovers in the dirt to fertilize it. Gently, he explained about compost, but it still seemed like a load of middle-man work to her. He also explained about raccoons, which she had to admit had the weight of evidence behind it, in the holes and broken plants they left behind. But Shepard had learned to water and prune, even fuss over the plants, here and there. They seemed to enjoy the attention.

What was the other thing? Stock. Right. She opened the fridge and pulled out a plastic jug, the remains of a giant batch Kaidan made last week from all their vegetable scraps. It had been an experiment, but somehow, all of Kaidan’s kitchen experiments seemed to work out.

“Put that in the pot,” he said, pointing.

She complied, with one raised eyebrow. “Don’t you think this burner is up a little high?”

“It needs to reduce.” He gave the pot an expert swirl and set it back down. “We still have mushrooms?”

“I think so.” They’d stored up too much in the lower drawer. She sorted through the items. “What’re we making?”

“Soup.” He declined to elaborate, and began to slice the mushrooms. “We’ll also need lemongrass, cilantro, and some of those tiny peppers from outside.”

“You’ll send me out in this cold?” she griped, but she was already reaching for the scissors.

He put down the knife. “It’s summer, Nathaly. It’s almost ten degrees outside. And the garden’s right beside the back door.”

“Anything south of twenty is fucking frigid.” Pulling the blanket tighter, she headed out.

The moonlight gilded the leaves in silver as Shepard sorted through the huddled plants, trying not to drop the blanket. Cilantro reminded her of home, the first home she ever had. Her grandmother grew bales of it in window boxes. Bending to cut some, she might have been six again, and smiled to herself in spite of the cold. Or maybe because of it— the Arizona desert took on its own chill at night.

Lemongrass was more foreign. Its pungency stabbed through the air as she cut it near the dirt, gathering several stalks. A side of Kaidan she hadn’t known, like the cooking, until recently. Sure he fixed a few meals in the apartment, back when the apartment was habitable. Seeing him now, it was clear he’d grown up watching his mother, and absorbed everything she had to teach. That added new depth to her understanding of the damage BAaT did to his family. It was easy to sense, lurking there even today, in every interaction between mother and son, but harder to interpret.

When she was done, she returned to the kitchen, and found he’d added tofu, galangal (not ginger, she reminded herself, firmly), the aforementioned limes plus some kaffir lime leaves he’d obtained god-knew-how, and fish sauce to the waiting ingredients. He smiled as he heard the door shut.

“Here you are.” She dumped her handful of fresh produce beside his pile.

“These look great. Take this.” He handed her the spoon.

Shepard held it like a dead mouse. “Wait a minute—”

He took the lemongrass to the sink. “Nope. This time, you cook, and I help. Don’t worry, I’ll walk you through it.”

Everything about this read imminent disaster. Kaidan noticed her frown, and pushed her arm towards the pot. “Add the coconut milk.”

It trickled in, aided by her tentative stirring. She put the spoon down. “Kaidan, look, cooking… My biggest accomplishment is getting a microwave burrito thawed the whole way through without drying it out. I know you want to do this whole domestic thing—”

He picked it up and put it back in her hand. “I have never known you to admit defeat on anything. What’s going on? Talk to me.”

She stared into the pot, expressionless face flickering in the burner’s flame.

Kaidan tried another tact. “You’re not sleeping. You barely eat.”

“I…” She let the spoon go, and slumped over the stove, tiredly. “I didn’t expect winning to feel like this.”

His face softened. “That’s because we didn’t win. We just beat the reapers.”

She brushed some of the hair out of her eyes. He rubbed her shoulders, left a kiss on her neck. “Let’s just make soup, ok? Lemongrass is next. Smash it first.”

The damp stalks left small puddles on the board as she ran the knife through them, and then upended it and brought the butt of the handle down on each piece, thump thump. Then the same to the peppers. The motion was almost comforting; Kaidan made this soup a lot.

Kaidan slid sliced galangal into the pot. “Your turn.”

Picking up the lemongrass with the blade, Shepard watched it disappear into the white broth, only to bob back up again, filmed with coconut milk. Already leeching all its intensity and leaving the herb softer, milder, spent; having sprouted and fought through the dirt to the sun, grown tall and proud, only to give up all it made to this. Because she declared that this was its purpose and its end.

A fistful of bright leaves fluttered down over the lemongrass pieces. Shepard started. Kaidan’s brow furrowed, and he touched her arm. “You sure you’re ok?”

“Yeah,” she said, distantly. “I’m just tired.”

He watched her a few moments too long for comfort. “Even the squirrels know that.”

It caught her off guard and she laughed, as he clearly hoped she would. Just one chuckle. But it helped.

“Tofu and mushrooms next,” he prompted. Shepard gathered them up and dumped them in.

She just about remembered to stir it every so often as they juiced limes and chopped cilantro. To her endless gratitude, Kaidan took it back to finish it when it came off the burner; she never could get the amount of fish sauce just right. Somehow, he’d gotten the rice cooker going while she messed with the soup, too. She liked dumping it all into her bowl with the soup, a practice that never failed to earn her a look of mock-disappointment that was half the reason she kept doing it.

They settled on the couch. For a few minutes, they ate in the quiet dark of the cabin, lined in moonlight, wrapped in blankets. Shepard had spent all her life in motion. Now she was trying to learn how to live with stillness.

The soup-soaked rice felt good in her mouth, something she could bite down on. Something solid and warm in her stomach. She hadn’t realized exactly how cold she’d gotten, or how hungry; each spoonful brought a little more color into the room.

Kaidan sipped at his own bowl, smaller than hers, with a slight smile. “Feel better?”

She looked down into her nearly-empty bowl, and back up at him. “How did you know?”

“You skipped dinner. And lunch.” His tone just a little too light. “This isn’t easy for me either, but regularly crashing your blood sugar isn’t helping.”

There was nothing to say to that. “I don’t know what to do with myself up here.”

“Yeah.” He set his food aside and inched closer to her, settling his arm around her waist. “You’ve got a stack of requests piling up.”

“Busy work,” she scoffed.

“There’s never going to be another reaper war, and that’s a good thing.” He gave her a squeeze. “You’ll just have to subsist without the adrenaline and cortisol, high blood pressure, constant small injuries, and all those other things.”

“Tomorrow.” It was too complicated to unpack right now. She set the empty bowl aside.

“Tomorrow,” Kaidan agreed, and pulled her to her feet. “Now, let’s sleep.”

#mass effect #kaidan alenko #nathaly shepard #shenko #fshenko #post-war #fanfiction #pigeon writes

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awkwardpenguinproductions · 4 years

Text

Camaraderie

Part 4 of the Dragon of the Yuyan

Read on AO3 | Series Masterpost

Spring is in the air, as Kai likes to “sing”. The accursed snow is gone, and each day is a little warmer than the one before. Zuko barely notices.

The winter has flown by once he began training with his squad and with Master Ryoichi in earnest. He had begun measuring time not in hours or days or weeks, but in how many pushups he could do at a time, how far he could draw his bow to his anchor point, and how much longer it would be before the Master would introduce a new form. Nobody treats him like he's useless, even if he can't yet shoot with any degree of consistent accuracy. Kai and Jiyoti and Mika are always down to watch him demonstrate his firebending, and the awe and excitement on their faces makes Zuko feel like he can do anything. Even if Commander Toshiaki's dialed back his "missions" to test the Stronghold's security, Zuko's too busy training with his squad, joking around with Kai, and helping out with the komodo-rhinos and the messenger hawks to really care. He's pretty sure of his place with the Archers now, for the most part, and if Agni forbid he does manage to get kicked out, he can mostly take care of himself now. It would hurt, but it wouldn't be the end of the world.

It doesn’t register what day it is until he gets down to the mess for breakfast and sees the calendar. He freezes like a fox-antelope facing down a saber-toothed moose lion. His scar burns.

It’s been a year.

At noon today, it will be a year to the hour that Zuko begged his father for mercy on the floor of the Agni Kai arena, and got a face full of fire for his weakness.

Zuko can’t breathe.

A hand lands gently on his shoulder, and Zuko flinches with his entire body like he hasn’t done in weeks, in months. The hand shifts like it’s going to pull away, then resettles, firmer yet still gentle. Another hand taps between his shoulder blades, waits, then pats, waits, then pats with more force, until Zuko takes a tearing, ragged, gasping breath. The hand on his back rubs up and down his spine, soothing as Zuko wheezes though the buzzard-wasp drone of panic engulfing his body.

After what feels like an eternity, Zuko comes back to himself to find all the members of Chihese Squad gathered around him. Mika has him wrapped loosely in her arms, one hand on his shoulder and the other rubbing his back. Kai stands close enough to touch, dark Yuyan eyes wide and and worried. Jiyoti and Captain Hiroki are flanking the trio, the tension in their bodies screaming “don’t come anywhere near us!”.

Kai sees him looking around and smiles. Back with us, Danger Noodle? He signs.

Zuko swallows against his parched throat and nods.

You wanna talk about it, kid? Captain Hiroki asks. When Zuko shakes his head sharply, the older man nods. Alright then, let’s eat before we’re late for PT.

The last thing Zuko wants to do is eat, but being hungry makes him anxious, so he follows his squad to the tables where the mess staff lay out food. When Mika shoots him a Look, Zuko sighs and grabs a bowl of okayu, about the only thing he can stomach at times like these.

At the table, Jiyoti passes around cups of tea. The scent of jasmine nearly brings tears to Zuko’s eyes, and he can’t bring himself to do more than clutch the cup and ache with longing for his uncle’s calm, fragrant tea room in the palace.

A bao appears under his nose, and Zuko looks up to see Kai holding it out with a small, sad smile on his face. He places it beside Zuko’s untouched bowl of okayu and signs, You need to eat something, Zuko. Come on, it’s sweet bean, your favorite.

Zuko can’t say no to that face, even though his stomach is writhing like a nest of two-headed rat-vipers. He nibbles on the bao while the rest of the squad signs over his head. For once, he doesn't even try to keep up with the conversations, just keeps his eyes glued to his bao. Once that's gone, he slumps down, feeling like his whole body is wrapped in iron plating, making it nearly impossible to move. Someone scoots his okayu closer, and with what feels like a monumental effort, he starts spooning it up in tiny, slow bites.

He's halfway through the bowl when he just can't eat any more, and pushes it quietly away. Kai rubs his shoulder, and Zuko leans into the touch. His scar doesn't burn as bad anymore, but he still feels numb to the rest of his body, and Kai's touch is like a strong ray of sunshine in a frozen wasteland.

As one, the squad rises from the table, with Zuko half a step behind. They walk, Kai's arm now wrapped firmly around Zuko's shoulders as though to keep him from floating away, and Zuko doesn't really pay attention to where they're going until they're on the training fields.

The movements of the conditioning and strengthening exercises ease some of the weight on his body and bring some awareness back to his mind, so he feels almost normal by the time the Troop moves on to the archery range. The repetitive aim-pull-loose of shooting is very soothing. He's still learning how to aim consistently, so his arrows are a bit all over the place, but they're all in the target, so that's improvement, he guesses.

The time flies, and soon it's time to stop for lunch. Zuko's appetite has reemerged, and he manages an entire bowl of spicy noodles, much to his squad's relief.

Afterward, he heads over to where the firebenders do their training. He's the only one in the Stronghold who's still technically "in training" under Master Ryoichi, so his lessons are one-on-one, but there's always firebenders in the practice yard doing their own training. Today the practice yard is much less crowded than normal, and the people training there shoot him friendly smiles or nods but otherwise keep their distance, which Zuko appreciates. He's still feeling off from whatever happened this morning, and he just wants to do what he needs to do and be done with today.

Master Ryoichi raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn't comment on whatever is concerning about his appearance. They go through warm ups, review past forms, and the Master drills him on a new sequence that seems to twist his muscles up in knots. The Master's teaching style reminds him quite a lot of Uncle Iroh's––he only very rarely shouts, usually because something really dangerous is happening, but is otherwise soft-spoken and shockingly gentle for a Firebending Master. He only touches Zuko when he absolutely has to, to correct his stances and forms, and is positive and encouraging with him, something the palace masters Before had never been.

They end the training session with sparring, which Zuko loves. When he first started training with Master Ryoichi, sparring was a terrifying concept–– the palace masters never missed the opportunity to use it to force him to meet impossible expectations, and then berate him when he inevitably failed. But Master Ryoichi never expects more from Zuko than he can give, and has slowly made Zuko realize that sparring can be fun. The first (and so far only) time Zuko had managed to put the Master on the ground, the older man had grinned and congratulated him on his clever technique. The last time he'd won against one of the palace masters, the man had berated him for half an hour on how the win had been a fluke and how Zuko was a disgrace to firebenders everywhere.

This spar starts out simple, with the Master sending Zuko fireballs to practice his blocks and redirects, and Zuko returning fire with the intention of breaking the Master's rooted stance. Every so often the Master will call out tips and corrections and encouragement, and Zuko will do his best to comply, feeling a grin stretch across his face. They start coming in closer, using the fire-daggers technique that the Master had taught him a few weeks ago, a more advanced move that the palace masters would never have considered teaching Zuko Before.

Zuko gets distracted wondering if he could possibly firebend with his dao, and suddenly finds himself flat on his back on the ground, Master Ryoichi's flame-wreathed fist inches from his face. The Master's face morphs in a split second into Father's, sneering and cold, and Zuko's scar bursts back to life as his eyes squeeze shut.

He can't help himself.

Zuko screams.

He hears voices, feels hands on his shoulders, head, back, but Zuko is lost in fire and pain and terror so complete that he's blind and deaf to everything but his pulse roaring in his ears. He can't breathe, and his heart feels like it's going to punch its way right out of his chest, and all he can think is not again not again not again Father please not again NOT AGAIN!

A hand touches his face, and Zuko cries out and blindly swipes fire through the air. Someone shouts, and he whimpers and curls his body up tight, waiting for a beating, for a burn, for something that he knows is going to happen and is going to hurt. He's crying, sobbing in terror, and his whole body is shaking like a sapling in a wind storm, and his scar hurts like the day he got it, a year ago today.

He doesn't know how long he's like this before the waves of terror ebb away, leaving him limp and exhausted on the ground. He has a headache the size of Ba Sing Se, his scar still hurts like when it was fresh, and his shoulders and neck are sore from tension.

"Back with us, Cadet?" Dr. Atsuko's voice sounded like it was coming from far away, and Zuko opened his eyes to find her kneeling primly just out of arm's reach on the ground, right in his line of sight. Kai and Captain Hiroki are sat on either side of her, with Mika and Jiyoti just behind them. Kai is dead white under his Yuyan tan, and Jiyoti's eyes are wide and watery, while Mika and Captain Hiroki just look grim and worried.

"Master Ryoichi sent for me about an hour ago, after he couldn't get you to respond to him," she continues, dark bronze eyes assessing him keenly. "Can I check you over?"

Zuko gulps. He's not sure how he feels about being touched right now, but he's also a little weirded out that he apparently lost an hour. No wonder he's so sore.

"I'll be gentle," Dr. Atsuko assures him, and actually smiles. It looks a little strange coming from the stoic CMO, but it's small and a little lopsided and softens her face incredibly, and Zuko is immediately reminded of his mother and his heart aches.

He nods, just barely, and Dr. Atsuko's cool hands touch various spots on his body with exquisite gentleness. Zuko's skin still crawls though, and he shuts his eyes and tries not to flinch.

Snapping fingers make him open them again, and he looks at Kai, who's still pale but has a smaller, comforting version of his usual broad grin on his face.

Good to see you, Danger Noodle, he signs slowly, making sure that Zuko can see each movement of his hands. You had us worried there for a bit.

Zuko's heart sinks. He really screwed up this time, making his squad worry. Doggedly ignoring the stiffness in his arms, he balls a fist and rubs it weakly in a circle on his chest.

"You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about, kid," Dr. Atsuko declares sharply. "You had a really bad panic attack, and you don't need any additional stress right now. Captain Hiroki is going to take you back to the dorm and you are going straight to bed. This idiot––" she reaches back and smacks Kai on the back of the head, causing the older teen to pout "––is going to keep his hands still if he can't keep his foot out of his mouth."

Captain Hiroki leans forward. Can I help you up, Cadet?

Zuko doesn't really understand why people keep asking if they can touch him, but he appreciates the warning, so he nods slowly and takes the hand that the Captain extends to him. The older man easily pulls him to his feet, but Zuko's knees feel like water and don't want to hold his weight. He lets out an undignified squeak as he starts to fall, but Kai is there immediately, looping one of Zuko's arms around his neck and wrapping one of his own around Zuko's waist. When Zuko blinks at him in surprise, Kai just gives him a small, apologetic smile. Mika slips into place on Zuko's other side, and the pair of them basically carry Zuko back to the dorm, following Captain Hiroki who seems to be clearing their path with the force of his presence alone.

They make it back to the Yuyan dorm and tuck Zuko into his bunk. Jiyoti spreads Zuko's koala-sheep wool cloak over him, then his regular blanket, because the entire squad knows how much Zuko hates being cold.

Hey, Zuko, can I sit with you? Asks Mika. Zuko nods, a little confused. His squad has guard duty soon, shouldn't they be getting ready?

Mika settles herself beside Zuko and drops a hand onto his head. Zuko's hair is nearly long enough for a real topknot, and Mika strokes it like he's a pygmy puma kitten. Zuko freezes in shock before melting into the touch. He hasn't had someone do this since before Mom left.

Jiyoti asks if she can sit on his other side, and he nods vaguely, too busy enjoying Mika's petting to pay any real attention. Kai doesn't even ask before he clambers onto the foot of the bunk, sitting in lotus position and grinning widely at all of them.

Damn, Danger Noodle, getting all the ladies! He signs. Jiyoti and Mika glare at him, and Captain Hiroki smacks him on the back of the head.

I'm going to report to Commander Toshiaki that we're going to need to be taken off duty rotation for at least today, the Captain announces. Anybody need anything from the mess?

Zuko needs fire-flakes, Kai declares. Zuko considers kicking him, but in the end decides against it, because really, he's not wrong on a normal day, but right now he can't even think about eating. Jiyoti's glare intensifies though, and she kicks him instead.

Stop being obnoxious, Kai! She demands.

Here's a wild notion, Mika signs, turning a deadpan look on Kai. Zuko immediately misses her hand in his hair, but Jiyoti takes over almost seamlessly, scritching gently along his hairline behind his unscarred ear in a way that makes him melt and want to purr like a pygmy puma. How about we ask Zuko what he needs?

What an excellent suggestion, Sergeant, Captain Hiroki replies. Cadet Zuko? Do you need anything to eat or drink?

It takes everything Zuko has, but he limply manages to sign, Water?

Right away, Cadet, the Captain replies, a small smile crossing his face. I'll be right back.

Zuko sinks back into his bunk, Jiyoti and Mika snug against him on each side. He's so tired, but his head is clearer than it's been all day, like that panic attack had swept away all of the tension and fear he'd been carrying since he saw the calendar in the mess hall. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth of his squad around him sink into his bones.

After a while, someone gently pokes his arm, and he opens his eyes to find Commander Toshiaki sitting beside his bunk, sharing a pot of tea with Mika and Captain Hiroki while Kai and Jiyoti bicker. The Commander's eyes meet his own, and the older man puts his cup down.

Just wanted to check in on you after hearing Captain Hiroki's and Dr. Atsuko's reports, he signs, slow and calm. How are you feeling, Cadet?

Zuko takes inventory, finds himself still tired but not as blah as before, and shrugs. Mika pours him some water from a nearby pitcher, which feels incredible on his parched throat.

Hey Danger Noodle, up for some fire-flakes? Kai asks, holding out a small pouch.

"Don't you give him that shit, Private!" Dr. Atsuko's voice snaps out like a whip, and even though it makes Zuko jump, the way Kai jerks and flails and drops the bag of fire-flakes makes Zuko grin. Kai pouts first at Zuko, then at Dr. Atsuko.

Sorry Doc, Kai signs petulantly.

"You'll be even more sorry if he eats those and then throws them back up on you," Dr. Atsuko replies as she sets a tray down on the table between Zuko's bunk and Kai's. Sitting on the tray is a small copper pot and a bowl. "If he is ready, he's going to start with some broth first so we don't shock his system."

Zuko catches the scent of the broth and his stomach immediately growls like a tigerdillo. The entire squad and Commander Toshiaki all grin, and even Dr. Atsuko cracks a smile as she ladles broth into the bowl.

"That's definitely a good sign," she comments as she holds the bowl out. Zuko scrambles to sit up, and eagerly takes the bowl from her. It's just a simple chicken broth, probably the base for whatever the mess cooks are going to serve for dinner tonight, but it's warm and delicious, and he feels more normal after drinking it than he has all day.

Kai starts telling a story about his first encounter with a komodo-rhino, exaggerating his signs and making all kinds of stupid faces that has the whole squad grinning and laughing silently. Zuko finishes his broth and snuggles down between Mika and Jiyoti, watching Kai and then Captain Hiroki tell stories and feeling wonderfully warm and safe.

And then Master Ryoichi steps into the dorm, and stops a few feet away from Zuko's bunk. Zuko immediately tenses upon seeing him, and Mika and Jiyoti both notice. Mika's hand goes to the knife she always has at the small of her back, and Jiyoti wraps an arm around Zuko's shoulders.

The Master forms the Flame and bows deeply. "I only wish to convey my apologies to Cadet Zuko, and wish him a speedy recovery," he says. "I should have known better than to hold fire so close to such a terrible wound. Please forgive me, my brave pupil."

Zuko blinks, but nods hesitantly.

Master Ryoichi favors him with a small smile. "Thank you, Pupil Zuko. You honor me. I hope to see you on the training field tomorrow."

Kai jumps to his feet, eyes narrowed in fury, stance wide and shoulders back in indignation. Are you kidding me?! That's crazy! He shouldn't ever have to firebend again if he doesn't want to! Not if it makes him scream and cry for an hour like he did today!

Captain Hiroki snaps his fingers, and Kai snaps to attention, entire body rigid. Private, you are out of line! Apologize to Master Ryoichi at once!

"It's alright, Captain, he's only trying to protect his friend," Master Ryoichi soothes. "Private Kai, what happened today was unfortunate, but one cannot let fear dictate what one does or doesn't do. Cadet Zuko is a firebender. This is a truth that cannot be changed or circumvented. The sooner he faces and overcomes that which makes him afraid, the better off he will be."

It's okay, Kai, Zuko signs. He's touched by his best friend's protectiveness, but Master Ryoichi is right. He can't have a panic attack anytime a little fire gets too close to his face.

He turns to his firebending teacher and bows with the Flame. I will report for training at our regular time, Sifu Ryoichi.

Master Ryoichi grins. "I'm honored by your trust in me, Pupil Zuko. I will see you then. Rest well."

Goodnight, Master Ryoichi, the rest of the squad sign in unison, and the firebending master bows and leaves.

Hey Zuko, did I ever tell you about the time I put an eel in my older brother's bed? Kai asks.

No, tell me! Zuko demands, snuggling down again between Mika and Jiyoti.

Well, it all started because he'd threatened to braid my bowstrings into a fishing net…

Zuko grins as Kai mimics the snooty look on his older brother's face, pretending to scold the younger Kai for spending too much time with his bow. Jiyoti shudders with disgust as he describes wrestling the eel into his brother's futon, and Mika hides her smirk behind a badly constructed expression of disapproval. Captain Hiroki just sighs and keeps Zuko's water cup full.

Dinner time comes and goes, but his squad never leaves his side, until the signal for bunk-time sounds. One by one, his squad members leave to get ready for bed, but they always wait for the absent member to come back before the next person leaves, and soon they're all in their night-clothes but otherwise look like they haven't moved in hours. When the signal for lights out sounds, Jiyoti and Mika reluctantly head to their own bunks, but Kai stubbornly refuses, laying down on top of the blankets and wrapping Zuko in his strong arms. Zuko falls asleep to his best friend's snores.

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#atla #atla fanfic #awkpenproductions presents #dragon of the yuyan #part 4 camaraderie #full text post

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avmisworld · 4 years

Text

BTS when you’re pregnant:

Kim Seokjin:

Week 15 of pregnancy meant many things. Things like constantly feeling nauseous, your nose being annoyingly stuffy, and a small baby bump starting to form. It also meant cravings. So much cravings.

You shovel another spoon of peanut butter into your mouth, frowning slightly when you realize the jar is almost empty. You're pretty sure it's the second jar of PB you finished this week, and it's only Tuesday.

You're spread on the couch like a burrito, a huge fluffy blanket wrapped around you tightly, the television playing some cheesy drama, the kind you've been watching for the past weeks religiously.

Throwing away the now clean jar of the spread aside, you don't even hesitate to call your husband, Seokjin, pressing the ringing phone to your ear as you feel another wave of hunger cursing through your body like a hurricane.

"Hey, sweetheart", a small smile makes its way to your face at the sound of Jin's voice, and you feel your body relax for the first time today, curling a bit more into your gray couch.

"Hey", you mumble, blaming your pregnancy for the way your heart suddenly increased its pace, and you grip the phone even harder, trapping it between your ear and the white pillow supporting your back. "Where are you?"

"I'm on my way home. Like, two minutes away.", Jin answers, and despite being very happy to finally see your lover after a long, lonely day, you really need your peanut butter.

"Well…", you bite your lip before smiling sheepishly, despite Jin not being able to see your face. "Can you turn around? We ran out of peanut butter."

"You finished another jar?", your boyfriend asks, his voice somewhere between exasperated and disbelieving. He never quite understood your weird craving for the spread, mostly because it's such an American food.

"Yeah.", you say bashfully, and Seokjin sighs against your ear. "Baby, it's all you are eating for the last few days. You need to keep your body healthy.", he says gently, and you huff, crossing your arms over your chest defensively.

Of course, Jin was right. You had indeed been eating mostly peanut butter since your cravings started a few weeks ago, and your husband was going crazy seeing you sit on Reese's cups and peanut butter sandwiches all day long.

"But I want peanut butter", you whine into the phone, not caring the least about your childish behaviour, and Jin's silent for a second before he responds.

"How about this? I come home, make you some real food, and if you don't want it, I'll go and buy peanut butter.", Seokjin suggests, and you wonder how the hell did you fall on this perfect man, who was so patient with you, but also firm, taking care of you in the best way possible.

You hesitate for a second, not really liking the idea, but something about Jin's tone tells you he won't take no for an answer, and making him turn around after he's practically here is plain cruel, even for your pregnancy-induced mind.

"Fine.", you agree reluctantly, and you hear the other sigh in relief, a slight chuckle in his voice when he says: "Good, because I'm already in the elevator of the building".

***

When Jin steps into the apartment, you're still sprawled all over the sofa, your hands on your small baby bump and legs extended carelessly.

"Sweetie", Jin walks over to you with a soft smile, a short chuckle escaping his lips when you tilt your head up for him, silently asking for a kiss.

He looks exhausted after a day of practicing nonstop, his slightly long black hair falling over his eyes carelessly, wearing a plain gray t-shirt with long sleeves and ripped boyfriend jeans. His eyes are red from lack of sleep and his lips look swollen, and you know it's because of his habit to bite them whenever he's stressed.

Your heart clenches painfully at the sight of your husband, and you feel bad for being so selfish, even if you're carrying a living human inside of you. Jin was struggling to juggle his busy life as an idol and dealing with his pregnant wife, and you knew it.

You wrap your arms around Jin's neck when he leans down, pressing his lush lips against yours, and sigh into his mouth contentedly, momentarily forgetting about the need to vomit and your angry appetite, and just enjoying the affection you've been missing the whole day.

"How's my baby doing?", Jin mutters when he pulls back, keeping his forehead pressed to yours, and you exhale dramatically, tucking your face in the juncture between his shoulder and his neck. "Not good. I'm tired, and hungry and-"

"I meant the baby in your stomach", Jin says teasingly, letting out a high-pitched laugh when you pull away from him and send him a glare that could kill, your husband's humor existing even in times like this.

"Make me food, peasant. And it better be good.", you say flatly, raising an eyebrow at your lover, who simply shakes his head at you, muttering under his breath: "Nobody said pregnancy is like slavery".

You continue to stare at the TV blankly while your husband busies himself in the kitchen, humming to himself tunes and throwing around pots and pans loudly.

It must be around half an hour when Jin's head peeks out of the entrance to the kitchen, the apron tucked around his small waist covered with patches of flour and an assortment of colorful spices.

"It's ready!", he says with a toothy grin, wiggling his eyebrows at you. "Get ready to get your mind blown.", He adds confidently, and you get up from the couch, hearing your stomach rumble as you get closer to the source of the amazing smell filling your apartment.

Jin always makes you food, and has always cooked for you since the two of you started dating, so you were very familiar with his food, but whatever was on the white porcelain plate on your kitchen table, you haven't seen before.

"What is that?", you ask curiously, eyebrows furrowed with confusion as you inspect the omelet/pancake, unidentified red and green vegetables and pieces of seafood inside of it. There's also some sort of dark dipping sauce in a small bowl.

"That",Jin says proudly, his eyes twinkling the way they did when he was talking about something he was passionate about. "is my mother's famous Haemul Pajeon recipe. Our family's been eating this for years during cold winter nights. It's the best kind of comfort food."

You hum with interest, Jin's enthusiastic reaction lighting up some excitement inside of you, and sit down by the table, licking your lips as your boyfriend cuts you a slice of the large pancake, handing it over to you with an expecting grin.

You can't help but moan when you bite into the perfectly spiced Korean dish, closing your eyes with satisfaction as your taste buds enjoy for the first time in a while something that wasn't peanut butter.

"So?", Jin says mischievously, "Should I go buy some peanut butter to go with this?", he asks sarcastically, and you roll your eyes, too focused on the delicious food in front of you to answer him.

Later, when the two of you are cuddled up on the sofa, the fuzzy blanket wrapped around your bodies and Jin's warm hand rubbing circles onto your slowly-growing belly, you tilt your head back to meet your husband's soft brown eyes, sending him a small smile. "Thank you, baby. For the food. And I'm sorry for being a brat all of the time."

Jin laughs, pressing a warm kiss to your forehead and pulling you even closer to him. "It's okay. I love you no matter what. And our baby girl, of course."

You lay there for a few more minutes of content silence, enjoying the warmth of each other after a long day for both of you. You can't help but laugh, shaking your head when a sudden thought comes to your head, and Jin lets out a questioning noise against your nape. "What is it?"

"Nothing", you snort, trying to silence your giggles in the palm of your hand, before turning to look at your husband, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "I just realized I found my new craving."

Min Yoongi:

Waking up to yourself in week 28 was sort of like waking up to your pet elephant. You were huge now, your stomach and boobs blocking everything in front of you.

Yoongi was still asleep beside you, one hand thrown lazily across your thick waist, the other tucked behind his head. He looks peaceful, like he always does when he's asleep, his dark hair falling over his forehead messily, his small mouth closed and letting out these deep breaths, indicating he was sound asleep.

Sighing, you brush your husband's bangs away from his face, admiring his fair skin and soft facial features. How the hell was this perfect human being here with you, when you look like this? When you feel like this?

Not able to take the sudden wave of emotions, you get up from your shared bed slowly, biting your lip when your body screams at you to stay in bed and not move until you go into labor. Your boyfriend stays unmoving, as expected, and for once you're thankful for his deep slumbers. You don't want him to see you like this.

You walk out of the hallway slowly, padding out of your shared bedroom in your fuzzy white socks and one of Yoongi's old white T-shirts and shorts, which is sadly the only thing that fits you right now.

Making breakfast is the only thing you want to do right now, the best way to take your mind off of things, and you walk determinant to the kitchen, bracing your hand against the wall as you do.

Unfortunately, the long golden body mirror at the edge of the hallway catches your attention, and you can't help but stop in front of it, feeling your heart drop as you look at your reflection.

Pregnant women were supposed to have some sort of natural glow, right? They were supposed to feel like goddesses, like they were thriving. But you just felt like a wretched mess, and nothing more than that.

You were always an athletic person, and maybe also a little weight conscious. Suga gave you more self-confidence, helping you in his subtle actions and words, but right now, you felt like you were losing control over your own body, and you hated it. What if you stay like this forever?

You feel a wave of panic surge through you, tears brimming in your eyes as you stare at the girl in the mirror, with the blood-shot eyes from uncomfortable sleeping, the messy bun of dark hair and the pale skin from staying home these last few weeks.

"Babe?", you turn at the sound of your lover's voice, still hoarse from sleep, meeting his brown eyes with your own watery ones. At the sight of your trembling bottom lip and quiet sniffling, Yoongi's previously half-shut eyes widen, walking over to you quickly with a concerned expression.

"Hey, hey, what's going on?", he asks with an uncharacteristically soft voice, his warm hands coming up to cup your face, wiping the small teardrops from your cheeks. His eyebrows are furrowed cutely, his face so close to yours you can smell his breath, still minty from brushing his teeth not too long ago.

You sob, the embarrassment of being caught like this only intensifying your feelings, and avoiding your husband's eyes, who turns your face back to him, gently yet firmly, his eyes showing no intent to back down.

"I just… I feel so ugly, Yoongi. And I'm so scared. Scared I'll stay like this forever, scared you think I'm not good enough…", the last words come out in a whisper, your cheeks burning bright red as your boyfriend stares at you incredulously, mouth slightly open.

"Y/N, I know you're pregnant and have all sorts of weird moods right now, but this… this is straight up ridiculous. I love you, I'm your husband, and I'll never leave you.", Yoongi says firmly, grabbing your shoulders tightly as if trying to pass his sincerity to you, and you feel ashamed now for making the love of your life look like this, so worried and sad over something so meaningless.

"I'm sorry", you whisper, because you have nothing else to say, and Suga clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he brings one hand up to tilt your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes, now much softer than they were seconds before, holding love and affection that's meant only for you.

"Y/N, it's okay to feel ugly. You don't have to feel like you're a failure and a horrible person for not enjoying every second of your pregnancy. It's hard, and I love you so much for going through this. I love you so much for giving me our child.", he finishes, pressing a warm kiss to your hand, and you can't help but sob, the unexpected speech from your husband making you feel so much things, especially because you know how hard it is for him to say what's on his mind, even to you.

Yoongi doesn't say anything, simply wrapping his arms around your large figure carefully, pulling you closer until your face is buried in the crook of his neck, his hands stroking your hair slowly as you cry your heart out, letting out weeks of hidden fears and insecurities wash away with your tears.

Maybe you don't feel like the prettiest human right now, but it doesn't matter because you'll have the most beautiful child in the world, exactly like his father.

Jung Hoseok:

You're on the sofa in the living room, texting your mother, who you think is more concerned about your pregnancy than you are, when you feel something strange in your stomach, almost like gas bubbles, or a growling tummy.

You make a face and set your phone aside, squirming a bit on the blue-colored couch in an attempt to get comfortable. This feeling has been happening for a few weeks now, these little flutterings in your stomach, but now it's much more distinctive, and you place a hand on your curvy belly, trying to calm down the strange movements inside of it.

And that's when you feel it. The smallest of kicks against your palm, just above your belly button, like the wings of a butterfly, and you gasp, feeling tears well up in your eyes at the feeling that you now know is your baby moving in the womb.

How didn't you think about this possibility? You're already at your 25th week, just around the time when you can start feeling your baby's "quickenings".

"Oh my God. I have to tell Hoseok.", you whisper to yourself after a few seconds of complete shock, still a little bit delirious, before rolling into a seating position, your elbows supporting the weight of your unnaturally heavy body.

"Hoseok!", you shout, waiting impatiently as you hear cabinets closing hastily, and then the sound of hurried footsteps running down the hallway, before your husband's head pops out of the corner, eyes wide and worried.

"I was just making you a bowl of cereal, like you wanted. Are you okay?", your boyfriend asks gently, coming closer to you and crouching in front of the couch to be at eye level with you, his eyes scanning you for any reason of discomfort.

Hoseok's wearing an oversized dark grey sweater, light grey shorts and his favorite purple sandals, and there's cute black round glasses perched on his nose that make you feel all kinds of things, especially matched with his hot messy brown hair, but you don't let yourself dwell on his attractive appearance at the moment.

"Hobi", you whisper, not even knowing how to tell him about the fact that you've just felt your first child move for the first time.

Hoseok's eyes furrow, looking even more worried than before, and he reaches his hand out to squeeze yours gently, his skin warm against yours. "I'm here. Talk to me, baby."

You don't talk, but you do reach out to take your conjoined hands, and place them on your stomach, right where you felt the baby move a few seconds before.

It's quiet for a few seconds, your poor husband's expressions growing more confused by the second, but you know he feels it as well when his eyes suddenly widen, his jaw dropping and the hand against you jolting with surprise.

"Oh my God.", he breathes out, voice slightly shaky when he looks at you, his expression excited but also a little unsure, as if he didn't want to get his hopes up. "Was that-"

"Yeah", you bite your lip, bringing up your interlocked hands to kiss J-hope's palm. "That's our baby boy, Hobi.", you say with a tone of disbelief that matches your husband's expression perfectly.

You're not really surprised when J-hope jumps up, knowing your boyfriend's energetic personality, but you still laugh when he starts dancing in front of you, matching his cries of happiness to his impressive popping skills.

The baby seems to feel your excitement and happiness, too, because you're pretty sure he moves even more than before, kicking even harder against your stomach, almost as if he was dancing in the womb as well.

"It looks like this kid will be a musician just like his dad.", you mumble later, when you and your husband are curled up on the sofa together, your hands wrapped around Hoseok's torso tightly and your head placed on his chest, the steady beating of his heart setting you in a dreamlike state.

Hoseok laughs under you, and you feel the ripples underneath you, sending waves of warmth in your chest. He leans downwards towards you, pressing little butterfly kisses all over your face; your eyelids, your nose, cheeks and mouth.

He stops only when you're giggling like a teenage girl and pushing him away with your hands weakly, leaving one last peck on your lips before pulling away with a satisfied smile on his face, pulling you even closer to him with his hands around your waist, caressing your baby bump carefully.

"Well, he might be a dancer like his dad, but that's not the most important thing", he says nonchalantly, and you raise your head to look at him, slightly surprised that Jung Hoseok, who loves music more than all the people you know combined, is saying that. "What's even more important, is that he'll be an angel like his mom."

Kim Namjoon:

When Namjoon walks through the doorway, you're already standing in front of it expectantly, two hands on your pudgy waist while your left leg is tapping on the floor steadily, a habit you have gained whenever you're nervous or stressed.

"Um… Hi, baby.", your husband says carefully, easily reading your body language and knowing something's wrong. "What's going on?"

He's dressed like he's been at work, which makes a lot of sense considering he was busy composing and producing the songs for the upcoming BTS album the whole day. His caramel hair is slicked back, pushed away from his face with hair gel, there are golden specs placed on the bottom of his nose, and he's wearing fashionable khakis tucked into a mint button up.

He looks tired, and what he really should be doing right now, instead of staring at you with a worried expression, is go take a long nap, but the growing panic in your chest is overwhelming, and you can't help but let it control you.

"We need to get the nursery ready", you announce, watching as Namjoon freezes on his way to you, his concerned expression changing into a more confused look, eyebrows furrowed over his brown eyes and his mouth pulled into a small frown.

"The nursery is ready, though?", Namjoon replies, but it sounds more like a question than a statement, uncertainty tainting his voice as he seems to run through all the things you bought for the room since you discovered you were pregnant almost 36 weeks ago.

"It's not!", you reply, and maybe it's the unexpectedly sharp tone of your voice, or the slight shake of your hands that seems to jolt your husband awake, understanding filling his gaze as he scans your face carefully, his expression not as lost as before.

The past week or so, you've had these weird jolts of inhuman energy, followed by the need to organize and clean everything in sight, otherwise known as, the internet so generously explained to you, nesting. Namjoon had come home too many times to find you cleaning some old cabinet you never opened, folding loads of laundry for no apparent reason, and rearranging furniture in the middle of the night.

Your husband was slightly confused by the phenomenon for sure, but didn't try to stop you from cleaning as much as you like, although he did warn you to be careful not to wear yourself out, and tried to help as much as he could to take some of the pressure off of you.

"Okay, baby.", your boyfriend starts carefully, stepping towards you slowly as if he was scared you'll run away. "Why don't you tell me what needs to be done so we can figure it out, hmm?", he asks gently, finally reaching you, and his strong arms come to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him until your large belly meets his hard torso.

You let yourself relax slightly, your own hands dropping to your sides uselessly, the tension in your shoulders slowly decreasing, and exhale loudly. "We need to paint the room, and fold the clothes in the closet, and maybe buy more toys-"

"Okay, okay.", Namjoon's palm comes up to cup your face sweetly, stopping your frantic rant, and he sends you a dimpled smile that you can't help but smile back to, because you were always a sucker for the deep holes in Namjoon's cheeks, pregnant or not. "We'll do everything, I promise. Everything will be perfect when our baby comes along."

You nod, letting Namjoon press a soothing kiss to your temple, before he pulls back, leading you to your shared bedroom with a hand around your waist, taking off his shirt when you enter the room as well, clueless.

"What are you doing?", you ask, not hiding your confusion when Namjoon throws on himself one of his old, worn out t-shirts he never wears anymore, before tossing a similar one to you.

"Well, if we're going to paint the nursery today, we should probably wear something comfortable.", your lover says with a wide grin, and you can't help but grin back, changing into the huge shirt and taking off your pyjama shorts, before following Namjoon to the nursery, your heart feeling lighter than it was the whole day.

Park Jimin:

You whimper when you vomit again, lurching over the toilet as you empty your stomach, which you're legitimately surprised has anything left inside of it at this rate.

You can hear Jimin say something above you, but it sounds far away, like your head is underwater. You can feel his hand in your hair, pushing the sticky strands away from your face, the other one rubbing your back soothingly as he continues to mumble sweet assurances in your ear, even if you can't quite understand them.

Morning sickness was apparently just a name, because you were getting sick at the most random hours of the day, and it was definitely not limited to the early hours of it.

Just a few minutes ago, in fact, you were perfectly fine, helping Jimin cut some vegetables for a healthy salad before you suddenly felt a strong wave of nausea course through you, sprinting to the bathroom without another word to your husband, who followed you immediately, calling you name worriedly.

And now you were here, bent over the toilet for the last five minutes, letting out whatever food you ate today or maybe your whole life, with Jimin supporting you from behind, holding you through it.

Your knuckles are white from grasping the edge of the toilet in a death grip, when you finally let out a shaky breath that's been caught in your throat since you got here, letting your head fall between your shoulders as you try to catch your breath.

"Baby", Jimin's voice is soft and steady, but you can hear the worry and sadness tinging it. He hated seeing you like this, and you know he's blaming himself for not being able to do anything to make it better, even if none of this is his fault. "Do you think you can get up?"

You manage to nod, but don't make any move to straighten up, instead letting your husband's strong hands wrap around your shoulders, picking you up and spinning you around gently to face him, every movement calculated and careful, making sure not to trigger your vomiting all over again.

Your boyfriend's brown eyes are filled with pity when he sees your state, your eyes teary and red, face pale and body weak and motionless against him. "Oh, sweetie", he mumbles, brushing away the teardrops staining your cheeks, his skin warm against yours.

He looks so beautiful right now, with his blonde hair, which you insisted on combing today just because you find it so soft and fun to play with, and Jimin could never really resist you. He's wearing a simple black sweater, gray sweatpants, and fuzzy white socks, and his soft skin is shining under the harsh light of the bathroom, giving him an angel-like halo.

You would kiss him, but you feel like the taste of your mouth is probably deadly right now, and you don't even have the energy to cross the two inches left between your lips.

Jimin seems to understand you perfectly, because he wraps a hand around your thin waist, pulling you close until your face is tucked comfortably into the crook of his neck, leaving a soft, fleeting kiss on your dark hair. "Do you want to take some medicine, babe?", he asks, murmuring the words against your head, and you nod against him, too tired to answer.

You shriek when you suddenly find yourself in the air, Jimin lifting you bridal style as it it's not big deal, still making sure not to jostle you too much, and wrap your hands around the blonde's neck to steady yourself, glaring at him when he giggles cutely. "Yah, you should've warned me!", You scold him, but your cheeks are already heating up from the romantic gesture, and Jimin seems to realize, sending you a cheek grin.

"Sorry, babe.", Jimin apologizes sweetly, pressing another warm kiss to your red cheek as he continues trekking down the hall with you in his arms, not stopping until he reaches the kitchen, where the vegetables are still waiting to be eaten.

Placing you on the gray counter, Jimin shuffles through the different cabinets in the room, throwing out different ointments and medical supplies until he fishes out what he was looking for with a small victory cry, a container of pills your doctor recommended you to take whenever you suffer from morning sickness.

"Here, take this", Jimin passes you the box, before walking over to the kettle and switching it on, the machine immediately starting to let out soft whistling noises. "I'll make you some camomile tea, okay?"

You mumble a gentle 'thank you', your whole body filling with warmth when Jimin passes you a glass of water to down the pill with, watching you when you swallow it with cautious eyes.

You can't help but feel like you're the luckiest girl in the world, to be married to this amazing man, to carry your shared baby with this angelic human, and it feels like your heart is expanding when you watch Jimin blow on your tea, making sure it's not too hot, before handing it to you, standing between your legs and rubbing the inside of your thighs soothingly.

So you set the hot beverage aside, instead wrapping your arms around Jimin's neck, and pull your lover as close as possible, pressing your lips to his soft ones, smiling when you he lets out a surprised noise, but still wraps his own arms around your lower back, the action already natural to him by now.

You kiss for a while, these lazy, loving kisses that you enjoy even more than the hot, heated ones, and you can't help but whine when Jimin pulls away, biting your bottom lip gently as he does.

He presses his forehead to yours, his eyes opening to meet your own, and there's this soft, dreamy smile on his face that makes you want to kiss him again, to tug him even closer to you. "That was nice baby, but you should drink your tea. Don't want you getting sick again."

You sigh, pouting with annoyance, but grab the mug of tea reluctantly, deciding not to make Jimin's life harder than it already is. "Fine, but only if I get cuddles."

Jimin laughs at that, pressing another peck to your pouty lips with a fond mumble of 'cutie', before pulling away and helping you off the counter, the grip on your waist steady and firm. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Kim Taehyung:

"I'm nervous", you whisper to Taehyung, squeezing his hand a bit tighter as you continue to walk down the hallway, getting closer and closer to the doctor's room at the end of it.

"Everything's going to be okay, don't worry.", your husband responds, sending you a soft smile, but you don't miss his slightly sweaty palms, and the nervous fluttering of his eyes. He was just as jittery as you.

Breathing through your nose, you stop in front of the tall door, gulping at the sight of the small sign mentioning the purpose of the room: "Doctor Choi Jisoo- Ultrasound and Pregnancy". It somehow made everything even more real.

Noticing your hesitation, Taehyung reaches in front of you, tapping the door with his knuckles before backing up, pulling you even closer to him before a soft feminine voice calls from inside. "Come in!"

You let out a shaky exhale, sending your lover another helpless look, and he smiles again, this time more genuinely, before pulling you to him to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "I'm right here", he whispers, forehead pressed against yours, his thumbs stroking your cheeks soothingly, before he pulls away and opens the door.

The office is neat and pretty, light streaming in through large glass windows, a large white desk in front of them covered with organized piles of files, writing tools in a tall cup, and a small plate of mints.

The woman sitting behind the desk fits the feeling of the office perfectly, a woman around her thirties, with shiny brown hair tucked into a tight bun, delicate features, and a slender figure clad in a white doctor's robe and a tight black pencil skirt reaching under her knee.

"Hello", the doctor sends you a small, yet kind-hearted smile, motioning you to sit down with a wave of her manicured hand. "You must be Kim Y/N. I'm Doctor Choi Jisoo, and I'll be doing your first ultrasound."

"Nice to meet you.", you reply, sending your own soft smile before continuing: "This is my husband, Kim Taehyung", you point at Taehyung, who bows his head towards the doctor respectfully. "Nice to meet you.", he says in his charmingly deep voice, still not letting go of your hand, placing it on his lap even after you sit down.

"Okay, let's get straight into it", the doctor says with a more formal voice, pointing at the clean, white bed in the edge of the room. "If you could lie there, please."

You get up, Taehyung following close behind you, and lie down on the hard mattress, watching as the doctor puts on gloves and takes a tube of clear-looking gel. "You're in your 12th week, right?", the doctor asks, lifting up your purple knit-sweater to reveal your tanned stomach as she gets ready to apply the gel.

"Yeah", you wince slightly when the cold gel touches your skin, and your boyfriend's by you in a second, holding your hand and rubbing his thumb along your knuckles to get you to relax.

"I'm fine", you promise when you see the worry in Taehyung's dark eyes, squeezing his hand two times to reassure him, and he squeezes back, obviously holding back from saying something to the doctor.

You hold your breath when the doctor puts the transducer on your stomach, and you feel Taehyung still beside you as well, the feeling almost like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for your baby to appear.

"There it is!", the doctor says, and you can't help but let out a gasp, bringing your hand to cover your mouth as tears well up in your eyes, because even if the picture is grainy, and the baby is so small, not bigger than a plum, you already know he or she is the prettiest child in the world.

You vaguely register Taehyung beside you, mumbling something like 'the most beautiful thing I've ever seen', but you're too caught up in your own feelings, you don't even register it, nor the assurances of the doctor, promising you the baby is in perfect health and shape.

There's a light tap on your shoulder, and then you're turning around to meet the doctor's smiling face, her eyes bright, twinkling with something that looks like pride, and she's patting your head gently, whispering: "I'll give you two some time alone".

The seconds after the doctor exits the room are filled with so much unspoken words, the only sound in the room being the steady breathing of the two of you. It's Taehyung who speaks first, his voice filled with emotion and love.

"Our baby is beautiful", he mumbles, looking down at you, and you want to run your hand down his cheeks and wipe the glistening tears that lay there, but you also want to keep this image of him in mind, so beautiful, with his slightly curly black hair, his nose red from crying, deep eyes shiny from unshed tears, and lips stretched into a boxy grin so wide it blinds you.

"Yeah", you say back, your own voice sounding so filled with love and indescribable joy, and you let Taehyung wipe the tears off your cheeks with his lips, kissing all over your face as your grasp him tightly, afraid that this is all some amazing dream that'll slip through your fingers.

Later, when the two of you are home, Taehyung admiring your not-so-noticeable baby bump with a gaze so loving it melts you inside, running his hand up and down your stomach and telling you stories of what he thinks you should name him (he was sure it was a boy), you can't help but let out a disbelieving laugh, your boyfriend raising his eyebrows at the sudden action.

"We did that", you breathe out, your mind running back to the first picture of your first baby, which was now tucked safely in the drawer by your body, another copy already sent to get framed.

Taehyung laughs at that, leaning up to hover over you, his legs tangled with yours, and he runs his hands up your sides, smiling when you squirm from the ticklish sensation. "Yeah.", he replies, his eyes soft like melted caramel. "We did."

Jeon Jungkook:

"Y/N!", the sudden shout jerks you out of your thoughts, and you turn around to your boyfriend, who's looking at you with raised eyebrows, his eyes showing confusion and slight worry. "I've called like two times already. What's gotten you so focused?"

"Sorry", you sigh, rubbing the space between your eyebrows. Now that you think about it, it seems like you've been on your laptop for a long time, judging by the fact that Jungkook's already home and the sun is setting outside, coloring the world in hues of orange and pink.

Jungkook doesn't answer, simply sliding his black duffle bag off his shoulder and walking over to the chair you're sitting on, standing behind it, close enough that you can feel the warmth emitting from his skin.

"What are you doing?", he asks, staring at the open tabs in your laptop, numerous websites that range from "the size of your baby on week 23 of pregnancy", "ways to keep your body healthy during pregnancy", and "complications during labor".

You shrug, feeling slightly embarrassed at your boyfriend finding you surfing the internet like some crazed hag, and Jungkook seems to notice the change in your behaviour, because he turns the chair you're sitting on effortlessly, so you're facing him.

"Is everything okay?", Jungkook asks carefully, squatting down to your level and staring at you in the eyes, his expression slightly nervous like it always was when it came to talking about feelings.

You nod, but Jungkook doesn't seem to buy it, tilting your head up gently with a slim finger on your chin, so you have no choice but to look him in the eye. "You know you can tell me anything", he whispers, intelligent doe eyes holding so much sincerity and care that your heart stutters in your chest, and you sigh, running a distressed hand through your messy dark hair.

"I know, Kook.", you answer, pecking your husband's lips gratefully, and he hums against your lips, greatly satisfied by the gesture, before you pull back, biting your lip nervously while Jungkook stares at you, patiently waiting for you to say what's on your mind.

"I'm just", you start, your cheeks growing red at the thought of saying your cursed thoughts out loud, but you know better than to keep secrets from your husband, especially when it comes to your own child, so you grit your teeth and continue. "I'm scared I won't be a good mother. Like, what if I'm not responsible enough? I'm still so young, and so are you. Maybe having a kid at this age is crazy. What if we'll ruin his life?"

The silence that follows your ramble is deafening, Jungkook's mouth open slightly in surprise, his dark eyes wide, and you open your mouth to say something, anything to take back what you said, but Jungkook's already talking before you manage to.

"I don't know", your lover says, and you snap your head up on surprise, expecting some words of wisdom, or at the very least a clueless assurance. Jungkook seems to catch your shock, because he sends you a small, loving smile, reaching his hand out to stroke your cheek gently with the back of his hand, something akin to awe in his eyes as he stares at you.

"All I know is, I love you.", Jungkook continues, his voice completely confident and firm, yet also soft and loving, and he reaches out to grasp your hands tightly, almost desperately, in his own warm hands. "I want to learn these things with you, Y/N. I want everything with you. The good and the bad, and everything in between."

You feel your eyes water at your husband's sincere words, his effect on you still the same even after years of marriage and dating, and you bring him forward to kiss him, even though it's more of a desperate clash of tongue and teeth than anything else.

You pull back after a few seconds to stare at Jungkook, stare at the man you love so dearly, the man you cherish in a place so deep in your heart that no one could ever replace. The human bunny you fell in love with all these years ago, with his soft black hair, his cute button nose you love to kiss, his plush pink lips that curve into that gorgeous smile of his, the shiny eyes that crinkle whenever he laughs at something silly you say.

"I Iove you too, Jungkookie.", you whisper in the soft atmosphere between you, pushing away the dark strands of hair from his forehead so you can drown even more in the eyes that hold all the secrets to the universe. "I'm sorry for all the stupid things I said."

"There's nothing stupid about being scared, love.", Jungkook mumbles, his own hands running down your long hair before pushing a loose strand behind your ear. "I'm scared too, but it's okay, because I have you. Don't be afraid to lean on me."

"I won't", you promise, letting Jungkook sweep you down into another lingering kiss, the taste of his lips so familiar to you, yet just as sweet as always.

You can't help but giggle when Jungkook's lips leave your own, instead sliding down your throat, leaving little butterfly kisses on the way down, and stopping at your stomach, just where the baby is, and leaving another gentle kiss there. "I love you too, my little baby".

"Hey", you whine playfully, staring down at Jungkook with a fake glare, "I'm your baby", you complain, crossing your arms in front of your chest dramatically.

Jungkook laughs, bunny grin back on display, and you feel your heart explode from the tremendous amount of love you feel, hugging the older man's broad chest to you when he says: "You're my big baby, and they're my little one. I love you both, my babies."

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wittyrosebush · 4 years

Text

The Aftermath

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female!Reader

Summary: You and Steve take a day to relax.

POV: 2nd

Warnings: Mentions of anxiety & depression, a little angst, mostly fluff

Word Count: ~1k

Date Posted: 11/10/20

A/N: Hey y’all! So this is a second part to The Afterparty, you do not need to read that to understand this. I have a few drafts I’m working on so expect something within the next few days. Also, I know everyone goes through anxiety & depression differently but I am somewhat basing this off of my experience because I do not want to incorrectly portray someone else’s experience. Also, three dots after a paragraph means a time skip. I'm such a sucker for soft!steve. Hope you enjoy!

Also, if you are interested in editing and giving suggestions about my writings before I post them, please let me know! I would love to have a second opinion.

Ever since you had joined the Avengers Steve had always been there for you when your anxiety reared its ugly head. And that’s what made him different. He never made you feel like your feelings were stupid or invalid. Instead, he would intently listen to anything you had to tell him and try to figure out whatever would be best for the situation. From cuddling to walking to the ice cream shop, he has done anything he can to relieve you of the stress of life.

You woke up with your limbs tangled with your boyfriend’s and the smell of his cologne from the previous night. After taking a moment to enjoy the tranquil scene, you gently removed yourself from Steve and stood up, taking a moment to admire him.

You walked out of your bedroom with a soft smile plastered on your face. You wanted to do something special for him, you thought as you stepped into the kitchen. With a determined huff escaping your mouth, you rolled up your sleeves and got to work.

. . .

Steve turned over in the bed and opened an eye when he didn’t feel you next to him. He brought himself up onto his elbows and scanned the room. When he realized you weren’t in the room he stood up and put on a pair of sweatpants before calling out your name.

You jumped from your spot at the kitchen island and walked to your room, "Good morning! Is everything ok?"

A tired smile appeared on Steve's face as soon as he saw you, "I should be asking you the same thing, doll."

"I'm better," you shrugged and leaned on the doorframe, "and I made breakfast for you if you're hungry."

Steve brought you into a loose but warm hug. You inhaled his scent, wanting to imprint it into your brain forever. The moment ended after he pressed a kiss to your forehead and pulled himself away.

He walked you back to the kitchen with a loose hold on your hand. The smell of the food made him take a deep breath. You took advantage of his state of bliss to start to make him a plate of food.

"Doll, you didn't have to do this," he nearly whispered to you.

"It's fine, Steve, I wanted to do something nice for you. After this can we go out on a picnic?"

Steve nodded as he took a seat, "Of course." You set a plate of blueberry pancakes and a separate plate of sausage and scrambled eggs on the table.

The male inhaled the scent of food before taking a bite, humming in satisfaction. You took this as your cue to get yourself some food.

Seeing you sit down next to him with your food, he instinctively put an arm around your waist. You smiled as you both ate your food in content silence.

. . .

You pulled a sweatshirt over your head as your boyfriend pulled on a jacket for the cool fall day. Grabbing your hand and a picnic basket, Steve looked at you with a grin. He opened the door for you and you both walked out of your room.

The two of you left Stark Tower hand in hand. People were walking across the courtyard on business calls or trying to drink their overpriced coffee before they officially got into work.

You could almost feel the amount of stress surrounding you, but your boyfriend kept you grounded. Whenever he felt like you were getting overwhelmed he would rub his thumb over your knuckles and a small smile would almost immediately appear on your face.

The utter amount of love you both shared throughout your relationship made your stomach flutter at the thought. Both of you could not believe the luck you had with finding each other.

You both were brought away from your thoughts as you saw your favorite spot in the park; a large cottonwood tree with a gorgeous view of a pond.

The male walked you to the spot and you laid down the blanket you'd tucked under your arm. Once you sat down he carefully placed the basket of food onto the grass and returned to your side.

You had brought a book with you and Steve brought his sketchpad. While you read Steve would always draw you. The first time he told you made you a blushing mess.

"Dammit, Steve!" You cried out as you pushed your red face into your hands.

Steve panicked and threw his papers across the room, "I'm so sorry, I should have asked you but I-" The last thing he saw was his crying girlfriend lunging at him. He closed his eyes in fear, but felt your arms wrapped around his torso. The male opened his eyes to see you looking up at him, eyes brimming with tears.

"Thank you, Steve. I'm really flattered that you would draw me."

And at that moment, Steven Grant Rogers knew who the love of his life was.

You were brought out of your thoughts when you felt the super soldier's stomach rumble, "Do you want to eat now?"

"Do you?"

You frowned and brought a hand to his face, "Don't worry about me so much, love. Now, are you hungry?"

Steve nodded and you moved do you were sitting in front of him. He watched and straightened himself as you brought out a few sandwiches and 2 bottles of water.

You both lazily talked while you ate. At one point you heard Steve squeal, causing you to look up from the food. Turns out an acorn flew and hit his forehead. The super soldier's face went red. With a grin you moved closer to him and peppered his face in kisses until you both were lying down in a fit of laughter.

Once the sun touched the horizon, you packed up, more than satisfied with the events of the day. You left the park with your boyfriend's arm around your waist and a warm feeling in your chest.

The two of you arrived at Stark tower. The courtyard was much less busy than earlier. The employees were leaving the building, with relaxed shoulders and some on calls from their family wanting to know how their day was. Nobody standing near you was completely relaxed, but each had a weight taken off of them.

No one can be at peace without anxiety, you told yourself as you laid in Steve’s arms that night. Without anxiety, peace would be meaningless. No matter what you were going through, you knew he was on your side and you were on his. And that was enough to help you sleep at night.

#steve rodgers x reader #steve rogers #steve x reader #captain america #soft!steve #soft!steve rogers #I do not need to be lusting for another person #steve rogers fluff #captain america x reader #Steve Rogers x Female Reader

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dotthings · 5 years

Text

Okay SPN 15.04, here we go, where I feel weirdly self-conscious about posting a meta post about an ep that had so much meta on itself and now I’m going to write meta about it, so it’s meta on meta on meta, while I’m having my feelings.

THAT COLD OPEN HOLY CRAP DIRECTOR JENSEN. As a director Jensen always pulls out warm performances from actors and he’s a really kinetic director too. That opening fight sequence I held my breath for a lot of it.

BENNY OH NOES IT’S BENNY (this must be the character Jensen said was one of his favorites and the actor came back to set for one day to do it). “I’ll see you on the other side, brother.” Thanks so MUCH, spn, I thought I was over this and then you come in and reopen that and now I’ve got feelings gdi. Benny was a good friend to Dean. My heart hurts.

Ohshitohshitohshitohshit demon blood Sam. Noooooo. And he kills Dean. I can never erase these images from my mind, thanks a LOT spn.

Just a nightmare of Sam’s except no probably not given Sam’s god-wound, so wow this maybe happens on one of Chuck’s other worlds, that’s fine, oh that’s okay I’m fiiiiine, it’s fine. *covers face*

So we have a flip on early S14 here where Dean was turtling to cope with his trauma which is a healthy thing to do but hiding from the world wasn’t going to fix anything so Sam coaxes him out with a hunt. Dean coaxes Sam out with a hunt only I don’t think hunting works for Sam the same way, it’s not Sam’s mental comfort food the way it is for Dean, but still I appreciate the mirroring there.

Sam’s struggling with Rowena’s death and I think those horrific AU nightmare visions aren’t helping much either, but it’s clear he’s feeling the loss. Her loss, all the recent losses.

Dean trolls Sam with real bacon, which seems like Dean is maybe trying to cheer Sam up by pranking him and trying to cheer himself up via food pranks. Dean has quite the case of the munchies in this ep.

I noticed almost every scene Dean is snacking or drinking from his flask. How’s that whole “Cas walked out and left apparently for good” working out for you Dean, wow, you’re suspiciously chipper while stuffing your face and drinking and Not Talking About It. Did Sam and Dean talk about where’s Cas? Who knows, the ep didn’t mention it, hey SPN you needed a Cas mention, OH WAIT THE EP IS GOING TO CALL ME OUT FOR SAYING THAT.

Seriously though, this is very Dean MO, and I have thoughts about his mood in this ep and how Cas’s absence was felt, and what it means, I’ll get to that later, but even before the last scene Impala talk, I was thinking Cas is a reminder of pain--and no it’s not all about Dean’s anger at Cas, it’s not because Dean is angry at Cas. Cas is a reminder of some things Dean just isn’t coping with very well and part of the problem is Dean cares so much.

So Dean’s snacking and drinking and Sam is feeling the weight of them knowing all the scary things out there while people go on obliviously with their lives and I’m not sure if Sam is envying them or Sam is feeling some existential angst about the state of the world, how people can go about their lives unaware there are real monsters ready to pounce and tear their lives to shreds. And feeling the weight of the job they do in every bone of his body. Sam’s in a dark headspace.

Ok I admit I was not thrilled to see Becky again given her previous episodes and role. SPN’s later in-canon fan characters were much more nuanced and successful and respectful depictions of fans. But as with many other things, this era of SPN is revisiting some things to move them forward in a different way than before, and subvert some things that needed subverting and Becky has had--wait for it--character development. How about that.

Yes, Becky, run, you do not want anything to do with Chuck. Run, Becky run. I’m rooting for her now. RUNNNN.

Along with finding a more constructive way of channeling her interest in the Winchesters’ lives, and having a satisfying fandom creative life and a full life of her own, Becky has funko pops of Sam, Dean, and Cas. LOL. I see you spn.

Dean, still with the case of the munchies. So this is like the eating a whole pint of ice-cream after a break-up, only Dean does it with junk food while hunting vampires.

I enjoyed this conversation between Becky and Chuck about writing immensely. Becky is actually right. Speaking myself as someone who’s suffered from writers block for a while, it’s miserable, and not writing just perpetuates the cycle. You feel cut off from an important part of yourself. And--oh here we go getting meta within meta--I find writing meta on SPN a positive outlet.

“Writing is writing.” Damn Becky’s takedown of Chuck’s derisiveness about fanfic was sizzling and oh excuse me Chuck, what is it you think you were doing with those Supernatural books about your favorite story. Even though he’s the creator, I know. But still. Also seems to be a sly comment on how male-authored “fanfic” based on someone else’s characters or historical characters gets to be professionally published novels and nobody wants to admit it’s fanfic but it is, but women write fanfic and women write novels based on someone else’s characters or historical figures and it gets derided.

Did not expect commentary celebrating the creativity and validity of fanwork of women in particular an episode of SPN, especially not with Becky of all people, but here we are.

Uhhhh is Chuck writing this episode, as it happens? I am seriously uneasy now. What is going on. What is real. Which is what I think Dean is going through because of Chuck and OUCH the Winchesters think they’re free but they’re not but also they are their own people and Chuck isn’t controlling them but it’s like he’s still making the framework?? Or would this case just be happening on his own and Perez is just messing with our heads in this script right now.

Oh damn because this ep wasn’t sadness enough now here we go with the Jack parallels. “I can’t control this.” “I’m a monster.” “I killed someone I love.” Parents doing anything to save their out of control teenage kid or does he need to be killed, so the parents are Cas, while Sam and Dean are Dean.

Interesting that Dean lowered the gun and didn’t kill Jack, but tells Sam they would do that for Jack if it was necessary. You didn’t, though, Dean. You couldn’t go through with it any more than those distressed parents of the vampire teen.

Becky is voicing various non-dire fan complaints here, every lane of the fandom is being gently called out right now. Hahaha including lack of Cas mentions in an ep that pointedly is not!Mentioning Cas because it’s not a mistake there’s actually reasons for that which is just lampshading how much Dean is pointedly Not Going to Talk About Cas.

“Where they sit around doing laundry and talk” -- again every lane of the fandom should feel very called out right now. Seriously, fandom lanes that hate each other’s guts all have that common factor of craving more domesticity, and would like to see the laundry ep of SPN and for many, it has better include Cas, or we’re working through our need for this via fanfics or fanart. Even Jared and Jensen have expressed interest in a “Winchesters do the laundry” kind of episode.

But here’s the thing--here’s the thing about SPN...it depicts domesticity. In small bits of pieces. Even in this ep there’s domesticity. SO HA. It’s not that SPN is against depictions of domesticity, it’s definitely in the toolset of its storytelling, to give the characters more layers, to make their lives seem more real, but there needs to be mostly an action plot because that’s the genre so they mostly kill monsters and we only get nibbles of domesticity.

Becky and Chuck arguing about Chuck’s incredibly dark story ending, after Becky criticized him for the story not having enough bite, was so interesting. While the episode’s dark story ending was actually quite well done IMO and not overdone and yes it’s bleak but it’s supposed to be. So it’s not that sad is always terrible writing, no. It isn’t. But its overuse has been a raging hot topic in spn fandom for years and SPN is a hopeful narrative as well as a bleak one. Overuse of loss of hope and misery can hurt the story, causes a number of fans to become desensitized and lose their emotional engagement for it (which has happened to be at a couple of points in SPN’s long run). So that conversation interested me a great deal, yes it did.

So.....SPN had its current biggest of the biggest of ultimate big bads, the ultimate power God himself, the author, and made him the enthusiast for overuse of the misery pr0n like that’s the only smart way to tell a story. The season’s big bad villain is a misery porn enthusiast.

I’m just gonna....sit here and absorb that for a moment.

Oh and this while all the PR for the show keeps warning us about how sad this story is and how bleak the ending will be, not a happy ending show. Are they warning us? Are they trolling us and misdirecting? Because they made their villain a misery pr0n fanboy and this intelligent, self-aware positive depiction of Becky the fan taking him to task for it.

I feel like could be headed for every story needs its darkness and its light, you need the darkness to appreciate the light, and you need some light or the story is less meaningful. We’ll see.

“I’m a writer,” says Chuck and then takes away everyone Becky loves and then unmakes Becky. This is a purposeful depiction of a writer creator as a sadist. It’s a diabolical reversal on the Stephen King’s Misery scenario. Becky played the deranged fangirl in the past, who kidnaps an object of obsession, now she’s the victim of the deranged sadistic writer who breaks into her home, destroys her life, and then effectively kills her because of his own obsession with making Sam and Dean wretchedly miserable because he thinks that’s the only way to make the story exciting.

*blinks*

In the last scene, oh thanks Sam, for vocalizing the Jack connection.

Hey Dean, that’s really a nice speech and yes Sam did give you a great pep talk but Sam wasn’t the only one who told you what you did still has meaning. This is like 15.01 where Dean is pointedly erasing Cas again despite Cas very obviously having done something Dean refuses to acknowledge. In 15.01 it was Dean leaving Cas out of his us vs the forces of evil speech to Sam, despite Cas having spent most of the ep shooting ghosts in the face and saving Sam’s life twice. Sam and Cas both have given Dean pep talks about the meaning of what they do but only Sam pulled Dean out of it...uhhh yeah that’s not writer error or canon ignoring Cas. That’s Dean trying to push Cas out of his mind. Something there hurts so much Dean isn’t dealing with it right now.

As I said, as I’ve been saying, it’s not so much that Dean is that angry at Cas. It’s not just about Mary. Or about Cas keeping things from him. Although those are all valid reasons for Dean’s hurt and anger. Dean seems to be afraid or hurt over more than that. And his love for Cas, IMO, is part of why this is weighing so heavily. What does he fear. I think it’s connected to the whole existential crisis about Chuck. What if none of this is real. I’ve talked about that in other posts, if none of this is real, if Dean still doubts, then what if what’s between him and Cas isn’t real, what if Cas doesn’t really care about him because none of it real.

Dean valiantly puts a brave face on things here, they keep going, they keep fighting for the sake of those they lost, no matter what, “keep putting one foot in front of the other.” Which makes sense. That’s how you honor those you’ve lost. It’s just that I don’t think Dean has really reached that. He is Not Dealing with an awful lot of stuff here. And we have seen again and again how hard Dean reels from losing loved ones. So what’s going on with Dean here. This is a healthy concept, but not if Dean is just whistling past the graveyard again. This might look like character development except look at what’s been going on with Dean. How deeply losing Mary, losing Jack affected him. The impact of those losses needs to be acknowledged and dealt with in order to truly move on and move forward. It’s like Dean is voicing a healthy outlook but isn’t actually experiencing it. I think Dean is posturing because if he lets all the hurt it right now, it will devour him.

There’s also the part where Sam and Dean have in the past displayed a lack of ability to just keep on keeping on if they lose each other, so they used to sell their souls, or violate the other one’s wishes and autonomy, or let the darkness free, but we’ve also seen them let each other go, and “keep putting one foot in front of the other.” Sam and Dean have done both ways with each other. Dean didn’t exactly just keep on keeping on no problem when Cas died at the end of S12.

Sam voices the other side of things, he can’t just move on right now. He’s feeling all the losses. They’ve piled up and piled up and it’s crushing him. Sam says he "can’t breathe” at times. He brings up Jessica, a loss he suffered 14 years ago.

So Sam and Dean are airing the two aspects of loss and grief on SPN. One the one hand, you don’t just give up and quit because of loss. Honor who you’ve lost and keep on fighting. But losses are deeply felt, and it’s not all okay either. Sam and Dean don’t just shrug off these losses because they have each other. That’s not how this works. They need more than just each other and SPN is increasingly having more and more open dialogue about all of this.

S15 so far has been so much about the impact losing people they love has on Sam and Dean, and why their isolation isn’t a good thing.

And there’s Chuck, the big bad, typing away to add more misery. Because Chuck gets off on giving them loved ones and taking them away, over and over and this isn’t presented as a good thing or a satisfying thing or a desirable thing or a celebration of anything.

#Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester #Chuck Shurley #Becky Rosen #spn #supernatural #supernatural spoilers #meta #Sam and Dean: a work in progress #Destiel #Team Free Will #Jack Kline #Castiel

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thepartyresponsible · 5 years

Text

happy whumptober! here’s a short winterhawk fic about struggling to survive in the zombie apocalypse.

warnings for general misery and apocalypse perils. also for an shocking lack of actual zombies.

The canned food ran out two days ago. Ever since, they’ve been working through what Natasha calls the perpetual stew, an ever-simmering pot of whatever-the-hell. Mushrooms and rabbit, the carrots they weren’t supposed to pull up until spring.

The pot’s never meant to go empty. That’s what makes it perpetual. Natasha explained it in the fall, back when they were still pulling what felt like an endless array of vegetables out of the dirt. But she took the pot off the fire last night, made the kids wait until it was cool before she let them run their fingers over the metal, scrape out the very last of whatever food they could find.

The canned food is gone. The old stuff from before the world ended, and the new stuff they made themselves. The stew pot’s empty.

It’s midwinter, so everything smart is hibernating or hidden. Clint goes out every morning, but the most he’s come back with is a couple of winter-weight rabbits. It’s not enough.

Thor and Sam left a week ago, headed for the skeletal, picked-over remains of any town they could find. Clint doesn’t expect they’ll be back. And if they make it back, he doesn’t have much hope of them bringing anything with them.

He dreams about grocery stores. Deli counters and free samples and endless aisles of potato chips and Oreo’s. All kinds of things he’ll never have again.

He wakes up later and later. When you can’t eat, you sleep. The body only runs on credit for so long.

The morning after the stew runs out, he digs the tiny bag of instant coffee out of the back of his backpack. He was saving it for spring. He doesn’t see much reason to save anything now.

Natasha catches him at it, drinking hot coffee in the weak daylight, face lifted toward the sun, eyes closed. She’s always known him better than he ever knew himself. She leans into him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and she doesn’t ask, but he shares the coffee with her anyway.

“You should stay,” she tells him. Her cheekbones are sharp like they used to be, back when she was barely nineteen and it seemed like the whole world was taking turns taking bites out of her. She softened over the years, but she’s re-honed now. She picked up her old edges like any high quality blade will, when needed.

She’s the one who insisted on rations. She’s the only one who knew this was coming, could see this even back in September, when it seemed like they’d have food forever. It wasn’t enough. She let them take too much, and now there’s nothing.

He doesn’t blame her for that. He hopes she doesn’t blame herself.

“Saw some tracks yesterday,” he tells her. “Elk, I think.”

And God knows what the hell he’d do with an elk if he got one. He couldn’t lift a Golden Retriever right now. Hell, a Corgi might be a struggle. He hasn’t been this skinny since the circus. He hasn’t been this hungry since he lived with his parents. And maybe not even then.

Maybe this, right here, is the worst he’s ever felt.

But Natasha tips her head against his shoulder, presses the coffee back into his hands. He breathes in. It sounds stupid, but he missed the smell. A whole world to miss, the whole Goddamn functioning society they lost when the dead started eating the living, and he misses coffee.

Well, he misses central heating, too. And pizza. He misses indoor plumbing and late night TV and firefighters and cops and paramedics. He misses having someone, anyone, to call for help. He misses cities and streetlights and a guaranteed future.

He takes another long sip of coffee. He breathes in the smell. It’s not so bad, really. Could be worse. He has Natasha, and Tony, and Pepper, and Morgan, and Harley, and Peter. And Sam and Thor, if they ever make it back. He has some kind of family. Took the whole world ending, but he found a family anyway.

He’s not going to lose them. And if he does, it won’t be his fault.

He hands the coffee back to Natasha. There’s a sip and a half left. He wants her to have it. He’d give her any wonderful thing he had. He’d give all of them anything he had.

“I’ll be back,” he tells her. “With dinner.”

He doesn’t believe it, but he says it anyway.

Natasha curls her hands around the coffee mug. Her eyes aren’t sad when they look at him, but he can’t really describe what he sees in them. The smile she gives him could break his heart, but the whole inside of him is frozen up. There’s nothing beating warm enough to break.

“Just come back,” she says.

He nods. He doesn’t say anything. When he leaves, he allows himself the small mercy of not looking back.

There aren’t many people left. Clint wouldn’t hazard a guess as to how many survived. The sickness was viciously viral, airborne and mean. The walking dead got all the fanfare, but the pandemic itself killed something like a third of the people it infected, and only about a quarter of those reanimated later. If you lived through the sickness, you couldn’t get it again. Even a bite wouldn’t kill you.

But if you got bit first, you always died. And you always came back.

The last Clint heard, the worldwide death toll was estimated at something like 500 million. He can’t even hold that number in his head. And that was before the news stopped, before the governments fell, before the cities turned to slaughterhouses.

He has no idea what the final death toll was. Mostly, he’s been trying not to add to it.

That first year, everything was a mess. Everyone who lived was desperate. The winter killed a lot of them, and those that survived learned to be wary of strangers. Clint hasn’t seen anyone outside of his small adopted family for something like six months.

They haven’t seen any zombies in that time frame either. Bodies decay. There’s probably a few left in more temperate climes, but, up in the mountains, they’ve been safe enough.

Clint’s not even looking for people. That’s his mistake.

He’s tracking elk, dragging himself toward the north slope, hoping to find them bedded down against the chill. It’s a sunless day, overcast and cold. They have more sense than he does. Well, they’re a lot less desperate, too.

It takes him hours to find them. And when he does, he has to sneak up close. They’re smart, and they’re fast, and he only has one chance.

He doesn’t think about it. About what the hell he’s going to do if he manages it. About how he barely dragged himself here. About how he doesn’t have a chance in hell of getting this meat back to the others.

He presses on anyway. There’s no other option. It doesn’t matter that he can’t. He has to.

But when he goes to take the shot, his hands are shaking. He’s cold, and he’s weak, and he can’t shoot his fucking bow.

He closes his eyes. He takes a breath. He thinks, as hard as he can, about how small Morgan is, about how she cried last night because she was hungry. He thinks about Nat, so skinny he can count the individual vertebrae of her spine through her shirt. He thinks about Tony, who stopped eating days ago, keeps sneaking his food to Harley and Morgan and Peter.

He can’t, but he has to. He got all the way here.

His hands are shaking. His fingertips are numb. He should’ve worn more layers; he should’ve brought better gloves. But he wasn’t sure he was going to make it back, and he didn’t want to take too much when he didn’t know if he’d be able to return it.

He’s too cold, and he’s too hungry. He kept skipping meals to keep them all fed, and now he can’t feed them at all.

They need him. He has to.

He breathes out. He clenches his jaw so tight his teeth creak. He thinks of summer days and beaches and bonfires. He pulls the string back, and his fingers fumble, too numb to grip. The bow string twaps loud and empty against nothing, and the elk snort, leaping to their feet.

No, he thinks. Frantic, and panicked. He scrambles for the arrow, lurches to his feet. The elk are faster. Warmer, and better fed. He tries to pull the arrow back, but the shaking has spread to his arms now. He can’t do a Goddamn thing.

There’s the echoing crack of a gunshot, and one of the elk groans, low and pained, and tips over into the snow, legs kicking. The rest of the herd bolt down the slope.

Clint stares at the dying elk and can’t even comprehend what’s happening until a man emerges from the trees. The elk’s barely moving, too close to death to fight, and the man cuts its throat while Clint watches.

The stranger moves with an easy efficiency, kneeling in the snow while he pulls tools out of his bag. He’s dark-haired and scruffy, looks feral in a way that Clint can’t quite articulate. He doesn’t know why it makes him so nervous. Nobody looks particularly civilized these days.

Maybe it’s just that he hasn’t seen a strange face in so long.

It’s too bad, really, that the first stranger he meets is stealing a kill Clint couldn’t take himself but also can’t afford to lose. He puts his bow away and draws his knife. He’ll have to get close to use it, but it feels steadier in his hands than the bow.

By the time he leaves cover, the man’s already staking out the elk, tying its legs to tent spikes he jams into the frozen ground. If Clint waits long enough, maybe he’ll field dress the whole damn thing.

“You gonna help?” the man asks, when Clint gets maybe fifteen yards away. He looks up suddenly, looks right at him. His eyes fall on the knife, but he doesn’t look concerned so much as he looks irritated. “You gonna help?” he asks, again. “Or are you gonna cause problems?”

Clint hesitates. His hands are still shaking. It feels like every part of him is trembling. He had the coffee this morning and a quarter of a can of peaches two days back, and that’s been it. He hasn’t been full since Christmas.

When the man stands up, he’s too Goddamn big for the end of the world. He’s muscular like Thor was muscular back in the fall, when they had the food to feed all that bulk. But the look in his eyes is meaner than Thor, who’s always been so sweet-natured and friendly. The look in his eyes is cold and assessing, not friendly at all.

“I need that,” Clint says. He points at the elk. “I’ve got people to feed.”

The man’s eyebrows pull together. It’s a weird thing to notice, but it catches Clint’s attention. Under the sweep of all that dark hair, under the threat of that scowl, he has beautiful eyes. Bright and sky-blue. Intelligent.

There’s a weird moment, stretching out between them. The man shifts his weight. He runs his tongue over his teeth. It’s an anxious tell, more uncertain than angry.

“I know you need it,” the man says, finally. “Followed you for two miles. Figured there’s no way in hell you’d be out here if you didn’t have to be.”

Clint’s five miles out from their small grouping of cabins, but two miles is still too Goddamn close to the others. He’s lost the knack for hiding. There hasn’t been anything to hide from. He’s sure he left tracks leading straight home.

He’s tired. He’s so damn tired. It’s overwhelming, suddenly. He wants to lay down and sleep until none of this is his problem anymore. Until he doesn’t have problems anymore.

But last night, Morgan cried. She’s just a kid. She deserves better.

“There’s kids,” Clint says. He doesn’t know that it’ll do any good. Sometimes you have to bank on mercy. Anyway, if this guy wants to hurt them, he’ll have to get past Natasha. And Natasha, even at bantamweight, is a wolverine in human skin. “There’s kids, and they’re hungry. I have to get this back to them.”

The man just stares at him. He has a knife in his hand, bloodied up from the elk, and a look on his face like he can’t figure out what the hell Clint is saying to him. Finally, he clears his throat.

“I’m trying to help you, asshole,” he says.

Oh, Clint thinks. It jars in his head so hard that all the other thoughts run right into the back of it, like a trainwreck in his mind. He doesn’t think anything for what has to be almost a full minute.

“Listen,” the man says. He reaches up, hooks his long hair back out of his face. It leaves a streak of red across the pale skin of his cheek. He shrugs his backpack off, tosses it so it lands halfway between them. “You look really shaky. Maybe you should eat something.”

Clint stares at him, waiting for the trap. But the man just shrugs, seems to grow uncomfortable under the scrutiny. He turns his back on Clint and goes back to the elk.

There’s blood on the snow. Clint can smell it from here. Some ancient part of him, something brainstem-level and bent on survival, kicks awake at that smell, and his stomach twists up, so fierce and insistent that it aches like it’s going to leave bruises on his heart.

He crouches down, keeps the knife in one hand, and carefully opens the backpack.

There’s a treasure trove in there. Packaged food from pre-collapse, and plastic bags of what looks like jerky. Bottles of what’s probably water. Campbell’s chicken soup in a pull-top can.

Clint thinks, ludicrously, that he’s going to cry.

He takes the soup, instead. Drops the knife in the snow. He rips off the top and drinks it, knocking back the broth. The salt makes his brain hum, lights up all the taste buds on his tongue. He slumps, eyes closed.

“Jesus,” the man says.

When Clint opens his eyes, those blue eyes are narrowed. His frown is serious, and troubled. Disgusted, maybe.

Clint had honestly forgotten what embarrassment feels like. He wants to rub at his mouth, but he licks the soup off his lips and chin instead. In that moment, there isn’t enough shame in the world to make him waste good broth on manners.

“Maybe slow down,” the man advises.

“Sorry,” Clint says. He isn’t. He isn’t anything except relieved. He feels like he’s floating, like his toes and feet are miles away from his head.

His hands are still shaking, but the tremors feel less pressing now.

“Hey,” the man says. He kneels up in the snow. The concern on his face soften his features. He’s beautiful, Clint thinks, although the more reasonable part of him knows he’d fall in love with anybody who fed him right now. “You said there’s more of you? Kids?”

Cint nods. He should be careful. He shouldn’t give up any more information. But there’s a half-empty can of soup in his hands, and he can’t for the life of him doubt the intentions of anyone saintly enough to share food in the winter after the end of the world.

“Yeah,” he says. “Ran out of food yesterday. We’re all—there’s nothing left.”

The man looks like something out of the wild, like he was born and plans to die in the mountains, alone and unbothered by other people. But there’s worry on his face, in the intensity of his stare and the gentle downturn of his mouth. Clint shouldn’t trust him. Doesn’t trust him, maybe. But.

There’s a can of soup in Clint’s hands, and a rifle across this man’s back. If he planned to killed Clint, he could’ve done it already, before wasting supplies on a dead man walking. And if he plans to follow Clint back and hurt the people at home, he’s going to find out that feeding Clint first was a hell of a mistake.

“Okay,” the man says. “Look. My friend and I, we can help you. With the meat, I mean. Getting it back. You don’t have to—if you want, we’ll just bring it halfway, and then you can go get the others.”

Clint tips the can back up against his mouth, chews through a mouthful of noodles. He forgot what chicken tasted like. He forgot about all of it.

“Your friend,” he repeats, tracking the threat, focusing on the idea of there being more people like him. Well-fed and well-muscled. Armed.

“Yeah,” the man says. “Steve. And I’m Bucky.”

“Clint,” he says, mumbling it through more food. The bag’s still open at his side, and Bucky hasn’t said a damn thing about it, so Clint carefully swipes a bit of jerky, just to see what happens.

“Okay,” Bucky says. His eyes drop to the jerky in Clint’s hand, but he doesn’t say anything. He just nods, like it’s fine. Like sharing doesn’t cost him anything. Like he wants Clint to have it. “Nice to meet you,” he says.

Clint laughs. He couldn’t say why, really. The giddiness of relief, probably. The unsteadiness of a brain flooded with dopamine after weeks of worry and hunger and weakness.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he says. There’s salt on his tongue, and food in his hands, and a weight slowly lifting off his shoulders. When he looks down, the can holds steady. His hands aren’t shaking anymore.

#whumptober2019 #no.1 #winterhawk #writing #fic

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thebibliomancer · 4 years

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Shadows of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 22

Shadows of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because OHGOSH the Skeksis are evil?!

Last times on book: Naia’s quest to prove brother Gurjin’s innocence has brought her to the Castle of the Crystal despite numerous warnings by Tavra and misgivings from Kylan. In the castle she sees the Skeksis acting defensive and evasive and the castle staff oddly zombie-esque. Oh, also they confess that they’re super evil and capture Tavra. Yeah.

Chapter 24

Naia finds Gurjin. Things get complicated.

Naia starts heading upward into the castle because the Crystal showed her that Gurjin was being kept in one of the towers.

With the help of Neech, the shoulder eel, Naia finds the right tower.

Iron cages holding Gelfling lined every wall within the cell. Most captives huddled in the cramped space with their arms wrapped about their knees, while others leaned against the rusty bars. Some were alive -- she heard shallow, labored breathing and quiet little whimpers. Some lay so still they were certainly unconscious, if not gone altogether.

Geez.

None moved but a twitch when she entered, and she thought perhaps they were sleeping, but when the faint light from the hallway touched the face of one prisoner nearby, she saw his eyes were milky and vacant, like the Podling slaves... like the Nebrie.

Geez!

I think in comparison, exploding when drained might actually be the better outcome??

Naia finds Gurjin locked in a wooden crate looking... bad.

The croaking voice was almost lost in its fragility, but the timbre in it brought tears to Naia’s eyes. Crouched in a wood crate in the far corner, nearly hidden by shadows, was a haggard Gelfling with gray-tinged Drenchen skin and thick locs pulled into a bun at the back of his head. So much of his natural bulk was gone, leaving him thin and bony like a child. He twisted, holding on to the thick wood and pressing his face between the slats to get a better look at her. His voice was muffled and weak, but it was definitely Gurjin.

“Naia? Is that really you?”

“Gurjin,” she breathed. “You’re all right. You’re all right!”

“All right?” he repeated with a little cough. “I’ve been tossed in a bin like a noggie husk.”

Heh. I can hear this last line in Gurjin’s voice.

Naia breaks Gurjin out with the Totally Sweet Metal Dagger. But Gurjin has been locked up for days with no food and the Skeksis have been drugging him with moonberry. Which is called a sleep-flower.

Learning about botany today.

Gurjin is so weak that Naia has to bear most of his weight. And she realizes that even if she could get the other cells open, she couldn’t possibly carry them all.

Gurjin shook his head. His voice was so soft, it was hardly recognizable.

“They’re already drained. It’s too late.”

Naia didn’t know what he meant by drained, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. The awful fact was, they didn’t have time. If she wanted to help the silent dull-eyed Gelfling, she would have to save herself first.

“We’ll just have to come back for them,” she said, determined. “We’ll come back.”

Oof, really kicking up the horror of the drained from the movies. We don’t see much of that in Age of Resistance because of the aforementioned exploding.

She’ll also have to come back for Tavra because she can only support exactly one Gurjin. She is but one girl and nobody told her to bring a wheelbarrow.

Then there’s a gust of wind from the tower stairway. Someone is coming up. And Naia smells something that she realizes is Gelfling essence. (Dunno how she knows what that smells like.)

The Skeksis in black that was staring at Naia in the dining hall comes up the stairs. Being a bit... dramatic.

“One and two,” he purred. He jabbed a finger first at Naia and then at her brother. “Two, but one. Two, one... twin. Had the one and been waiting for the second. Now we have her! Oh, have been waiting for this wonderful night!”

“skekMal,” Gurjin whispered. “No...”

“Now, come. Closer. End this now, skekMal will do. Time for special draining of twin Gelfling. Waiting so long! skekTek the Scientist says may make a special essence for Emperor. Ha! Not if skekMal make and take it for himself.”

You’re dropping a lot on me all of a sudden, book!

So the weirdo in the dining hall was the Hunter? He ran ahead into the castle to sit down at dinner and pretend he was there all along?

And also that the Skeksis have apparently been doing the draining thing long enough that they know that twins are special? Or... I don’t know how to interpret this at all.

This is really a different take on the Hunter. He’s more tricksy, camp, and more willing to deal with the other Skeksis’ bullshit.

I guess he mostly just stomps around the Dark Woods and then goes back home for dinner.

Huh.

The Hunter tosses a partially-drained Tavra on the stairway like a broken bag of potatoes.

A couple of things come together in Naia’s brain. The Hunter was waiting for her. The Emperor asking if Naia was the one they were waiting for. Why Tavra seemed insistent on bringing Naia to Ha’rar in the first place.

“You knew?” Naia whispered.

“I knew they wanted you. I didn’t know why. When I found out, I tried to make it right. I tried to stop you, in the wood, but you followed me here anyway. I’m so sorry.”

Despite the distant sense of betrayal, Naia felt the pain in the soldier’s confession, and then the urgency in the three words that followed:

“Warn the others.”

The Hunter yells that no one warns anyone and just grabs Tavra and starts shaking the age of resistance out of her.

He drops the unmoving Tavra on the stairs and comes for Naia. She holds the Sweet Actual Metal Dagger at the ready but the Hunter just laughs.

“Hard to fight while carrying stone,” skekMal cackled.

It was the grim truth: There was no way she could carry Gurjin and fight at the same time. Letting go of the knife would leave her defenseless, but she would not let go of her brother. But perhaps...

Now the Hunter waits behind him...

He knows not what lies below him...

Who said songs never teach you anything?

Naia tosses the dagger out the window behind her. Which confuses the Hunter. But like in Kylan’s story, Naia listens for the splash and then jumps out the window pulling Gurjin after her.

Which makes the Hunter shriek, probably in ‘ffs not again’

She felt a rush of wind and a blossom of pain in her back and shoulders as the updraft hit them. Naia closed her eyes and prayed, bracing herself for the impact of the water, hoping it could cushion their fall enough to save their lives. Expecting freefall, she clung to Gurjin and prepared for the fast drop to the castle moat. Its thick waters were quiet - save for the single wet splash it had offered when Gurjin’s knife had struck from above.

But they weren’t falling. Instead, their descent was light and airy, like a plumed seedpod drifting on the wind. Looking over her shoulder, Naia saw skekMal hunched in the window of the castle, screeching madly after them, and then she saw them -- felt them.

Black and iridescent, reflecting the light of the storm in vibrant blues and fuchsias, Naia’s wings held them afloat, high above the wood and away from the terrors within the Castle of the Crystal.

“Naia,” Gurjin said. “They’re beautiful...”

Wow!

I knew that all of Naia’s wing-longings were leading up to something and I still was surprised at this moment!

Wings know how to make an entrance!

Its like ‘oh we’re falling to our deaths? Time for wing-puberty!’

But if it had to be either something like this or Naia realizing at the end that wings would happen eventually... well, this was nice.

Of course, she’s not going to be flying on wings that just popped out but she just barely manages to fall with style enough to ensure they land in the moat.

Stunned after falling in the water, someone helps Naia and Gurjin out of the moat.

Naia turned to the one who had pulled her from the water -- had whistled the signal from below -- throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly.

“You shouldn’t have,” she whispered. “It’s dangerous -- they’re coming. The Skeksis --”

Kylan the Song Teller of Sami Thicket nodded, rising and helping her to her feet.

“Then we’d better move, hadn’t we?”

Awwwww! Best boy and best friend Kylan to the rescue! He just fell himself right back into the synopsis!

Naia tells Kylan that the Skeksis betrayed the Gelfling and that they have to tell the All-Maudra. Kylan tells her they need to make it to the Landstrider he left by the river.

Also, they apologize to each other for the fight. Aww, best friends.

But there’s a crash in the woods and they know that the Hunter is coming for them.

Gurjin pulls Naia into a hollow tree stump and Kylan follows. Gurjin tells Naia that he’s too weak and he can’t run. And unless skekMal is stopped, he will find and kill them. Because he’s too relentless and knows the woods too well.

“What... what are you saying?” she asked, though she knew the answer.

“We don’t have time. Dreamfast with me, now!”

Naia numbly took her brother’s hands when he reached out to her, and then all at once, every memory that lived within his mind crashed upon her.

Downloading his brain into her brain, huh?

Hey.

Uh.

I understand that this is a different continuity than the show so I’m kinda worried that Gurjin is going to die. It better not happen. Gurjin is rad. Naia has had such a hard journey with so many complicated emotions about her brother.

I’m just saying.

Don’t.

Do not.

#dark crystal #the Dark Crystal #Shadows of the Dark Crystal #liveblog #Naia #Gurjin #Tavra #Kylan #SkekMal #the Hunter #don't look at the tags if you don't like spoilers #dunno what to do about that #not tag?#impossible

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nicolewrites · 4 years

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this house is full of ghosts (and they all look like you)

just some thoughts from last night...

Rating: T+ Genre: Angst Characters: [Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Sylvain Jose Gautier], the Blue Lions Words: 2,532

Ingrid returns home after the war.

AO3

The ride from Enbarr back to Galatea territory is long and lonely. Ingrid doesn’t want to stretch it out any longer than it already is, so she pushes herself and her pegasus to the brink of exhaustion every day that she rides until the rich soil turns to rocky dust beneath her and she flies lower to the ground, breathing in the familiar, cold Faerghus air.

She touches down at the edge of the property that belongs to her family and she stares at the Galatea manor: big and empty at the top of the hill.

Ingrid pulls out the hunting dagger she was gifted when she was twelve and slashes the reins and bridle and tack on her pegasus until it falls free into strips of leather on the ground. The child in her is angry with both her treatment of expensive material and tack that carries so many memories for her. The Ingrid she is today wants to burn all of it.

She pushes away her pegasus by the nose and then the flank, urging him to fly away. He whinnies at her, but Ingrid doesn’t let up, shooing him away until he flaps his wings and jumps, moving away from her with a sad noise.

There is no more war so there is no more need for her to ride.

The manor is closed and locked up tightly and Ingrid doesn’t have a key. She smashes a window on the front door and picks her way through the broken glass she leaves in the entryway. She unlocks the door, to ease her comings and goings later, and then looks around her childhood home.

Dust clings to every surface and there are cobwebs strung between bannisters and rails on the chandelier above the front hall. The floors are scratched as they have always been and the rugs that cover them are matted and tattered. From the front entrance, she can just barely glimpse the portrait gallery at the top of the stairs of her entire family. She leans Luín against the wall by the door and moves closer to the stairs, staring up at the paintings.

Morbid curiosity drives her to climb the stairs slowly, her boots clicking on the wooded stairs as they creak beneath her. She stops in front of the first portrait: her father. He died defending Galatea from Empire excursions on the Alliance side four months ago. Her mother’s portrait, smiling and radiant, is gathering dust on her father’s right. Her mother has been gone for a long time.

On her father’s left is a patch of barren wall and Ingrid’s stomach twisted. Six years ago, there had been a portrait of her that had hung there. She’s not surprised that he took it down.

Her brothers are memorialized here as well, staring straight with small smiles or flat expressions. Their paintings are as lifeless as her brothers are now.

Ingrid walks back downstairs.

There are two broken windows in the parlour and half of the decorations in the room are knocked over and smashed or missing, leaving the empty shelves and tables to gather dust. There had never been much in the way of decoration anyway, thanks to the barren lands of Galatea, but they had still been nobles.

Ingrid approaches the mantle slowly, staring at the chipped and dusty bricks. Whatever was in the fireplace had long since burned to ashes, leaving a fine grey layer of soot along the base of the pit. She knows what used to sit on top of the mantle and she’s a little upset to see it gone.

The ceremonial sword had been a gift from House Fraldarius to House Galatea as a symbol of Glenn and Ingrid’s engagement. It had been the centrepiece on the mantle for as long as Ingrid can remember, but she also knows that the sword is worth a fair bit of money and that of all the things that have been stolen from her house in the last five years, the sword is something that she should have expected to be gone.

She traces the Crest of Fraldarius into the dust pattern atop the mantle and thinks of Felix.

She didn’t kill him herself, but she might as well have. She knows that he had been watching her when the Empire stormed Arianrhod. He had watched her to see if she would really cut down Kingdom soldiers, some of whom originated in Galatea.

Ingrid had made a request to Edelgard that Felix be buried with his father in the grounds outside the Silver Maiden. He had deserved an honourable burial for having died an honourable death in service to his King and country.

Nobody will be around to bury Ingrid. She doesn’t deserve their grief anyway. Maybe no one will even know when she dies. That seems like the easiest situation to pursue.

She writes Felix and Glenn’s names in the dust on either side of the Crest of Fraldarius. They can stay here with her, she supposes.

The kitchen is probably one of the dustier places in the manor. It’s too large for what was actually used by her family since it was built to accommodate a staff that her family had not been able to afford to employ.

There’s an abandoned rolling pin wedged halfway under the counter that’s filled with splinters. Ingrid picks it up and places it atop the counter, flicking it with her finger and watching it roll, lop-sided, across the top of the counter.

The Galatea manor kitchen had once been a beautiful kitchen, but the hardships of her house combined with the utter lack of care that has gone into this place since Ingrid left, have put it in quite the sorry state.

She pulls down the tattered, moth-eaten drapes and throws them in a pile. She wipes off the table and opens a window to let some air into the place. The next step would be to find a few simple wildflowers from her garden to set in the middle of the table and then she would feel almost like it was the kind of place she might have shared a meal with Dedue.

If he hadn’t been holding a grudge against her for both her treatment of him and then her siding with the Empire over her own King.

She hasn’t really been able to taste her food since the war began and she had raised arms against the Kingdom. She figures that’s only fair.

Mercedes is everywhere in her mother’s old study. She’s in the pianoforte at one end of the room and in the shattered china that litters the floor. Ingrid digs up a towel from the linen cabinet and wipes away the dust from the keys of the piano.

She sits on the rickety bench as it creaks beneath her weight and rests her fingers on yellowed keys. The piano doesn’t play properly since half the strings are broken or worn, but the D closest to the middle C makes a light chiming noise that reminds Ingrid of Mercedes’s laugh.

Mercedes had thought it funny that Ingrid could play the piano of all things, but Ingrid knows that she has never been any good at it. It had been purely for the noble appearance of it all.

She manages to find a broom back in the kitchen and she quickly sweeps up the remains of shattered china and trampled tea leaves. A few of the pieces of the tea set, ones that were in the cabinet for safekeeping, have survived over the years, but they just remind Ingrid of her mother as well so she leaves the study as abruptly as she had entered it.

Next to her mother’s study, is her father’s office. The room that, at times, doubled as a war room when Galatea still held an advantageous position in the war. Ingrid can only ever remember standing in the doorway of the room as a child, waiting to be granted permission to enter, despite never having received it.

Her father’s study is where she had been told that she would marry Glenn and it’s where she had been told that Glenn was dead. Her father’s study is where she had taken Luín and told her father that she would not serve the Kingdom, that she had made her choice.

She dusts the edges of the bookshelves in this room. It’s mostly battle tactics and farming techniques that have never born fruit, but there are the occasional magic tomes tucked in between as well. One of her brothers had had an aptitude for magic, even without a Crest, but Ingrid has never shared that blessing.

Annette had tried to teach her a simple Reason spell once, but Ingrid had only succeeded in giving herself frostbite on her fingertips before the spell fizzled and Annette had laughed, warming her hands up with a perfectly controlled fire spell.

Annette probably would have liked her father’s study with its leather armchair that is perfect for sitting with a good book and his sturdy oak desk that’s both a statement piece of furniture and also the perfect size and height for getting a lot of work done.

Ingrid writes Annette’s name in the dust atop her father’s desk before she searches the drawers. Surprisingly, she finds a spare key to the manor in the bottom right drawer hidden under a bunch of paper records and letters.

She hesitantly takes out one of the letters and stares at the familiar, curling script on the page. It’s Annette’s handwriting and it’s dated four years ago as her friend asks her father about Ingrid’s whereabouts and the situation in Galatea on behalf of House Dominic.

She leaves the letter on the top of the desk when she leaves the study.

Ingrid’s own bedroom is the next place she dares to venture. The stairs and floorboards creak under her feet and she feels weary from days of heavy travel and fighting and horrible sleep, but she can’t stop now.

At least the manor is empty.

Her room is exactly how she left it years ago: a bed tucked on the right side with sheets pulled up neatly, like a soldier. There’s a vanity across from the bed, next to a dresser, and then there are three bookshelves, all packed full of books that Ingrid had collected as a child.

The large window in her room isn’t broken, but the latch is stuck when she tries to open it, so she doesn’t force it.

Ingrid studies the titles on her bookshelves. Most of them are knight’s tales and fairytales with knightly and chivalrous characters who would die and lay down their lives for their loves and for their rulers. There are a few Faerghan history books as well.

Ingrid had always meant to bring Ashe home just to see her collection. She had wanted to share with him a new story that he hadn’t heard yet, since he managed to find her the Moon Knight, that wonderful story about the female knight.

She has a few books that she can pick out, even after all this time that she knows Ashe would have been incredibly interested in reading. She picks books off her shelves until her arms are so full that she can’t carry any more and she dumps them into her fireplace. She doesn’t have a match on her right now, but she’ll light them up later.

She’s got no use for books on knighthood and chivalry now.

She brushes her hands off and moves to sit on her bed. Like everything else, there is a fine coat of dust over her sheets, but she doesn’t acknowledge it, sitting on the mattress that was always just a little too firm for her taste as a child. It hasn’t aged well and it sags beneath her weight.

Ingrid leans back, falling onto her back on the bed, ignoring the puff of dust that flares in the air around her. She rolls onto her side, towards the far wall that her bed is pressed against and she presses her fingers into the wooden wall. She doesn’t have to search hard for what she’s looking for.

Her fingers clear the dust from the carved crevices and then she’s staring at the carved letters: D, A, and B.

It had been a silly childhood fantasy of hers to serve Dimitri as both a knight and also something more. Her crush had faded quickly once she had become engaged to Glenn.

For the first time since she had set foot in her old home, Ingrid’s eyes grow warm and wet.

Dimitri had fallen in the rain on the Tailtean Plains and Edelgard had taken his head clean off with one swipe of her axe and Ingrid remembers that she had screamed. She hadn’t cried on the battlefield when Felix had died, but she had fallen asleep clutching the old Fraldarius Crest ring that Glenn had given her, dreaming of his brother.

Felix’s death, at least, had been quick. Dimitri had watched his army crumble and his close ally, Dedue, mutate himself into one of the monstrous Crest-beasts.

And then he had lost his head.

Ingrid rolls onto her back and stares up blankly at the ceiling. The last time she had come to Galatea, before she had delivered her ultimatum, she hadn’t been alone in this room.

She had told him to leave, but the only person she had ever known who was stubborn enough to ignore her stayed instead. They had lain side-by-side on her too-small bed, Ingrid’s head resting against his shoulder while his arm wrapped around her. It had been nice.

She wishes that that had been her last memory of Sylvain.

She wishes she could just think of how warm he had been next to her on the bed and how it had felt when he had asked that night in the candlelight if he could kiss her. She wishes she could say that it had been enough for her to hold Sylvain for one night, that she returned to Fhirdiad or to Fraldarius or to Gautier with him to fight on behalf of the Kingdom.

Instead, she lives with the memory of driving Luín through the plates of his armour as she cried on the battlefield at the Tailtean Plains.

Do it yourself, he had said to her. Make it worth it.

She had grounded herself after that, keeping her feet anchored in the sucking mud of the field as she had screamed and cut down anyone, friend or foe, who had tried to get close to her.

Ingrid had buried Sylvain herself and stuck the Lance of Ruin into the earth like a cursed gravemarker.

Lying on her bed, alone, Ingrid imagines Sylvain’s lips on hers and how cold he had felt when she had kissed him then, rain and blood-soaked. Her tears roll down her cheeks and she closes her eyes, listening for the wind as it blows into her home through the windows she had opened on the main floor.

Galatea manor is full of ghosts. Ingrid feels like becoming one of them.

#the writing section #ingrid brandl galatea #fe3h #fe3h fic #g: angst #ship: sylvgrid #sylvgrid #sylgrid #ship: sylgrid #c: ingrid brandl galatea #words: 2.5k+#r: t+#fire emblem three houses #nicole writes

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drjackandmissjo · 4 years

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firewhisky on ice, sunset and vine

you’ve ruined my life by not being mine

Chapter 7— previous chapter — next chapter

Harry Potter fics Masterlist

The message only said ‘URGENT’. It was left on the inside of a book, in the Great Hall, in the place he used to seat at, yet Blaise had no problem understanding who it came from. Opening the cover, he noticed the word scrambled on a piece of parchment in one quick stroke of pencil. He had seen that messy handwriting one too many times not to recognize it immediately, despite its lack of contest.

Sure enough, he raised his eyes towards the Gryffindor table, scanning it quickly and spotting a wild Longbottom, carefully sipping from his cup, brown eyes boring into his. Content of being finally spotted, the Gryffindor threw a cautious wink his way, masquerading it as a cough, before returning to his conversation with Weasley.

Maintaining his posture, he slid into his seat, placing his own books over the incriminating carrier and resuming his previous conversation with Pansy about what they each expected from the first Apparition class the next day.

Dinner passed in a blur, with Blaise not really paying attention to the topics that were discussed over the table, giving some meaningless responses whenever he thought appropriate. Nobody questioned his behaviour, not entirely uncharacteristic: it wasn’t that uncommon, for the majority of Slytherins, to appear distant and lost in thought, especially after a long and tiring day.

His attention peaked several times, when a bright and cursed laugh came from the Gryffindor table as an idiot doubled himself over the table at something his friends said: Pansy would then throw him an all-knowing, infuriating glance, which Blaise tried his hardest to ignore and to not respond to the provocation.

Since his truthful moment back on the train, she had been an absolute nightmare. She had begun bombarding him with questions about various boys, which she thought would be perfect for him. In the end, he was forced to admit the full truth when she all but organized a date with Justin Finch-Fletchley, who just happened to be out as well. Her initial reaction was horror at the idea of her friend dating a Gryffindor, which was integrally unacceptable, but then her face distorted into a wicked smile. “You know, I can definitely see it. He’s got a great arse and those biceps, don’t even get me started.”

He had come extremely close to hexing her, which would’ve cause a detention but would’ve also partially erased his headache, were it not for Millicent capturing their attention and distracting Blaise from his task. But now, all his previous fury resumed at the smirk the witch threw his way whenever he raised his head to check the other table.

“You okay, Zabini? You seem tense…” she hummed, toying with her fork and twisting the food on her plate, raising a mocking eyebrow at him. He threw her his best murderous glance, plastering a fake smile on his lips as he forcefully shoved a bite into his mouth, to occupy himself with something other than the thought of stabbing her.

“You should smile more, Blaise, someone might fall in love with you” she hummed again, taking a sip off her pumpkin juice. Yes, he was definitely stabbing the little bitch. “As long as he keeps that constipated face on, doubt anyone will be brave enough to even look at him for too long” commented jokingly Theo, elbowing him in the sides. “Che cazzo, the irony” Blaise thought, slightly panicking inside as he laughed at the joke, mentally facepalming as the vixen in front of him spread her blood red lips into a vicious grin.

“Theo’s got a point, mate” Draco intervened, leaning his chin on Blaise’s books, sighing and poking holes at Saint Potter’s back, “You guys gotta check on him, he’s onto me” he then added after a moment, jerking his head towards the Gryffindor seeker.

“You mean onto or into?” asked Pansy, raising the question that everyone at the table knew the answer to, despite it never been voiced by the direct interested party. “Why would he be into me?” fired back the blond, his voice raising ten different octaves higher and eyes widening almost comically. “You want him to be into you?” enquired Blaise, folding his arms over his chest as he leaned back on his chair, focusing once again on his own Gryffindor, that was now saying his farewells to his housemates. He slowly followed the departing boy with his eyes, noticing how he held a book on his hands, full on display for Blaise to see. Somehow, it clicked: the note had no meeting location, after all, and therefore he had had to come up with a rather clever idea to share his idea. Confusing, but still clever.

Blaise desperately needed to be sure of his intuition and prayed on Merlin that it was actually true.

“Why would I want that arrogant and vaniteux idiot to be into me?” continued Draco, but Blaise was already raising on his feet and grabbing his books.

“My apologies, cretini” he said, fixing his tie and giving Pansy a pointed glare, “regardless of the heights of this conversation I must depart.” The vixen then nodded once and with that he fleeted the Great Hall, followed by a very high pitched scream the witch exclaimed at him: “TELL ME HOW IT GOES OR I’LL CURSE YOU!” she yelled, earning a middle finger in response.

***

The book belonged to the second to last rows in the library, almost near the Restricted Section. It was a History manual about the Goblin Rebellion of 1612 and Blaise hoped that he would find something interesting, returning it to its original spot.

The library was empty, not even Madame Pince was there to complain about the echo his shoes made on the marble floor.

He had to admit that it was probably one of the smartest plans he’d taken parts in that year, well-constructed and articulated. That was, of course, if he had recognized the clues properly. If not, it was damned Longbottom’s fault for sending his heart in such a frenzy, truth to be told.

He stopped at the beginning of the row, checking once more the empty corridor behind him, before turning towards his destination.

He was there, casually sitting on a nook on the window and reading a book. As soon as Blaise stepped towards him, the Gryffindor raised his head and gave him a blinding smile. “Sweet suffering Salazar” his mind repeated endlessly as he approached, forcing his legs not to be rooted on the ground and trying not to embarrass himself.

“You came!” Longbottom exclaimed, closing his book and jumping on his feet, seeming more like an overly-excited puppy than a wizard. It took all of Blaise’s will power not to melt into a puddle at the cuteness in front of him, and he was rather proud of the un-shakiness of his voice as he asked: “Are you surprised?”, maintaining his tone cool and calm.

“More like relieved” the Gryffindor replied, scratching the back of his neck as he nervously chuckled, “I knew I was vague but I couldn’t exactly owl you, so I had to improvise” he added sheepishly, worriedly toying with the book in his hands.

Unable to resist the urge to tease the boy in front of him, Blaise slid his hands into his pockets and leaned against the bookcase behind him, willing an aura of confidence to surround him: “Do you always create such complicated plans whenever you can’t send a letter to someone?” he pondered out loud, his voice dripping cockiness. The few words that Longbottom said then utterly wrecked him.

“Only for important people” he whispered, almost mostly to himself yet loud enough for Blaise to hear and completely lose his mind.

He was stunned, under a spell, shocked and paralyzed, all at once: had he really just admitted that, casually, in the fucking library? Was that the urgent thing that they had to discuss? He desperately needed to know.

But Longbottom looked borderline uncomfortable and he couldn’t bring himself to raise such a delicate topic at the moment. “Anyway…” he coughed, trying to mask his internal turmoil, “What was so urgent that couldn’t wait tomorrow?”

Longbottom then did another thing that sent Blaise’s brain into a day off: he smiled timidly, putting his book down and toying with his fingers. “I think you’d wanna sit down for this…” he then added quickly, motioning emphatically towards the little nook on the window that was previously occupied by the Gryffindor. “Should I be worried?” asked Blaise, raising an eyebrow and huffing out a quickly laugh as he did what he was told. Longbottom fully laughed at that, as quietly as he could, considering they were still in the library. “No, don’t think so” he said, shaking his head and beginning to shift his weight from foot to foot rather annoyingly. “Then could you stop bouncing? It’s kinda off-putting and distracting” Blaise told him, almost emotionlessly as his mind fired: “Just like everything else you do but that’s another point, how the fuck can I concentrate on anything when I’m around this giant beau!”

“Oh. Sorry” he murmured, mindful of his surroundings, “Godric, I’m just excited!”. He went back to scratching his neck once more, before sighing, and finally he spoke: “Okay, so. Professor McGonagall asked me to remain after class cause she wanted to talk to me, you noticed?” he asked, pulling a face at the memory. “Really? I didn’t really pay attention…” Blaise said, faking nonchalance and waving his hand in a motion for Longbottom to continue with his little speech, while his mind yelled: “OF COURSE I NOTICED, MY HEART POUNDED LIKE CRAZY FOR YOU ASSHOLE”, but the Gryffindor didn’t need to know that particular minor detail.

“Well, turns out she was curious about my progress on Transfiguration. I apparently got an E on the revision of Standard Conjuring Spells and an A on the practical part! She had questions about how I’ve gotten this better and I kinda told her you’re helping me study. Hope it doesn’t upset you. Fuck I didn’t really consider that you might not want her knowing any of this, I just panicked and told her the truth also cause, duh, it’s Professor McGonagall and I can’t lie to her face and she just looked so proud and…”

Blaise couldn’t stand it anymore.

He bolted up to his feet, thus interrupting the Gryffindor mid-rant and marched quickly to where the other boy stood. Longbottom was looking at him with an expression of pure dread and began to nervously glance around them to check if anyone was nearby. He came to a stop right inside the other’s personal space, a few centimetres short off in their impromptu standoff. A bewildered Gryffindor was now staring down at him, ready to voice any complaints he might’ve had.

But he didn’t have the time: Blaise grabbed his red and golden tie and, casting a rapid glance behind the taller boy, leaned in, bringing Longbottom’s face slightly down, meeting him in between and closing his eyes.

For a split of a second neither moved; Blaise remained frozen in time, wondering when the axe would drop. He had just kissed a boy, after all, which was not something one was supposed to do, and said boy was a Gryffindor, which meant that, no matter how ‘weak’ or non-violent he might be, he would be able to throw a mean right hook that would’ve left Blaise unconscious on the library floor.

For a moment he waited, unable to deepen the kiss or remove himself from the situation. When enough was enough, though, he leaned slightly backwards and began to open his eyes, apology ready on the tip of his tongue.

Until he could feel a pair of strong arms wrap around his middle and a soft pair of lips pushing against his own, resuming the previous interrupted act and deepening the kiss. Blaise’s body melted right into Longbottom’s, his mind going completely blank: he could feel the warm and slightly chapped lips brushing against his, felt the Gryffindor’s torso tilting against his and faintly bowing him backwards. He hadn’t realized his legs were moving until his back hit a bookcase, books rattling on their shelves.

It was Blaise’s turn now to wrap his arms around the other boy, placing them on his neck and tucking his hands on his hair. “I knew they were soft!” he thought, tilting his head to the side and biting Longbottom’s bottom lip. He couldn’t believe it, what was happening, nor when, nor with whom. Yet his mind didn’t retain a single concept, not when the Gryffindor exhaled a shaky breath whenever they resurfaced from each other for air, only to be sucked once again in each other’s lips.

During their previous year, the Weasley twins had decided to create a spectacle made of fireworks: the ones that now exploded beyond Blaise’s eyes burned brighter and were much more vibrant. The entire world stopped right at them and he wouldn’t have cared if the school collapsed to the ground burning, not when Longbottom moved his lips down his jawline, nibbling at every patch of skin he found.

Blaise’s hands began roaming down his back as the Gryffindor resumed his path upwards to return to his lips. Each new brush was more vigorous than the previous one and Blaise was entirely lost in the sensation of the soft yet demanding touch. He was incredibly grateful for the support the bookcase gave him, for his legs were about to give up.

Longbottom’s hands didn’t stay idly either: they roamed up and down his sides, grabbing his tie and undoing it as his teeth grazed Blaise’s bottom lip, rendering him completely breathless and headless. Appreciative sounds exited from both their mouths as they moved closer, bodies fully pressed against one another as their tongues battled for dominance in their dangerous dance.

He had just moved his hands back into their original place, tugging at the short and soft blonde strains as Longbottom deepened their kiss once more, when they heard the faint clicking of heels against the marble floor. The Gryffindor jumped immediately back, turning around and going to sit at the window, resuming his reading hastily, as nothing had happened. Blaise did his best to recompose himself, passing a hand over his face to ground himself to reality and turning around to browse the shelves that they had just disrupted, as steps echoed closer and closer.

Surely enough, Madame Pince rounded the corner, bearing a thunderous expression. He was pretty sure they had been fairly quiet and hadn’t been heard, but he couldn’t be certain.

“What are you doing here?” asked the old librarian sternly. Blaise simply shrugged and resumed his browsing, not trusting his voice not to quiver after the tumultuous event, but he heard the Gryffindor reply in a flat tone: “Nothing Madame, I was just reading” he said, raising his book as proof. She seemed to buy their circumstantial lie and left the scene stoutly, loudly reminding them that the library hours were about to finish.

For someone so strict on silence, she screamed like a baby mandrake.

“Since when do I think in herbology metaphors? This boy is gonna be the death of me” he thought as soon as she had fleeted the scene, smiling softly as he turned around to face the equally sheepishly looking boy seated nearby, who had left his book on the windowsill and had risen up, walking towards Blaise. He stopped a mere inch away, so close that Blaise could feel his shaky breath. His fingers itched to grab the Gryffindor’s tie and turn the tables, push him against the bookcase, but the fear of Madame Pince showing up once again restrained him from acting on his impulses.

Instead, he simply stared bewildered at the boy in front of him, smiling tenderly down at him.

“So…” he started quietly, unsure of what path to take: it was clear that Longbottom wasn’t going to punch him into the infirmary any time soon, but dread and doubt crept up in Blaise’s stomach. Despite a great snogging moment, rejection could still come and hurt like a thousand cuts drenched in lime and salt.

The Gryffindor raised his hands up and quietly adjusted Blaise’s tie, nervously biting his bottom lip as they remained on his shoulders, waiting. It was then that Blaise took in fully the boy in front of him: hair totally askew and seemingly windswept, cheeks rosy and lips swollen and red, a smile that was so small yet so blinding.

He couldn’t resist the urge any longer and leaned once again forward, peeking lightly Longbottom’s lips and retracting suddenly. That elicited a bubbly laugh from the blonde boy, so contagious that had Blaise joining without him meaning to. All the nervousness was immediately erased from his body and a soft feeling of calm and content replaced it.

“Guess this is a good time as any to tell you I like you” he whispered, feeling his cheeks heat up at the admission as a smile spread wild and carefree on his lips. Longbottom huffed up a laugh, arms slighting down his own and grabbing Blaise’s hands in his tenderly, “Well I sure hope so, after all we just risked being banned for the rest of the semester from the library to snog!” he said back, interlacing their fingers and shaking his head delicately gently. “It was your idea to meet here” rebutted Blaise, sounding offended for the sake of their banter, but actually smiling the most he had in weeks.

“Yeah but you started it!” He rolled his eyes at that, “Are you always this childish?” he asked as a wave of affection washed over him. Longbottom had a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he said, in the most expressionless face possible: “Only after being thoroughly snogged.”

Blaise could physically feel all his blood leave his brain to go downwards. “When did you figure out?” he asked after a few moments, while he regained control over his thoughts. “That I fancied you? After you offered to tutor me. That I go both ways? Before you asked me to tutor you. You?” “Remember the first day of Transfiguration?”, Longbottom nodded his affirmation, eyes sparkling as he urged silently Blaise to continue, “I guess I seemed rude most of the time but I was trying not to get caught staring.”

The Gryffindor laughed openly at that, dropping his head on Blaise’s shoulder and spreading warmth all over his upper torso at the contact “Yeah about that, Dean was afraid you were gonna hex me the first week. Glad it didn’t happen” he added, choosing to remain in that little nook and to caress Blaise’s neck with his lips for good measure. “So…” he asked eventually, when the temperature under his robes became too unbearable. Longbottom removed himself from Blaise, much to his displeasure, and went to sit back on the windowsill, bringing Blaise with him. “What shall we do, good sir?” he asked once they were both seated, fingers still intertwined and playing mindlessly with one another’s.

He literally had no idea: all his plans started and finished with him trying to woo the boy next to him, never once imagining the possibility of this reality happening. He still wasn’t quite sure it wasn’t a dream. “I don’t know, Longbottom” he admitted truthfully, before continuing, a wicked plan forming in his mind: “Seems like a good idea to find somewhere more private and resume our previous activity, from where we were interrupted.” “I had my tongue in your mouth, you can call me Neville” he said with such an eager tone that Blaise had to momentarily shut down, unable to proceed anywhere.

“Neville” he mouthed silently, savouring the way the syllables rolled off his tongue. “And as much as I’d love to just follow down that path, I’m afraid I have to go back to my common room” he continued, bringing Blaise back to their current situation, embarrassed at the suggestion he had made in the first place. “Oh. Yes, definitely a smart move” he agreed, trying to avoid his displeasure from showing on his features or on his tone.

But Longbottom Neville seemed also wanting to continue their conversation a bit longer, for he made no attempt at leaving. “Before we part ways, though, are we gonna do this?” Blaise asked quickly, motioning in between them and hoping his intentions were clear. He was definitely in head over heels for the boy, even if he didn’t particularly needed to know at the moment, and he wanted to know whether or not to begin planning awfully complicated plans for them to interact without arousing any suspicions.

“Hopefully yes” blurted out Neville, looking immensely relieved about the topic that had just been brought up, “I do like you a lot and from what I’ve gathered you like me so, yeah definitely!” Blaise erupted into a genuine smile, pleased with the answer, “Good.” He then added, in an afterthought, “But I don’t think we can tell people just yet.” Neville shook his head vehemently at that, clearly agreeing, “Are you kidding me? We’re a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, no one must ever know! It’s such a scandal” he said in a ushered and conspirator tone. “We’re definitely Romeo and Giulietta” Blaise added in the same voice, managing to hide the nervousness behind his words: despite their mocking attitude, it was a serious situation that might’ve brought both of them in serious trouble, mainly due not to their Hogwarts houses. “Didn’t peg you for a muggle literature connoisseur” Neville admitted, raising an eyebrow and effectively bringing Blaise out of his dark thoughts. “My mom made me read it. To be fair, it’s the worst tragedy ever, I prefer Macbeth.”

“Guess I’ll have to read it and tell you how it is” Neville said, then: “Just so you know, Luna, Ginny and Harry all knew I liked you and listened to me ramble about whether or not you liked me back, so if I shut up out of the blue they’ll get suspicious” he confessed, worrying his bottom lip. Blaise was familiar with the situation. “Pansy’s the same” he confessed, earning a blush from the blonde boy. “I think we gotta tell them” he said finally, turning fully to Neville to study his reaction. The Gryffindor now looked at their hands, still linked together, with a warm smile. He then nodded his agreement, “Smart move, also it serves good for when someone’s gotta cover for us” he finished his sentence with a wink, another thing that shortcutted Blaise’s brain and deprived it of the very much needed blood. “Awesome!” he stumbled over the first word that crossed his mind, trying hard not to become a bubbling mess. “I really think we should go…” he eventually said, when the fear of being discovered creeped up once more after the initial euphoria had worn off. “Yeah” Neville agreed, stretching his legs in front of him before raising up, “See you tomorrow for our lessons, then” he said, leaning down to quickly leave a gracious peck on Blaise’s cheek, “I’ve got some pointers you definitely need for the next essay that haven’t stuck out in your brain so far, so we’ll go over those first.”

And with that, he left, with Blaise remaining behind for the necessary and customary time Pansy had told him about: “After a snog or a shag, either you leave first or you wait two minutes and a half” she had instructed their previous year, yet the notion hadn’t been useful until then.

When the time went up, he rose from the little nook on the windowsill and began to leave the library as well, clutching tightly the History manual about the Goblin Rebellion of 1612.

Ta-dan! GLOSSARY:

"Che cazzo" means 'What the fuck', but depending on the context it can slightly change it. In this case it's more like alongside the lines of 'Holy shit' or You gotta be kidding me'

"Vaniteux" is French for 'conceited'

"Cretini" means 'idiots'

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