#he is ugly. he is awful. he looks like a crumpled blanket | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

plush-rabbit · 3 years

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Maybe I'm The Problem

Warnings: Vent Fic so emotions, i guess?? reader is sensitive so there's that

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: Holidays aren’t fun

You’re cold. You cling to the blanket, pulling it closer to you, desperate for the warmth that it brings and the comfort that it will provide. You rest at the headboard of the bed, your legs pinched close to your body and your arms wrapped around your legs. The fan blows cool air, chills pricking at your body and when the air conditioner hums to life, you slouch, digging yourself deeper into the bed, the blanket squished between you and yourself.

Outside of your room, you can hear cars pass by. It’s gentle, cars that pass by, the rustle of leaves outside of your window and the occasional laughter that has managed to make its way to your window. The day is ending and your eyes are heavy with fatigue but you still can’t bring yourself to sleep yet. For some reason, you stay awake, you force yourself to keep your eyes open despite the pain in your head that has grown sharper as the minutes go by. A yawn makes your mouth stretch and tears prick at your eyes and long after you’ve stopped, the tears stay there.

Your phone buzzes beside you, the music interrupted by the noise and when you glance down, you roll your eyes. It’s a simple message from the group chat. You have the audacity to feel annoyed, to scowl and sulk, to bite the inside of your cheeks until your molars ache and the soft skin is riddled with cuts. You hate that you feel annoyed at the thought of them, that you don’t want to respond to them, but you’re tired. You’ve had a long day and it doesn’t seem to end by your own fault, and you’re afraid to burden them with your own issues.

There’s a slam of your front door and you take a sharp gasp, your eyes stuck to your closed door. Something twists in your stomach and after a brief pause, you wipe your tears with your knuckles, drying your face with the palms of your hands as you try to regain a sense of control of your breathing. You can hear him call your name, his steps echoing in your home, the light in the hallway shining underneath the crack of your door and his shadow moving closer to you. Something is lodged in your throat and tears spring to your eyes and you blink them away, ignoring the way they burn in your eyes. The door swings open, and at your doorway is a pale man with ashy skin, scars that edge deep into his skin with a crooked nose and bright eyes. He smiles at you, wide and eager, and he closes the door behind him, the light on the hallway still on.

“Hey,” Tomura tells you, walking closer to you, slipping his coat off and letting it hang on the back of your swivel hair. “Sorry for the sudden visit but I-” he stops in his tracks, his smile falling as he blinks owlishly at you. Are you okay?” He rushes to your side, holding your face in his hands, the gloves that he wears soft on your skin as the fingers that are exposed press deeply into you. You can feel tears brim over your eyes and drip past your lashes. “Did something happen?”

You know you can talk to him. You two have shared with each other things that are more personal, that are more intimate, and yet, you can’t find a way to tell him your problems right now. You can’t be a burden to him; not when he has his own issues- things that are much bigger than him than you and your sensitive heart. You shake your head, your mouth dry and you pull away from him. His hands drift from you, ghosting over your skin until you’re pressed against the headboard, far away from him.

With tears that still seem to linger and a throat filled with feelings that you can’t explain or linger on for too long, you turn your head away from him, your eyes landing on an abandoned stuffed animal. “It’s nothing,” you whisper. “I’m fine- I’m okay, Tomura.” You cross your arms over your chest and you hope that the act of defiance is enough for him to drop it- to just ignore you and act as if he hasn’t seen you in despair. You isolate yourself from him, pulling away from his touch and the way that he wants to comfort you. You push him away and a part of you hopes that it’ll work.

The bed creaks and his leg brushes over yours. He sits beside you, his hand turned over as his palm looks at the ceiling as he turns to speak to you once more. “Okay,” he tells you in a melancholic tone.

It’s quiet for a minute, for a minute that stretches into silence and makes your face burn. It’s silent, the room heavy with tension and you can’t look at him, not when he’s sitting so close and offering his hand to you. His eyes are on you, steady and half-lidded, and his expression reads that he does not believe you. Despite the look, you try not to cry and force a smile on your lips but it feels much more like a grimace, much more like pain than anything happy. You pull your lips thin and roll them once you realize how awful you must look to him right now. You turn away from him, hiding your face and even then it's a lackluster try. His eyes remain on you and you can feel the pity. It’s horrible; it leaves your stomach feeling as if it’s being twisted, a horrible burning sensation that burns your chest and face, making you more uncomfortable than you already are.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t keep the tears out of your eyes. They still form, your chest struggling to take even breaths and you have to cover your mouth in order to exhale without him seeing just how horrid you look. A part of you doesn’t want him to turn away, would prefer if he stayed looking at you in order to see just how awful you look. You want him to hold you, to promise you that everything will be okay as you cry. You want him to take pity on you and at the same time, you want nothing more than for him to walk away, to turn a blind eye to you and ignore you. You want a reason to cry, something other than just “holidays not being a good thing for you” and yet, you can’t bring yourself to do that. You feel awful, having such a silly reason to cry over and you want something more, something bigger and something more painful. You want your neck to be slit, to have blood pour out and stain your being, to have a reason to cry. You want to be hurt, to fall to your knees and cry until your throat is sore and your chest aches from every struggling breath that you tried to take in. You want to be hurt and you want to be held and ignored. You want him to reach out to you despite the rejection and show that he still cares for you in all of your ugliness. It’s selfish of you and you realize that.

You sit at the bed, staring up at him and when he inches closer to you, your lips tremble and you begin to cry. You take a shaky breath, your lips ache from the frown that has been stitched on, and tears slide down the curve of your face before you start to sob. You cover your face with your hands, your palms pressed against your lips, and your eyes shut tight as your body is ruined with sobs.

The inside of your cheeks ache from where your teeth had dug into them, sensitive spots that bead with the taste of scarlet and make your mouth bitter with hatred. You call out to him, shaking your head. His name is sullied by your lips, heavy and full of heartache, broken with sobs and muted by the palms of your hands. A part of you still wants him to deny you, to hear the bed creak and the door close. You want to be coddled, to be held and told that you are something- that you have worth that isn’t just for the sake of others. But you remain cold. You remain empty and alone and the feeling is worse than anything else you have ever felt. Your heart races, pounding against your chest, the blanket heavy on your lap as you cry.

His hands are on your shoulders, light as his fingertips press into you. For a moment, he rests there until his hands flutter away, leaving your skin burning where he once touched. They return to wrap around your wrists, pulling your hands away and you stare at him, bare and vulnerable. You wonder how you must look in his eyes, if he still sees you as he always has and the thought of your image changing in his eyes makes you want to cry even more.

His tongue peeks out to wet his lips and he inches closer to you, dropping your wrists and sitting beside you. Your hands twitch, scratching at the blanket with little gasps of breath escaping you. “Is it okay if I hug you?” Tomura asks, his hands twitching, fingers curling and spreading out. “Please?”

Unable to trust your voice, you nod your head, your lips pulled into a line and your eyes spilling over with tears. His arms are around you and he holds you tight. The embrace is awkward, bones and joints pressed into each other, the blanket a now crumpled up mess between the two of you. You can feel him fix himself, moving slightly closer to you and pulling you closer to him, grabbing your legs and hooking them over his, his hands letting go of your shirt to cradle you gently, holding you close and rocking you.

You’re a tragedy, a story that is made for pain, for tears to be shed and heart to be heavy. You’re a protagonist of your own world, but you’re alone. There is someone who is willing to talk to you, to speak to you and hold you, to ignore your passive attempts of forcing him to leave and yet you can’t speak to him. You cry, you sob, you let tears and hiccups rack through your body, and you cling to him, desperate for him to hold you with the same intensity that you crave and give.

The terrible thing about crying is the pain that it comes with- the sobs that shake your body and the tears that burn you. You hold onto him, ashamed and insecure. You don’t want him to see you this way, you never did. It’s one thing to cry out of his own safety, out of worry for him, but it’s another thing to shed tears for when it’s just about you and your sensitive self. You hate how deprived you become, how you cling to him and sob onto him, your hands fisting the clothes on his back until they are wrinkled in your monstrous hands.

His breath is weak against your ear, his nose nudged against the shell of your ear. “Do you want to talk about it?” You hold him tighter in response and push your face into the curve of his neck, wetting his skin with your tears. “Okay,” he sighs, his hands moving slowly against your back. “That’s okay.” His lips press against the side of your head, lingering for a moment and pulling away. “That’s okay, too.”

How do you explain to a man who was ruined by the people in his life that you’re crying because it hurts, because you’re the punchline; how do you look at him without shame when you’ve simply gotten your feelings hurt.

You tears slowly dry out, all that’s left is sniffles and wet tear stains against the both of you. Your eyelids are heavy, your body weary and you’re just tired. It’s been a long day, and you aren’t sure where to start, you aren’t even sure that there’s a proper way to start. You know that if you were to tell him why, that if you would explain that you’re tired and sensitive, that through all the stuttering and choked up words, he would understand. You know he would do his best to understand and to hold anything over your head. And you can’t bring yourself to do that, you can’t tell him. You’re a crybaby, a sensitive one who cries with every emotion, whose body shakes and throat becomes sore; one who hurts themselves and wishes for pain simply because then you would have a reason to cry, you would feel validated.

His hand curves over the back of your head, and you can feel his pulse quicken when your hands slip to his chest, curving over him and rising above to hold him by the neck, your hands soft and warm, caressing his skin as your breath whispers over him. You hide your face from him when you rise, letting your hands fall from him and he moves to rest on his back, his arms open as they welcome you in for a hug. He holds you, your arms wrapped around his midsection and his hand racing odd shapes against your side.

He takes in a breath and blows out warm air. His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth and his fingers still for a moment. He lets out a low, shaky breath, his hands clasping around you, fingers pressed into you. “Do you need anything? I- I know that I can’t- that you might not want to talk about it but I could still help.” His voice lowers at the end, unsure and passive. “I can help,” he says more to himself than to you.

You swallow the little spit in your mouth. “You- I just-” you take a deep breath, ragged and left with a left whine at the end- “I don’t want to be alone. Just stay with me until I fall asleep, okay? I’ll- I’ll treat you to breakfast or dinner- whatever you want, Tomura. Just don’t leave me alone, okay?” Tears mark themselves against you, leaving you ruined, and you cling closer to him when he turns his body to envelop you into a hug, his lips are scratchy and chapped against your forehead, kissing you gently and holding you tight.

“I’ll stay.” His lips kiss at you again. “I promise I’ll stay.” Silence lingers between the two of you, your body calming down once more. “Do you know why I came over?” You shake your head, trying to peer up but only meeting black cloth. “I wanted to see you. Sometimes, I just miss you. I think about you and I think, ‘Wow, this meeting wouldn’t suck so much if they were here.’” Your body burns at his confession and you can feel the corners of your lips tilting upwards. “You told me I could come over whenever I wanted, right? Do you remember that you told me that?” You lick your lips and nod your head. “I decided to do just that. Come over and see you.” He pauses for a moment. “I’m glad that I came to see you. I like seeing you.”

He comforts you in the way that he can. He holds you and tells you that he misses you, and in this moment, that’s all that you need. You need to know that you’re more than just a burden, that you’re more than a simple problem to the people that you’re close with. “I like seeing you too,” you tell him, and while your voice cracks and your throat becomes constricted, you repeat yourself. “I- Tomura, I really appreciate you. I don’t think I tell you that enough, but I do. I’m glad that you’re here.”

The bed creaks, a low whine and your side is cold, the side of your face marked with the wrinkles of his shirt and he looks at you and you look at him. His smile is soft, a corner of it stretched up, and he sniffles, his nose scrunching up and he nods to your statement. “I’m glad that you let me be here.” He lowers his head and kisses above a brow, pulling away and closing the space between you, letting his fingers run down your spine and on your back. “I want to be here with you and if you would rather not talk about anything, that’s okay, but just know that I’m willing to decay if you want me to.”

He says it in such a casual tone that you let out a snort, the smile on your face loose and crooked, your head shaking as he lets out a chuckle. “I’m tempted, but I’ll refuse the offer for now, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, his voice lilting as he continues on. “The offer will always be there for you, you know that.” The smile is evident on his voice, his hands once against roaming down your back. “Don’t forget that. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Just say the word.” He speaks with such a serious tone, and you know that he means it, and the thought is comforting. You kiss what you can, your lips against his neck for a moment before you pull away. “Just rest for now, okay? I’ll be here when you wake up.”

#bnha #bnha fanfiction #shigaraki headcanons #mha shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #boku no hero academia shigaraki #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki imagine #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x reader #i am not a fan of gatherings lmao #other things will come out tomorrow but #sunday bled into today and i hate it

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graymatters · 3 years

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Men of Routine

For @drarrymicrofic's prompt, Sunrise. Instead of my usual habit of writing a microfic and expanding later, I took the plunge and wrote 1k off the bat. Hopefully, this one will let me be, instead of haunting me for days (although my tattooed!Draco is shaking his head at me, telling me I don't stand a chance).

Also on AO3.

Every morning, Harry finds Draco in the tattered velvet chair at the front window of Grimmauld Place. On the day Draco moved in, he strode through the front door, boxes and bags levitating neatly behind him. One box, denoted as fragile in a loopy script, fell from the air when Draco caught sight of Harry shrinking the armchair for the trash. “What in Salazar’s name are you doing?” he’d asked, eyes wide in disbelief. “It’s an antique; you can’t just toss it in the bin like a crumpled napkin.”

Draco spent a few days reading up on furniture restoration spells, and before long, the chair was good as new, no longer splitting at the seams and its deep cerulean velvet, smooth and unstained. A couple of decades later, that chair is still a staple of Draco’s morning routine. Occasionally, when he’s feeling a bit prickly, he likes to remind Harry that he almost threw it away.

In the heavy heat of the summers, Draco lounges in his chair and squints at the glare of the rising sun, his hair fluttering in the breeze that pours through the open windows. Under the blanket of winter, he brings a quilt with him, gifted from Molly at his first Weasley Christmas. He dismisses the early morning darkness with a careless Lumos tossed into the corner, and flicks his wrist at the hearth to fill the cracks in the floor with a warm, dry heat.

Some mornings, Draco flips through The Prophet with his ankles crossed properly in front of him; others, he tucks into a muggle novel, his long legs criss-crossed and contorted beneath him. Occasionally, and more often in recent years, he dozes off with his arm tucked under his head, not yet ready to face the day.

Today, he wrinkles his brow at a muggle book about the microbiome, meaningless to Harry, and the early summer sun dusts a pale yellow light over Draco’s fine, gray hair. His thin wire glasses are perched on the bony bridge of his nose as he hunches over the book in his lap. Harry leans over the stair railing, admiring the way the light highlights Draco’s softened cheekbones, and thinks about the other ways Draco has softened over the years.

Harry spots the fading tattoo on Draco’s collarbone, peeking out from his open collar. The inky dragon’s tail flits lazily across his thin, pale skin, occasionally flicking up towards Draco’s neck. Laced with charms, the magical ink is opalescent in the morning light.

Harry smiles at the memory of Draco gripping his hand in the tattoo parlor, knuckles white and jaw stiff, as the artist etched the pearly ink across one of his iridescent scars. “Making lemonade,” he’d gritted out, eyes determined but misty. “It’ll make the scales even shinier.” Harry had rubbed his thumb over the gallop of Draco’s pulse and watched a piece of their ugly past transform into something beautiful, something new.

When the ink was fresh, Draco complained relentlessly about the near-constant tickling sensation as the restless Antipodean Opaleye came to life across his skin. Now, Harry probably notices the little movements more than Draco does, still enraptured by the dragon’s shimmering scales when the sun hits them just right.

A step creaks under his feet as Harry lazes down the rest of the stairs, muffling a yawn and scratching an itch between his shoulder blades. Draco glances up at the sound and unashamedly smooths his gaze over Harry’s body beneath his barely-there pajamas. The cheeky glint in Draco’s eye fades to reluctant amusement when Harry sticks his tongue out for no reason at all.

With an extended hand, Draco offers a sip of coffee from his favorite mug, allowing his fingers to graze Harry’s when he relinquishes the warm cup. Draco’s crow’s feet deepen when he smiles, and, as it does every morning, the sight beckons a pleasant puff of air from Harry’s lungs.

Harry turns the mug in his hands and huffs at the moving picture of his younger self, plastered on the cup, smiling awkwardly and hair wild as ever. It’s one of four in a collection George and Ron released, The Boy Who Lived to Drink. The day the mugs released, Draco had strolled down Diagon, howling and carelessly swinging his shopping bag at his side. “I couldn’t help myself… I’ve bought two of each,” he’d snorted, pulling one of the ridiculous mugs from the bag and admiring the looped photo of Harry trying to look graceful on a broom. “These are so awful, they’re brilliant,” he’d cackled. “Don’t you dare tell the Weasel I’ve said that.”

Harry takes a sip of coffee and swishes the sweet, milky liquid in his mouth before swallowing. “I looked pretty sexy back then, don’t you think?” Harry asks, rotating the cup so Draco can see his image grimace at a camera flash. They both know Harry’s fishing for a compliment. Neither cares.

“I’d argue you’re even sexier, now,” Draco smiles, always with the right answer. He pats Harry on the bum in affirmation, but Harry recognizes the unspoken request for his coffee to be returned. Harry hands the mug over without protest and peers at the open book in Draco’s lap.

“Prevotella, hm?”

“Mm, indeed,” Draco affirms, offering no more. Harry scoffs, and Draco counters, “All right, would you like a lecture on how various gut flora impact the absorption and creation of essential vitamins?”

“I could watch you talk about anything,” Harry smiles, only half-listening as he admires the movement of Draco’s lips.

“Watch does not equal listen,” Draco smirks and tugs at Harry’s wrist. “But I appreciate the effort.”

Harry leans into the pull and captures Draco’s lips in a slow and easy morning kiss, perfect despite their chapped lips and morning breath. Perfect, perhaps, because of them.

“Jam on your toast?” Harry asks as he pulls away, even though he already knows the answer.

“Marmite, if we have any left.” Draco grins, thanks Harry with a peck on the cheek, and tucks his nose back into his book. Harry reaches to thread his fingers through Draco’s hair and presses a kiss to the top of his head. He lingers a moment, grateful for his morning view, and turns to amble towards the kitchen for a cup of English Breakfast and toast.

#drarry #drarry microfic #domestic fluff #Slice of Life #tattooed!draco #older drarry #my writing

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shintorikhazumi · 3 years

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“Daydream.”

A/N: I have NOT written in a while. Or posted rather. It’s been.... a month??? I’m sorry. It’s been.. hard. I also have summer classes which are slowly choking me. Yey.

Anyway, I hope... you all enjoy? I think I’m rusty. There are a lotta plotholes and some... hhrnnghh characterization that i feel iffy about. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Anywhooooo. Thank you to my lovely platonic crushie @tanuki-pyon hihi for allowing me to use your drawing for inspiration ;-;. Thank youuu <3 Hope you like this.

Enjoy?

~Shintori Khazumi

It is a bustling city, full of life and vivid color. The songs of the late afternoon played- their notes produced by that independent street musician, backed by the passing cars beneath the balcony, the rhythmic dripping of a loose faucet in the bath, and the rustle of leaves caused by a passing breeze that caresses her cheek.

Life, color, music, and a touch.

They all paint a particular picture- one of wine-red eyes, and a charming smile; brown locks that she had tucked behind a heated ear, adorned with exotic jewelry she had purchased for her.

As she draws the cup away from her lips, she sighs in contentment, the distinctive taste of Boldo tea and the dimming rays of light blanketing the expanse of what she could see making her smile bittersweet.

It's getting late.

She knows she has to finish her packing. After all, this fleeting vacation is a dream she'd have to wake up from, come the morning rays of tomorrow. It was short-lived, but she'd like to think these few moments in the city or Buenos Aires are moments worth remembering forever.

Even if there was a possibility that they were but a daydream.

That she is her daydream.

Her phone rings, and she sighs a different sigh. It's one of disappointment and reluctance as walks into the room, swiping the blinking gadget off the table. She taps the green icon, placing the device by her ear, eyes dulling as she listens to the speaker on the other end with poorly-veiled disinterest.

["-Are you listening?! Do you understand? The moment you step off that plane, your fiance will be there to greet you. Then he will drive you to work, and you will-"]

Her face contorts in disgust at the statement. "He's not my fiance." She says, voice cold and adamant.

["Diana! How could you say that- about Andrew Hanbridge, no less! The man who has not once given up on you, unlike all the other low-life suitors out there. He's rich, intelligent, charming, and well-mannered."]

Diana scoffs at the very first descriptor of the man she was to marry supposedly. 'Rich'. Of course he had to be.

"Listen here, and listen well. You've been off on these silly trips, writing god knows what for well over ten years. It's time you grew up and got married, and inherited the corporation!"

Diana grits her teeth, hands crumpling a few papers on the table. She immediately regrets that action as she realizes her manuscripts now have ugly creases in them, much like her own plans for life. Not that those were any easier to iron out.

["Then dinner at the Hanbridges will be at seven-thirty. Sharp. I have a dress prepared for you in your room. We will be discussing your wedding with And-"]

And she hangs up.

Turning her phone off, she throws it onto her mattress, the silken covers causing the device to slide right off and onto the floor with a thud.

Diana curses as she rushes over, checking for any cracks or damage. She hasn't turned the lights on, and her open balcony does not give her much light, so she opts to run her fingers over the screen, praying she hadn't broken anything. As able as she was to afford a phone, that doesn't mean she wanted a change at any time.

...also, her number was saved here. Diana isn’t good enough with phones to know how to retrieve that.

Diana sighs again. This time it is of relief. She leans back with a plop against the side of the bed, staring blankly at her wall.

Tomorrow... she leaves.

Tomorrow, she never sees her again.

Tomorrow, she talks of marriage plans with two families who couldn't care less about what she actually desires in life.

Tomorrow... she's gone. She may as well be dead if she wouldn't even be 'living' in the first place.

Tomorrow...

What would she be doing?

Where would she be at?

Would she still have the same smile on her face as she greeted the passersby who would freeze in place, stand in awe as time stilled for them as they become entranced in the magic that was her dance?

Diana frowns.

Would someone else fall in love with her?

Like Diana has?

...Would she... fall in love with them back...?

Diana feels a pang in her heart as she slumps to the floor, now lying against the hard wood. If she were back in the UK, she wouldn't be caught *dead* in this position. Her aunt would have her head.

She blinks, staring at the ceiling.

Oh? It's quite comfortable, she thinks, consciousness slipping into nothingness.

-It's a slap to her cheek that has her sitting up in haste, body moving in a trained way of self-defense as she arrests the perpetrator in a hold face-down onto the floors.

"Diana! Diana! Fu- shit! Waitwaitwaitwait-owowowowow it huuurtsss, it hurtsssss!!!"

And it’s a familiar voice that cuts through her panic, and makes her let go rather clumsily, resulting in more hurt for Diana’s victim.

“Akko!” She exclaims, happiness and concern in her voice.

“Well, you sure look happy. Are you into this sort of play?” The girl chuckles wryly, rubbing at her joints as she fixes herself into a seated position on the floor as Diana kneels in front of her, confused at the words.

“Play?”

“Yeah. BDSM, that kind of stuff.”

Diana flushes at the bold remark, floundering helplessly as her mind ceases to produce a coherent response.

Akko watches her with open amusement, head resting against her one propped up knee. She hugs the limb, keeping her steady as she stares at Diana unabashedly.

Diana stares back.

“Wh-what.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“I-! Ah-uh, nnggh?!” Diana doesn’t know if she’s going into a seizure. Maybe she is. Maybe she should have gone to med school after all, to confirm-

“Pff-” Akko begins giggling, then cackling, then just falling onto her back, hollering in laughter on the floor.

“Wh-what! What… why are you laughing? I- Did i do something silly?”

Akko wipes a tear from her eyes, laying on her stomach and propping her head up on both hands as she faces Diana. “You’re silly.” She teases, tongue poking out, eyes crinkled moons.

Diana can’t help herself, biting onto the bait.

It’s a deep kiss, and Diana didn’t know she knew how to do it.

What do people call it? French kissing?

They pull apart and Akko presses her sweaty forehead to Diana’s, chuckling breathlessly against her lips.

“Many types of attacks today, Miss Cavendish. You are one powerful woman with a vast arsenal.” She jests, a hand reaching to cup Diana’s face and pull her back in for a chaster peck on the lips that turns into two, then three.

“I like to have many options at my disposal.” Diana sighs into every brush of their lips, returning a few of her own, nipping at Akko’s bottom lip as she leads her into a submissive position, lying on her back with Diana hovering over her.

“Boy, am I glad you do…” Akko whispers, eyes glued to Diana’s glistening mouth, the pair leaning closer and closer and- “OHMYGOSH-WAIT. THIS. This is not what I came here to do!” Akko yelps, pushing Diana’s face away and accidentally spraining her neck.

Diana groans as she rubs at her nape, cursing quietly.

“SHIT SORRY”

Diana waves her concern away as she offers a crooked grin.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I’m sorry, Diana. Sorry, I-”

“Akko.” Diana giggles, carefully nearing the girl once again. She leans in slowly this time- just in case-, and plants a kiss on her cheek. “How and why did you come find me?” She asks, tone joyful, yet pained.

“Because I know you’re leaving tomorrow.”

Diana hears a record scratch, and the city’s music comes to a pause. It’s deathly silent, and her breath catches in her lungs, heart painful.

Diana’s smile falls, as she places distance between them, sitting formally in front of Akko.

“You…”

“You told me in your sleep…” Akko murmurs, her words playing flashbacks in Diana’s mind- memories of a night that was not supposed to exist.

“No- I… I… Akko…”

Voices in her head play back all her duties, her realities that tell her that the woman in front of her is not a part of them. She’s a daydream, and she’s- as all daydreams are- a fleeting one.

Diana has to wake up tomorrow morning. She has to go back tomorrow.

She has to be ‘the real Diana Cavendish’ again. Not because she wants to be. But because she is.

“Diana, I need to say that-”

“Then- then…” Diana cuts Akko off before she can deal more damage to her mental state. “Then you must know… that being here… makes it harder for me not to leave.” Diana replied with a crack in her voice. “I can’t stay, Akko. I can’t. Even if I wanted to…” She whispered, unable to project her voice.

“Diana, that’s not what this is abou-”

“I can’t stay here, Akko! I’m supposed to go home and get married!”

Her eyes widen, and so do Akko’s. Diana… doesn’t know what to say. Neither does Akko. They both remain frozen in time and in place.

“I can’t… stay here… with you…” She feels a tear slip past her cheek… then another, and another, until they dribble down her chin and onto the back of her hands that are clenched on her lap. “You’re a daydream… and… and…”

“A reality you won’t face?” Akko asks, voice surprisingly steady and clear. “I’m not a daydream, Diana Cavendish. I’m not a figment of your imagination.” She speaks, voice bolder as she gets up and walks up to Diana, making the girl crawl backwards as she hits her back against the foot of the bed.

Diana gasps as Akko grips her collar, pulling her closer to her. She instinctively closes her eyes, awaiting a hit- a punch, a slap, whatever it was.

And she gasps again as the soft caress, much like the gentle winds soothe her skin and her pounding heart.

“I’m not your summer getaway, or your escape from real life. I’m not a fairytale to lull you to bedtime that you forget once the sun rises.” Akko explains with a crooked smile, tears staining her cheeks as she buries her face into the crook of Diana’s neck. Her breaths tickle Diana there, and her tears pain Diana’s heart.

Diana moves to wrap her arms around Akko, but stops midway. She… doesn’t deserve to do that.

“...hold me…”

But Akko deserves to be listened to.

And so, Diana holds her. She holds her tight, and she doesn’t let go. Not until Akko wants her to.

“I’m not asking you to stay.” Akko murmurs against Diana’s skin as the latter runs her fingers through smooth strands of hair.

Diana admits that hearing that statement hurts as much as it relieves her.

Her sense of duty tells her she has to go back to her home in England and run her company, and yet her heart told her that Akko was her home, and that not staying would mean losing something that she might never be able to earn back again.

As much as it pained her to know more, she needs to. For both their sakes. “Then what must I do? What can I- we… what do you want me to do? What do you want us to do?”

Akko pulls back slightly, grinning sheepishly as she presses her feelings into a kiss against Diana’s lips, before pulling her up with her to head towards the door.

Upon opening it, Diana sees a few bags lined up against the wall, ready for a trip to god-knows-where.

Her mind wasn’t registering this at all-

“Bloody fuck.”

“Took you long enough to figure that one out, huh?” Akko laughs, bringing their joined hands to her lips, and kissing Diana’s palm. “Weren’t you supposed to be the smart one?”

“Well… I… holy shit…”

“I had no idea you could curse like that.”

“Mother of… my… arse…”

“Mother of your arse? Really?”

“Akko.”

“Yes?”

“Akko.”

“Yes, Diana.” Akko rolls her eyes, as she pats Diana’s cheek with her free hand. “You’re supposed to take me with you.”

“Bloody hell…” Diana murmurs. “Just marry me.”

“...”

“EH?! Really?!”

Bonus :>

“So why were you in my room that night in the first place?” Diana laughs, running her fingers along Akko’s cool arm, holding her close as they snuggled together in a hammock, reminiscing a daydream so long ago.

“Ehh... are you really asking me this right now? Diana, it’s been years since that happened.”

“And yet, I know you remember it as well as I do.” Diana laughs, knowing that Akko was rolling her eyes as she scoffs against her neck. “I’m right, aren’t I.”

“Cheeky.” Diana chuckles as Akko pokes her cheek in annoyance, but explains anyway. “I was knocking on the door, but you weren’t answering. I rang, and spoke through the intercom too. Then room service came by and I said I just forgot my key and they let me in.”

Diana feels slightly concerned about the security of that hotel. But wait, there are better questions that need answering.

“... then why did you slap me?”

“...”

“Akko?”

“Because you were asleep.”

Diana guffaws, disbelieving. There was no way she was that hard to awaken. She pulls back slightly, looking Akko in the eyes.

“You couldn’t have woken me up other ways?”

Akko looks away momentarily, feet already swung off to the side, as if she is about to step out. Which she did.

“...no?”

Diana watches her skeptically, now also sitting up.

“Akko?”

“Well, you know. It was nice chatting and all, but maybe I should get back to my practice for my road show and...”

“Akko? Akko… Akko why are you walking away? Akko- hey! Come back here- AKKO!-”

And she was gone, bolting like the wind, leaving Diana stunned and comically livid.

“ATSUKO KAGARI-CAVENDISH, YOU COME BACK HERE RIGHT. THIS. INSTANT!”

#diakko #diana cavendish #atsuko kagari #lwa #little witch academia #fanfic

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yanderemommabean · 4 years

Note

Imagine seeing a 🦊 in your backyard and being like “😮Cute 🦊?!” And you try, despite advise telling you otherwise, to befriend it. Cause who doesn’t want a 🦊 friend? So you leave lil homemade treats for it everytime you see it. (It seems to prefer human and cooked foods?) and eventually you find it in your house and you’re like “❤️!” And let the fox sleep in your room and wake up with Lee in your bed. Like, you got the pet/owner relationship you wanted but not quite in the way you thought.-🦝

There’s a list of things you expected when you allowed your new friend to sleep in your bed. Maybe they chewed up the blankets, made a mess in the floor because they’re nervous, and even a shredded pillow was expected.

You would’ve preferred all of the above when your bleary eyes focused in on a much larger form than a fox, who was happily looming over you. The man was blond, his face covered in freckles with warm hazel eyes that continued examining your features.

Great. You were definitely about to die. Couldn’t he do you the courtesy of doing it while you were asleep? That’s at least the best way to go!

“What the-“ you managed to croak out, still sleepy and trying to wake up from your haze. You press up on your hands, trying to sit up and shove the man off of you, becoming more aware of the dangerous situation as sleep left your brain.

Fuck. FUCK. A stranger was in your house! IN YOUR BED!

“No! No please don’t kill me!” You begin to plead, scrambling out of bed and searching the room for anything to defend yourself with as your “attacker” just silently watched, seemingly amused. His grin was cocky, and his naked form only seemed laxed and confident as he watched your confusion escalate.

“My my, if You’re this entertaining by just waking up, I’d say I’ve found myself a lucky one”.

You press yourself against the wall, eyes wide as you struggle to ask the man what he meant- what he thought he was doing in your home. Your bed. He simpers and makes no gesture to cover his nether regions, simply pressing his fingers to his chin as he looked you up and down.

“It seems I’ve frightened you. Apologies, most humans hardly see me out of my cuddly little persona. It’s a pleasure to be on speaking terms with you now”. He gave another cocky expression, eyebrows raised in a waiting manner as he extended his hand for you to shake.

“What the hell are you talking about? G-get out of my house!” You pathetically shout, voice wavering as you tried to piece together whatever in the world was going on. What ‘persona’? Why did he say it like he wasn’t human himself? Was he on drugs?!

Ok- deep breaths! Panicking is natural but it never helps in any situation. He clearly hasn’t hurt you yet, and if he planned too, he was taking his time. You don’t need to put yourself in any corners. You straighten up and try to make some distance between him and you, clearing your throat as you try and think of what to say.

“Ah. You’re still lost. It’s quite adorable honestly” the man mused, refusing to acknowledge the fact you told him to leave. “My name is Lee-“ he gestured towards his body “I’m-for lack of a better term, a werefox. A shapeshifter, cursed, whichever you seem fit to label”.

Your mouth goes dry, and your cheeks heat up seeing that -yeah he’s still naked. “I-I’m sorry but that’s an absolute asinine claim. Please just- just leave my house before I call the police”. You advert your eyes as his gaze darkens, and his much larger form presses closer to you.

“Oh? Asinine is it? Tell me, what makes you think such creatures don’t exist?” He questioned while furrowing his brows. With a scoff you raise your eyebrows in defense, and throw up your hands slightly. “Gee let me think- the fact that DNA probably wouldn’t allow that, not to mention much more science behind it. Listen I don’t have to explain anything! This isn’t a joke I’m calling the police!”.

You push him aside to grab your phone, but before you can so much as press the home button, you hear a low growl, and are met with the fuzzy face of a fox. A pause fills the room, your eyes locked on the creature as it pads over to you and nuzzles your arm, wanting affection. However cute the thing was, you felt a sinking in your stomach. You notice the man was no longer standing around, and it didn’t take a genius to do the math.

Oh fuck. OH FUCK THIS IS REAL. There’s a god damn shapeshifter in your house and apparently you’re now in absolutely skepticism of everything you’ve ever been taught. “Hoh my God-“ you breathed out, dropping the phone back down and stepping away with hands covering your mouth. You watched on as Lee transformed back, his naked body pressed against the crumpled sheets and blankets of your bed. He gives a wink, and all you can do is slide down the wall and stare in disbelief and awe.

“Oh I do hope you have more original questions than the others. Although, if not, I don’t mind answering. It’s a long story but needless to say, demons are real and if you fuck one over, they hold a grudge for life”. He beamed a cheeky smile, as if this was all some joke. Seriously? Can you have one day where you don’t question the very state of your being and existence?

Suddenly more pressing matters dawn on you. Like how you baby talked him and fed him by hand. And how you kissed his face and called him a good boy. Oh Jesus Christ this is embarrassing!

“I...you let me...baby talk you and...oh god” you mewled, burying your face in your knees as embarrassed redness covered your cheeks.

Goodness you looked so cute like this. You looked cute all of the time really, but seeing you flustered always made him want to see more. He’s glad he gets to own you now, seeing as you’ve clearly taken an interest in him! Why else would you take care of him?

“Oh yes. I do enjoy your nicknames for me! And I must say, since my curse has been given, you’re the first human I’ve wanted to own without ill intent. The others were messy but fun while they lasted”.

He admires the shock in your eyes as you soak in more horrifying information. You always have the most enrapturing expressions! He could get lost in your eyes for days by themselves! Such a pleasant distraction!

He rests his head in his hand and stares at you with adoring eyes, kicking his legs a bit while silence once again took over the room. “What’s the matter? Fox got your tongue?” He teased, swiping his pink tongue over his canines with a seductive wink.

“You...killed others? Oh god I’m next?!” You squeaked “and you said you own me? How the hell did you come to that conclusion?!”.

“Simple. You’re kind, you’re warm, you have patience and tenacity, you have the cutest interests in the oddest of things, you fed me, and you captured my heart. Once you allow me in your home I’m fully able to show myself, and once that’s done? Well, I can do whatever I please with you.”

“So you’re gonna kill me?” You asked as your blood ran cold, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to reach for your phone once again. Why bother if he’s quite literally as quick as a fox.

“What? No! No never! My other toys where ugly on the inside and made me want to rid the world of their existence. You? Well I can’t let this world harm such a beautiful creature. You’re clearly in need of me, and I’m more than happy to spray the woods with blood if it means I get to keep you with me”.

He sits up, and slides off the bed to meet you on the floor, his fingers shaking slightly as they touch your wrists, feeling you flinch and recoil. Now that won’t do! But he supposed you were patient with him, so he can return the favor when it comes to touches.

“You don’t own me” you whisper half heartedly. You knew by the power the man held alone that you had no say in that matter, but whats life without a bit of spite? You weren’t going to just swoon and submit!

“I think we both know that’s not true. You let me in, and I get to stay. And as a plus I get to make you see just how badly you need me. You’ll learn that this is a good thing, I promise! Now why don’t you come up off the floor? The bed is much more comfortable”.

-Mommabean (was this alright?)

#dr lee my oc #werefox #wereanimal #yandere exophilia #kinda #hes naked #so #yandere doctor lee #doctor lee my oc #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #my ocs #yandere doctor #yandere male #yandere #mommabean #racoon bean

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daroamine · 4 years

Text

everything is a lot

a sanders sides fanfic. ao3

summary:

It's time for a horror movie night.

The others seem to have forgotten Roman's fear of the dark.

WARNINGS: panic attack, cursing, food mention

A horror movie. Virgil had chosen a horror movie.

Roman felt the excited grin slide off his face a little, though he quickly plastered it back on, nodding in approval. God, he hated horror movies. He could take the scary faces, or even the screams. But something about all the blood, the tense, chilling escalation of tension that the movies always did, it- He let out a slow breath.

And settled back into the space between Patton and Logan on the couch. It would be fine.

“Do we have to watch a dumb horror movie though?” Roman complained eventually, a little on the quiet side. Patton gave him a look. “Now, kiddo, it’s Virgil’s choice, you had your turn last week.” he reminded him, giving him a little shoulder pat.

Virgil didn’t seem too affronted. In fact, he smirked. “Aw, you scared, Princey?” Roman’s face flushed, and opened his mouth to respond, but Patton beat him to it. “Now, don’t go making fun of him, Virge, it’s family night! You gotta be nice,” he smiled, “and besides, there’s nothing wrong with being scared.” he turned his gaze to Roman then, eyes far too soft and it just felt like pity. Roman frowned, scoffing. “Of course I’m not afraid of some pathetic little movie,” he declared loudly, avoiding their eyes. “Just start the darn thing already.”

Virgil did so, and as Patton went to grab another blanket, Roman adamantly ignored the watchful gaze from the end of the couch.

It was going to be fine. He hadn’t seen a movie like this in years, the fear will have faded, and he can just watch it like everyone else.

Yet for some reason, it still felt like something would go wrong. He pulled his blanket a little further over his legs, pulling his knees to his chest.

The opening credits rolled, and Roman’s tense muscles relaxed just a little. This movie didn’t look so bad, and he was surrounded by his friends. He was fine, it was- “Oops, almost forgot. Can’t have a horror movie with the lights on.” Virgil spoke, getting up.

The room was plunged into darkness except from the dim television screen, and Roman’s stomach dropped to his feet. Oh, god.

He stiffened immediately, breath stuttering. No, no, he hated the dark, this wasn’t- Trying in desperation to smother his fear, he slowly breathed out. No freaking out, this is movie night.

He looked quickly around, to check if anyone had noticed his… blunder. Virgil was huddling into the far corner, eyes locked onto the screen with a spark of excitement. Patton was just finishing arranging his extra blanket. Logan was setting down his book. It was fine.

Roman swallowed, and looked back to the movie, resting his chin on his knees. It was FINE. As long as he- as long as he didn’t look into the dark. It was fine.

He managed to watch the screen for fifteen minutes, carefully controlling his breathing. His shoulders were tensed, and his feet were pulled as far up as possible so as to avoid hanging over the edge of the couch.

Then, he swore he saw something move. His eyes darted to the staircase. There are so many shadows, there are monsters lurking there, he knew- He tightened his grip around his legs. ‘It’s in your imagination, Roman,’ he lectured himself, swallowing.

He couldn’t help it when he glanced over there again, chest tightening drastically. One of the shapes was gone.

Oh, god. Oh god, oh god, ohgodohgod-

Roman squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip. If he kept looking at the inside of his eyelids, maybe it would convince him that the darkness wasn’t really there. As his breath shuddered in his chest, he knew that it wasn’t exactly working.

Fuck. His eyes were shut, he hadn’t been watching. All of the creatures were probably surrounding them now, just waiting to strike.

Don’t kill me, don’t kill me, don’t kill me, don’t-

A whine involuntarily slipped past his throat, eyes stinging, but it couldn’t reasonably be heard over the deafening television. God, it was so loud.

So, so loud, like it was pounding every sound into his skull. Stop, stop it, stopstopstopstopstopSTOP! He lifted his shaking hands to cover his ears, feeling his eyes water.

It was so loud, it crawled into the spaces between his fingers, scratched at his eardrums, hammered into his head until all he could register was his uncontrollable need for it to STOP.

He was scarcely breathing at all now, tiny rattling puffs of air being the only inhalation. Fuck, fuckfuck, fuck, nothing’s working, it was loud and dark, so dark, and dark and LOUD-

A pain filled scream erupted from the speakers, and he let out a sob, tears dripping down his cheeks and hand shooting out for something, anything, to provide comfort.

His fingers brushed against someone else’s.

He held on tighter than he could ever have imagined. Through his panicked haze, he felt the hand try to pull away, and he whimpered loudly, hiccupping. Please, please stay, pleasepleasepleaseplease-

The cool fingers tightened around his, and somewhere amongst the rushing whirling terror of his own head, he was incredibly grateful. Fuck, he couldn’t breathe-

Thick air felt like it was filling into his head, shoving itself inside like cotton and pounding at the inner lining of his skull in a crazed rhythm. His chest burned harshly, only further reminding him of his plight. Fucking BREATHE ROMAN, you IDIOT, people are looking-

Soft pressure pushed against his right palm, and Oh, mr cold hands was trying to comfort him. That… That was better. The hand was using its thumb to gently caress Roman’s now, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, concentrating as hard as he could. You’re fine, Roman, the dark isn’t even scary… Just… focus on the hand. A fiery, rattling breath tore from his lungs, and he sat up fully, clutching the silky fabric of his shirt with his spare hand. He fought desperately to take another, swaying in his seat as he trembled.

“-man? Roman, are you hearing me?” a low, distant voice murmured. He squeezed the hand tight and nodded rapidly, suddenly wanting to sob all over again. He was fine, it’s fine, someone’s here-

“Roman, I’m going to need you to open your eyes, is that alright?” the silky voice spoke, and the hand enclasped in his rubbed circles into his palm soothingly.

He whined, squishing his eyelids shut so tight a kaleidoscope of swirls and stars assaulted his vision. There were monsters out there. It was dark.

“There are no monsters, Roman, and the light has been turned back on. I am sat beside you on the couch and Patton and Virgil are at the doorway to the kitchen. I promise.”

Roman paused, swallowing and trying to breathe through his nose. In.... Out… He opened his eyes without giving himself a chance to back out, and-

Logan sat in front of him, his oval little face peering down concernedly at him. His hand held Roman’s tightly. Roman inhaled slowly, and let it out again in a shaky breath, taking time to examine his surroundings. Just like he’d promised, the lights were back on, and just like he’d promised, the other two were at the kitchen entrance, peeking around the doorframe with worry etched onto their features. Logan told the truth.

Roman felt his lip wobble once again, and without warning, he dove into Logan’s arms, beginning to cry in earnest.

He could hear the man’s “oof-” of surprise like an echo as he pressed his face into Logan’s chest, arms clutching him like he could never let him go. He helped. He… saw. And he helped.

“M’so sorry, di-didn’t mean to ruin it-!” he wailed, face unbearably crumpled into an ugly sob as he rubbed his head onto the side’s shoulder.

Logan stroked his hair gently, replying with a matter-of-fact tone. “You didn’t ruin anything. We never intended to subject you to anything that could have caused distress, especially to this degree.”

From Roman’s view atop Logan’s shoulder, he could see Virgil and Patton both nodding vigorously, looking incredibly guilty. He sniffed, and it sounded thick and miserable.

“Yeah, Ro…” Virgil added, worrying his lip between his teeth as he stepped forward. “I literally totally forgot you didn’t like the dark, and that was shitty of me. I’m really sorry.”

Roman huffed wetly, and felt a smile come onto his face. “How’re you g’nna make it up t’me?” he croaked, voice stuffy and uneven from the recent events. Patton joined their circle this time, eyes wide and sad, though his voice was cheery as ever. “Disney marathon?” he suggested with a little smile.

“Disney marathon.” Roman hummed back, leaning into Logan.

He fell fast asleep soon after they reached the halfway point of mulan, eyelids drooping and body being too warm and tired to stay awake. He was curled up with far too many blankets, Virgil yawning at the television screen and Patton munching on the leftover cookie treats they brought out.

Logan hadn’t let go of his hand.

#sanders sides writing #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #logince #logan x roman #roman angst #tw panic attack #tw food mention #tw cursing #unedited #not proof read

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yourneighborhooddisaster · 4 years

Text

Ravenous

Touch Starved Patton! I haven’t actually written stuff like this before, and I guess it could be read shippy, but it can also be read completely platonic. I would say warnings, sympathetic janus and remus, but they’re blessings.

Warnings: touch starvation, angst, hurt/comfort (kinda), not everybody really gets along but that’s okay

Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated!!! Reblogs are cherished!! Also I’m just really excited I was able to stick to a deadline!

Fic under the cut. Please ask to be tagged! I’d be honored. Also you are always able to be removed from the taglist if you read something you don’t like or is triggering!!! I won’t be offended!

@genderfluidmoma @emiisanxious (that’s what you meant right? if not sorry)

All of the sides had needs.

They weren’t people. They were fully aware that they were all a fraction of a person, and they all cared for Thomas very much. They didn’t envy being a person, especially through all the wild stuff that was going on in the world right now. Technically, the sides didn’t need to eat, or sleep, even though it was possible for them to do so, as long as it was imagination food or during the night when Thomas was already asleep. But they did have needs.

Everyone was fully aware of Roman’s needs. Stimuli. Some sort of creative fuel. Even watching a documentary with Logan and Thomas could help him if he was in a particularly bad block. That’s part of the reason he loved Disney so much, and Patton always made sure they had time to watch a cartoon before bed when Roman was feeling down.

Logan’s primary need was obvious, although he hated to admit that he needed things, insisting it was to help Thomas. It did help Thomas, but not as much as it helped Logan. Logan needed structure and rules. It made a lot of sense. So sometimes when Patton noticed Logan’s smiles becoming tight, or when Patton felt he might not be listening to him enough, he would grin and ask what was on the schedule for that day.

Virgil was under a lot of stress lately, and that was because, as much as a lot of social interaction could overwhelm him, Virgil needed positive interactions with Thomas’s friends. Patton suspected that the sides may also be in that category, but he didn’t quite know, so he didn’t want to assume. He would often bug Thomas to call or text Joan, knowing Virgil wasn’t the best at bringing his own issues up.

Janus was tricky. Patton’s first instinct would be that Janus needed Thomas to take care of himself, but they all needed that, and Janus hadn’t seemed to suffer more than the others when Thomas missed the callback. Patton didn’t know Janus too well, but he knew him enough to finally understand that he was a little like Logan. Janus needed to be listened to. So if Roman and Janus had fought and Janus was sulking, Patton would insist that Janus pick a movie to watch with him. (And if Roman slunk out to watch Hamilton with them, well, two birds with one stone, right?)

Remus should have been a difficult one, and Patton would never admit that he had known right away. But Remus was simple. Patton didn’t really understand Remus’s thought process, and he probably never would, at least not all the way. But Patton understood Roman’s, and he wasn’t oblivious, no matter how much he was portrayed that way. Remus needed attention. He needed time, he needed the sides, he needed Thomas, and most of all, he needed to talk. So when Patton was up for it (and even sometimes when he really wasn’t), he would invite Remus to bake with him, as it was something they both, surprisingly, enjoyed, and something they both, unsurprisingly, were terrible at.

All of the sides had needs.

Patton wished he didn’t.

His was simple. Predictable. Expected, even. But it was just… so embarrassing. Because Patton needed physical touch, and didn’t that sound clingy and awful. Of course he could try to play it off, and he did. He was just happy pappy Patton, soft cuddly Patton, just your Dad Patton trying to give you a hug, kiddo! He felt so guilty all the time. And it hurt even more now that he was trying not to repress his negative emotions, because when he did admit he was feeling sad, everyone treated him as if he was made of glass. He dreaded when they asked him if he wanted to be alone, because no, he absolutely did NOT. And he says yes anyway. He wants to be normal, so why wouldn’t he? He knew none of the other sides wanted - needed this. It was okay though. He could always get in at least a hug or a high five in a day.

Until now.

Patton slumped against his door. He hadn’t been touched all day. He was frighteningly cold, but he didn’t want to go get a blanket. He had lent all of his to Virgil after he had a panic attack, and he wasn’t going to ask for them back. He wasn’t heartless.

“Thanks Pat, but… could I please be alone for a while?” The words rang in his ears, nearly deafening, though their speaker was quiet and polite. And Virgil was being polite, he had phrased it in the kindest way possible. It was just something wrong with Patton. He shook his head, tears finally rolling down his cheeks. He put on his hoodie to help with the cold, but it didn’t help with the hunger clawing right below his skin. Logan was reading, Roman was editing a video with Thomas, Remus would probably just make him feel worse. And he didn’t want Janus to sense all the lies he’d been telling. The most accessible of the sides was Logan, but Logan would hardly appreciate the interruption, especially as Patton wouldn’t be able to explain exactly why he was interrupting.

He was going to have a long night.

>><<

Patton hummed softly as he flipped some pancakes. He had managed not to burn them this time, even though the shapes were not really circles. Pancakes were easy. At least, he was better at making pancakes than anything else.

Logan’s better at it though.

Patton shook away the thought. It made sense that Logan would be better at something as adult and precise as cooking. Baking was where Logan was in need of help. Measurements usually fluctuated more in baking. Though Patton wasn’t really good at that either. He was usually a disaster in the kitchen, probably because he represented Thomas’s inner child, which was why he wasn’t offended when Logan declined the offer of pancakes, instead going to the commons to help Thomas schedule the day. Well, maybe a little offended. But not much. Logan had been under stress lately too, as quarantine tended to blur all the days together. So Patton dug into his pancakes himself, covering up all potential mistakes by drowning it in cheap quality maple syrup.

“Ooh, did you make pancakes, Patty-cake?” Remus all but bounced into the room. Patton put on a wide beam and nodded. Remus was still wearing his pajama pants and was shirtless, though he was definitely a morning person, so it was likely he’d already been up for a few hours. “I want some!” Patton laughed at that, pointing at a plate right next to the stove.

“The hot ones are over there, and make sure to tell me if you want anymore. If we do end up making more though, you’re on egg duty.” Remus half pouted, even as he shoveled pancakes onto his plate.

“But I like it when you get the shells in. It makes it crunchy.” Patton huffed, pretending to be offended. “Oh come on Patton, you know I compli-meant it!” Patton stifled a giggle, though a little unsuccessfully.

“Oh, that was bad even for me…” Remus shrugged, utterly unashamed. A lock of hair fell into Patton’s face, and he instinctively brushed it away, not really noticing his sticky fingers making a shiny trail up his cheek.

But he noticed when his fingers were replaced by something else.

Patton froze, his face hotter than the pan on the stove. (He should turn that off, his brain registered dumbly, but he was too much in shock to care if the mindscape could burn down.) Remus was clearly satisfied, grossly swirling his sticky sweet spit in his mouth. Tears pricked at Patton’s eyes, and he knew he was being stupid. Remus was lewd and touchy with everyone. He wasn’t special, and Remus certainly didn’t need this like he did. Remus just loved to be loud and obnoxious and throw everyone off.

Then why’d it feel so intimate and wonderful?

Why would he want such a gross touch?

“What’s got you so nervous Mr. Moral Compass?” Remus was watching him with a self satisfied smirk. “Did I do something to upset you?” That should have been reassuring, that Remus was happy and just his normal self. If everyone was happy, Patton would be happy, because he had no reason to be sad. No reason at all…

Patton broke out into loud ugly sobs. Crumpling to the floor, he was vaguely aware of Remus panicking, and no, he really didn’t want to burden him, and it just became worse when more people ran into the room. He couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears, and blurry tears distorted his vision and fogged up his glasses, which were slowly sliding off his nose. But then two hands gently grabbed his wrists, and they didn’t let go, and his wrists were burning but all he could think was more, more, more. And then a hand landed on his shoulder, but it was much too hesitant. Another hand over his heart, and that seemed to do it ever so slowly. The tears stopped and his breathing slowed.

But he may have preferred the rush of blood in his ears to the stressed silence. He made a move to wipe at his eyes only to find his hands still restrained. A blur of yellow - Janus - removed his glasses, cleaned them, and wiped the excess tears away before placing them gently back on his face. He was surrounded by faces, but only Logan and Virgil were touching him, and he felt so, so clingy, because this definitely wasn’t enough even though he should be grateful they were even still touching him. Thomas looked terrified. Patton dropped his head in shame and guilt.

“I’m-”

“Don’t,” Roman replied quickly, already knowing what Patton was about to say. “You have nothing to apologize for. My brother, on the other hand-” “No!” Remus was still looking panicked on the sidelines, and what Roman would’ve said next would have everything even worse. “It’s not his fault, he didn’t do anything.” Patton squirmed, his whole body on fire. Virgil made a move to retract his hand from Patton’s chest. And Patton. WHIMPERED, SO EMBARRASSINGLY LOUD. Virgil froze. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, of course you guys don’t have to touch me if you don’t want-”

“Patton.” Janus spoke calmly and slowly, as if he was trying to understand something. “So the problem is you want people to touch you, and you aren’t getting that attention you need, correct?” Patton nodded, biting his lip bloody so he wouldn’t make such a weak, embarrassing little noise again. All heads swiveled towards Janus, but he simply, albeit hesitantly, took off his gloves and cape and moved closer. Virgil and Roman glared defiantly at him, but one look from Patton and they stepped aside, and Logan gently released his hands, leaving Patton nearly about to cry again about the loss of contact. “I know this normally would be a little… inappropriate, considering our only newfound truce, but…” Janus spread his arms open wide. It was preposterous. Why would Patton hug Janus, even with their agreements? A ridiculous notion. (Now he was starting to sound like Logan.)

Patton jumped into the other’s arms.

He was suffocating, choking on air and new tears but he buried his head into the all encompassing warmth around him. Six arms squeezed him so tight and so close he felt like he was in a vacuum, but he didn’t mind at all. After a few minutes it started to get to be too much, but Patton didn’t want to ever let go at the same time, and he was just so confused. Janus seemed to sense this and he broke away. His hands were still holding Patton’s forearms.

“Hey, you’re not going to feel that bad ever again, okay? We won’t let that happen,” Janus murmured soothingly, and Patton shakily nodded because he didn’t even care if it was all a lie because it was so pretty and it felt so good. “Do you want to hear about what that was or would you rather just come watch a movie?”

“You know?” Janus nodded at Remus.

“Wait, how come you know and I don’t?” Logan was rather flustered and panicked looking. They all were, Patton realized.

“It’s touch starvation. Patton’s been lying to himself about it for a long time. He has a crucial need for physical touch.” Virgil inhaled sharply, and Roman glanced over Patton, but refused to quite meet his eyes. Logan gasped.

“I’m so sorry, Patton.” Patton blinked at the sudden and quick apology from Logan, who always struggled with admitting he was in the wrong. “I didn’t realize that by limiting my physical affection towards you I was harming you in any way. Can I… can I do anything to fix my behavior?” Patton smiled sadly.

“It’s okay Lo, I know you guys don’t really need it like I do. We’re sides, not people. You wouldn’t have assumed I was affected by things like that.”

“What - what did I do?” Remus asked tentatively. “I mean, I know I was being gross and all, but I touched you. I’m a very touchy person. So what happened to make you all snotty?” He immediately winced at his own wording, but Patton knew this was rather gentle for him.

“I just… I guess I couldn’t handle that you were only doing it to get a rise out of me… And it’s kinda started to burn when I get touched because I feel so cold the rest of the time.”

“Overstimulation,” Logan supplied helpfully. Patton nodded, and their conversation lapsed into silence. Then Thomas walked towards Patton, Janus helping him to his feet and guiding him into Thomas’s arms. He was exhausted but even the much looser two armed hug sent his heart and skin and mind spiraling into fireworks. They settled onto the couch.

“We got you, okay Pat? We’ll be more careful from now on.”

And Virgil would just have to trust that Patton understood, because before he replied, Thomas and Patton had fallen fast asleep.

99 notes · View notes

foursideharmony · 3 years

Text

The Cat, the Prince, and the Doorway to Imagination (Chapter 8)

Summary: Before there can be a mending, there must be a shattering...

Pairings: Platonic/familial LAMP/CALM, Platonic/familial DLAMPR

Content Warnings: Unconsciousness, extreme self-doubt, ugly crying, profanity

Word Count: 3,923

Read on AO3: here

Patton knelt beside Roman and maneuvered an arm behind his shoulders in order to lift him into a reclining position. The Creative Side remained worryingly unconscious—the Witch's power had evidently been shielding him from the effects of cold exposure, and he had traded his ethereal pallor for a sickly one. “He's chilled,” Patton reported. “Maybe a little shocky from the stress. We ought to get him underground and into some nice warm blankets.”

“Maybe it serves him right,” Virgil muttered even as he slipped out of his fur coat and laid it over the prince, relying on his hoodie to keep himself warm enough in the meantime. “So now what?”

“Aw, all those cool gross monster things are leaving!” Remus said, peering down the slope of the hill. “I wanted to see a gory battle! From the inside!”

“Can't you?” Virgil said acidly. “I thought you said you'd get control of the Imagination if Roman got knocked out.”

“I said I'd get control if I knocked Roman out. It's part of the whole sibling rivalry thing. We fight over who gets to play with the good toys. Didn't you notice that nothing has really changed around here? We're still in Roman's story.” He looked pensive, which was always a dangerous sign. “I guess I could try to clock him one anyway, but I don't know if it would work when he's unconscious already.” He shrugged. “Oh well, maybe he'll get frostbite and his fingers and toes will turn black and fall off! That would be a hoot!”

“Eugh, why are you like this?” said Virgil.

“Don't you dare touch him,” Patton said firmly. “That's one experiment that is not happening today.” He lifted Roman a little more and tucked the edges of the coat under him.

“How's he looking?” asked Virgil.

“I don't think he's getting any worse, at least. I still want to get him inside one of the shelters.”

“Something tells me that's actually not going to be necessary,” said Janus, speaking for the first time since he had managed to trigger Roman's sudden turnaround. He pointed toward the area of thick forest roughly to the east of the hill. “I do so hate to correct you, Remus, but that looks like change to me.”

All the trees in a roughly circular patch had lost their coatings of snow and displayed either dark needles or bare gray-brown branches. The patch was slowly growing, and as they watched, a trail of the same phenomenon formed, leading off of the main area and meandering toward the hill. The forest sparkled as drops of newly melted water fell from twigs and caught the sun, and before long, those twigs began to mist over with pale green.

The trail reached the edge of the forested area, and there emerged from the trees...a tawny, long-haired cat. As it paced forward, the snow vanished under its paws, revealing dark, damp earth from which grass immediately began to sprout. The cat began to climb the Hill of the Stone Table, and with every step, the nascent springtime spread farther and, astonishingly, the cat grew larger . Before it was halfway up the slope, it was somewhere between a lynx and a leopard in size and still growing. Its shaggy fur clustered around its neck and shoulders, its jaws became heavier, its tail acquired a tuft at the end. It was a lion that reached the crest of the hill, the snow fleeing before him, paws striking the ground like miniature earthquakes, tiny white and yellow flowers bursting from the ground in his wake.

The response of the assembled Narnians was immediate, collective, and extreme. They didn't drop to the ground kneeling or bowing, as one might expect in the presence of their King, but ran to the Lion, keening with delight and adoration. Talking Beasts nuzzled his paws and flanks, Fauns and Dwarfs combed their fingers through his mane, and the whole throng constantly called out his name— “Aslan, Aslan!” —the various tones and pitches of their voices overlapping and blending together into a susurration like surf on a beach.

Aslan, for his part, returned their affection in full, dipping his head to brush whiskers with the beasts, swishing his tail to tickle the Fauns. Yet he maintained his pace as he continued toward the center of the hilltop, toward where the Sides were watching the proceedings with awkward astonishment, like the outsiders they were. Remus stared at the great Lion with mixed apprehension and fascination. Janus looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, but understood that even the most casual exit would only attract attention. Virgil stood stiffly as if pinned in place, splitting the difference between terror and giddy excitement and landing somewhere in the vicinity of shock. And Patton...

Patton certainly hadn't forgotten about Roman, but at the sight of Aslan's approach, he was moved to lay the Prince back down on the warming ground and step forward, shy and sentimental, to greet Aslan.

“We've already met, haven't we,” he said. It wasn't a question. Aslan nodded. “Thank you, for what you did yesterday. It helped Ailim a lot. Me too.”

Aslan turned in a slow circle, his gaze sweeping to encompass the entire gathering in turn. At last he spoke, in a voice as heavy and rich as gold itself. “Things are beginning to be set right. But there are yet choices to be made.” He walked over to Roman and bent to sniff him, causing him to flinch and whimper, but not waken just yet.

“Is Roman going to be okay?” asked Patton.

“Physically, he will,” Aslan replied. “As for the rest...that is largely up to him.” He swept his golden gaze over the crowd once more. “Shouldn't there be one more of you?”

“If you're talking about Logan,” Virgil said, “he...wait, why am I telling you? Aren't you supposed to be all-knowing or whatever?

Aslan actually smiled slightly. “Indeed. Bring him here.” A small group of Narnians jumped up to fetch Logan from where they had hidden him earlier in order to make Janus's illusion convincing. “As for the rest of you...you may wish to cover your ears.”

They did (except for Remus, who tried to pull his off entirely and discovered too late that he couldn't), and even so, Aslan's roar was an almost solid physical force. A shockwave of sorts spread out from the hill at tremendous speed, and as it passed it obliterated the hundred-year winter—no slow melting of snow, no gentle emergence of leaf buds, but an instant replacement of one season by the next. In a mere moment, the white and gray world had been made over into one of azure and earthy brown and every possible shade of green, splashed here and there with delicate floral pastels.

And there was another instantaneous effect. The sheer noise of it woke Roman up. His eyes sprang open and he gasped, body twitching as every nerve and muscle was startled into full alertness. He flailed for a moment before managing to sit up just as the roar died away. He looked around wildly, apparently not recognizing his greatly altered surroundings, until his eyes focused and his glance fell upon the Lion.

Roman's face crumpled. He made a tiny noise of anguish and turned around so that he wasn't facing Aslan, or the other Sides, or anyone.

“Roman...” Patton said. “It's gonna be—”

“I'll go,” Roman said into his own knees. “I'll leave the Imagination running so you can keep the story going until you're ready to stop.”

“Roman. Do not run from this,” Aslan said softly. “You have wronged your companions. You must face those wrongs if you wish to ever dispel them.”

“Dispel them...” Roman repeated bitterly. “Are you sure I'm not meant to keep on compounding them?”

“Okay, Princey, enough,” said Virgil, stepping forward and grasping Roman's shoulder in a gesture that was equal parts friendly and forceful. “Lay off the self-pity already. Nobody here expects you to be the bad guy. Nobody here thinks you're the bad guy unless something goes really wrong, which apparently it did. And I can definitely tell you that nobody here wants you to be the bad guy. You owe us all an apology, but that can wait. The most important thing right now is that you fix that.” He pointed across the hilltop to where the Narnians were just settling the Logan-statue into place.

Roman's eyes found it, and his expression collapsed all over again, this time with a faint greenish tinge. But he steeled himself, got his feet under himself (pointedly ignoring Virgil's offer of a hand up), and made himself walk over to the quartz form of his friend. “I-I don't know if I can,” he said. “I used the Witch's power to...and I don't have it anymore. She has it back now, she's back, and—”

“Try,” said Aslan, the single syllable falling like the closing of an oaken door.

Roman made a short nod, gulping hard, and set his attention to undoing the enchantment. He drew his sword, willed it to act again as a magic wand, and focused on Logan. On making flesh (or whatever the Sides were, in the mindscape) instead of stone. On making him live again. He put all his power of wishing into it.

Nothing happened. Logan remained frozen in crystal. Roman staggered back a step or two, panting with distress. “I am losing control over the Imagination,” he said in a voice that was almost a squeak. “I can't even... It's probably for the reason Patton said. I...I...” Without another word, he dropped his sword and fled down the slope of the hill and into the green trees.

“Roman, wait!” called Patton, to no effect.

“Bye, bro!” Remus added with an over-the-top wave.

“I will see to him,” said Aslan. “But first...” He nosed Logan for a moment, then huffed out a breath over him. Satisfied, he padded away after Roman.

For a moment still, nothing changed. Virgil was the one to spot the subtle first sign: the dark lines filling themselves in on Logan's chest, tracing the shape of his logo, the bespectacled brain. The black color spread out quickly from there as his shirt softened into fabric, and within seconds, his face and hands flushed peach, his hair was brown and rippling in the light breeze, and Logan was back and... toppling over with a little shout of surprise as he overbalanced.

“LOGAN!” Patton exulted, tackle-hugging the Logical Side in his unbridled joy, adding to the confusion of his waking.

They decided later that it was, on the whole, worth it.

Start small.

It wasn't the first time Roman had lost control over the Imagination during an adventure. The stories sometimes took on a life of their own, after all, and that occasionally meant defying the author no matter how he tried to assert himself.

What was different this time was that he had also become the villain. The story had pushed him into it, but...had it, really? That was the question that needed answering.

I thought I was your hero...

Thomas doesn't want a wicked Creativity...

If he could take control back, then it meant he wasn't the bad guy after all, and things would be all right.

He had found a shaded grove with bare, reasonably dry dirt that he could sit on while he brooded and tried the smallest thing of all: making a mushroom. If he could coax a little fungus cap up out of the soil, he would know he wasn't too far gone. If not...well...better just focus on doing it.

So far, no luck. The ground remained agonizingly mushroom-free.

He became aware of a looming presence in the grove with him, and barely glanced over his shoulder at the bulky form of Aslan. “Oh. Hi,” he said. There didn't seem to be much else to say.

“I have restored Logan, and he is well,” said the Lion.

Roman turned back to his total lack of mushrooms. “Of course you did,” he sighed. “I made you to be able to do everything Aslan can in the books. Which is pretty much everything , since...you know. So why can't I do any of it now?” He blinked back a tear or two. “Why couldn't I fix Logan?”

“You did very well. You tried. That was all I asked.”

“For all the good it did.” He pulled up a handful of new grass and let the blades fall, a few at a time, through his fingers. “I don't know what to do anymore. I made all of this—I made you—so I could give them a fun, simple adventure and be the hero in a world where heroism and villainy are clean-cut...and it turned out I was supposed to be the villain all along. What do I do with that? Patton said it: Thomas doesn't want a wicked Creativity. I can't make his dreams come true if I'm not the hero...but even the Imagination doesn't want me to be the hero anymore...so what does that leave?”

Aslan circled around until he was in front of Roman and lay down on his belly, his bulk making the grove tremble. “Roman...do you really believe you are meant to be the villain?”

“I must be. I voluntarily went to the Witch. We...I stole your power! And then I took the Witch's power! I basically became her!”

“Yes. And then you released my power, and in the process gave up hers. You chose to turn away from that path. And I would say that the change began even earlier. Do you remember how you came to acquire the Witch's power?”

“Of course. I took it from her because she was...” Roman's eyes widened. “Because she was going to hurt the others, and it was the only way to keep them safe. I didn't even intend to take it for myself, it just happened that way.”

“Precisely. In a world where heroism and villainy are clean-cut...what would you call someone who thwarts a villain in order to protect the innocent?”

Roman made a half-hearted snicker. “You know, you sounded like Logan just then.”

“Are you avoiding the question?”

“No...but even if I was a hero in that moment, I sure went hard to the bad afterward.”

“Until you stopped yourself.”

For the first time, Roman actually lifted his head to meet Aslan's gaze. He studied the Lion's bottomless amber eyes, looking for even a hint of manipulation, but found only absolute sincerity. After a long moment, he found his words again.

“So which am I? The hero or the villain?”

“Any answer I could give to that question would be misleading. You worry too much about what you are. You might do better to think instead about what you choose to do. And what you will choose to do.”

“One thing's for sure...like Virgil said, I owe the others a major apology.”

“Indeed you do.”

“But I don't know if I can face them yet.”

“Try,” Aslan said as he had before...except that his tone was much lighter this time. “I will be with you.”

“Will they forgive me?”

“There is only one way to find out.”

Roman nodded slowly, and carefully stood. “Let's find out, then.”

At his feet, unnoticed, a tiny mushroom swelled from the earth.

A hush fell over the hilltop as Roman returned, walking stiffly as if he had to force every step. His head was slumped, his arms folded tightly across his chest. Aslan trailed him by several paces, and hung back when Roman stopped, a courteous distance from the other Sides. He didn't look up as he took a deep breath and said, “I...I have...something to say,” in a thick voice.

The others all traded glances. And traded glances again. “Go on...” Patton prompted in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

It seemed an eternity before Roman forced “...i'm sorry...” through a throat half-clogged with unshed tears. Suddenly he was sobbing into his hands, his knees slowly buckling.

Patton lunged for him, but to his surprise, Virgil beat him by a hair, gathering the Prince into his arms and helping him down into a kneeling position on the grass. “I gotcha, Princey,” he said. “Get it out, it'll be okay.”

“I'm so, so sorry!” Roman wailed, clutching at Virgil as he were the edge of a cliff. “It wasn't what I wanted at all but it seemed like the Imagination did and...Patton, I'm sorry about the ice, and Logan—oh, god, Logan, I'm SO sorry I...” He trailed off into more wrenching, ugly sobs while Virgil tightened the huge, Patton joined in, and Logan placed a steady hand on Roman's heaving shoulders. Without at any point speaking the words “I forgive you,” all three of them made them understood.

(Unnoticed by the four of them, Remus stepped forward and opened his mouth to say something. Janus calmly silenced him.)

Roman cried for a long time. He cried until he was out of tears and nearly out of breath, until the exertion of bawling left him limp in the others' arms. Only then did the storm finally subside, leaving Roman with a peculiar empty space inside him where something had drained away. At its center was a hard, sharp little knot of hurt, no longer wrapped in the resentment and bluster he had been using to cushion it. He sagged, depleted and hollow, in the embrace of his companions, and like opposing magnetic fields, their presence kept the nugget of pain suspended safely away from his emotional nerves, until by and by something new began to trickle into the empty place to shield him from the sharpest edges.

Roman took a deep breath, and felt as though he were breathing in light. “So,” he said, hoarse but with a genuine warmth that they had all been missing, “I've been acting like an idiot, haven't I?”

There was a pause, and then Virgil said, “You were acting?”

Roman shoved him away with amused annoyance, and the whole scene might have dissolved into absurdity had Janus not loudly and meaningfully cleared his throat. Roman was suddenly intensely, mortifyingly aware of their audience, and he got to his feet, slapping grass debris off his trousers, cheeks burning with more than just tear tracks.

“Far be it from me to interfere with you four,” Janus said, “but are we all done here? No loose ends to tie up?”

Remus pried his hand free of his mouth with his other hand. “Heh heh, you said 'tie up!' What about me, Roman? Don't I get an apology?”

Roman pulled a face. “I haven't done anything to you. And as for you...” he went on, turning to Janus, “...I don't know if I'm ready to be sorry yet.”

“Fair enough, I suppose. I appreciate your honesty.”

“Do you, though?”

Janus shrugged extravagantly, half-smiling.

“But to answer your question...you can all leave if you want. The Imagination will let you out. But I still need to deal with the White Witch.”

“But you were the White Witch,” said Janus. “Weren't you?”

“Not exactly. I took her...I'll tell you how that all worked later, if you want. The point is, she's back now, as herself, and she still needs to be defeated if this story is to have a proper happy ending.”

“That doesn't seem so hard,” said Patton. “Aslan is here and he brought spring back, you're here and we've made up...if we're following the book, then we're back on track!”

“Indeed,” said Aslan, startling the heck out of Roman, who hadn't heard him approach. “At your request, Roman, we can proceed with the story as you originally intended.”

It would be so easy...just hand the reins to the big omnipotent god-lion and let him take care of everything, secure in the knowledge that the story had already been written. “No,” Roman said. “Some stories are about a wrongdoer being redeemed by a higher power, and those certainly have their time and place.” He smoothed down the front of his suit, adjusted his sash and cuffs, and reclaimed his sword from where he had dropped it on the hilltop. “This story is going to be about the wrongdoer fixing his own fuck-up.” Patton gasped at the curse word, which was gratifying in its own way. “I'm going to fight her myself. She'll want revenge on me anyway, for stealing her power. I'm going to let her think she can get it...and take her down.”

“Ooh!” Remus quavered. “Sounds violent! I'm in!”

“N-no...well...I guess you can watch, but no interfering! I'm going to challenge her to a duel, for Pete's sake!”

“If Remus is going, then the rest of us should probably stick around too,” said Virgil. “Who knows how many of us it's going to take to keep him corralled? Besides, look what happened the last time we let you wander off to the Witch's castle by yourself.”

“Sure, rub it in,” said Roman. “So who all is coming with me?”

The Sides formed a line, standing shoulder-to-shoulder before Roman. “It would appear that we all intend to go,” said Logan.

“You don't have to face any more evils alone, kiddo,” said Patton.

“But let's make it quick, because I have a salon appointment at two,” said Janus, pretending to study his fingernails through his gloves. He glanced up and winked.

“And you do not wish my involvement in any way?” asked Aslan.

“No, I want...wait. Is indirect involvement a possibility? Because I'm suddenly thinking it's going to be a long walk to her castle, and it might be nice if you could...give us a boost? Please?”

“Certainly,” said the Lion. “Do not be alarmed.” With that, he blew out a long breath over the Sides, and the Hill of the Stone Table and its environs blew away as if they were only a flimsy façade, perhaps painted on scraps of paper. After that eye-wateringly disorienting moment, they took stock of their situation.

They were surrounded on three sides by tall, lush evergreens, and underfoot was mostly crumbly pine needles. On the fourth side was a brief meadow of patchy grass and sparse wildflowers, and beyond that was a lake, or perhaps a broad pond. It did not seem to have thawed completely with the springtime; there were plenty of ice chunks bobbing in the water. These may have broken off the large and solid bank or platform of ice near the center, upon which was the White Witch's castle.

It looked different by daylight, and out of the perpetual winter. The Witch's power yet extended as far as her own dwelling and a little area around it, but without a backdrop of oppressive snow to bolster it, the castle seemed a much poorer and punier structure. Some of the trees at their backs were taller than its spires.

“Thank you for the...” Roman said, trailing off as he realized that Aslan was not there.

“You did request only indirect assistance from him,” Logan pointed out.

“Yeah...” Roman swallowed and squared his shoulders. “Showtime,” he muttered, and strode forward toward the castle.

#sanders sides #fanfiction #lamp/calm #platonic lamp/calm #dlampr #platonic dlampr #sympathetic janus #sympathetic remus #villainous roman #narnia

24 notes · View notes

lifesabe-ch · 4 years

Text

game on - john b. (part 3)

request: can u write about being one of kies friends and u come to visit her for a little and u and john b end up rlly liking each other and u hook up at a keg party or something like that ??? thank uuu

summary: you and your parents decide to come to the outer banks for your summer break, visiting your old friend kiara, but things quickly take a turn when you take a liking to one of her friends

pairings: john b. x reader

warnings: nada

a/n: this part is really cute. I honestly don't even think you'd have to read the other two to read this one, but it fits with what’s happening

PART 1, PART 2

You heard someone knock on your front door. Again.

“Mom,” You call from behind your closed door, “Can you get that?”

After a moment of silence, you sigh, wheeling your desk chair over to your door and cracking it open, “Mom?”

Instead of an answer, you only hear another knock, seemingly a little softer than the others.

Groaning, you pull yourself up, jogging down your stairs as you yell, “Don’t worry, I got it.”

Not bothering to check the peephole, or the window, considering whoever this was has already been waiting ages, you pull open your front door to find John B.

“Uh, hey,” he smiles sheepishly at you, almost appearing kind of nervous.

You frown slightly, looking between him and the flowers he was holding, “I… Did I forget something?”

Before he could respond, your mom comes up behind you, smiling, “Sorry honey, I was in the kitchen. Who’s this?”

You merely look between the two of them, watching as he extends the bouquet to your mom, “Hi, ma’am, these are for you. I’m John B. I was actually hoping you’d let me take your daughter on a date.”

And just like that, your mom was smitten. It took her even less time than you to fall for John B.

Smiling widely at her new flowers, she invited him in, practically shoving you out of the way, “Of course you can take her out! Y/N, why aren’t you dressed for your date?”

You scoff lightly, “Because I didn’t know I had a date to get dressed for.”

Pulling him with her to the kitchen, she shooed you upstairs, “Go! Don’t keep the poor boy waiting too long! Now about these flowers...”

Rolling your eyes, you hurried back up the stairs, closing the door to your room behind you. Not only was John B. in your house, he was taking you on a date. Suddenly all the clothes in your closet were too ugly to wear.

After dressing yourself confidently, you walked towards your kitchen, laughter coming from inside. Peaking your head around the doorframe, you noted that your mom had already placed the flowers in a vase with water, and gotten John B. a glass of lemonade.

“Aw, Y/N, you look nice! Come on, give us a little twirl.”

Sighing lightly, you spin around for the two of them, before holding out your hand for John B. to take, “You ready?”

He nods, grabbing your hand as he stands, absentmindedly interlocking his fingers with yours.

Your mother hurriedly follows the two of you as you pull him back towards the front door, phone already in hand, “Wait! Can’t I get a picture before you two go?”

You groan, shoving him out before you, waving at her over your shoulder, “No, mom. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye, Mrs. Y/L/N! I’ll have your daughter back before 11, like you said!”

Sighing, you closed the door behind you, flashing him a look.

“What?”

“You’re such a kiss ass.”

Laughing lightly, he playfully shoves you, his arms coming to rest around your shoulders, “Shut up. You look gorgeous, by the way.”

“Do I not always?” You tease, shaking your head before continuing. “Thanks. You were no help, barely giving me any time to get ready.”

“You looked perfect even before you went up to get ready.”

Blushing lightly, you roll your eyes at him as he moves to open the door of his mystery-machine-looking van for you. Taking the time to look him over, you notice he was more put together than usual, his swishy shorts being replaced by a pair of khaki ones, his shirt still the short sleeved button down but much less messy and, surprisingly, buttoned up almost fully. He did look good, you had to admit.

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” You point out as you hop into the van, noting the cute smile he gives you as he closes the door.

Getting in on the drivers side, he turns the key in the ignition, suddenly seeming a bit nervous again, “Look, I’m sorry if this is weird. I wanted to call you but I realized that I don’t even have your number, and I couldn’t exactly ask Kie, and you pointed out your house to me the day I was giving you a tour so--”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” You shrug, waving him off, “I admit, the flowers for my mom were maybe a little much, but I don’t mind.”

“They were actually for you, she just looked like she wanted them more,” he laughs, pulling back out of the driveway, as he talks.

Buckling your seatbelt, you shake your head, “So the next time you have flowers for me and you see some girl who looks like she wants them more, you’re just gonna give them to her?”

He grins, and it surprises you. You had hoped that’d trip him up even just a little. But nope.

He was smooth as ever, quickly retorting, “Thinking about next time already, huh?”

“Shut up,” you mumble, keeping your eyes on the window as he drives.

As soon as John B. parked the car, he was out and around to open the door for you. But as he tugs on the handle, it doesn’t open.

“Did you lock the doors?”

“No! Why would I—”

Before you can respond, John B. goes back to pulling the handle. This time, he pulls too hard, and the handle comes off in his hand.

You gasp, staring at him through the closed window. He doesn’t say anything, but rather stares at the handle in his hand.

It takes him a few seconds to process what he’s done, before he goes around to open the drivers side door again. You’re already hopping out by the time he gets there, laughing at the handle in his hand.

“Someone got a little bit too excited.”

Placing the handle inside his car, he shook his hand, “Off to a great start. I’ll have to get that fixed.”

He took your hand, pulling you with him down to the beach, where a blanket sat crumpled and sandy.

Atop the blanket sat a seemingly forgotten meal. A tray was balanced on top of a pizza box, both covered in sticky pink liquid. The tray itself held two cones, obviously no longer serving their purpose. You couldn't tell, but by the way the top of the box was caved in, you had a feeling the pizza was ruined too.

“Wow, this looks…” you start, but can’t finish.

“Bad.” He says.

Glancing over at him, the guilt on his face is contagious. You didn’t do this, but you might as well have.

You shake your head, leaning down to grab a can of beer, the only thing seemingly untouched by the melted ice cream, “At least we still have this, right?”

Popping it open, you bring it to your lips to take a sip. Instant regret is felt, the warm liquid filling your mouth as you refused to swallow.

“It’s warm, isn’t it?”

You shake your head, mouth closed.

“You want to spit it out, don’t you?”

“Mhm,” you agree, but take one large gulp and it’s in your stomach.

He sighs, he looked around for something, anything, that wasn't ruined. You heard him mumbling to himself as he did so, annoyance clear as day on his features.

“Fucking Pope. Couldn’t even… Goddammit. They give away scholarships for breathing now, apparently.”

Placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, you pull him back to you, “Hey.”

As he makes eye contact with you, you flash him a small smile, “Breathe. Okay? This isn’t that bad.”

Pulling the blanket out from under the ruined food, you shake out the sand, holding it up for John B. to see.

“Look? Okay? The blanket’s okay! That’s really all we need. I mean, the food was a nice thought but the blanket’s enough.”

“What?”

“John B.,” you say, “This is a really nice blanket. I honestly think we’ll be super comfortable.”

“We’re just gonna sit and talk? You don’t want to eat, at all?”

“Well, I didn’t think we were going to be doing any talking.”

“What the hell did you think…” He pauses as he takes in the suggestive look written on your features.

“Oh.”

You nod, “Yeah. Why else would you pick me up?”

That statement alone was enough to offend him, making him scoff lightly, “For a date?”

“You… were serious?”

“Wow. That’s great,” he mumbles, moving to pick up the trash off the sand.

“John B.,” you trail behind him as he tosses it into a nearby garbage can.

“You seriously thought I brought you here just to hook up with you?”

Shrugging sheepishly, you nod, “It’s not like we haven’t before. I thought that's what we were. Fuck buddies?”

“I don’t want to just hook up with you.”

“You want to hook up with other people too? John, you didn’t need to set up a beach dinner to tell me that.”

“No! I’m saying I don’t want to hook up with you,” He yells, his tone more annoyed than he probably meant to be.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you ignore the tears beginning to brim your eyes. You never took yourself as a sensitive person, but here you were.

“Fine,” You said, turning on your heel to walk off in the direction of the parking lot. If he didn’t want to see you, he wouldn’t have to, you decided. You would walk home.

You heard him groan from behind you, running to catch up, “Y/N, where are you going?”

“Look,” you started, turning to face him, “If you didn’t want to hook up with me anymore, you could’ve just said it. You didn’t have to bring me all the way here and—”

John B. cuts you off by pressing his lips to yours, arm winding around your waist. You didn’t even close your eyes for the short duration of it, shoving him off you as quickly as possible.

“What’re you doing?!”

Given that your reaction was not the one he had hoped for, he took a tentative step back, “I… kissing you? That always works in the movies...”

You huff, shaking your head, “If we were in a movie, none of this would be happening! You’re literally breaking off whatever the hell we have going on and I feel like an idiot—”

“Can you listen to me? For two seconds?”

“I’m literally talking right now.”

“I know! Shut up! I’m not trying to break up with you. We’re not together. Which is what I brought you here to talk about. I want to be with you. I don’t want to be just some guy you hook up with.”

You were silent as you let his words sink in. If that were true… you had been going off on him for the past minute for absolutely no reason.

A chuckle bubbles out of you, your hand moving to cover your mouth as you start laughing. He starts laughing too, and the two of you don’t stop until you need to breathe.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” You start.

“No, I’m sorry for bringing you on this shitty date.”

You wave him off, not wanting to make him feel worse than he already felt, “Surprisingly, I’ve been on shittier dates.”

He raised his brows in question, “Really?”

“Yep. He brought his brother.”

“Yikes,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

You nodded knowingly, stretching out the blanket for the two of you to sit down on.

As you sat besides him, he lifted his arm, allowing you to lean into his side. The two you stayed silent for a moment, the scene panned out before you. As the sun began to set, the waves crashed gently on the shore.

You laced your fingers with his, sighing gently as you rested your head against his chest.

“You know? I can’t swim,” you say, and he looks at you incredulously.

“Seriously?”

“No, but it was too quiet,” you say smiling. He watches the ocean.

“Tell me something about you. Something no one else knows.”

You think for a minute, letting yourself thoroughly ponder your answer before speaking, “I really love oranges.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he stares down at you, “That’s not something no one else knows!”

“Yes it is!” You defend. “When I was younger, I went around telling everyone that I hated oranges. I used to make it out to be such a big thing. I wouldn’t touch anything with orange in it. Not orange juice, tangerines, sherbet, popsicles, orange chicken. And it stuck. So now I have to eat them in secrecy. Everyone thinks I hate them, even Kie. But I don’t. I really love oranges. Like, a nice juicy seedless orange.”

He laughs lightly at your answer, “I bought the wrong type of dessert then.”

“What’d you buy?”

“The strawberry ice cream from—”

“The store down the road from Kie’s job?” You finish, pulling back from his chest to fully look at him.

He nods slightly, “Yeah.”

“I only mentioned that once—”

“When I was giving you the tour. ‘Oh my god, the strawberry ice cream from there is hands down the best I’ve ever had!’And then you moved and never touched strawberry ice cream again.”

As you watched him, pure adoration shone in your eyes. Maybe the bar was set pretty low, but he remembered something you had mentioned in passing. Something you didn’t even think twice about. But he did. He thought about it and he went and bought it for this little date he had set up for the two of you. Then he went to your house, gave your mom flowers, and drove the two of you here just so he could tell you he wanted to do more than just hookup with you.

You threw your arms around his neck, pulling yourself onto his lap as you kissed his lips lightly.

John B. grinned at you, hazel eyes melting yours as you stared into them, “What was that for?”

“That was for giving my mom flowers. So don’t expect one for every date.”

tag list (respond to post or send ask to be added!):

@katherine097 , @pitaparka , @sexualparkour, @rosenbug

#john b #John b. x reader #john b x reader #obx #obx netflix #outer banks #outer banks imagine #john b outer banks #John b x reader imagine #john b x y/n #John b x you

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no6secretsanta · 3 years

Text

Impermanence

to: @aowyn

from: @crowmunculus

Happy new year! I’m still the world’s slowest writer but I hope you enjoy this canonverse angst-with-a-happy-ending fic!

The other day there was a sparrow trapped in the grocery store; it beat itself to death against a skylight, thinking it was freedom. Nezumi tried to see the metaphor in it, but mostly what he saw was the tiny body crumpled against dirty linoleum, black bead doll’s-eyes squinted shut, little feet curled into fists against its downy breast.

He understood the feeling at the time, and he understands it now, somehow more claustrophobic in Shion’s sparsely-furnished studio apartment than he had ever been in the clutter of the underground room. And it’s not just that the apartment is in No. 6, it’s that Shion is in it, older than before with that unerring ability to see through Nezumi’s shit only sharpened with time.

When the two of them were at each other’s throats in the West Block, one of them, usually Nezumi, would leave until the red haze of rage had settled. You can’t avoid your roommate that well when the only other room is the only bathroom. It’s awkward, stuck in the same space as someone palpably angry at him, but it’s the bitter cold of early January outside, and Nezumi is afraid that if he leaves now he’lll never come back. Which would defeat the whole purpose of returning to begin with, really.

So this is how they’re spending their shared day off: in opposite corners of the room, not speaking. Shion had always been skilled at making his silences loud and his tenure as a politician had honed that skill into an instrument of torture. It sets Nezumi on edge, that tense feeling of possibility, the static in the air before a lightning strike. He wanted that silence to break and worried he’d be the one to break it just to hear it break.

It’s not you, it’s me, flits inanely across his thoughts before Nezumi can shoot it down with prejudice. That would make it sound like Nezumi wanted to end whatever it was between them, and that was also part of the problem, wasn’t it, that Nezumi had been living with Shion in No. 6 for months without either of them putting a name to their relationship.

For Shion the reason is likely something stupid and romantic, like not needing the reassurance of a label to know how he felt. For Nezumi, it’s fear, simple fear. The same fear he’d traveled the world to escape or to discard in pieces out in the wasteland. Fear was what had held his tongue from speaking the truth last night when Shion suddenly said, apropos of nothing, “We should buy a house.”

They’d been watching old prewar Christmas movies together from bed, Nezumi only half-awake with his head resting in Shion’s lap over the covers, Shion’s fingers reverent while he combed them through Nezumi’s long hair. “We?” he said weakly, a mistake that opened the floodgates of Shion babbling excited words like water.

“I can cover most of the down payment for the houses I’ve been looking at, I’ve had more time to build up my savings and I don’t want to deplete yours like that, but I’ve been looking into it and with my credit rating we could get a good interest rate on a mortgage, and if we’re careful with our spending we might even be able to pay it off early within ten years -” Ten years echoed in Nezumi’s head before the rest of Shion’s words were drowned out by a rush of ringing white noise in his ears so loud he couldn’t hear his own thoughts.

There was something inside Nezumi, something old and cruel, that took over in his moments of weakness, especially - especially around Shion. His lips moved without any conscious thought behind the action and what came out was “Would your credit rating be enough of a draw for a prospective seller to overlook the fact that I legally did not exist until two years ago?”

He felt the muscles in Shion’s legs go tense beneath him and that same cruel impulse lifted his head and moved him away until their bodies no longer touched. He clenched his hands shut into fists to keep them from shaking.

“Plenty of people from the West Block have citizenship paperwork only made after the wall fell,” Shion said calmly, if rigidly. “You know that.”

Nezumi did know that. He knew because Shion had reassured him as much when Shion helped him navigate the paperwork for his new state-funded health insurance, something he’d never before had or imagined he ever would have. He also knew that the new streamlined pathway to citizenship for West Block residents lacking formal paperwork was one of Shion’s crowning achievements on the Reconstruction Committee. He knew this, and because of what he was he used that knowledge as a blade.

“I know it was awfully presumptuous of you to go ahead and make mine for me when I wasn’t here,” Nezumi said, staring at the wall behind Shion’s left shoulder as if the ugly popcorn drywall fascinated him instead of simple, stupid fear keeping him from looking Shion in the eye.

“You promised you’d come back,” Shion said, “Whether or not you would ever choose to use the documentation was up to you, but I at least wanted to give you the option.” His voice was clipped, icy in a way Nezumi did not know how to decode, another reminder that for all Nezumi had grown and changed in their years apart, Shion had too, in ways Nezumi may never be allowed to know. “If I was being presumptuous, it was in presuming you wanted to come back.”

With that, he sat up and walked to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind himself. He had moved slowly enough that Nezumi could have responded in time, grabbed his hand and asked Shion to wait, to let him explain, but Nezumi could not explain to even himself, so instead he let him go.

He laid back down on the bed, the blankets still warm from Shion’s body heat, and listened to the dialogue of It’s A Wonderful Life muffled through the awful ringing still in his ears, the words warped by the noise into nothing but meaningless sounds. Mercifully, he fell asleep before Shion returned.

But Shion was of course there in bed with him when Nezumi woke the next morning, because where else was he supposed to sleep? Shion had slept curled on his side faced away, his back to Nezumi’s back. Seeing Shion so vulnerable always made Nezumi feel vulnerable too. Before Nezumi got out of bed, he pulled the covers up higher and smoothed them out, carefully layered back on top of Shion and tucked in around him.

Then he brewed a pot of coffee and fixed up a cup for Shion first. He set it on the nightstand expecting the smell to eventually wake Shion up, but then saw that Shion was already awake. “G’morning,” Shion mumbled, and that had been the only thing Shion had said to him all day.

Nezumi knows what Shion expects of him but he doesn’t know if it’s something he knows how to give, even if he wants to. And he does want to, he wants to wake up every day at Shion’s side even if they’d gone to bed angry, wants to commit to this, all of this, even the parts that scare him speechless.

Shion, as always, ends up being the brave one. He speaks first and says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that last night.” Nezumi dares to lift his head from his book and is captured in Shion’s gaze, held hostage by the honesty and warmth in his eyes.

He means it. Shion really thinks he’s the one who should be apologizing, and Nezumi has to choke back a surge of incredulous anger. It’s not fair to Shion that Nezumi keeps lashing out against him when the one he’s really angry at is himself. “Don’t apologize,” Nezumi says, but it’s sharp and sounds like an accusation. He closes his eyes, forces himself to just breathe, slowly in and out, and continues, softer, “I shouldn’t have said what I did. It wasn’t right to belittle how hard you’ve worked to fix this place.” And make it somewhere I could live. “There was no reason for it except to piss you off.” When Nezumi chances a look, Shion doesn’t look convinced, still with that concerned, horribly earnest expression on his face.

“You’re always sarcastic, I shouldn’t have taken it so personally -”

“Maybe I shouldn’t be,” Nezumi cuts him off, and his ears are ringing again, “I shouldn’t be sarcastic about things that actually matter. I didn’t mean it. I only said it because - because…” His tongue sticks to the roof of his dry mouth. He still can’t explain it to Shion, even now. He was supposed to be better than this by the time he returned.

He doesn’t hear Shion crossing the room to reach him and flinches on instinct when Shion touches his wrist, but catches himself in time to grab Shion’s hand in his own before he can finish pulling away.

“It’s okay, Nezumi,” Shion says, gently squeezing his hand. He’s kneeled on the wooden floor in front of Nezumi’s chair, Nezumi’s hand now cradled in both of his, the contact both a manacle and a comfort. “I brought it up too suddenly. I don’t want to pressure you or make you feel uncomfortable. We don’t have to talk about it now.” He’s as genuine as he always is, but it’s also an excuse for Nezumi’s sake, it’s Shion giving him an easy out.

Nezumi looks past Shion to the window on the far wall, the blue sky beyond it, thinks about a broken neck and broken wings and how desperate a creature would have to be to die that way.

“In the West Block. Before you were there with me,” Nezumi says, haltingly, “The one thing, the only thing I could rely on staying the same day in and out was…” He stalls out again, and Shion brings Nezumi’s hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles like a knight pledging fealty. “…The only constant was that everyone who had ever cared about me would still be dead. And it was a relief that they were still dead because that meant I couldn’t lose them again.”

Hope, in Nezumi’s experience, hurt more than grief. Death was permanent, inarguable; hope is a chronic ache. It hurts to even look at Shion sometimes.

Shion’s soft, even breaths tingle against Nezumi’s skin. He focuses on that, the rhythm of it, the barely-there whisper of sound, and the roaring in his head ebbs away as Shion replaces it. “I’ll still want you in ten years,” Shion says with the weight of an oath. “Whether we’re living here or in a house - that’s not what matters to me.”

“I know,” Nezumi says, and he does know. Shion could be happy living in a cardboard box beneath an overpass so long as Nezumi was there with him. “I wouldn’t object to a larger floor plan, though.”

Shion’s responding smile is bright as to be blinding. Helpless to him in the best way, Nezumi smiles back, pulls him in closer, and gives in, for the moment, to hope.

#no6 #no.6 #no 6 #no. 6 #crowmunculus #aowyn #fanfiction #no6secretsanta #submission

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fitzs-trained-monkey · 3 years

Text

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Revelation

Rated PG-13 For mentions of abuse, trigger topics such as suicidal thoughts, torture, language, and kidnaping.

Masterlist

~I am not the only traveler

And then I can tell myself

I had all and then most of you

When the night was full of terrors

There aren't very many things worse than watching one's little brother die. I think the only thing worse than that is enduring it twice. I had already had to watch Jasper be slaughtered like a pig in front of me. Wasn't that torture enough for a lifetime? Was having to salt and burn my own brother the universe's twisted idea of a joke? This wasn't funny!

What kind of cruel world was I living in? Why did my last words to my precious little brother have to be empty promises? How was that okay? Jasper would spend the rest of eternity waiting for me to show up, tell him my stories, and tuck him into bed, but I never would. Because if I lived, I would be stuck down here on this awful planet, reliving the same day over and over and over again. And if the Winchester's decided to kill me when they found out what I was, then I wouldn't be going to heaven. I already knew where I would go. It wasn't anywhere good.

Well, if my life was a joke then I hoped at least somebody was getting a kick out of it.

I knew I wasn't.

From the top of the stairs, I heard Sam, Dean, and Cas open the sliding glass door and shuffle outside. Jack firmly insisted on staying here. He probably thought he should stay in case I ' needed him ' for comfort or something.

'Well, joke's on you, puppy, cause I don't need anyone.' I thought, bitterly. I traveled down the dark hallway to my room, the one with the plain white door all the way down on the end. The door opened with a soft click and squeaky hinges and I kicked it shut behind me.

My room was exactly how I had left it. Not a single thing was out of place. Of course, it was about as far away from immaculate as anything can get. There were pieces of paper strewn all over the desk, plenty of wadded-up sketches in the trash can and even more outside the trash, pencils were left in strange places, and mix-matched fairy-lights draped over way too many things. Miscellaneous articles of clothing were draped over a chair, clustered around the laundry basket, crumpled on the bed, and a few were even hanging from the doorframe of the closet. The bed wasn't made, the blankets and sheets hopelessly tangled together and there was an atrocious number of glow-in-the-dark stars glued to the roof. Oh, and let us not forget the rainbow-colored streamers hanging from the ceiling fan, so really everything was just an absolute mess.

But it was a comforting mess and that's how that girl who used to be me had lived. She had been a scatterbrained, messy-haired, and bright-eyed sort of girl, she'd had so much potential. That girl could have great. Her mess comforted me too. Maybe she wasn't as dead as I'd thought.

"Well, I'm just about done with this whole damn popsicle-stand of existence. You?" Isaac asked, sounding more dead than he looked.

"Done," I agreed. "So, so done."

I flopped down on my already messy bed, staring up at the tacky stars on the ceiling while I tried to come to terms with the fact that I'd never see my little brother again. I couldn't feel the prickling of tears forming in my eyes. I guess I'd run all out of tears to cry. Lucky me. I felt like throwing up.

"Should we go down fighting or give up and roll over? What say you?" Isaac collapsed at the foot of my bed.

"What's the point in fighting?" I asked, shaking my head.

"Dunno." He shrugged. "Frequent flyer miles?"

"So... Nothing?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Maybe I would just attack the Winchesters once I tore Felix to sheds. Maybe they wouldn't kill me fast. Maybe they'd make me suffer. Then maybe I could cry like I was supposed to.

I had hardly been debating those thoughts for a minute when I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. Oh, joy. Five minutes of peace was all I'd asked for and apparently I couldn't even get that. Screw my life.

The door flew open with an overly dramatic bang but I didn't flinch. Jack stood in the doorway, eyes alight like molten gold. I turned my head lazily to face him, aware of my void expression but ultimately indifferent to it. I couldn't even bring myself to act like the fake version of myself I had made to fool the Winchesters. I felt oddly numb like nothing mattered. Because honestly, what did? Not even getting my revenge on Felix would change anything. Things wouldn't get better, my life would still suck to an astronomical degree, and this whole stupid world would just keep turning like it always did. Getting revenge was just self-indulgence, really. So what if Jack saw the real me for a couple of hours?

With luck, I'd be dead by morning.

With luck, he'd be the one to kill me.

I deserved it.

"Welcome to the year Nineteen-Thirty, puppy. What do you want?" I addressed him. My tone was clipped, calloused, and cold, but I didn't care.

Jack's eyes were glowing and the air was charged with his power; it made my hair stand on end and my ears hurt like when a plane takes off. Yet, oddly enough, if there and been one in my hand, I would have been swirling chocolate milk in a wine glass for all I'd cared.

Jack didn't answer me. His mouth opened and closed and opened and closed. There was something in his eyes, something akin to desperation. He knew what he wanted to say but the words died in his throat.

"You deaf, honey-bug?" I lifted an eyebrow and took an actual glance at his expression. He didn't look angry. He looked...

Terrified.

And shocked.

And torn.

And betrayed.

I did this. It was me. I had hurt him.

His hands clutched an object tightly between them with enough force to turn his knuckles white. It was a picture frame. I caught a glimpse of the picture within; it had been taken two weeks to the day I'd died. I looked back up to his eyes.

Ah, yes. There it was. The recognition. What a clever, clever boy.

He'd finally put all the pieces together.

'Well, good for him.'

"Uh, oh spaghetti-oh's; looks like the Nephil knows," Isaac droned from the foot of my bed.

"What are you?" Jack asked, his voice trembling. He blinked back tears, biting down on his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

I blinked, feeling sick. I didn't want to lose him, I realized. As much as the bitterness inside me tempted me to bite into him and taste his sweet blood or tell him the truth and watch him squirm just for a distraction from the pain, I couldn't. Because then I'd lose him. I didn't want to lose him. I'd already lost Jazzy today for the second time, I couldn't lose Jack too.

Isaac turned to me, his expression as empty as mine. "Ya gonna tell him?"

"I am Miss. Nidsbit," I answered, flatly. It was supposed to sound friendly like I was teasing, but it only came off as evasive. Jack glared at me. It was already happening; I was already losing him. I guess I deserved that much.

"Don't joke," He said.

"I thought it was hilarious," Isaac chimed.

"In that case, I'm bottled-depression." I flashed my teeth in a way that held no joy whatsoever. "Pint-sized for your convenience," I added, trying for a familiar joke about my height. It sounded empty.

"That was better," My brother snickered, leaning back and closing his eyes. He was probably just going to keep making sarcastic jabs in an attempt to vent his anger, so I ignored him.

"I asked you a question," Jack growled in a way that somehow managed to be threatening despite the whole baby-face puppy-eyed thing he had going on. It was actually kinda hot... Wait, what? When had that happened?

"And I answered you." I sat up. Why did I sound so bitter? Why couldn't I change it? My eyes flicked down to Jack's throat without my permission. His skin looked so soft and I realized I was suddenly famished. My throat burned and desire reared its ugly head inside me. Isaac's voice snapped my attention back to reality.

"Oh dear, Marty. You made the Nephil sniffle."

Jack clenched his teeth and hissed, seemingly bothered by the fact that I wasn't afraid of him. He wouldn't hurt me, right? No, he would. He would hurt me if he knew. If he knew what I wanted to do to him. I wanted him to hold me as he had a few days ago but I wanted to sink my teeth into him at the same time. I deserved to die.

"What are you?" He repeated, taking a step forward. He would hurt me. Good.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied, my voice inflectionless. Wandering towards my dresser I started fiddling with some meaningless piece of junk. Anything for a distraction from his soft throat and thrumming pulse. Jack's glowing eyes followed me.

"Y-you're lying," He said. He was trying to sound strong, but there was something broken in his tone.

"Ya think?" I deadpanned. Jack swallowed thickly; his hand shot out to grab my wrist, eyes fading back to their soft blue.

"This isn't funny, Marty. Stop." His eyes pleaded with me. I eyed his hand.

"Or what?" I challenged. What would he do to me? He looked me in the eyes, frowning and moving closer to me. He needed to step away. I caught my gaze drifting to his neck again but I couldn't stop.

"I really don't want to hurt you," He said.

'Then don't make me tell you.' I thought. His eyes searched my face for any glimpse of his friend, but that girl had never been real, not really anyway. I had made her up.

I wished I could go back in time. Back to the night we met. We could do it all over again and maybe, if I had another chance, he wouldn't figure it out. Maybe it would've been better if I'd never come with Jack in the first place. I wished we could go back to the night we met. Then I could have said no. If I hadn't come with him, I never would have hurt Jack like this. If he had never touched me then I would never have had to feel this pain. If I could just go back.

"And you won't," I said, taking a chance.

Jack huffed, his expression pained.

"This is freakin' five-star entertainment," Isaac mused, resting his chin on his fist, observing Jack and me.

"Please, Marty," Jack begged in a whisper. His sweet-smelling breath was warm as it washed over my face. His eyes flicked down to my lips but only for a split second. No, no. Anything but that. "Just tell me the truth."

'You already know it.'

"I have," I lied. Everything kept coming out wrong! I sounded emotionless like I didn't care but I did! Jack's soft expression melted into one of betrayal.

"So, you're just going to lie?" He asked. "Right to my face?"

I didn't have control over what slipped from my lips next.

"Says the Devil's kid."

"Ooh! One point to the Marty!" Isaac laughed.

Jack stared at me like he was heartbroken. Then his eyes narrowed into a glare, lighting with gold as he released my wrist and moved his hand to seize my throat. He whirled us around and slammed me into a wall with more force than I'm sure than he intended to use. Not that I couldn't take it. Without so much as a flinch, I tilted my head as much as I could with Jack cutting off my air supply.

"Tell me what you are!" He shouted. There was desperation there.

"That's quite the grip ya got there, puppy," I taunted, rasping. He loosened his grip but only slightly, holding the picture of my family up for me to see, the corner was dated January 8th, 2014.

"You said they died five years ago. This picture- it was taken five years ago! You said you were nine then! But y-you - you weren't!" Jack's eyes were wide, almost crazed as he glanced from the girl in the picture and back to me. He knew the truth; he just didn't want to believe it. His voice softened. "You haven't aged a day. Five years and you haven't aged a day."

My voice was soft and it wasn't just from the lack of air. "I aged about a month, actually."

Jack let go of my throat like I was burning him, shaking his head as he backed away like a frightened animal. As well he should. He was the prey here and I did want to kill him. But I wanted him to hold me again even more. "Y-you're one of them..." He whispered.

'Don't leave me. I'm sorry, just don't leave me!' I thought desperately, but that wasn't what came out. I felt trapped in my own skin, the monster inside me taking over, fed by my own bitterness.

"I'd say something along the lines of 'say it out loud' but I'm pretty sure that would have copywrite issues," I said, shrugging and moving back to sit on my bed. Jack watched me carefully.

"Felix - h-he turned you. He made you just like him - a vampire... You're a monster!" He spat the word like it was snake-venom.

And it hurt. It hurt so freaking bad. It was like I had lodged a knife in my own chest years ago and now Jack was twisting it.

'I know I am.' I wanted to say.

"Well that's a harsh way of putting it. But I've been called worse." I brushed it off like I didn't care like it wasn't that deep like I wasn't bleeding to tell him how sorry I was. I lowered my head in shame.

"I-I have to tell Sam and Dean," Jack said, shifting onto the balls of his feet, edging towards the door. He was going to make a run for it. Suddenly, I was in control of my body again.

I couldn't let him. I needed more time. I needed to beat Felix first and then they could all find out. I had to fix this. I could still fix this.

I had made Jack forget once.

I could do it again.

I would take us back in time. Before he knew. Make everything right. Take us back to the night we met.

He had to forget.

"I can't let you do that," I spoke softly, my gaze still focused on my feet.

"Are you going to try to kill me?" He asked accusingly.

"No." I shook my head. No, I could never kill him. I was too selfish for that. He deserved someone so much better than me. But I loved him.

"Then what are you going to do?" Jack shifted closer to the exit.

"Isaac," I glanced at my brother out of the corner of my eye. Jack stiffened, his eyes snapping to where mine went. "Get the door."

"On it!" Isaac said, overly eager. Jack bolted but he was too slow. My brother flicked his wrist and the door swung closed with a click. Jack swallowed thickly and glanced back to me, fear filling his features. I knew what he was going to try next.

'This is necessary. One day I'll be sorry.'

"His wings," I said to Isaac, my voice breaking. Isaac grinned widely and reached out, making a pinching motion. Jack froze in a panic, then he clenched his eyes shut groaning as Isaac twisted his hands just a bit.

"Can I rip 'em off?" He asked, basking in the Nephilim's pain.

"Isaac, no!"

"Oh, come on," He twisted his hands even more and Jack cried out, his innocent face twisting in agony. "Just a little?"

"Stop! Just-" I sighed. "Please, don't hurt him, Isaac. Just keep him still, please."

Isaac rolled his eyes. "Oh, fine!" He let go and Jack fell to the ground, panting and shaking. He did his best to get to his feet but Isaac flung him into a wall, pinning him there. "Go ahead and Obliviate the simp."

I stood and stepped towards Jack, slowly and carefully, trying not to scare him any more than I had. I could tell he was trying desperately to move but Isaac was too strong.

"What are you going to do?" Jack demanded, trying to hide the fear in his voice. "Are you going to drink my blood?!"

I froze.

Because I could. Then, I could make him forget.

I glanced at his throat. My fangs ached to come out - to bite. I could imagine what it might feel like to bury my teeth in that soft, delicious-smelling skin. I could imagine what he might taste like. He'd be sweet like candy. I could be gentle! Maybe if he could somehow understand how badly I needed him then he'd let me. And he heals fast so he'd be okay.

But he wouldn't understand. And I wanted him to hold me again.

I just wanted Jack to hold me again.

"No," I said. I plucked the picture frame from his hands, gazing at the smiles of my family for a moment. I looked up, trying to smile despite the ache of grief and guilt in my chest. "I'm going to need you to forget this."

"I wish I could," Jack said, glaring at the floor. He couldn't even look at me. He couldn't even look.

I nodded. "You will."

"W-what?"

I sighed and moved over to the window. The crisp breeze blew in from the sea as I threw it open, the curtains billowing like vicious barking dogs on a leash. It was a long way down to the black rocks where the land met the ocean. I dropped the picture and watched it tumble until it smashed into the rocks, shattering that perfect picture frame, shattering my picture-perfect family into a million pieces.

"I can make you forget," I told him, over my shoulder. "Take us back to the night we met." The power inside me trilled with excitement; it wanted Jack, it craved him. Or maybe that was just the monster I was, begging to be unleashed. I turned away from the window, closing it as I did.

"What do you mean?" He asked cautiously. He was scared. He was so scared.

"I'm going to talk to you, and then you're going to forget, and everything will be back to the way it was." I would fix this. His arms would be around me as soon as I fixed this and everything would be okay. I hung my head and let the power inside me launch forward and wrap itself like chains around my Nephilim. I could feel his light, his grace, fighting back but it had nothing substantial to fight. My power wasn't physical, I just imagined it being so.

"No! W-wait!" Jack watched me with dread, beginning to feel the effects of what I was doing to him. I was locking his memories away, locking him up in his own head. But I had to. Because he wouldn't understand and I needed him.

"I have to do this," I whispered, digging my mental claws in deeper.

"Stop," He gasped, beginning to tremble with effort, "Whatever you're doing, just stop!"

"I can't stop, Jack. I'm sorry, but I just need a little more time," I said, gently. "Four moves and I win."

"Four moves..." He mumbled to himself, his brows furrowing, "Four moves? I-I've heard that before. Where have I heard that before?" Then he groaned and squeezed his eyes shut again.

"Please, just forget. I need you to forget."

'I need you to hold me again.'

"Get out of my head!" Jack's voice rose with panic. He flinched away from me as much as he could but Isaac kept him pinned and helpless.

"I'm gonna make everything okay again. I promise." I fought harder against him, willing my power to work faster. Jack moaned and I glanced up to see his face contorted with pain.

"Please!" He begged me, grimacing, "Please, stop! Marty, please. It hurts." I tried harder, and a choked sob escaped his throat. "Marty, please! It hurts! It hurts! You have to stop! Please!"

"I wish you hadn't found out, Jack, and one day I'll be sorry about this."

"Wait. Wait, no!"

I pushed my power harder than I ever had before.

A horrifying scream of pure agony ripped from Jack's throat. But the walls of this house were built to withstand hurricanes. I was the only one who could hear him. With one last burst of effort, I overpowered the walls of his grace and my power flooded his mind, wiping away any memories of what I was. His scream faltered into groans and those softened into whimpers and Jack's body went limp.

Isaac let go and the Nephilim collapsed but I caught him before his head hit the floor. Carding my fingers through his hair, I pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. Picking him up, I carried him to my bed and laid him there. He weighed more than I did, obviously, but he didn't feel very heavy to me. I laid down beside him, hugging him around the middle and pressing my face into his chest.

Then I finally cried.

"I hope you can forgive me before I'm sorry. Because I'm a liar and don't think I'll ever really regret this."

***

"You hear something?" Sam asked, perking up. Castiel sat dutifully on a large black bolder, watching the house. The angel flicked his eyes to Sam and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head before focusing back on the house.

"Hm? Uh, no." Dean hardly spared a glance. He was too busy drawing inappropriate words in the sand with his foot. Sam frowned.

"Weird." He shook his head, swallowing thickly as he paced back and forth across the moonlit sand.

"Martina threw a picture frame from her window and it shattered against the rocks approximately sixty-two feet south-east of where you are standing," Castiel informed him, "Perhaps that's what you heard."

Sam shook his head again, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, no. It, uh, it wasn't that. I just- I-I coulda' sworn I heard someone..." He trailed off. 'Scream,' He wanted to say. The sound had been like a phantom pain; intense yet insubstantial.

'Just like the visions...' Sam thought. But no. That wasn't possible. He hadn't had a vision or any manifestation of psychic abilities for going on twelve years! He was probably just imagining things. Sam pushed the thought away as soon as it had come. It was impossible... Right?

Yet still, his eyes wandered to the window on the upstairs floor of the dark house; the only window with a slim shaft of light peaking through the curtains. Because what if...

No .

No. Everything was fine, Jack would have alerted them if there was any danger - or at least - the brothers and their angel would've been able to see if Jack thought there was any danger. Judging by the lack of explosions, Sam could assume that everything was fine.

There was no trap here after all. Although, if he thought about it, that may have been the trap in itself. That monster called Felix had lured Marty back here to relive the most painful day of her life. There had been no vamps waiting to do her any physical harm, but Felix didn't need them to. He just wanted that poor, sweet, little girl to hurt.

And, boy was she hurting.

Sam knew how it felt to lose a brother. He knew how it felt to watch his brother die twice. Hell! Sam had watched Dean die more than one hundred times on the one hundred worst Tuesdays of his life. It had made him feel empty inside - hollow. Like somebody had scraped out everything inside of him, the good and the bad, and had left an utter nothingness in its place. And in the face of all that nothing, fear had gripped Sam's heart like a vice. Fear of that emptiness - of all the unspeakable things it made him willing to do. Sam had been willing - eager even - to do whatever it took if it meant filling that awful hole inside of him.

That was what scared him. It was that ruthlessness. It was that titanium will he'd always shied away from. It was when he'd looked into a mirror and seen John Winchester staring back at him. Deep down, that was what both Sam and Dean had always feared the most. Becoming their father. Becoming the shell of a man that had raised them.

Sam could see the beginnings of a similar shell-forming in Martina. He had seen it when they'd rescued her from that shed the week before. Her shell wasn't made of hate like John's had been - not completely at least. Marty's shell had come from grief and fear. She was just trying to hide; both from Felix and from the shell of a person that she was becoming. Jack had told Sam about Marty's memory gaps - about how she couldn't remember what had happened in the shed after she had left. Sam knew that traumatized people tend to blot things out, it was common. But things like the shed and her return to her childhood home could only serve to send Marty further into her shell.

And the last thing the world needed was another John Winchester.

"These kids were livin' a dream, aye Sammy?"

Sam frowned as Dean's mumbled words knocked him from his train of thought. "H-how do you mean?"

"I mean, look! They had everything!" He said, gesturing from the white sand of the beach to the black rocks to the brine woods. His tone and expression grew sober. "Just like a little fairy-tale. And, I mean, three psychics? Those kids - they had a lotta' potential. So smart and talented and now..." Dean trailed off with a frown.

"Yeah..." Sam quietly agreed. Dean turned to his brother with a pensive expression.

"Got me thinkin', maybe-" He sighed. It was hard for him to say and he didn't want to say it. Even though Dean knew that Marty was capable of more than she seemed and that she could affect his emotions, he didn't really care.

Well, he did care . Dean hated people screwing with his head or his feelings, period. But somehow Marty was different. He didn't really care to admit it, but Dean had always wanted a daughter. A sweet soul he could love and care for but definitely, with a badass side, he could bestow his knowledge upon. Claire was a close as he had gotten but she had already grown up and she didn't want his help. To Claire, Dean was only a painful reminder of all she'd lost.

And, of course, there was Emma.

But Dean didn't like to think about her.

Thinking about Emma was too painful.

But Marty was still young, and she didn't see Dean the way Clair did. Marty looked at Dean with hope in her eyes and he desperately wanted to keep it that way.

Jack had used to look at him that way. Jack didn't look at him like that anymore.

Because Dean had messed up with Jack. He could admit that now. He'd messed up and he'd messed up bad. Things had gotten better between them; little by little over time. But Jack hadn't even been five days old when Dean had promised to take his life. After that, Jack had only watched Dean with fear. Not hope. Just sheer friggin' terror on his face whenever the elder Winchester walked into the room. And though things had gotten better, they'd always have that promise between them.

That promise from the night when if Dean had only been a better person he could have made things better and not worse like he always did. (Because he was always making things worse. Always too selfish. Always screwing things up. Always getting people hurt. It was always him, always his fault.) Dean could've snatched that knife from Jack's hands and told him it was going to be alright even if it didn't seem like it would be. And Dean could've given the kid the kind of hug he should've been given the day he was born; a father's hug, just like Castiel would have given him if he'd been alive to do it. Because that was Cas's son. That was Cas's kid! Oh, God... Cas... How could Dean have let his best friend down so horribly? Cas, who had given everything up for him and his brother. Cas had saved them time and time again at his own expense. Cas, who would bleed every drop of blood he had with a smile on his face, all in the name of the Winchesters. How could Dean have betrayed him like that? It wasn't enough for Dean to just let the angel die! (It was Dean's fault, of course. It always was. How couldn't it be? He could have prevented it. If he'd just been a little faster or a little smarter.) No, he had to go and tear that innocent kid to pieces just cause he was sad. (So, selfish. How could he be so selfish? Why was he always so selfish?) Cas had trusted Dean with his son and Dean had repaid him with the promise to take Jack's life. No wonder Jack still could hardly bear to look Dean in the eyes. How could he? Dean wasn't meant to be a father to anyone. He was too frickin' selfish for that.

But this time, things would be different. This time around, Dean would be different - he would be better. For once in his life, he would be selfless and he'd do the right thing even if it possibly meant giving up his only chance to raise a little girl. Because, despite being tainted by darkness and tears, there was still so much good inside Martina Linville. She had so much potential, with the right chances, she could grow up to be great. But she would need those right chances and she wouldn't get them if she stayed with the Winchester's broken little family. All they brought to people was tears and death.

Dean didn't want that for her. She deserved better. Just like Dean himself and his brother had deserved better. She deserved to live a life free from all this pain - a good life, a happy life. Dean wanted that for her. Dean just wanted to help. That was all he'd ever wanted. The last thing Marty needed was more darkness in her life. She didn't need them in her life.

She didn't need him in her life.

So, Dean would be selfless and he would let her go and he would give her the chance to shine like the stars she loved so much. It was probably the most fatherly thing he could do for her. 'Cause Dean just wasn't cut out to be a Dad.

But, oh, did he wish he could be one. Even though he knew that Marty's empathic abilities were probably what was making him feel so strongly about her, Dean couldn't help but go along with it. It wasn't like she was stuffing thoughts in his head; his feelings may have been bolstered but Dean's mind was his own. Dean had always wanted a daughter, Marty hadn't made that up that wish, she'd just reminded him of it. He felt awful about how he had treated Jack and craved a chance at redemption for his mistakes; Dean had made those choices, all Marty had done was exist to give him a chance. Sure, she was rioting his emotions. But what did that matter? Because Dean wanted this and damn it! This felt real!

But he couldn't have it.

Because Dean, and his brother, and their angel, and - yes - even Jack -- it was all some sick, screwed up, god damn beautiful tragedy -- But they were the last thing Martina Linville needed.

So, Dean would be selfless.

"Thinkin' about what?" Sam's question shook Dean from his reverie and back to what he'd been meaning to say.

"Maybe we should put her into the system after all this," He said, thoughtfully, though there was regret in his tone also. Sam blinked twice, shaking his head.

"W-what? The system? You mean the foster system?" He asked, incredulously.

"Yeah? Something wrong with that?" Dean responded. Sam gaped at him.

"Is something wrong with that? Dean, everything is wrong with that!" He exclaimed. Dean opened his mouth to argue but Sam didn't let him. "We made Marty a promise! Just this morning you said she was part of the family. Was all that just talk?"

"No, but-"

"Then what the Hell was it, Dean? Because you can't just go back on something like that! We said we'd take care of her," Sam huffed, crossing his arms and glaring at his older brother.

"And that's exactly what we'd be doing," Dean argued, "Giving her a place that's safe."

"Who would take her in? She's fourteen and she's got more trauma than some war veterans, I don't-"

"Exactly!" Dean cut him off. "The kid's got issues! She needs help, the professional kind."

"Since when do you promote therapy? Sam scoffed.

"When it doesn't involve me," Dean grumbled. Sam shook his head, getting back to the point.

"Throwing her on a bunch of strangers with no clue what she's been through, and who couldn't possibly understand her even if they knew, isn't going to help her! She'd get tossed around or thrown into some group therapy home till she's eighteen and then they'd dump her back on the streets where we found her! How is that taking care of her?"

"It's getting her out of this life, Sam," Dean said firmly. Sam glared.

"You mean getting her out of your life," The younger brother spat lowly.

"What did you just say?" Dean asked dangerously.

"You heard me."

"You have somethin' ya wanna say to my face, Sammy?" Dean growled.

"Dean," Castiel said his name like a warning, his hand gripping Dean's shoulder, holding him back.

"Yeah, I do." Sam's nostrils flared and his mouth was pressed into a thin line. "I'm not gonna stand by and watch you do this again."

"Do what again?" Dean questioned, Cas' hand on his shoulder reminding him to keep calm.

"This thing you do. Anytime a kid comes along, you do this. You act all annoyed, then right as you start liking having 'em around something happens and you realize the responsibility and it freaks you out so you back off and you push 'em away."

"I don't do that," Dean said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah? 'Cause you did it with Kevin, you did it with Claire, you did it with Jack, and now you're doing it again right now with Marty. The second things get real, you get scared and you run away." Sam kept eye contact with Dean, challenging him to look away. Dean clenched his teeth, his pride preventing him from losing the contest of wills.

"Quit fooling yourself, Sam. Look at me!" Dean's voice broke just a little. But he cleared his throat, quick to cover his mistake. "Er, at us, I mean. We can't raise a kid!" He protested.

"We raised Jack," Sam countered.

"Because there were literally no better alternatives!" Dean seethed. Sam opened his mouth but Dean wasn't done. Hyperaware of Castiel's presence just behind him, guilt ate at his heart. But Dean had never been very good at apologies. "And I even screwed that up! I'm not Dad material, Sam. I'm just not!"

His outburst of emotion made Sam blink, rendering him momentarily speechless. He could have spoken his next words gently but pride made them come out like acid.

"I don't think that's what Ben thought," He hissed. Sam knew it was a low-blow bringing up Ben. That wound was still sore.

"Yeah?" Dean laughed but there was no humor in it. "WELL LOOK HOW THAT TURNED OUT!" He yelled. Sam tensed but didn't back off.

"Something isn't real because it lasts, Dean," Sam said, speaking just a little bit gentler now. "For however short a time, Ben had a dad that loved and cared about him. For however short a time, you made him happy. You say you're not dad material, but that's not what I saw. If that's what you're so worried about, then don't be. 'Cause you made an pretty awesome dad, Dean, even if Ben doesn't remember."

Dean sighed in defeat. "We have nothing to give her, Sam."

"We have trust and understanding, a-and that's more than some random foster home could give her."

Dean shook his head. "It doesn't have to be random."

"What do mean?"

"Jody," He suggested, "I mean, she's already got Claire and Alex. What's one more?"

Sam sighed through his nose, shaking his head. "Yeah, she's got Claire and Alex-" He paused giving his older brother a pointed look. "- And Patience and Kaia. What's one more? That's only five emotionally unstable teenage girls to take care of, on top of a full time job as a sheriff, and hunting to worry about too."

"I agree with Sam," Castiel spoke up, "We cannot simply dump yet another troubled youth onto the already burdened shoulders of Sheriff Mills." Sam gestured to the angel as if accentuate his point.

"But at least she'd be safe," Dean argued, pursing his lips into a thin line.

"From monsters, sure," Sam agreed, nodding. Dean could sense a ' but ' coming. "But not from herself."

"Jody could help Marty just as much as we could - probably more!" He said. Dean could hear Sam grind his teeth in frustration, but Cas held up a hand to speak.

"I don't think that's true, Dean."

"Why not?" Dean asked the angel.

"'Why not?' Haven't you been listening?" Sam exclaimed. Cas shot the younger Winchester a look and he fell silent.

"I am sure Sheriff Mills is a competent and kind woman; however, Martina does not know or trust her. Sending her to live there would only be marginally better than shipping her off to a stranger," The angel stated, evenly.

"What's that gotta do with what Sam said?" Dean asked. Cas gave him a long-suffering look but continued in perfect patience.

"As weary as I am of Martina's true motives and intentions, I think it is plenty clear the choice she faces after the termination of her family's killer. That is, if she has not made her decision already."

Dean's face scrunched with confusion. "What choice is that?"

"The choice of continuing to live free from the threat of Felix Monroe, or..." The angel trailed off, frowning. His tone made Dean feel like there was a knot in his chest.

"Or what?" He pressed, cautiously. Cas sighed.

"Or to end her life and return to her family," Cas finished, soberly.

Dean was stunned. He hadn't thought- He had never realized.

"Wait, whoa. Are you telling me Marty wants to commit suicide?" His eyes were wide with fear and alarm. She was too young for that. Too young to want to kill herself. No. She couldn't. Dean wouldn't let that happen. "Where's this coming from?" He demanded. Sam glared at him.

"She told her little brother she'd be with him soon. Combine that with the scars on her wrists, and it's really not that hard to figure out," He said, coolly.

Scars? Dean understood now. That was why she was always wearing long sleeves, even in the sweltering heat of Florida. Sam took advantage of his older brother's silence.

"Think about it, Dean," He pushed, "Sending her away from first people she's allowed herself to get attached to in five years? You think that will help?"

The thought made Dean reconsider but Sam had more to say.

"A-and think of Jack! You've seen how much he cares about her. I've seen him smile more in these last two and a half weeks than he did in the five months since we got him back from Apocalypse World. What do you think would happen if he found Marty laying in a pool of her own blood? What do you think that would do to him?"

"It would kill him." Dean sighed, nodding in agreement and Sam cracked a smile.

"I mean, we both know he loves her, Dean. And I-I don't mean like a sister," The younger brother said, fondly. Dean chuckled and the tension in the air cleared.

"Yeah, there's definitely a thing there." He shook his head, grinning. "I mean, it's totally weird but it's a thing." Sam nodded and shrugged.

"Well, I dated a demon. I don't think I can judge."

"You can say that again!" Dean laughed.

The sudden chime of a phone ringing cut through the cool nighttime air like a knife and Dean reached to answer. The smile dropped from his face as soon as he caught a glance at the screen.

"Who is it?" Castiel asked.

"Blocked," Dean answered, apprehension filling his voice, "Three guesses as to who." He mumbled, sliding a finger across the screen to pick up the call and putting it on speaker.

"This is Dean Winchester," He announced as the line connected.

There was no voice on the other side of the call.

"Hello?" He tried again.

Again nothing.

Dean could hear someone breathing but they didn't speak. The breaths sounded ragged and uneven like the person was out of breath. There was background noise as well, a deep rumbling that seemed to increase in volume as time wore on. Without warning, the sound of a deep bellowing horn blared from the phone's speaker. It was the sort of horn that typically accompanies a low rumbling noise. It was the sort of horn that accompanies a really, really big train. The sound of the horn grew louder but soon began to fade as the train passed by whoever had been holding the phone. Something told him this wasn't a simple case of a butt-dial. The situation unnerved for some reason he couldn't name. It was like a scene from a movie.

"Tell me who you are or I'm hanging up," Dean said, his voice demanding.

"I-I would'nt d-do that if I were y-you!" A desperate, ragged voice called from the phone. Dean had gotten it wrong. The person on the phone wasn't Felix. The person on the phone was a little girl and she wasn't out of breath. She was terrified.

"Why not?" He asked, cautiously.

"B-because little Pamala o-only get's this one c-call." The voice on the other end sounded oddly robotic despite the words being broken into syllables by the girl's sobs.

"What do you mean?" He wondered.

"She-she's lu-ucky you picked u-up. If you hadn't I'd have t-old my friends to e-eat swe-eet Pammy here! Sh-she's seven, just so you know!" The little girl choked out.

"Felix," Dean growled, "You're using the little girl to talk for you?"

"Pamala is a c-cute little pup-pet. But she's a-annoy-ing. If she d-doesn't stop s-stutter-ing, I'll tell one of my f-friends to t-ake a bite!" The little girl whimpered and took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice for the sake of her life. " So, what shall I make Panama say next?"

Dean gritted his teeth together. To his right, Sam looked like he was going to be sick. But this wasn't just sick, this was downright vile . On his left, Cas looked about ready to rip that monster apart with his bare hands.

"Why don't you talk to me with your own voice, Nessie? Ya scared?" Dean taunted.

"No. That would ruin the fun of the game." The girl spoke slowly, trying her best to stay calm.

"What game?" Castiel demanded, sounding a step away from livid.

"You hunters and your angel have thirty minutes to come and rescue poor, little Pamala. When time is up, I'll tell my friends to- to r-rip her in- into itty-bitty pieces!" The girl let out a panicked sob after finishing the monster's words.

"How are we supposed to do that?" Dean demanded, fuming. "She could be anywhere!"

"No, not anywhere, Dean. She's sitting all wrapped up in the attic of the Florida East Coast Railway Station at Fort Pierce. I might be there with her too, gives you a chance to catch me just to make things interesting. But you better hurry, I hear t-traffic can be a biatch."

"You're gonna pay for this, you son of a bitch!" Dean growled.

"Watch the language, Dean Winchester. There are children present. You don't wanna spoil little Pamala's innocence, do you?"

Dean was so enraged, he couldn't even speak. Luckily, Sam was thinking the same as he was.

"We're gonna kill you," Sam promised.

"Perhaps. But not before I show y-you the truth."

The truth? What truth?

"This call will end in...

Five...

Four..."

"Stay strong, sweetheart!" Dean called to the little girl on the other side of the phone. "We're gonna come help you!"

"Three...

Two...

One...

...

Please save me...

...

I don't wanna die..."

Then the line clicked and the call was over.

Dean clenched his jaw and put the phone away.

"Let's go gank that sick bastard."

~I am not the only traveler

And then I can tell myself

I had all and then most of you

When the night was full of terrors

Lyrics from: The Night We Met by Lord Huron

I had all and then most of you

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raendown · 4 years

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Meow and Furever

They hadn’t actually intended to get a cat. If not for their own collective lack of creativity they would never have even been inside the shop that day. Social niceties dictated they bring some sort of gift to Hashirama’s house-warming party that weekend but neither of them were any good at buying gifts for other people; such was the main reason they had a long standing agreement to the limit of one gift each during the holidays. Without any better ideas they had come to the conclusion that they would instead purchase gifts for Hashirama’s many dogs. That was just the sort of cute gesture he would adore and it came with the added bonus of not disappointing any human recipients.

So off they went to peruse through aisle upon aisle of nonsense toys that made an entire cacophony of noises when squeezed or shaken. It was standing at the end of aisle twenty-seven with a plastic hotdog between his hands that Itachi spotted the beast who would change their lives forever.

“Tobi,” he murmured from one corner of his mouth. When the other did not respond he reached out to nudge lightly with one elbow. Tobirama grunted, looking up from comparing two different squeaky donuts.

“What is it?”

“Look.”

He did. And what he saw was quite possibly the ugliest cat he had ever come across in his entire life. Situated behind glass in a wall of cages designed to attract potential pet parents while also keeping the animals safe, a pair of amber eyes glared back at him in a way that spelled death. Or possibly begged for treats. It was hard to tell under the absolute explosion of ginger fur and the massive jaw.

Almost before Tobirama could process the man had even moved Itachi was across the aisle and all but pressed against the glass barrier, fingers coming up to trace patterns in the air for the angry ball of fluff to follow with its eyes. The store employee standing nearby gave them a side glance that practically smelled like a sales pitch. She watched with dollar signs in her eyes as the giant orange cat stretched out both front legs and yawned, showing off uneven teeth sticking out in all sorts of strange directions, then pattered daintily closer to the glass where it sat and resumed staring at the brave human who dared to approach.

“What on earth happened to its face?” Tobirama wondered out loud. As though it heard him, the cat turned to look at him with both ears swiveled forward as best they could over the crumpled folds of skin. Despite its obvious feline roots one could almost mistake it for a pug with a face that squished.

“Poor genetics,” the nearby employee piped up. “He was born that way. It’s put off quite a number of potential owners.”

“I think he’s beautiful,” Itachi breathed.

When the cat looked back in his direction he cooed and wriggled his fingers enticingly. Tobirama sighed. After several years together he knew his partner very well and he knew the look in those dark, beloved eyes. Come hell or high water they were going to take that animal home. Oh he could put up a fuss and dig in his heels, he could come up with a dozen logical arguments why they shouldn’t or couldn’t, but when Itachi really wanted something he had ways of being quite convincing. All of them were very underhanded. None of them were the sort of thing Tobirama wanted strangers to witness in the middle of a public pet shop.

Still, he had a reputation to maintain. With as stern of an expression as he could muster he simply growled, “No.”

“But look at him!” Itachi whipped about to stare at him with wide eyes.

“I am,” Tobirama said. “He’s as ugly as sin.”

“He’s perfect.”

“The answer is no, Itachi, we are not taking him with us. We don’t have anything for a cat at home. He would destroy the furniture we only just finished paying off!”

Despite knowing this was a battle he would inevitably lose Tobirama folded his arms with every intention of standing his ground.

An hour later they were trooping out the front door of the shop with half a dozen bags of assorted feline paraphernalia and a plastic carrier containing one very smug orange monster. The inside was meant to be lined with blankets for extra comfort but after the third was ruined before it could even make it halfway inside the staff decided that perhaps it was best they keep anything soft far away from those sharp claws until the thing was no longer their problem. Tobirama said a silent goodbye to the sides of his couch even as he watched Itachi settle the carrier across both knees and murmur soothingly through the grated door. Incredibly, he did not get hissed at.

For the entirety of the drive home the two new cat parents discussed their options for names. On the adoption forms Itachi had written down the first thing that came to mind simply for the sake of being able to take him home quicker but that was one thing Tobirama had successfully put his foot down on. He refused to call out ‘Butternut Squash’ whenever he inevitably got angry at the cat for something. They tossed a lot of options back and forth and by the end of the drive it was narrowed down to two different options.

“I would have thought you’d be more excited about ‘Tang’,” Itachi mused. “It’s close enough to the word dang that you could almost feel like you’re swearing.”

“True. Unfortunately it reminds me of that awful drink powder my brothers were all obsessed with when we were young.”

“Ah yes. That would be why I rejected ‘Clifford’. I remember it a little too well from a show my own brother used to enjoy.” He frowned briefly, though it faded when his new monster gave off a sort of rumbling sound that might have been purr or growl, it was impossible to tell.

Pulling in to the driveway, Tobirama gave a sage nod. He’d never liked that show either. “Alright so what are we going for? I’ll leave the final decision up to you; are we calling him Winston or Rohan?”

He didn’t get an answer until after they had fought their way out of the car and in to the home with their many large bags. Itachi set the carrier down on the kitchen floor and then sat beside it to coo through the door soothingly. Whether or not it worked was hard to tell. Before opening the door to let their new family member roam free he paused to crane his neck up with a smile.

“Would you consider another option?” he asked.

“Seriously?” Tobirama lifted one eyebrow. “We just spent half an hour narrowing this down and you want to throw in a new contender?”

“Tesla. We could call him Tesla.”

“...because all that fur makes him look like he’s been in some sort of electrical accident?”

“Precisely.” As if to prove the point he’d already made Itachi squeezed the latch and twisted, swinging the little door open, then beamed with a parental sort of pride as their newest addition came stumping out of its carrier in a gait that reminded Tobirama very uncomfortably of his brother’s best friend.

True to his proposed name, however, the cloud of orange fur surrounding the cat’s massive bulk stood out from his body in raggedy clumps that gave a very good impression of being recently electrocuted. After pausing to rub himself up against Itachi’s knee almost incidentally he took a few cautious steps and lifted his nose to sniff the air. His misshapen little nose wriggled in time with his ears, swiveling front and back while he tried to take in as much information as possible about this new environment. Both humans watched him take a few more steps-

Only to plop his bottom down on the linoleum and declare the whole adventure business to be too much trouble. Instead he stretched out and rolled over to put all four paws in the air.

“I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean,” Tobirama murmured.

“Maybe that he feels safe here already?” Hesitating very briefly, Itachi reached out and dared to run his fingers through the wild hair covering the belly on offer. “Oh. Oh he’s so soft!”

“So clumpy, you mean. I wonder when he last groomed himself.”

His partner gave him a stern look. “Quit insulting him and just tell me whether or not you like the name!”

“Yes, I think Tesla is a good name for him,” Tobirama gave in. It wasn’t a lie, he did think it was a good name and it definitely appealed to his nerdy side, he was just a little too fond of the way Itachi’s nose wrinkled whenever he was exasperated. He was a little too fond of many things about this man.

Tesla himself seemed to approve of the name and he showed this by rolling heavily back on to his feet and strutting away from them both with his tail held high in the air. His short hesitant footsteps were surprisingly delicate for a creature of his size. Just as Tobirama was beginning to think that perhaps adopting him wouldn’t be quite as big of a change to their lives as he had initially suspected Tesla paused to lock his gaze on to the dishes piled up by the sink. With both of their families stopping by for visits over the past week there hadn’t been much free time to wash the dishes just yet so the stacks were getting just a little wobbly. That, of course, is precisely what caught Tesla’s attention.

Before either of them had time to do more than gasp with prophetic despair Tesla crouched down and launched himself upwards straight towards the tallest and most wobbly stack of dishes on the countertop. It was only by the grace of some god or other that all the bowls and cups he smacked in to face first were each made of plastic. A good thing, too, as they all immediately came cascading down towards the floor amid shrieking yowls of surprise. Tesla’s little claws screeched against the kitchen floor as he landed only to shoot out of the room in fright, abandoning his new parents to the task of cleaning up his very first mess.

Tobirama felt he was being incredibly generous by waiting until after they had spent five minutes chasing waywards cups that really wanted to roll their way to freedom before turning to his partner with both eyebrows on the upper limits of his forehead. Unfortunately for the sassy remark he’d been composing in his head, Itachi beat him to the punch.

“He lived his whole life in that shelter,” he reasoned. “A pile of dishes is probably something he’s never seen before; he couldn’t have known that would happen!”

“Don’t think logic will save him from my wrath every time,” Tobirama muttered.

Gathering up as much dignity as he could, he set all his gathered dishes down and swept out of the room. Now would have been a perfect time to actually wash the dirty cutlery and so on but he was much more concerned with what else their fluffy new resident could have gotten in to. Five minutes was a long time for a cat to be loose in an unfamiliar environment. All it took was a couple of visits to any of his brothers’ homes to know that pets were their own class of natural disaster.

As it turned out, his instincts were correct. Barely two steps past the kitchen Tobirama broke out in to a run as a terrible ripping sound reached his ears. When he skidded in to the living room it was to find Tesla halfway up their living room curtains, although by the look of the long rips he’d probably made it quite a bit higher before the polyester gave up its structural integrity. Granted, those curtains were ugly as ugly as he was and only remained in the window because they’d been a gift from Itachi’s younger brother at some point, but that didn’t make the prospect of replacing them any more pleasant.

“I should leave you there,” Tobirama snapped. Tesla wriggled until he could tilt his head for a very cute and innocent meow.

“What happ- oh! He’s stuck! Can you hold the curtains still so I can get him down?” Itachi inched around their cluttered living room to reach the window where he began stroking down the cat’s back, hoping to sooth him.

Tesla honestly didn’t look like he needed much soothing. He purred to have such gentle affection, a sound that could be compared to a dying lawn mower, and continued to hang in place as though such had been his intentions all along. It took the two humans working together several minutes to detangle all four sets of claws so they could set the cat back on the ground, whereupon he immediately leapt on to the couch and began kneading the blanket Mito had crocheted for Itachi as a birthday present several years back.

“You’re not going to stop him?” Tobirama asked incredulously. “He’s going to pull out all the threads and leave holes!”

“It’s crochet, it’s already full of holes. No one will notice.”

“Mito will notice.”

Like he’d been struck with lightning Itachi launched in to action, crawling over furniture to reach for Tesla and very gently encourage him to leave the blanket alone. Evidently having his activities interrupted was grounds for declaring war in cat language. The moment his claws were once again detached Tesla hissed wetly at them both and took off down the hall to disappear in to yet another new room. Both men hurried after him.

One cat, Tobirama thought to himself as they came to a skidding halt outside the bathroom. It was only one bloody cat. If he didn’t already know the exact devastated expression his partner would give him for doing so he would give up now and toss the bloody animal outside in to the garden. Gently, of course, because he was actually pretty fond of cats himself. But he was also fond of maintaining an orderly home life and while the cat he’d taken care of growing up had been docile, almost demure, it hadn’t exactly taken him a lot of time to realize this one would not behave the same. They may have chosen his name for the way his fur stuck out at odd angles but it was becoming very clear that Tesla had lightning in his veins as well. Tobirama could already predict many nights being awoken by an attack of ‘the zoomies’ as his brother called it.

“Ah! Tesla! Don’t eat that please!” Itachi hurried forward to rescue the bowl of sweets he kept on his side of the bed for the rare occasion he got a craving. “I don’t think those are good for you.” Tesla meowed curiously and made a valiant effort to follow the bowl, determined to continue inspecting the contents.

“Just let him sniff it and maybe he’ll leave it alone once he knows what it is,” Tobirama suggested.

“But what if he tries to eat one?”

With a sigh Tobirama looked down at the cat stretched up on his hind legs and shook his head. “Then I suggest putting it inside your nightstand for now. Come on, you, let's show you where your litter box and food are. Maybe that will calm you down.”

Tesla gave a very loud protest when he was picked up without further warning. As good as he’d been in the carrier, he didn’t seem to appreciate being swung freely through the air. Unfortunately Tobirama didn’t trust him to keep his claws to himself just yet and so he opted for holding the beast out in front of him like a stinky sack of potatoes rather than cuddling him up close as he would with any other cat. Considering the size of him it was no surprise that Tobirama’s arms began to feel the strain long before he finally made his way in to the laundry room where they planned to set up the litter, figuring this was the best place for any possible stinkiness.

Only after he had arrived and found himself in the middle of the room did he remember that they hadn’t actually had time to set anything up just yet.

“How much do you love me?” he asked in a flat voice. From behind he heard Itachi cough in a poor attempt at covering up a bit of laughter.

“Enough to lock you in here with him while I go get everything ready.”

Tobirama sighed despondently. It was probably for the best. Leaving Tesla in here alone would probably result in some kind of disaster. Reluctantly and with much pouting, he agreed, watching the door close them in like a prisoner might watch the door to his jail cell slam shut. When they were alone he set Tesla on top of the washing machine and wrinkled his nose in irritation when the cat immediately began pawing at a stack of clean laundry. He supposed he should say goodbye now to the idea of ever being cat hair free again. Not even a lint roller was going to save him from this explosion of puff.

By some merciful twist of fate it only took Itachi a few minutes to set up the food and water dishes in their kitchen and fill the litter box, something he did right outside the door. The sound of him pouring litter just a plank of wood away drove Tesla absolutely mad and set him to scratching at the door until finally Itachi opened it.

“Clearly he’s already decided which of us to attach himself to.”

“Well can you blame him?” Itachi carefully set the box down and buried his fingers in orange fur. “From the sounds of it I was the first person to ever give him a chance. Just look at this face, who could ever help loving a face like this?”

If not for the fact that he was overly aware he was making the exact same expression as the cat, Tobirama would have had some very different answers to that question. Instead he only darkened his scowl and turned away. Stupid animal. As soon as his partner spotted the thing he’d known they would end up taking it home but it was only now hitting him just how sleepless, fur-covered, and lonely his future was looking. The shame was probably the worst part. He was jealous of a cat. A cat. Well, more of an orange monster that was clearly plotting to steal all of Itachi’s time and affection away from him.

Doing his best to consciously smooth his face in to something more neutral and unrelated to cat based jealousy, Tobirama cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t we be showing him his litter box so he knows where it is? That’s supposed to be important.”

“Oh, right, yeah.”

“So maybe you should put him down, then?”

“But listen to him purring…” Itachi gave him a tiny smile that blossomed in to a full grin when he laid his head down against Tesla’s side to listen to his monstrous purrs from up close.

With a huff Tobirama nudged the litter box. “Just put him in it.”

It was already happening. The stupid beast was already stealing Itachi’s best smiles, the really soft ones normally reserved just for him when the two of them were all alone. And he was already feeling stupid for letting it get to him. Tobirama wondered if it would be a little too childish to bury the stupid thing in litter while it was still clean just to have what petty revenge he could; it wasn’t as though Tesla would really understand, after all. Stealing Itachi away wasn’t exactly premeditated.

Nor was it real, the man was still right there and he would no doubt still have a part of his large heart reserved for the one who shared his bed, it was just that Tobirama was already fairly sure their bed had just gained another occupant.

“Come on little one, like this!” Itachi used the litter scoop to dig through it like he was teaching a child something new.

“I think he knows how to bury his own shit,” Tobirama grumbled. “The store said he was box trained.”

“What if this isn’t the brand they used? Change can be confusing for anyone.”

“Oh for- I’m going to make dinner.”

So he did. Tobirama ignored the bemused questions that followed him out in to the hall, calling back over his shoulder that keeping up with Tesla’s explorations was Itachi’s responsibility for now as he himself stomped off to the kitchen while trying not to be obvious about said stomping.

Irritated as he was, he chose not to make anything too complicated for dinner, not wanting to let his distraction affect how well he cared for his beloved partner. He definitely had an advantage in this arena. Tesla was great and all but his paws probably weren’t all that useful in the kitchen - not to mention he would coat anything he touched in long ginger fur. Not very tasty for humans.

Eventually as he went about his business the familiar motions of chopping and stirring and fiddling with their faulty stove dials helped center him, calming the silly emotions he hadn’t been able to help. There was something about the simple domesticity of housework that never failed to bring him back in to himself. Probably because housework didn’t require much of his brainpower and so allowed him plenty of time to work through his thoughts without any expectations or outside pressures. Tobirama opened the dishwasher to pull out his favorite set of miso bowls and admitted silently to himself that he might have overreacted to getting a cat. Sure he usually loved cats and yes he had very much enjoyed having one as a child but he and Itachi had lived alone together for close to a decade at this point, their home had become a place where he knew that the rest of the world could fade away and he could envelope himself in nothing but the quiet man who stole his heart from the very first date. It was a little embarrassing to realize that he’d grown so attached to that concept that even as simple of an addition as a pet could make him feel threatened. Itachi would love him no less. Pay him no less attention. Really there was nothing to worry about.

Almost as though he could sense that a bit of mental peace had been reached, Itachi came wandering in to the room just as Tobirama was pulling down some glasses. He insisted on setting the table, for which Tobirama was grateful, and in only a couple of minutes they were both seated together devouring a simple yet delicious meal. The kitchen was Tobirama’s domain and his talents in that area only grew with each year. On the other hand Itachi hadn’t learned to cook until he was nearly thirty and his talents mostly included bowling water.

When Tesla came wandering in to the room with a plaintive yowl Tobirama found it in himself not to glare at the sight of his partner leaping up immediately to guide him towards the cat dish. He supposed the animal deserved to have dinner as well and they might as well eat at the same time. A small fragment of his mental peace was shattered when Tesla began to eat, however, and he realized the stupid thing snarfed down its food with a litany of disgusting sounds almost like he were gargling it. Just because he accepted that the beast would be living here didn’t mean he had to like the thing.

“Thank you for agreeing to let him come home with us,” Itachi said as he slid back in to his chair. Tobirama grunted. “I can’t imagine how it must have felt to stay in that place for so long with only a tiny cage to live in and never have anyone love him.”

Rather than answer all Tobirama could do was grunt again and stir his miso aimlessly while trying not to feel guilty for fantasizing earlier about tossing the thing out.

Dinner was quick, the clean up after even quicker, and even though it was probably a bad idea Tobirama decided that the rest of the evening would be his own, determined to ignore any shenanigans their new addition might get up to. Several people had told him over the years that he was too uptight. He would show them. Of course he knew how to relax, how to let the small things go. How much damage could one animal do in the short span of a single evening?

After the past couple of hours he already knew the answer to that question; he chose to ignore it.

Never having been a large fan of most popular TV shows, he spent the rest of his evening curled up in one corner of their large couch trying not to leap up and investigate every crash or yowl or quiet scolding word. Listening to his partner follow the cat around while Tesla continued learning this new environment did make him feel slightly guilty. Not guilty enough to actually go help though, not when getting the damn thing had been all Itachi’s idea. Sometimes he could be a nice guy but he certainly wasn’t that nice. Instead he combated his helpful urges by sinking farther and farther in to the cushions with every loud noise until he was all but buried between them and tried his best not to imagine what chaos was being made of his neat and orderly home. Whatever got misplaced he was sure Itachi would at least try to clean it up.

By the time his phone went off to tell him he should probably go to bed - a daily alarm he’d been using since college when his study habits grew wildly unhealthy - his efforts to relax hadn’t been nearly as successful as he would have liked but he wasn’t feeling quite so twisted up in knots as he had been before dinner. Tobirama called a few vague words down the hall to let his partner know he was tucking in for the night, pleased to hear Itachi call back that he would follow in a few minutes. A man of his word, he was in the bedroom getting changed when Tobirama came back out of the bathroom, teeth freshly brushed and flossed.

Since Itachi always took so much longer to perform his nightly ablutions Tobirama had plenty of time to slip under the covers and squirm about to find a comfortable position. He didn’t often move around much in his sleep but the older he got the more prone he was to aching limbs if he didn’t fall asleep in just the right position. Just as Itachi came out and crossed the room to turn out the light Tobirama at last found the perfect spot, spread out on his side just close enough to the center of the bed that when the other man crawled under the sheets he was able to fit himself right in to the cradle of Tobirama’s hips. As much as he liked to pretend that cuddling was something he only did for his partner’s benefit, it did help him sleep most days. Tobirama was grateful that slumber was such a private activity. There was no need for anyone else to know that under his gruff exterior he was nearly as sappy as his older brother.

Like he often did, Tobirama had trouble falling asleep. Listening to the sound of Itachi’s breathing evening out relaxed him, of course, but he still found himself distressingly awake to hear the sound of their bedroom door creaking open ever so slightly. A scowl touched his face when he felt the end of the mattress dip under a tiny weight.

“Do you really have to?” he grumbled under his breath.

As though in answer Tesla gave a low meow and trotted a full circle around the lump their bodies made together under the covers, looking for the perfect spot to lie down. No choice could have been more surprising than the one he went for. Tobirama was left blinking rapidly at the back of Itachi’s head when he felt soft fur press up against his neck; almost immediately his entire frame was practically shaken with the force of Tesla’s raucous purring. He didn’t even like the stupid thing but of course he was the one it wanted to cuddle with as they all slept through their first night together.

That, of course, was when it hit him. He understood at last why his partner had fallen so deeply in love with this creature and why it had been so important that they take him home. If ever there had existed a cat form of Tobirama himself it would be Tesla. Coarse and unrefined, prone to explorations and a curiosity that was never quite sated, he himself was exactly the sort of person many others would pass up without a second thought. He was grumpy, he was cantankerous, and he wasn't much to look at. But at the end of the day when it was only him and the ones he loved Tobirama was as soft as melted butter. If he could purr then he certainly would have every time he fitted himself around Itachi’s warm and welcoming form.

“Alright, fine,” he murmured, shifting so Tesla could curl around his head a little more comfortably. “You can stay. Just to be clear, though, I was still here first. And don’t you forget that.”

He didn’t get much of a reply but he wasn’t really expecting one. Tesla merely continued to purr, Itachi continued to dream, and Tobirama decided that he didn’t mind expanding his family just a little bit. Of all the possible choices for a pet it did warm him inside to know that, in a way, his partner had chosen to fall in love with him all over again.

#rae writes #commission #tobiita #tobirama #itachi #fanfiction

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tales-unique · 4 years

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QUARANTINE II

—Question from DeadlyNighshade97: That’d be interesting... What if, for a separate chapter also, Reader gets sick anyway, despite best efforts not to? And all four of them, burdened by guilt for all the stress caused that likely made Reader sick in the first place, /all four of them/ pay Reader back in the same fashion? I can’t tell whether that’d be chaos or peaceful maintenance... or both?

“Ah— Ahh-choo!” It’s about the seventh sneeze that’s come from you in a row and you almost feel as though your body is going for a world record. It’s no surprise that you’ve become sick after taking care of the Horsemen when they were ill, but what did catch you off guard was how slowly it had taken to manifest itself. Weeks had come and gone since then and all of the Four were back to their normal selves and, at first, you had only suffered a small cough. However before long you found yourself overcome with a fever, your throat sore and scratchy, while your nose grew stuffy and useless.

Whimpering from the nest you had made from every blanket you could find you curl up tighter, trying to get as much warmth as you could without much success; your body burned, raging with your fever, but you still felt cold. It was one of those moments where you truly hated life and were very much feeling sorry for yourself. As you wallow in misery you conclude you’ve had enough of the hell that is daytime television, feeling as though your brain may begin to dribble out of your ears at any given moment. With a frustrated huff you toss the remote of your T.V. aside, leaving the drone of The Pioneer Woman behind you as you shuffle to the kitchen, kicking off the sheets as you go. As you rummage around for another bottle of Cold & Flu you’re oblivious to the sound of your front door opening and closing, the rumble of footsteps approaching, because your clogged sinuses prevent you from hearing properly. Strife and War easily enter your home with the key you’ve given them, having gone ahead of Fury and Death so they can conclude business in peace before they too come over. “She really does have it bad,” the elder of the two murmurs, shaking his head as he flicked his gaze over the mountain of blankets strewn about your couch and the crumpled tissues overflowing from your bin. “Hey!” He calls out, peeking his head into the kitchen to see you chugging the medicine like your life depended upon it. This causes the Horseman to snort in laughter, beckoning his brother to come and see but War had already settled on the couch after pushing the blankets to the other end of it. With a shake of his head he looks back to you, all tired eyes and wild bed hair, and gives a sympathetic smile. “You look rough,” his voice was low and quiet and you’re thankful that he’s considerate of the pounding headache you have. “Yeah,” you croak, voice raw from coughing, “because of you guys.” It’s all in good humor, he can tell from the smile on your face as you shuffle past him to return to your blanket nest. War looks troubled upon your return, his brow creased with concern at your awful complexion and scratchy voice, but remains quiet and inviting when you come to him. He sits back as much as he is able on your small couch, allowing you to curl up with your blankets against his side for warmth. The behemoth is always devilishly hot and it’s glorious right now. Strife follows close behind and can’t help but feel a slight tug of, well, something that he doesn’t care to name when he sees how you’re already making yourself quite at home leaning against War. “You’re so warm,” you groan in delight, burying your face into the crook of his flesh arm without a care in the world. It doesn’t take long for Strife to ditch his armour and helmet in favour of taking the unoccupied space at your side, spreading out, ( laying claim , you would say ) and lazily running a hand through your locks. They’re damp with perspiration and he frowns when he feels how your skin is hot to the touch. Sharing a look with War, who is equally perplexed at the scorching heat that’s radiating from you, Strife decides that it’s time they gave you a little TLC. It’s the least they can do after you so dutifully looked after them when they were ill. War is the first to speak up after the mutual, silent agreement between the two, mimicking his brothers low tone to minimise any pain it may cause your head. “Perhaps you should got to bed? It would be more comfortable than here,” he suggested, grumbling when you responded by burrowing deeper into your blankets against his side. “C’mon, sweetheart, we’ll come too,” Strife chimes in, trying his best to coax you out with a loving nickname and the promise of cuddles. “No,” you reply stubbornly, voice muffled from the fabric. It goes on like this for a few moments before it’s obvious that you’re not budging, so War decides he’s had enough and proceeds to lift you up, blankets and all, and escort you to your room. You try to make it difficult, squirming and grousing the entire way, but you’re no match for the towering Horseman. Once again Strife is quick to follow, laughing as War sets you down, a pout on your tired, pale face. “That wasn’t fair.” “Life isn’t fair, sweetheart, now c’mon, snuggle up, it’s time for the cuddle pile!” You stick your tongue out a Strife, who returns the gesture, and you can’t help the small giggle that escapes you at his antics as you make yourself comfortable. Strife, obviously, is quick to be at your side, joined by War on your other side, once he has shed the bulky armour he sports. The sudden heat erupted from such contact has you melting into the sheets, a blissful smile on your lips. You’re unsure what time it is when the sounds of hushed voices rouses you from your sleep. Your throat is dry, your nose still stuffy, but you feel a tiny bit better after such an undisturbed sleep. It’s then you notice the flowing, magenta hair of Fury as she sits perched on the edge of your bed, speaking with Strife. Deciding that you have no real need to move you stay where you arm, resting your head against Strife arm, War’s warm body at your back; still asleep, you assume, from the way his breathing is deep. “She’s still no better? Sickly little thing. She’s been ill for weeks!” Typical Fury, always impatient, but her tone betrays a note of worry. “You know how Humans are, that’s why she needs us,” Strife counters, voice warm and affectionate, “Has Death made that tea yet? I want her to have some before she goes down for another round of z’s.” Death. Making tea. For you. Oh, this you have to see, if only to prove it’s not a fever-induced hallucinations. Wriggling slightly against the confines of the blankets, you let out the most believable yawn you could muster, blinking up at the two Horsemen, who now turned their attention to you. Strife shifted so he could brush your hair from your face, smiling as he did so, while Fury turned to sit cross-legged in front of you. “Hey sleepyhead, you have a good nap?” Strife teased, and you caught Fury’s eye-rolling as you nodded. “Yeah, I feel a lot better.” “Good,” Fury soon chimes in, tilting her head as she looks you over, “you’ve been moping around in this place for too long.” “Well, being ill will do that to ya, Fury,” you chirp, watching with a cheeky smile as she huffs and turns away. You were feeling much better with them there to raise your spirits, but it wasn’t long before your flu reared its ugly head and you began spluttering, trying to hold your cough in. Strife, sporting a frown, rubbed your back soothingly while Fury left to get Death and the tea he had been brewing. The commotion cause War to wake, blinking bleary white eyes for a moment before sitting up straight, panicked by your hunched over form. Before he could speak you quickly shake your head, hand practically flailing. “I’m fine!” You quickly wheeze out trying to contain yourself, “just coughing!” It’s hard but you manage to stifle the awful cough, laying back to catch your breath just as Fury returned, closely followed by Death. Sitting up straighter, you wipe at the slight wetness that pooled at the corner of your eyes, smiling to the masked Horseman as he offers you a languidly steaming mug ( your favourite, the one with the minimalist crows flying on it ) before crossing his arms. “Drink all of it,” Death starts, pointing to the mug held cautiously in your hands. It doesn’t smell too pleasant, but then again the best medicines never do and you trust Death to not give you anything that would harm you. “It’ll work better that way,” he added, softer this time, but still firm. He was affectionate in his own, muted sort of way, and you nodded with an appreciative smile. He wouldn’t coddle you, not like the others, but would come and offer you support when needed. “Thanks Death,” you called out when he turned to leave, catching his gaze as he glanced over his shoulder at you, watching you sip the drink before giving a nod of his own, satisfied you would do as told. He would be back and so you let him leave the room, allowing him his moments of solitude while you soaked up the attention of the remaining three. “Every drop, sweetheart,” Strife teased as he watched you drink Death’s tea, chuckling warmly at the way your nose crinkled at the taste once you had finished, setting the mug aside. Now you could focus on lapping up the attention they were giving you. With a satisfied hum you curl up between War and Strife, beckoning Fury to come lay with you all once she’s finally settled on a film to watch; Wonder Woman. You can hear that the T.V. in the living room has been turned off, no droning of cooking shows or as-seen-on-tv adverts, which prompts you to conclude that Death is settled there, no doubt on standby should anything happen. It isn’t long before the Horsemen have all fallen asleep to the sound of glorious battle and Wonder Woman’s iconic image. You give a soft, relaxed sigh at the sight of War laid back against you headboard, content in his rest, and Strife curled at your side, clutching a blanket that no doubt smelt of you to his face, is equally as content. Fury, unlike her brothers, slips in and out of sleep, dozing here and there as she tries to stay awake to watch the movie. Her voice is soft when she calls your name, having heard and felt you shimmying out of the covers and get to your feet. “Where are you going?” She asks, leaning her head onto her hand from where she lays, stretched out like a cat, along the width of your bed. “Getting some water,” you hum, looking to the door, “and to check on Death, I was hoping he’d come join us.” You keep your voice quiet out of habit, not wanting him to hear you, but you know he probably still can and it causes you to frown slightly. The female Horseman notices and sighs, eyes stark in the light from the T.V. “Death is...Well, Death. He likes his own company sometimes, always has, but he does care.” It’s awkward and her gruff tone doesn’t make the words sound sincere, but you know her better than that and you know what she means. With a warm smile and a nod you leave your room, pulling the door behind you so it’s mostly closed. Padding quietly into the living room you don’t make it far on your path to the kitchen before Death gives a small cough to gain your attention, though he doesn’t get up from his seat. Instead he reaches out a hand, a simple gesture, and beckons you over. It’s not uncommon for Death to be affectionate like this and you accept his advance eagerly, forgetting your need for a drink altogether. “Are you feeling well?” Death asks, voice quiet and soft yet still firm. It was a delectable mix, one that always made you weak to him. “Yeah, much better,” you murmur as you settle on the arm of the chair he’s sitting in, his outstretched hand coming to rest on your lower back. “But that tea tasted awful,” you added, laughing lightly. “As long as it helps, does it really matter about the taste?” Quips the Horseman as he easily pulls you from your perch to his lap, allowing you a moment to get comfortable. “Yeah, actually! It does!” You huff, but there’s a grin forming on your lips and you’re struggling to keep your laughter at bay. Death’s snarky humor always makes you feel better, almost as much as his medicines do. “Hm. I beg to differ,” he answers easily, leaning back in the seat. You settle against him with practiced ease, able to find him comfortable despite the sharp features his body possesses. With a turn in your fever you’re thankful for the coolness of his skin, it helps to dampen the raging heat that radiates from your flesh. You swear that, at this point, you rival War in how hot you are. Blowing a piece of hair out of your face you hum in contentment, finding solace in his quiet presence. “I’m glad you all came today, I feel a lot better thanks to you guys,” you mutter through a yawn, eyes closing. “It was no trouble,” Death answered, chuckling slightly when he could feel how your breathing became rhythmically slow and deep. At least you didn’t snore, unlike his siblings.

#Darksiders #Darksiders Imagines #Darksiders Imagine #Imagine #Darksiders War #Darksiders Death #Darksiders Strife #Darksiders Fury #War #Death #Strife #Fury

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zankivich · 6 years

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Teacher’s Pet: A College AU Chapter 13

lol I don’t even have an excuse anymore---I mean I do, I was busy with school, I’m always gonna be busy with school but I’m doing my best. It was a week y’all. Sorry. Comments and reblogs are much appreciated. Let me know if ya like.

Chapter 13

You’re sitting on the couch when the door finally opens. Shawn had gone on his “walk” in the middle of the afternoon, but it’d been hours. The sun had gone down and you had started to face the very real possibility that he wasn’t coming home. You’d gone through many stages of emotions in the hours you’d been at the apartment, ranging from anger, to disappointment, to complete and utter sadness. Tears had been shed and you had wiped at them desperately to try and rid your face of the evidence. You weren’t quite sure where you had gone wrong. You just knew that Roger was throwing you both out of whack and you weren’t handling each other with the kindness and care that you usually did. Everything felt off.

He walked into the apartment and put his key and wallet on the kitchen table. He toed his boots off next to your sneakers and the tightness in your chest slightly alleviated at all the telltale signs that he was staying. His eyes flickered over in your general direction before quickly moving elsewhere and it was just enough to break your heart.

For minutes you sat in the silence, neither of you speaking or addressing the other. The quietness was stifling and after everything that you’d been through together you couldn’t imagine sitting in a room with him and not talking, not wanting to hear his voice. He stood at the kitchen table, his hands leaning on one of the chairs and he still wouldn’t look at you. You felt more like a stranger to him than the first day you’d met, because even then he looked you in the eye.

“I didn’t think you were gonna come home.” You croaked.

Your voice was still wet and unused from the crying and general aloneness of the day.

He shrugged, his shoulder tensing under his thin t-shirt. “I really didn’t want to.”

You let your eyes fall down to the blanket that you’d thrown over your lap at some point and picked anxiously at the fabric. Ouch.

“Why come, then?”

Your voice came out as bitter as you felt inside.

“My parents....They have a rule where no one’s allowed to go to bed angry. If something’s upsetting them, they have to talk it out. Seems to work for them.”

“And this is your way of talking it out? Standing twenty feet away from me all sulky and brooding?”

You winced as soon as you said it, because you knew it was an asshole thing to say. But, you were hurting, and a lot of that hurt was because of him, and it didn’t seem fair that he shouldn’t hurt too. For the first time he looked up at you, and the look in his eye was impossible to discern. Usually Shawn was an open book, and so this scared you beyond belief.

“Do you love me?” He asked.

The juxtaposition between the emptiness in his eyes and the soft, brokenness of his words was jarring. It left you floundering completely without a clue.

“Why would you ask me that? Of course I love you.”

He stared at you for a second and then down at the table. You watched him closely and saw the actual shift in his features. One second his face was a carefully crafted mask that you couldn’t read through, and the next he completely crumpled before you. His cheeks reddened as tears welled up in his eyes and he brought one of his hands to hide his face as he fell apart. You were out of your seat and across the room before you even recognized that you were moving. He fell into your arms and you pulled him tightly against your body as if the act of touching him could heal the pain somehow. And you knew then that you would take on every ounce of pain in the world just as long as he didn’t have to feel this way.

“Hey, hey, what’s going on?” You murmured softly in his ear. “I love you so much, Shawn. A dumb fight couldn’t ever change that.”

You reached your fingers into the back of his pants where his shirt was fashionably tucked so that you could touch the skin of his back. You felt the warmth of the tears against the side of your neck where he had hidden himself. You somehow managed to pull him closer into your arms.

“Talk to me, babe. Please.”

He didn’t move from your neck at first and you listened to him sniffle in an attempt to gain control. You felt his hand come up over your shoulder to wipe at his tears before he felt comfortable enough to look at you. When he was at his full height and you could see him in all of his sad glory, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks the same tint, you caressed his jaw with soft finger tips pulling him closer until you were wrapped up in each other. He closed his eyes as you mapped out his cheeks and eyelids and nose. You moved one of his curls out of his face and you felt more then saw him sigh

“You promised things wouldn’t change.” He finally admitted.

“What do you mean?” You asked, fingers still scratching in his hair.

“Before I signed the contract. We sat at the table and you told me that what we had would stay the same.”

You sighed as everything kind of slotted into place, and you realized just how badly you had fucked up.

“Shawn…”

“I can’t lose you.” He murmured in a soft voice easing you into quietness. “Music is… it’s all I have outside of you and my family and friends. It--It’s the reason I am who I am, and it’s the only thing that kept me going for so long. You can’t...Please don’t make me choose between the two of you.”

“Shawn I--”

“I love you. I love you more than anything I’ve ever loved in my life. And that’s the scariest thing in the world for me. You have the power to break me. And if you use it I don’t know that I could ever come back from it.” He mumbled. “And the wildest part is I already know I’d still love you even if it killed me.”

He said it with such calmness and finality that it was fact. That your love was vast and deep and it had the power to consume you both. Shawn had thrown himself into your relationship from the very beginning with confidence and gusto. It had always seemed like he knew you would be together, like it was fate and only a matter of time before you caught up. Watching him feel insecure in your relationship was a tough pill to swallow. And you wondered how badly it must have hurt for him to question your love. And when you thought about what the reverse might feel like, if you were to be unsure of his feelings for you, the pain was insurmountable.

He was staring at you with so much sadness and hurt in his eyes, and it was all because of you. Because you hadn’t just asked him what was going on, and you had made completely wild assumptions about his motives. Roger was a dick and Roger was awful, but Roger hadn’t done to Shawn what you had. No, that was on you.

Sorry didn’t seem to cover it, and for the life of you forming coherent sentences to convince him that you loved him seemed completely inadequate. You weren’t good with words. That had always been him. What you had were your actions and your body and your heart--two of which you gave infinitely and exclusively to him. And so you reached for him, like you always did, and pressed your lips upon his as soft and gentle as you knew how. His eyes fluttered close but you kept yours open and watched his face as you kissed him, wanting desperately for him to just understand. This was all you could ever want.

His body eventually relaxed and his fingers moved into your hair knotting the strands in his fists whether in anger or passion, you weren’t sure. But you kissed him until his jaw unclenched, until the tears that had clotted in his eyelashes fell and dried, until his breath evened, and his shoulders loosened. And when he pulled away from you, his eyes opening to peer into yours, you pulled him back one final time just to kiss him again.

“I love you.” You murmured, your lips still hovering over his.

It wasn’t until a tear dripped onto his cheek that you realized you were crying now too. Faintly in the back of your mind, where you filter wasn’t, you thought about what a shit show the two of you were.

“I love you more than I even knew I was capable of loving. And I am so fucking sorry that I hurt you, and that I made you think you had to pick. I--I could never ask you to do that Shawn. I wouldn’t. I just didn’t understand why you wanted so badly to go to Andrew. And when he started saying all that stuff about things getting ugly, I couldn’t help but remember that I still have another year here, which is assuming they don’t kick me out after all of this. I guess I’m just really scared, and it felt like you were forcing me down a path that I didn’t really wanna go down. And I didn’t know why. And it felt like you might not even be there at the end of it all.”

“Come here.” He sighed when the tears began to overwhelm your vision. “Just--come here.”

He holds you and you hold him and it feels exceptionally better than yelling at each other. You realized that he was keeping you whole in that moment, that his hands were actually fixing all of the cracks that had been left in your armor. He kissed your forehead and wiped away your tears pulling you into his body. This is where you felt safest, this is where you belonged. And that never felt truer than when he squeezed his arms around your waist and tucked your head under his chin.

“I would never leave you to deal with this by yourself. We don’t have to use Andrew. That was dumb, I just...just wanted to protect you.”

You reached for his hand which had made its way to your cheek and intertwined your fingers because you needed to feel connected to him.

“I didn’t need to be protected I just needed you to be there with me.” You admitted softly butting your head into his chest softly.

“I guess that maybe we haven’t been as open and honest with each other as we could be.” He sighed.

You reached up to kiss the bottom of his chin and nuzzle against him. After fights you turned into the sappiest person in the world, but Shawn loved the attention and the affection, so you balanced each other well.

“That’s okay. We just gotta keep working at it.”

“Can we work on it right now?” He asked peering down at you.

You nodded and allowed him to pull you to the couch. He tucked you into his side and twirled a lock of your hair around his finger. He wasn’t looking at you but his lips pressed against your temple and the touch was enough to keep you grounded, there, with him, where you needed to be.

“So, my last major girlfriend was my first year of school here. We did everything together. And our lives got really deeply intertwined so that when we broke up I didn’t know who I was, and what parts of me had just been a result of our relationship. Looking back on it we weren’t the most mature, I mean we were eighteen for crying out loud. And I’ve never really dated someone… like you before.”

“Someone like me?” You asked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re--you’re you! You understand more about human beings and our happiness and what make us feel included than anyone I’ve ever met. And you just say things sometimes that make me feel like you’re the smartest person in the room. And you’ve got more empathy in your pinky than I feel like the rest of the world has sometimes. I’ve never dated a woman who could teach me what it meant to be a man, not just a man but a person, a human being. Sometimes I feel like we’re so drastically far apart from each other, even though I’m just a year younger and I… I wanted to give you everything that you could ever need from me.”

“Babe…” You mumbled not at all adept to vocalize how any of that made you feel.

He shook his head at you. “I’m serious. Maybe I’m a little insecure of everything that I’m bringing to the table here. And with Roger I… I just wanted to protect you more than anything, and I guess I took that too far.”

You shrug your shoulders not knowing whether to kiss or hug or hit him. It felt so good to understand, to know where his head and his heart had been. And you loved knowing that they both were aligned with you even if it hadn’t felt that way at the time.

“I didn’t realize it meant so much to you.” You said. “But you shouldn’t have to feel insecure when you’re with me. I love you and only you, and I love everything about you. Even the parts that I hate.”

He smiled at you like you hung the moon and the stars and he took your face in his too big palms. Only this time instead of feeling like a marketing ploy you just felt like the most loved being in the world. And when his lips touched yours your body sunk into his hold with the knowledge that the person touching you would only ever touch you with all of the care he could muster.

When Shawn went to pull away you lets your fingers caress his jaw to keep him close enough to kiss.

“I wanna make it it up to you.” You whispered.

He frowned. “There’s nothing to make up. You’re perfect.”

You rolled your eyes at the endless optimism your boyfriend seemed to exude. Even if it was to a fault. Even if it would stop him from getting laid.

“Fine. I want you to make it up to me.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Because even though he would always let you off the hook no matter what you did, he would go through hell to make you happy, never holding you to the same standard he held himself to.

You slid from the couch taking his larger palm in your smaller one and pulled him from the couch. Somewhere between there and the bedroom you saw the understanding dawn in his eyes. And when he took you to the sheets and hooked your thighs around his back he put all of his love and his tenderness into you. He replenished your soul and replenished your energy while taking some of it for himself too.

“Never want to fight with you again.” He mumbled rolling his hips in slow, stuttering circles. “I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry.”

His face stayed in your neck which meant you could feel and hear every pant, moan, and gasp that he made. You reached for his hips over the sheets and pulled him down closer just to be near him, just to feel him in every way possible. And he tells you that he loves you with his lips and his body and it feels better than anything else anyone could ever give you. And even though sometimes Shawn could be naive and idealistic and overly optimistic, when he touched you it was impossible not to share his sentiments. He took you places you never knew you could go, and he stayed there with you watching you fall apart like it was something beautiful. Because for him, it was.

***

“I love you.” You whispered into his shoulder.

He smiled reassuringly at you.

“I love you too. It’s all gonna be okay.”

He was holding your hand while you stood outside of Dr. Edward’s office and it was the only thing keeping the tremors at bay. It was also the first public display of affection you’d ever shown on campus, which only added to the nervousness you both felt. His lips brushed against your knuckles as he took the liberty to knock on the door.

It’s the scariest thing in the world. The dean of the college is there and so is the dean of students. You couldn’t touch Shawn less they think that a sign of intimacy equates to guilt. The tremors came roaring back and you kept bopping your knee in agitation. Shawn was biting anxiously at his nails and he kept peering over at your knee with all the yearning in the world in his eyes to touch it and calm it. It shouldn’t have been so scary. You hadn’t really done anything wrong, but you couldn’t help but feel like things weren’t going to turn out in your favor. If there was one thing you had learned in your times in the humanities is that systems of power very rarely reward the powerless. And in this equation Roger held all the power, leaving you sick with worry and fear.

After you handed all of your evidence over, they asked for screen shots of the texts and made you recount your whole life story for them, you were told to wait for a response from them. In the meantime you were not allowed to teach the course, and Shawn was also being temporarily removed.

“W--wait why does he have to be removed too. He’s paying to take that class just like everyone else. That’s not fair.”

Dr. Edwards sighed sympathetically. “Unfortunately because he’s involved with the incident and Roger is also in the class, we have to separate the two. It’s according to the policy.”

“The policy is bullshit, Roger shows up to class once a month; Shawn has completely elevated himself throughout the semester. He deserves to be there!” You exclaimed.

Finally, Shawn reached over and slid his hand on your knee. It had been so long since he touched you that the feeling of his hands alone was enough to stop you in your tracks.

“It’s okay.” He murmured to you, and only to you like there was no one else in the room. “Don’t worry about me.”

You frown at him, your eyebrows knitting together in clear frustration but he just smiles at you like nothing in the world is wrong. It’s incredibly endearing and annoying and you make a mental note to kiss him for it later. In the meantime you were left to wait until the university decided what to do with you, and waiting was never really your strong suit.

It’s not until your back at home, away from the pressures of the world that you let a couple tears escape. Nothing feels fair, nothing feels like it’s going to work out, and you feel completely overwhelmed with it all.

“Oh honey, c’mere.” He mumbled pulling you into his arms and against his chest.

You sniffled into his shirt hiding away and clinging to the only comfort you had left in the world.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered throat heavy and thick. “It’s my fault.”

“Hey, it is not. Look at me sweetheart, it’s not your fault.”

He held your face in his hands and kissed the tears away with gentleness and care. Your face warmed under his touch

He smiled softly. “I’m not sorry that I am madly in love with you. There’s nothing they could do to get me to apologize for it. We’re gonna get through this, together.”

“How do you know that?” You mumbled, fed up with his constant optimism.

He shrugged. “I just do. Trust me?”

He had you there. Because as fucked up as the situation was, and as terrified as you were, you couldn’t help but to trust him with every fiber of your being. And if he said things would be okay, there just might be a chance that they would. Maybe.

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes smut #shawn mendes one shot #Shawn Mendes Imagine #shawn mendes fan fic #shawn mendes au #Shawn mendes series #Shawn mendes college au #Shawn mendes angst #Shawn mendes x reader #Shawn mendes x you #Shawn mendes x y/n #shawn peter raul mendes #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fluff #Shawn mendes fan fiction

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