#i do not want pneumonia again the first time really did nearly kill me

[healing-elle]

May 2023

Whew. What a month. Lots of tears. Late night reflections. Delayed starts to the day to ask myself what-the-heck I'm doing, what I'm working towards, what I want the future to look like. What I want my future to look like. To dig deep enough to find answers that make sense of the entire world...the chaos, the quiet, the apologies that never were and never will be, the uncertainty, the longing for something I can't name...and the untold road ahead. Anxiety is such a thief of time, convincing us to search for things that actually cannot be found. That used to crush me and keep me in bed, but this month I challenged myself to put those thoughts aside and just keep moving. One more step taken. One more tiny goal achieved. One more box checked. One more example of forward momentum that placed distance between the woman I want to be and a past I no longer want to keep reliving and ruminating over.

And I did. So much so that I actually had to replace my beloved running shoes and have a very sad moment with them. :(

It might be weird to get emotional about having to throw away a pair of running shoes, but they really do hold so many memories. My first ever 10K in my old college town, my move back to the DC metro area, the [too-many-miles-for-one-pair-of-running-shoes-according-to-Runner's-World] logged over 4.5 years, the hundreds of walks with my sweet pup in our (no longer) new neighborhood, my indoor workouts during a literal pandemic, that random gym I tried and immediately swore never to return to...really, all of the times I had no idea what to do other than to put one foot in front of the other.

Now, with the new month of June on the horizon, I want to kick it up a notch.

My goal for May was to build a routine and get strong. Somehow, some way, by the grace of God himself, I was able to get there.

For June, I want to think about and actively work towards the life I am creating for myself. The healed life -- the life not constantly defined by trauma. The life where my preferences and dreams matter. TS writing about being a pathological people pleaser was like seeing my entire life flash before my eyes. I don't want to miss people who didn't choose me. They lost me in the end, and for good reason. Now is the time for me to keep these boundaries, which arguably could be a little less rigid, while also learning how to open up again. Trust again. Believe in the goodness of people again. Attract people who will reciprocate my love and kindness, not weaponize it against me.

I have to keep telling myself: the worst has already happened. The storm has passed. The sun is shining but you're hiding in the shade, missing everything. And, yes, you're safe there -- but are you really living at all? You fought so hard to feel this sunshine, the warmth of freedom, so why do you keep denying yourself a place in it? This is the part where you get to be happy and start over. So why is that so hard? Probably because I've never done it before. Probably because freedom doesn't necessarily feel like freedom in the beginning, when it comes with the price of losing everything and everyone you knew your entire life. Even though it was slowly killing you, it was all you had.

When you were ten years old, you had to relearn how to breathe. Your allergist and immunologist said that your lungs were going to be strong again, and that you should be so proud of fighting the pneumonia that nearly took your life. So you did. And then, months later, you dropped to the ground in the middle of a soccer game because you couldn't breathe. Thankfully, your coach recognized this as an asthma attack as your teammate, his daughter, was recently diagnosed and prescribed an inhaler. He ran to you, begging for you follow his words and breathe in when he told you to. You almost went then, too. Somehow, it worked just in time. You had seconds and you got so, so lucky. And then, again, it was time to go back to Dr. N to "relearn how to breathe," now with additional breathing devices and weekly appointments and prescriptions and allergy shots and the occasional ER visit. And you did. You didn't let the fear win. You actually kicked its ass, going on to play tennis, swim, basketball, field hockey, and lacrosse. You were the most grateful and appreciative player on every team because you had to work for it. Somewhere along the way, many years later, you lost that fire and fight that has always been within you. It has been years of searching for it, trying to find it in all of the wrong people-places-and-things. The toxic sorority. Mean girl "friend" groups. Abusive family members. Men who will never confront their demons. Industries and career paths that turn out to be facades and dead ends every time. You deserve better. You always, always have. You've held your breath for years trying to be invisible and convenient and perfect while you were given nothing and blamed for everything. It's time to take up space again. It's time to learn how to breathe again.

No time like the present.

[invisibleanonymousmonsters]

Could you please write Jason and Y/N (Father of Mine Universe) with prompts 48, 31, and maybe 30? could go either way.

Even if you choose not to write this, thanks for creating Father of Mine, it's one of my favorite fics!

Father of Mine

48. Using your body to shield them from attack.

31. Hurriedly checking for their pulse.

30. Performing CPR when they stop breathing.

Jason and Y/N were walking along the water after getting dinner.

Most of the harbors in Gotham were run by one crime lord or another. Which meant that there were very few areas on the water for civilians to enjoy – or feel safe. 

But Jason knew of a strip that was under the radar.

There were a few other couples with the same idea. And random groups of kids and teenagers hanging out and messing around.

Jason was relaxed.

That was his first mistake.

Jason had immediately clocked a random middle-aged man who was covered in sweat and was visibly trembling.

Being far too familiar with the sight, Jason assumed the guy was another unfortunate addict. 

But then he noticed the man was carrying a backpack.

Jason had all of 5 seconds to realize what was about to happen.

He shielded Y/N with his body while screaming as loud as he could, “Get down!”

Jason knew he couldn’t save everyone, and Y/N would always be his number one priority.

The next second, the bomb exploded.

The impact knocked Jason unconscious.

For how long, he had no idea.

He was disoriented from the explosion, his ears ringing from tinnitus and his vision struggling to focus from the vertigo. Yet, somehow he could still hear the beating of his heart in his eardrums. 

People were screaming in pain around him and others were crying as they looked down at their loved ones. Half the harbor was on fire from the explosion. Cement and debris was everywhere. Jason’s hair was grey from it.

He blinked and then panicked.

“Y/N!” Jason screamed when he realized she wasn’t anywhere near him.

He jumped to his feet and whipped around in every direction looking for her.

“Y/N!” He screamed even louder, his throat burning from the effort.

Then he realized when the explosion when off they had been standing next to the railing that blocked off the water. The railing that had now been blasted away and into the harbor.

Jason sprinted to the edge and looked down at the black water below.

Without hesitation, he dove into the depths.

It was almost impossible to see anything.

But just seconds later, he found Y/N unconscious and completely submerged.

Jason had never swam faster in his life.

But when they breached, Y/N didn’t gasp for air.

She was completely unconscious.

Jason’s eyes darted around, trying to find their escape.

By some miracle, there was a rusty ladder that led back up to the pier from the water.

Jason put Y/N’s body over his shoulder as he climbed the ladder, silently praying that the metal didn’t break under their combined weight.

When they reached the top, he gently laid her down and his fingers shot to the pulse point at her neck.

Nothing.

“No, no, no,” Jason mumbled. “Y/N. Come on, baby. You’re not doing this to me.”

He found his Red Hood comm in the pocket of his jacket, and put it to his hear.

“Contact Bruce,” he commanded the AI as he started performing CPR on Y/N.

“What is it?” Bruce answered with slight panic. 

Jason had never called him like this before. And therefore Bruce knew immediately something terrible happened.

“Get the fucking jet here right now,” Jason growled.

“What’s happened?” Bruce asked, but it was obvious he was moving around already to leave.

“There was an explosion. She doesn’t have a pulse and she’s not breathing,” it was all Jason was capable of giving him. “Just get the fucking jet here now!”

He didn’t have time to explain more and hung up. And he didn’t have to say Y/N’s name for Bruce know who he was talking about. There was only one woman in Jason’s life that would have him sounding so panicked and desperate.

Jason continued his CPR, fully focused now that he knew Bruce was on the way.

Still nothing.

He did another round of compressions.

Jason’s eyes started watery as his mind began to believe that Y/N wasn’t going to make it.

He wouldn’t survive.

Y/N had changed his life. She made him better, made him good, made him want to worker harder – do literally anything to become the man she deserved and to continue to be deserving of her love.

“Please,” Jason whimpered. “Please don’t leave me.”

But then Y/N’s eyes shot open and she immediately turned over and started coughing up water.

“Holy fuck,” Jason gasped in relief at the sight.

Y/N continued coughing until her throat was scratched and dry.

Jason rubbed her back, trying to comfort her without preventing her body from getting all the water out of her lungs.

After she finished, she was shaking from being freezing cold and from the shock.

Despite him also being wet, Jason put his coat over her shoulders.

“Don’t ever fucking do that to me again,” Jason begged Y/N as he pulled her into his arms. 

He kissed the crown of her head and hoped his body heat would be enough to warm her up.

“What happened?” Her voice had never been raspier and it was now quivering.

“A bomb went off. I thought I shielded you from it, but the impact must’ve thrown you into the harbor.”

“I’m OK,” she tried to tell him. But her shaking voice was unconvincing. 

Jason wasn’t letting go of her anytime soon.

It was only 5 minutes later that the batplane touched down on what remained of the pier.

Jason looked up to see Dick, Tim, and Damian jump out and immediately start helping the injured.

But Bruce, dressed in his Batman uniform, was walking straight to Jason and Y/N.

“She needs to go to a hospital,” Jason called out when Bruce was a few yards away. “Her heart stopped beating and her lungs took in too much water.”

Jason knew Bruce wouldn’t argue with taking Y/N there immediately.

Bruce was clearly relieved at seeing his daughter alive and conscious. But that didn’t mean she was in the clear. Nearly drowning still had its risks. If her heart stopped beating, she was in danger of brain damage or pneumonia.

“I’ll take her. You help the others,” Bruce ordered as he stepped forward to take Y/N from Jason’s arms.

“Like fucking hell I am,” Jason growled as he stood up with Y/N in his arms.

Bruce was about to fight him on it, but then he met Y/N’s eyes. Her skin was pale and almost had a blue tint to it. She looked so small and vulnerable in Jason’s arms. Not like the strong and grown woman that had first strutted into Wayne Manor.

“I’m not leaving her,” Jason added for good measure.

Bruce finally sighed and nodded. “Take the jet. You know where to go. I’ll meet you there.”

Before Jason could carry her away, Y/N whispered, “What about the others?” 

Her eyes tried to look around her boyfriend’s broad shoulders to see the other victims.

“B is going to help them,” Jason gently told her. He even angled his body to block her line of sight. She didn’t need to see any of it. 

“We already have ambulance and firemen on the way,” Bruce added, hoping it would convince her further not to worry herself. 

There was nothing she could do for them anyway. 

Then Bruce locked eyes with Jason. “Go. Get out of here. Take care of her.”

“Always,” Jason muttered quickly before hurrying Y/N to the jet.

————————

Y/N woke up to two low voices clearly having a serious discussion, but trying to keep their voices down.

When she opened her eyes, Y/N realized she was in a hospital room. But it wasn’t just any room. It seemed like a five-star hotel with how fancy it was. It didn’t have that sterile smell or those harsh fluorescent lights that caused headaches.

“It was a turf war,” Bruce told Jason quietly. “Carmine has jurisdiction over the harbor the two of you were at tonight. But Farrelli wanted it for himself. He forced his latest victim to bring the bomb.”

Jason crossed his arms. “So, the guy was dead either way, Farrelli just thought he’d put him to some use before he murdered him.”

Bruce nodded. “And kill five more people with him.”

“Five people died?” Y/N burst out without realizing it.

Both men’s heads whipped in her direction.

“You’re awake,” Jason sighed and immediately rushed to her side.

“What hospital am I at?” She mumbled, looking around again.

“Gotham General,” he told her as he sat on the edge of the bed to face her.

Jason gently grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it. But he had no intention of letting it go, keeping a tight hold and rubbing his thumb back and forth across her skin.

Bruce was slower to join them as he walked with his hands in his pant pockets.

“This isn’t Gotham General,” she commented with a suspicious gaze. 

Jason scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Well, as soon as Bruce arrived, they realized that you’re Gotham royalty by blood, and brought you to a special suite.”

Then Y/N’s eyes slowly moved to her father. “Five people died from the explosion?”

She needed to know. But she also knew that both men would try to protect her from possible survivor’s guilt.

So Bruce just nodded.

“How are you feeling?” Jason asked, trying to distract her by changing the subject.

“Tired. And my throat is sore,” she admitted with a light shrug.

Then she looked up at Jason and really took him in.

There were dark shadows under his eyes – the eyes that were still a bit bloodshot. 

Had he been crying? She hadn’t registered that. 

His hair was a mess, probably from drying haphazardly after jumping into the water to save her.

“Are you OK?” She asked.

It would be right on brand for Jason to risk his life saving her, but ignore any and all injures that he’d received from the same life-threatening travesty.

“I’m fine. Always am,” Jason reassured her too quickly.

Bruce chimed in,“We were all just worried about you, Y/N.”

Both men knew her next question was going to be about the well-being of Damian, Dick, and Tim.

“Can we go home?” She asked softly.

Y/N had always hated hospitals. And once her mother got cancer, Y/N absolutely despised them. Now all she had attached to them was bad memories that constantly threatened to trigger her. 

“They just need to get a scan back, make sure everything’s good,” Jason tried to comfort her. “Once that’s good, I’ll take you home.”

He knew her distaste for hospitals and was prepared for her to want to escape at the earliest opportunity.

“Scan?” Y/N questioned.

“You didn’t have a pulse,” Bruce explained. “You have a concussion. We need to make sure there was no brain damage or any lasting side effects.”

“Right,” she mumbled, trying not to sound worried.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Jason reassured her as he cupped her cheek.

“Perhaps you should stay at the manor for a few days,” Bruce offered. “You can relax and not be bothered.”

“She can not be bothered in our apartment,” Jason interrupted, giving him side eye.

“Jason…” Y/N warned gently.

She knew the signs of Jason getting worked up. The fire in his eyes was always something Y/N could read – more than anyone else.

Bruce wasn’t offended by Jason’s little snipe. He was used to his temper. But his gaze did turn rather serious. 

“Could I talk to you outside for a moment?”

Jason was about to refuse, not wanting to leave Y/N’s side. But he knew that would just most likely lead to an argument. And Y/N didn’t need to hear or see that. She was already exhausted and recovering. The last thing she needed was to witness was her father and boyfriend going at it – especially over her.

So Jason just nodded and stormed out of the room.

The quicker they got this over with, the better.

As soon as the door closed, Jason was sizing Bruce up.

“What exactly is your next move?” Bruce questioned.

“I’m going after Farrelli,” Jason rumbled, as if it was obvious.

No one put Y/N in danger and got away with it. Jason had already come up with a plan on how to seek his revenge. 

It was going to be gruesome and dirty, but nothing less than what the bastards deserved.

Bruce clearly had expected this answer. “So do you plan on doing that while you take care of Y/N?” And he tilted his head as he challenged Jason.

“Are you really trying to stop me?”

Bruce took a step forward. “No, Jason. I’m trying to protect you from yourself. You get blinded by vengeance. And I let you get away with it. But now your actions don’t just effect you…they effect her, too.”

Jason blinked.

“Y/N needs you right now. Even though she will act like she doesn’t.” Bruce inhaled. “If you’re going to put revenge over her wellbeing, she should stay at the manor.”

This was a somewhat of a warning – an opportunity for Jason to do the right thing before he could make his mistake.

Jason’s head hung low now. “I can’t let him get away with it. She almost died, Bruce.”

“And he won’t. But we’ll take care of it,” Bruce promised.

Jason thought it about a moment, before he finally nodded slowly. “I think the manor would be good. But I won’t leave her.”

“I never said you had to,” Bruce corrected.

Jason nodded again and made his way to the door of Y/N’s room again.

“Jason?” Bruce called.

He turned around with an eyebrow quirked.

“Thank you for saving her life.”

Jason tried not to roll his eyes, but took a few steps back to Bruce. 

“You have your opinions about me and her, I’m sure. But I want to make this is clear: I’m always going to protect her. Always. What happened tonight is never going to happen again. I’d die protecting her.”

Jason didn’t wait for Bruce’s response before turning back around. 

But just as he opened Y/N’s door her heard, “I know, Jason. I’ve always known.”

—————

Jason was able to convince Y/N to stay at the manor.

And she surprisingly agreed – as long as he came with her.

Alfred spoiled her rotten with all of her favorite meals. He was constantly bring her tea or coffee. 

Damian ordered all of his pets to keep her company and cuddle with her. To the point where Jason was annoyed because there was literally no space for him.

Tim downloaded a hundred movies for her to watch. 

Dick sent flowers and chocolates. 

Even Clark stopped by when he heard what happened. 

Unbeknownst to Y/N, all the boys and Bruce were working on taking down Farrelli. 

If Jason was the man from just a few years ago, Farrelli’s corpse would already be rotting somewhere in Gotham. But he had changed. Now they had to do things the right way.

Jason stuck to Y/N’s side like glue. He hovered, watched her like a hawk, wouldn’t let her do anything on her own.

After of a few days of this, Y/N finally had enough.

“You gonna talk to me anytime soon?” She asked him in bed on their third night.

Jason broke their eye contact.

“Jason. Please?” She whispered.

Silence filled the room.

“I can’t do it.”

Her brow furrowed. “Can’t do what?”

For a split moment, she thought he was about to try and break up with her. 

“I can’t watch you get hurt again. I just…I can’t.”

She cupped his cheeks. “But I’m right here. And I’m fine, Jason.”

“When I…” He hesitated. “When I died. I knew it was coming. I saw the bomb counting down and I knew there was no escape. I accepted my fate. I knew I was going to die. And I was scared.” 

Jason shook his head and took in a deep breath, “But Y/N…that was nothing compared to what I felt when I was convinced I’d lost you. I’m never been so fucking terrified in my life.”

Y/N smothered him with her embrace. “I’m so sorry for scaring you. But I’m OK. Please just focus on that. Please.”

“I can’t lose you, Y/N.” Jason whispered into her hair. “This place was hell before I met you. And I have no fuckin’ interest in fighting it without you.”

Y/N wished she could promise Jason that she would never leave him. But she was the child of a mother who passed far too soon. She knew life and death could be so cruel, ripping the loved ones away with or without warning.

No, she didn’t die this time. But who was to say something like this wouldn’t happen again? And maybe next time, she wouldn’t be so lucky. They lived in Gotham after all.

“Fate may have other ideas…But I never plan on leaving your side, Jason. I love you too much to do anything else.”

Jason actually laughed. “I can fight fate.”

He’d done it once before.

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

I have a few more of these prompts for bonus material. But let me know what you think 🤗

[not-a-coral-snake]

for the @lamenweek Day 6 prompt: Auguste Lives Au

inspired by this post by @skyline-sunset-in-my-veins and @phoenixtcm

“When I am in Arles this fall,” Damianos says, words soft in the summer sunset air around them, “I will kneel before your brother the king and ask his permission to court you.” He pauses, smile just the slightest bit cocky. Laurent is lounging, hair mussed and shirt trailing half-opened laces, in Damen’s arms. “Court you officially, I mean.” 

“You are going to Arles for the negotiations yourself this year?” Laurent says. Seated as they are, Damen cannot mistake the shudder of tension, quickly repressed, that runs through Laurent at Damen’s words.

“You haven’t told him yet,” he says. 

“It’s just I thought that the ambassador—”

“You haven’t told him yet,” Damen says again. “You said when I saw you last fall that you would tell him last winter for sure.” He tries not to sound accusatory, but well. It is not the first time they have had this conversation.

“I haven’t told him yet,” Laurent concedes. It should not be so hard. It’s been six years since Marlas. Vere and Akielos are at peace. Laurent is in the habit of sharing nearly everything with Auguste, and yet— 

“I’m waiting for the right moment,” he says, as he always does. “It’s a sensitive matter, I wish to catch him in the right mood, lest he make up his mind before hearing me out.” 

“And you’re afraid of hurting him,” Damen says, as he always does.

“And I want to ensure I don’t hurt him. So I have to find the right time—”

“It’s been years now,” Damen cuts in. “Should we believe that, somehow, the perfect moment will occur this summer, when it did not last winter, or last spring, or the summer before that?”

“Damen—”

“This can just be a fling, if you want,” Damen says, gently.

‘That’s not what I—no,” says Laurent. Damen’s never said that before. 

“We can just keep meeting a few times a year. It doesn’t need to be serious. It doesn’t need to be something we tell others about.”

“Damen, stop,” Laurent says. “No. I want to court you. I want it to be official. I want it to be serious.”

“Well, then let it become serious.”

“I’ll tell him this time,” Laurent says. He can do this. It’s been six years since Marlas. Auguste always speaks of Prince Damianos in respectful tones. Laurent picks up Damen’s hand, kisses his knuckles. “Promise.”

And Laurent means to tell Auguste that summer, he really does. He meant to upon his return last fall as well, and the time before that, and the time before that. It’s just that—well, it’s just that every time he returns from diplomatic visits to Delfeur or Ios, he’s struck again with the slow, deliberate way that Auguste moves now. Each year as late spring ripens into summer, he sees how it saddens Auguste that he still no longer has the vigor or endurance for hunts or long rides or anything more taxing than a slow turn around the gardens. Each year as fall deepens into winter, he sees how another year has gone by and the cold makes Auguste’s injuries ache just as much as they had the winter before. 

Auguste had nearly died on the battlefield at Marlas. But that wasn’t the whole of it. Even after he had survived the trip home to Arles, he almost died of fever, of wound rot, of the pneumonia his battle-damaged lungs nearly couldn’t shake. And he almost died of assassination, not one time but many. There were few ways to kill a king in the peak of youth and health without attracting undue suspicion, but endless subtle ways to hasten the death of a man in his sickbed. Their uncle, left to rule the court unchecked, had tried seemingly most of them, endless schemes which Laurent had only barely managed to avert and which left behind no conclusive evidence for Laurent to show the court. Even as Auguste had gained strength, the schemes had continued, until the day Laurent gave up trying to beat his uncle while playing by his uncle’s own rules and had simply arranged an accident of his own. 

After that, Auguste was safe, but the fallout from their uncle’s years ruling the court and admittedly-suspicious death left him with nearly as many enemies as allies. As prince, Auguste had been universally adored. As king, he faced a yearslong struggle to regain the allegiance of erstwhile allies. 

And all this was, at its root, because of Marlas. Because of Damianos. Auguste’s history with Damen wasn’t just the matter of an injury six years ago, not when that injury had colored every day of his life since. And Laurent can’t imagine a way of telling him that he loves Damen, wants a future with him, without it sounding like a betrayal. 

To make matters more awkward, Auguste has, for whatever reason, gotten it into his head to nag Laurent about romance. It’s uncomfortable enough to be keeping his relationship with Damen a secret from Auguste. It’s worse to lie, outright or by omission, every time Auguste asks him if there’s anyone Laurent is interested in pursuing. 

And then— “You know you can tell me anything, little brother,” Auguste says quietly, a few minutes after Laurent has let a conversation about an overly-flirtatious marquis from Lys lapse. 

Laurent swallows, mutely cataloging the darker corners of his past. He does not like to lie to Auguste. But he does.

And there are things he probably will never tell his brother about, things Auguste does not need to know, but also— “Actually, Auguste,” he makes himself say. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

And then he pauses, because he still hasn’t figured out a semi-workable phrasing. I’m in love with Prince Damianos, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still upset about what he did to you. I’m fucking the man who almost killed you, and I’m sorry but also I won’t stop. I know seeing the prince of Akielos this fall will probably be terrible for you but also when he asks to court me please say yes.

It’s Auguste who rescues him, after a moment or two of expectant silence. “Is this going to be you finally telling me about your romantic entanglement with Prince Damianos?” he says. “Because honestly, I’m getting sick of seeing you walking around looking guilty and sad all the time.”

“You knew?” Laurent says.

“Of course I knew! You, dear baby brother, are not very subtle. And I’ve had to hear all your reports from the negotiations with Akielos twice a year. Was I somehow not supposed to notice how you gradually stopped insulting Damianos and started telling me about all his varied and impressive positive traits?”

“I said that he was straightforward and committed to the good of his people, and thus that the negotiations were likely to be a productive use of time!”

“And then the trip after that, you said that he was an innovative thinker, a natural leader, and you couldn’t help but admire his tenacity. You said you didn’t mind having to go on hunts with him, which anyone who knows you understands is a major compliment, and when you said he was patient, you smiled that quiet smile of yours that means you are remembering something that made you very happy.”

“Auguste—”

“And yet! Whenever anyone suggests you have developed any fondness for the man, you deny it. Why go to such lengths to conceal a friendly working relationship?”

“Auguste—”

“And honestly, brother, even back when you hated him, I couldn’t help but notice you mentioned his appearance rather a lot. You were always complaining that he was ridiculously tall, or offensively muscular, or something along those lines.”

“I said he was a brute!”

“You also said that his eyes were, and I quote, ‘disgustingly soulful.’ Oh, and the letters! Was I not supposed to notice that in the last year your correspondence with the prince of Akielos has roughly quadrupled in volume and frequency, even as the official negotiations are reaching a standstill? There isn’t enough policy discussion to account for a tenth of the letters you write. There isn’t enough policy discussion to justify you going to Delfeur in person twice a year, and yet you insist on overseeing things personally each time anyway.”

“Auguste, I’m sorry, all right? I know that this must have been painful for you to witness, and I don’t want you to think I don’t care about everything you’ve been through.” He swallows. “But I don’t want to stop seeing Damianos.”

“All right.”

“‘’All right?’ You’re okay with it? Just like that?”

“He makes you happy. If your judgement of him is to be believed, then he sounds like a worthy man. And I trust your judgement.”

“But he stabbed you. And now I’m sleeping with him.”

“Well, we were at war. And it was years ago. And I’m fine. We’re at peace, the nation’s moving on, you’ve moved on in your opinion of him, I can move on as well.”

“It’s not that simple!”

“Why can’t it be? I only met him for about ten minutes. I’m sure there’s more to him than he revealed in a single duel. You have my blessing, Laurent.”

“How can you just—”

“Remember when your pony threw you and you broke your collarbone?”

“This is not the same, this is not even close to the same—”

“You snuck out of the infirmary to go to the stables and tell Chuckles you weren’t mad at him.”

“I was seven, he meant me no ill will, and the bone healed in a month. Also he was a horse,” Laurent grits out. “Damianos was—is—a grown man, responsible for his choices, the injuries he inflicted did lasting damage, and he was trying to kill you.”

“Well, no one is asking you to sleep with him,” Auguste says, in his reasonable-big-brother voice. 

Laurent lets out a breath, sits back in his chair. “I started managing the negotiations with Akielos so that you wouldn’t have to speak with him,” he says. “We said that it was because I could travel more easily, that it was because you could not justify spending so much time away from court. But in truth, I did not want you to have to be in a room with him, to have to learn to make polite conversation with him and pretend that Marlas did not happen, that it didn’t matter. If I have come to know him as far more than just the soldier who attacked you, if I have put his past actions behind me, come to care for him in spite of them—that does not mean I expect you to do the same. Could ever ask you to do the same.” 

“You’ve always been protecting me, all these years,” Auguste says softly. “Don’t think I don’t know it, or appreciate it. But let me be the protective big brother again once in a while? You’ve learned to let the past go and let yourself have the present you want with Damianos, because you’re in love with him. Allow me to let the past go and have the future I want, where my little brother is happy.”

He’s looking Laurent in the eye, gaze steady, and slowly Laurent allows himself to believe that Auguste is serious, that in his heart of hearts, he does not mind. That he is happy for Laurent. 

“Thank you,” he says. “For your blessing.” 

“Of course,” Auguste says. And then, “Well, when I say you have my blessing, I mean informally, of course. Prince Damianos will have to ask me himself.”

“You just want the chance to make him squirm,” Laurent says. 

“I just want the chance to make him squirm,” Auguste concedes, and he and Laurent break into quiet laughter, imagining it.

[orsuliya]

Since you do such detailed asks and give a well thought out answers, I want to know your opinion on the Ma brothers. Zilong, Zilu and Zitan. What do you think about them?

Ah, our three intrepid Ma princes... Wait a minute, why three? It's not like we're in a fairytale and while Zitan is certainly a fool, he's not nearly good-hearted enough to play the role of Ivan the Fool.

But seriously, it seems mightily suspicious of Daddy Emperor to sire three sons in quick succession and then, as far as we know, never ever procreate again. He's an Emperor and obviously fertile, so how come the imperial nursery remains so glaringly empty? Could it be that he has no concubines at all except for his beloved Xie Guifei?

Or... has the Empress been aborting babies left and right, and poisoning her way through swathes of women to boot? Not impossible, knowing her temperament, but it doesn't really make sense within the dynamic presented in the drama. Drama!Emperor hates, hates, hates the Wangs and especially his wife, so it's hard to believe he wouldn't have used this juicy tidbit to weaken their influence. In the book Wanru is allowed to run roughshod over Potato's concubines and feed them contraceptives willy-nilly, but that's because Potato doesn't really care. The Emperor, as we see him in the drama, would have found reason enough to care upon being given such an obvious opening to start a smear campaign against his favourite enemy. Stymying the imperial bloodline?! Why, I think it might be a crime and easily provable one at that!

This leaves the other option - perhaps there aren't any concubines in the palace or, if there are, they're not being, pardon my French, bred. It's not that multiple imperial concubines of lower rank aren't a thing in this universe - Potato gets at least two and possibly more after sitting on the throne for a relatively short time. It's a pity we don't know what's the policy on entering the palace. Is there a multi-stage selection process? There is certainly no indication of that! Xie Guifei might have been an attempt to balance out a Wang Empress, Seagull was Zitan's impromptu choice, Miss Screecher was meant to be chosen by Potato outside of any organized selection and the same could be true for Potato's other concubines. Our only outlier might be Zilu's Mom and even then it's rather doubtful she was ever processed properly as it would have required a lot of effort and luck to conceal an already existing pregnancy. No, Zilu's Mom was most probably a gift of 'peace' from one brother to another.

My guess as to what Daddy Emperor is thinking? If Zitan has been his preferred heir from the start and he very well might have been since it never had anything to do with Zitan's actual qualities, then it's possible that he simply didn't protest - or did so in a purely symbolic manner - when the Wangs started limiting his reproductive chances. Why breed competition? We already know he has no use for any sons lacking powerful backing of their maternal clans, see: his treatment of Zilu. And any son with such backing would be a direct threat to his favourite, not to mention a potential upset to the carefully maitained Wang-Ma-Xie balance.

...or it could be that Daddy Emperor really loved Xie Guifei and wanted no other. Seeing as he's strongly implied to spend his nights in her chambers twenty years after their only and last kid was born, this would make a staggering amount of sense. The same principle applies - he'd still not protest Wang tyranny over the inner courts, only he'd do it for Xie Guifei and not for Zitan. It does seem to fit with Daddy Emperor's general mindset. Let the others do open battle and exert all that effort, he'll just sit there, look sage and reap the benefits!

After this rather senseless and overly long prelude, let's finally get to answering your question. Mind you, those are not going to be organized, thoughtful opinions, just my subjective impressions on each and every Ma Prince.

His Imperial Spudness Ma Zilong

The not-so-little Potato that could not, but still tried! Let's start with the elephant in the room, namely his rapist tendencies or the lack thereof. See, I'm convinced that raping Awu wasn't actually in the cards, at least as far as Potato was concerned. Compromising her, sure, just lure her into an emptied palace and cry wolf. Outright raping her, no, if only because Potato is way, way too weak and soft to execute a plan this ruthless in its entirety. Besides, harming Awu to this extent would be risky as all hell and sure to provoke authentic wrath in both Daddy Emperor and Daddy Wang. The Empress is not stupid enough to give her husband the perfect excuse to do away with her son nor to alienate her main supporter in the same move. Even if she was able to force a marriage in the first place, Potato would be pretty much done for politically unless both Daddies suddenly dropped dead. The most she would be able to get would be a grandson in a privileged position, so she'd be back to square one, only with one more female to share power with. No, what Potato did and what Wanru suffered was mostly courtesy of Zilu's suspicious drugs. Not to say Potato isn't a rapist all the same, but I'd argue for diminished capacity.

As for Potato himself in his shining spuddy glory, I truly pity the man. From time to time we see glimpses of the ruler he could have become and whom he still tries to be, and it becomes clear that there was something there worth cultivating. The problem is that nobody could be bothered to even try. Daddy Emperor certainly didn't, leaving Potato pretty much to his own devices and believe me, it had nothing to do with his talents or the lack thereof. Do you remember that lovely family scene at the beginning of episode 1.? You know, the one where Awu, Zilu and Zitan lure Zilong into a trap and then leave him there to lie amidst icy rocks in the middle of winter? He could have easily hit his head and died right then and there. Or get pneumonia and die a little bit later. Does the Emperor care? No, not at all! Baby!Awu isn't that good of a liar, but even if she was, perhaps it would behoove him to actually investigate. Not from any kind of fatherly feeling, let's not expect miracles, but perhaps from political expediency? Yeah, no. And I doubt that was the only incident of this kind. Potato must have known even this early on that his father doesn't care for him, not even like an Emperor should for his eldest male scion. Moreover, there is no way Mommy Dearest wouldn't harp on about the Emperor's negligence in private, further affirming this awful truth in Potato's mind.

Mommy Dearest might care, but her care is no less toxic than Daddy Emperor's open negligence. Potato is her key to power, her only way to win the game of thrones and make all her sacrifices worthwhile... and this is exactly how she treats him. Oh, she loves him well enough as her son, clings to him in his role as Crown Prince and then Emperor, but she doesn't actually like him as a person. And oh boy, does it show! I get it, he's not this perfect shining prince that would justify her long years of suffering, but then I have this feeling she gave up on him the moment he showed himself to be perfectly average. Sure, she offers him (toxic) love and (conditional) support like nobody's business, but there's always this nasty undertone in their relationship. Mommy knows best, don't even try to think on your own, listen to me and only me. It's no wonder that Potato thinks he's perfectly useless and doesn't bother to try and better himself, if he knows that even his own mother sees him as a perfect nincompoop. Uncle Wang's open derision isn't helpful either!

And yet Potato is, deep down, a decent enough man. Better than the average Ma, I'd say. I mean, he has some scruples! They might be really, really tiny, but they're there, even as he's being subjected to a barrage of mental attacks from both his mother and his wife. Why, given proper support and a competent cabinet, he'd make a somewhat ineffective, but decent enough ruler, his handling of the flood crisis shows us this much. Potato's best quality is that he really tries. Oh, he fails, but he's no Zitan, content to sit in his room and mope while the country goes to hell. When it's important, he can make actual decisions! Which he may then go back on (or not), but it still counts. Also, he's not petty. Like, at all. He'd like nothing better than for everybody to get along and have lots and lots of plump babies. Even his decision to do away with Xiao Qi is not motivated by jealousy, no matter how hard Wanru and Mommy Dearest keep pressing on that particular button.

Is he childish? Yes. But then, he's never been given any real responsibility and for years and years languished under the care of a helicopter parent who never forced him to man up nor face actual reality, hence his disillusionment with Wanru, once she stops being this perfect smiling automaton. Is he selfish? Oh yes and it shows nowhere better than in his last will. But even so, such selfishness is pretty much par for the course when it comes to the Mas and at least Potato didn't wreck a country for the sake of personal spite, which puts him way ahead of his father, uncle Jianning and bro Zitan. And perhaps even cousin Zilu, who cared less for the country than for Huanmi.

At the end of the day, our humble root vegetable is a tragic figure. I can't help but pity him every time we see him bloom under somebody's attention. Give that man some respect and he'll pay you back with the same, weird comments about killing you nothwithstanding. And he did give us Miracle Baby, Our Lord and Saviour!

Our beloved Groomzilla, Ma Zilu

Daddy Emperor must have been stupid, high, blind or all of those in order to let Zilu and his beautiful brain slip through his fingers. He was right there, that defenseless, motherless boy and ripe for the taking too! If after years and years of being neglected and treated as an afterthought, after suffering an obvious slight of losing his love on Daddy Wang's say-so, after being allowed to supposedly run wild with no attempt at parental intervention... If after all this Zilu still craved his father's approval in whatever form he could get it, craved it so much that he allowed himself to be led into an obvious trap, then what kind of loyalty might he have offered, had somebody bothered to nurture him properly?

And it's not like his talents were easy to sweep under the rug. It's not until after he's an adult that Zilu takes up the pretense of being a never-do-well; during his adolescence he was still giving it his all, hoping in vain that his father might notice and offer him some sweet, sweet parental validation. Alas. The lack of powerful backing from his maternal family is an obstacle, but not if one actively tries to fight against consort kin clans and their influence. Or is it only the Wangs who are the enemy? Must be so, otherwise why the hell would one not see Zilu's relative independence as his greatest asset? You don't even have to make him Crown Prince to use him; just instill some sense of pride and validation, feed his need for attention and put him behind Zitan's throne. Okay, maybe don't do that last thing, deadly brotherly competition being a whole thing in palace environments, but still, use him! But no, Huanmi remained the only person to actually see and appreciate Zilu for what he was. Is it any wonder he was so absolutely loyal to her that even when it looked like she had attacked him with lethal intent, he still cared about her safety most of all?

And is it any wonder that he expedited his considerable will and brainpower solely for her benefit? I was absolutely floored when I realized that becoming an Emperor wasn't actually his ultimate goal - marrying Huanmi in the biggest, reddest wedding possible was! Even if he needed to drag the more august guests in at swordpoint. Not to say he didn't want to take the throne for his own sake; he absolutely did, but only as far as it served as a big fat fuck you to every person who kept dismissing him out of hand, so basically every person other than Huanmi. Taking the crown was a power fantasy, an idee-fixe of sorts, but for all that keeping a throne in one's basement can be seen as somewhat peculiar, there are very few - if any - signs of actual delusion in Zilu's actions. The throne is not a goal in itself, merely a way to achieve his primary goal, which is to marry the woman he loves, take revenge for Huanmi's sake as much as his own and build a life worthy of her. She's his Empress and by gods, she's going to be the real deal soon enough, no more cosplaying in private villas, however nice it might be!

Ma Zitan, the one and only Master of Mope

With every Ma Prince I become more and more convinced that there was something seriously wrong with Daddy Emperor's brain. Neglecting Potato makes some sense within the greater political picture, letting Zilu lie fallow is the height of foolishness, yet it's more a matter of criminal inaction than actively doing something wrong, but Zitan? Oh, there is no excuse for the way Daddy Emperor chose to deal with Zitan. If the Third Prince was truly his intended heir from the start and there is little reason to believe otherwise - if Wangs are to go then Potato is done for, Zilu was never even considered and Zitan remains the favourite long after showing his complete uselessness - why not try to prepare him for his future role? True, doing so openly might provoke the Wangs, but it's not like there aren't any ways to present such ruler lessons as something else, even a punishment. But no, let's just hope he turns out okay all by himself!

Now, logically reasoning, if Zitan was Daddy Emperor’s favourite and the prince he originally wanted as his heir, then Zitan should be given all possible help, right? So why wasn’t he taught any actual skills, whether in governance or in military matters? The thing is… they might have tried. In episode 61, when Zitan asks his faithful pair of retainers if he would be able to best Xiao Qi, their first answer is not that he’s the Emperor so it’s a given. Well, that too, but the first, immediate response? You studied the art of war. Which, okay, might be a reasonable guess when it comes to any prince, but those retainers are rather young and only recently-promoted. Before their soujourn at the Imperial Mausoleum they probably served somewhere within the wider imperial household, but not close enough to any great personage to be knowledgeable about what the princes might or might not have studied. Also, that answer, should Zitan’s lessons be limited to his early childhood, would make them look like idiots or bootlickers of the worst sort. But let’s say that Zitan actually studied the art of war and did so longer than his brothers. Or, alternatively, with more famous masters. That would naturally be a subject of some talk, if only within the imperial household itself. If so, then the female retainer, who seems rather astute in general, gave the best answer she could give.

Okay, so maybe somebody actually tried to help Zitan along. It still failed. Zitan at twenty or so is singularily useless and strangely unambitious, and no, calligraphy doesn't count as useful, not if one is an imperial prince and Emperor-to-be!

It's not Zitan's uselessness or even his refusal to feel any kind of reponsibility for his own people (as shown in the Huizhou arc) I have the most issue with. Although the latter is simply disgusting. And... really, really short-sighted. If Huizhou falls, as it surely must, Jianning and Co. get a clear way to the capital, leaving Xiao Qi to play deadly catch-up. Which means that Zitan's family is pretty much done for. Now, he might not care about Potato and Zilu, but surely he should feel something towards his father? Some filial piety, if not actual love? But no, screw the people of Huizhou and screw Daddy Emperor. Still, does he think that Jianning wouldn't pursue him to the ends of the earth in order to eradicate a potential claimant?

No, what really angers me is the way Zitan treats the women he claims to hold dear. And I'm not even speaking of Awu, although it's rather obvious that he cares little for her internality and rather more than is healthy for his idealized image of her. Xie Guifei dies for him, which is not his fault in the least... or is it? See, I'm pretty sure that Zitan's insistence on marrying Awu despite his mother's reservations was what provoked the Wangs to take certain... steps. Provoking a power struggle is all fine and good, if you're at least somewhat prepared for the consequences. Zitan is no fifteen year old well-bred young lady, he's an imperial prince right in the middle of a delicate balance of power, how the hell does he not know or care about possible ramifications? Naivety is theoretically not a crime, but that surely is criminal naivety. Which begs the question - how hard was that boy coddled by his mother? My guess is a lot. But Xie Guifei is but a trifle compared to the elephant in the room.

Xie Wanru. Xie Wanru, who supported Zitan as much as she could while being in a precarious situation herself. And whom he had no problems with asking for further support, going as far as to aim for the throne, disregarding her own and her children's potential interests. Xie Wanru, who didn't make the first move, even knowing Zitan to be a potential threat to her and hers. Xie Wanru, whose baby got a full portion of avuncular love in form of actual torture and was lucky to get away with his life. Xie Wanru, his sister, whose ghost must have screeched with fury upon hearing Zitan laud himself as this paragon of brotherly feelings in comparison to the well-intentioned Turnip.

Oh, and he just sat there like an offended child while the country kept sliding into chaos, simply because some evil old men didn't let him kill Cheng's entire army with his sheer incompetence. Those dastardly old bastards! Let them scramble around and let the people in the provinces keep dying; they all deserve this for not recognizing Zitan's awesomeness! I'm not saying he should have fixed everything. I'm saying he should have done the bare minimum. He killed a brother for that throne, now he should actually do something with it. Other than purposefully provoking the only guy who actually restored peace and stability simply because the man happens to be married to Zitan's first love.

I'm sorry, I cannot with Zitan. There's a lot more to be said about that twerp, much of which has already been said, but at this point refraining from plowing on it's a matter of mental hygiene.

[flamyangelwings]

For a Given Value of 'Fine' Chapter 3

I swear, this was supposed to be a oneshot ^_^;

@winterpower98 just gets too many anons that inspire me. But this is the last chapter, I swear. I just needed to add Tang and the PowerPoint.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29295903/chapters/73944804

There was something wet on his face.

That was the first thing MK registered when he woke up followed by the fact that, while his throat was a bit less sore, his head was still killing him, especially right behind his eyes, and that he felt...weirdly spent for how little he remembered exerting himself. He let out a quiet sigh and rubbed at his face, realizing in the process that the wet thing had been a cool cloth resting on his forehead and surely he didn’t have that bad a fever? The next thing he noticed was that he was staring at his own ceiling, which was weird since the last thing he remembered he had been miles away from home.

He was definitely in his bed, but...when had he gone home? He remembered climbing out his window and going up to Flower Fruit Mountain for training, and the Monkey King having hime meditate over tea, and then...Oh. Oh. And then Pigsy had shown up. Oh, Pigsy had called him Xiǎotiān. Oh, he was in so much trouble.

MK stared at the ceiling for a few minutes just regretting his life decisions, or at least the decisions of...that morning? The previous day? How long had he even slept?

He had known that Pigsy and Tang wouldn’t be entirely pleased with him, if they found out he’d gone to train when they thought he was “too sick to work”, but he hadn’t realized they’d be that displeased!

A soft rustling of paper caught his attention and, when he turned his head, MK was surprised to see Tang sitting at his desk reading. He tried to sit up but the motion sent his head spinning and MK slipped sideways into his wall with a gasp that caught in throat and quickly turned into a coughing fit.

“Oh!” Tang said, nearly dropping his book in surprise, “MK, you’re awake!” He placed his book aside quickly and jumped up to help MK sit up and pat his back. “How do you feel?” he asked, once the cough had subsided, feeling Mk’s forehead at the same time

“MmfineMisterTang” MK mumbled, attempting a reassuring smile that he could tell came out more like a grimace.

Tang’s glasses seemed to glint in the light as he looked at MK with a piercing gaze “Do you want to try that again, Xiaotian?”

MK flushed and ducked his head at the look and the usage of his proper name and bit his lip “My throat’s a lot less sore, but my head still hurts and it also kind of feels fuzzy.” he admitted reluctantly, staring purposefully at one of the drawings on his wall instead of Tang “And I’m a bit...I'm really dizzy.”

“Yes, that makes sense, some of that is probably being caused, in part, by dehydration,” Tang said, fixing MK with a look of displeasure, “which tends to happen when people decide to exercise, or go near volcanoes, or do both, with a fever.” he grabbed a bottle of water that MK hadn’t noticed before and handed it to him “What were you thinking?”

MK took a small sip of the water to avoid having to respond before realizing how thirsty he was and taking a deeper drink as Tang pressed on “How many times have Pigsy and I told you that you need to rest when you’re sick?”

“I know,” MK tried to argue, giving a stubborn pout “but I was fine! I barely had a fever! The world doesn’t-”

Tang clapped a hand on MK’s shoulder and gave a light squeeze, causing MK to pause in the middle of his sentence, “I know full well what your parents told you.” Tang said, spitting out ‘parents’ like it was a curse word, “And we have talked about it before. The world might not ‘stop because you have a runny nose’, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. Or won’t, MK. Did you even think about what could have happened? You could have fainted while on the way to the mountain, while you were in the air or over the ocean. You could have died, MK.” Tang’s grip on MK tightened as he said that, and MK felt a rush of shame as he pictured Tang sitting alone in the noodle shop, not knowing if he was alive or not, waiting for Pigsy to find him and bring him home.

“...I’m sorry Mr. Tang.” MK said in a small voice “I really thought I was-”

“Fine?” Tang repeated dryly, before taking a deep breath to calm himself “MK, what does ‘fine’ mean exactly?” he asked calmly “It clearly doesn’t mean ‘healthy’, since you’ve repeatedly claimed you were ‘fine’ when you were obviously sick, and don’t get me started on the number of times you’ve said you were ‘fine’ and on the verge of an emotional breakdown or hiding an injury!”

MK bit his lip but didn’t answer, mostly because he didn’t have an answer, fine was...fine. It was...what did fine mean?

“Anyway,” Tang continued, unaware of the mental upheaval he’d just caused with his question, “the Monkey King has given you the rest of this week, and at least part of next week off from training. He said that if he sees you on the mountain before Pigsy gives you a clean bill of health he’ll bring you back here himself. The real question is whether I am going to have to stay up here to keep an eye on you or if we can trust you to stay put and rest.”

MK winced at that statement, he hated the idea that he’d even slightly damaged Pigsy and Tang’s trust in him even if he could admit that, in hindsight, he probably deserved it. “I’ll stay put Mr. Tang.” he promised sheepishly, fiddling with the now-empty bottle in his hands until Tang grabbed it from him and started to refill it.

“Good.” the older man nodded with a soft grin that then faded into a sharp look that sent chills down MK’s spine “That means I’ll have plenty of time to work on a little...presentation for you.”

MK froze at that statement before groaning in despair and collapsing backwards onto his mattress. He sent the scholar a pleading look but held his tongue. The last time he had made the mistake of complaining about Tang making a slideshow to lecture him, he had been seventeen and the man had made him write a five page essay on the subject instead, with proper sources and citation, and had refused to tell him any stories about the Monkey King until he had finished it.

MK would take the slideshow over repeating that experience any day.

“Don’t give me that look, MK.” Tang chided, handing back the bottle and crossing his arms, “you knew full well what you were doing, and I care about you far too much to let you pull stunts like this without consequences.”

“Yes Mr. Tang.” MK sighed with a pout, taking another drink of water

Tang picked his book back up and patted MK on the head “I’ll tell Pigsy you’re alright and let you get some more rest.” he said, heading out of the apartment, MK sunk back onto his mattress with a huff, and covered his face with an arm.

The next week and a half? At least? This was going to be so boring!

-----

It was.

The next two weeks were increasingly dull. For the first few days, Pigsy and Tang constantly came up to his apartment to bring him food, or check his temperature, or just to ‘check up on him’, which and MK just knew that actually meant ‘check that he was still there’. And that stung a bit, the confirmation that he’d messed up badly enough that Pigsy and Tang didn’t trust him to keep his promise to stay put. MK knew he deserved it but...it still stung.

Pigsy had apparently texted Mei when he was missing, because she showed up and gave him a hard time for being ‘an absolute moron’. Once he filled her in on the rest, she gleefully teased him for being ‘all but grounded by his dads” which MK loudly shushed her about, worried Pigsy or Tang might hear her. If he had his way, they would never find out he felt that way about them. It wasn’t that he thought that they would think it weird or reject him for it, but it’d make everything weird to say it out loud.

Tang borrowed several new books from the library for MK to read, and it had only taken a couple for him to realize that the books had a common theme. Every. Single. Book. Had one of the characters getting sick, ignoring it, and getting worse. Sometimes even dying because of it.

Tang could be very subtle if he wanted. Apparently, this was not one of the times Tang wanted to be subtle.

Once his fever finally broke MK was allowed to do a bit of exercise, just so that he didn’t get too out of shape, but only under Pigsy’s supervision and only for a short amount of time every day. MK didn’t dare try and do any extra, he knew if he did and he was caught, not only would Pigsy place him firmly back on ‘bed rest only’, but he’d also probably damage their trust in him even more.

After two weeks, MK finally got back to full health.

-----

As eager as he was to finally get out of his apartment again, MK had also been dreading the day when Pigsy decided he was fully recovered and that day had finally arrived, emphasized by Tang showing up with a folding chair under one arm and a bag that MK just knew had his laptop in it.

MK slumped on his bed, trying his best not to glare at Tang’s laptop as the older man hooked it up to his TV. As he fiddled with one of his stim toys, the screen was suddenly lit up by a plain grey rectangle with “The Hazards and Long Term Repercussions of Straining the Human Body While In Poor Health” written across it.

Tang handed MK a binder with the same words on the cover page and pulled out a collapsible pointer.

“Alright, open your handout to the first page, we will begin with the basics. How stressing your immune system can prolong your recovery period.”

Fifteen minutes later

“And that covers the dangers and long term side effects of heat exhaustion, if you turn to page eight, we can start talking about Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.”

Ten more minutes later

“After pneumonia, the next on the list of diseases that can be acquired from stressing yourself or ignoring your body when ill is bronchitis.”

------

After a total of 45 excruciatingly boring minutes, Tang finally put down the pointer and MK closed the binder with a sigh of relief and practically collapsed backwards onto his bed.

“And what have we learned?” Tang prompted as he unplugged his laptop and put it away

“Not to make you mad at me unless I want to be bored to death?” MK tried to joke, before ducking his head at Tang’s sharp look and sighing “It’s important to rest when I don’t feel well and not just try to power through it because I could make myself way worse and permanently mess up my body.” he recited, hoping that the answer was thorough enough

Tang looked at MK and raised an eyebrow, clearly wanting something more from his response and MK sighed, “And just because the world doesn’t stop running when I’m sick doesn’t mean I need to keep going.”

That got a pleased nod from Tang, who then sat down on the bed and ruffled MK’s hair

MK pouted up at Tang, free to complain now that the lecture was over and he was safe from the threat of having to do homework “You’re really, really, good at making really boring slideshows.” he grouched, readjusting his position so that he was leaning against Tang

Tang chuckled and gave MK a fond smile “Thank you. I had two awful semesters of university with one particularly dull professor to learn that from. That man could make anything sound dull.”

“You learned well then.” MK teased, his pout melting into a teasing grin that Tang returned, jokingly cuffing MK lightly on the head.

The two sat in comfortable silence for a bit, before MK’s eyes darted up to Tang somewhat nervously “You guys...you still trust me, right?” he ventured “Now at least? Mostly?”

“What?” Tang’s gaze snapped to MK, brow furrowed in confusion and alarm, “Of course we trust you! Why is that even a question?”

“Well you said…” MK floundered “You asked…After I snuck out. You weren’t sure if you could trust me to stay in bed. And then you and Pigsy kept coming up to ‘check on’ me” MK quoted, putting finger quotes around ‘check on’, making his opinion on what they had actually meant clear.

Tang stared at MK for a moment, eyes wide in shock, before taking off his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. After a few minutes of silence Tang let out a heavy sigh, reached around MK and pulled him into his side giving him a tight, albeit one-armed, hug “MK, I’m so sorry. I should have realized saying it that way would affect you. Pigsy and I trust you with our lives. We’ve always trusted you! I swear, we really were checking on how you were feeling, we’ve never seen you that sick before and we were worried!”

“Oh.” MK didn’t quite know what to say to that. He’d been worrying about having broken Tang and Pigsy’s trust in him for nothing? That was...great. It actually was great! MK had never been so glad to find out he’d been overreacting to something! He let out a relieved laugh.

“That’s...good. I’m...That’s good.” MK grinned, relaxing into Tang’s hug “So...Anyway…” he grinned up at Tang eagerly “I’m healed...And I sat through the presentation...So…..” he gave Tang a pleading look that was betrayed by his lips tugging into a mischievous smile

Tang laughed “oh, fine” he sighed in mock irritation. He reached into the bag that his laptop was stored in and pulled out a well worn leather book. He scooched back so that he was sitting comfortable against the wall, MK following him, and opened the book to a bookmarked page

“Let me tell you about the time Sun Wukong, Zhu Bajie, and Sha Wujing got into a prank war that ended with all three of them dyed different colors....”

-------

MK: Pigsy and Mr. Tang can never find out I see them as my dads. Also MK: Literally called Pigsy ‘dad’ to his face while out of it from fever and drugged tea

That book may or may not be Tang’s personal journal chronicling The Journey. I made the story up because it seems like something that could have happened.

[sillyrabbit81]

Her Heavy Cross

Summary: Three years after tragedy hits, Lana she decides to start dating again. She meets Will through a dating app and they begin an online romance. After months of constant requests, Lana relents and agrees to meet and go on an irl date with Will. But is Will who he says he is? Lana is quickly pulled into an intense relationship forcing her to confront her tragic past. Will Lana face it or will she close her heart forever?

Pairing: OMC x OFC

Word Count: Approx 2.5k

Warnings: Swearing, smut, spanking, Dom vibes.

Authors Note: The story started as a Henry Cavill fanfiction but I changed it to be an original character, but shades of Henry are still there. Hope you enjoy the story and thanks for reading.

Part 8 Part 10

Part 9

We went to bed not long after that. I think we were both tired from staying up late the night before. Liam went to bed in his underwear, and I wore a singlet and PJ shorts. We talked some more before we fell asleep.

I asked Liam a bit more about his work. He told me the next two weeks were costume fitting, rehearsals, fight training and a few media events. "It's more of a nine to five thing at the moment. It'll be different after Easter when filming starts."

"How is it different?"

"Really long hours, usually fourteen to sixteen hours. There are a few weeks where I'm not needed, though. Although I'm the male lead, the female role is the central one."

"Who is the actress?"

"Myra Roberts."

"Oh, she's Australian."

"Yeah, most of the cast is Australian. I'm the ring in. I'm for, and I'm quoting here, international appeal and name recognition."

Liam asked me about my job. "I told you most of it before," I replied.

"You told me what you did, but you didn't tell me about it."

I told him about my work in a mainstream school support classroom. Most of the kids have cerebral palsy and intellectual disabilities. The classes are small. I was teaching a combined year 3 and 4 class.

Without mentioning specifics or names, I told him some funny stories about the kids, some of the challenges they faced. Some of the feel-good moments when they finally achieved goals they were working towards. Some of the goals were as simple as being able to feed themselves or to write more than a few lines without tiring.

I opened up and told him about the girl who passed away from aspiration pneumonia the first year I was teaching full time. She was in a wheelchair and had a genetic disorder that required ventilation at night. I smiled as I talked about her. I wasn't surprised when a tear rolled down my cheek.

"It's tough, but I love it. I like knowing that the kids get to have a real school experience, be part of the whole school community. They go on excursions, go to assembly, play at lunchtime with the other kids and its good that the mainstream kids grow up with people with disabilities around them. They get to be kids, not hidden away from the world like they were in the past."

Liam wiped my tear away with his thumb. He asked tenderly, "why do you do it?"

"Why do you act?" I asked rhetorically. "It's a calling, a passion, I guess. It's like nine days out of 10, I go home from school happy. Feeling like I've achieved something and feeling like I've supported eight kids to achieve their own small victories. It makes me feel satisfied that I'm doing good in the world. You know, adding something positive."

"That's really beautiful," Liam said. Then he laughed, "It makes what I do feel ridiculous. All I do is play make-believe all day."

"You help people too; you make us feel things. You show us truth and beauty. Give us hope when we feel hopeless. Laughter when we are sad. Make us inspired instead of apathetic. It's no small thing. Our scale is different, that's all. You can effect millions of people for a short time. I aim to effect maybe a hundred people over my career for the rest of their lives. Both are noble causes that will help to leave the world in a better place than when we found it."

"Did I say that you were intelligent earlier?" Liam asked. I shook my head. "I should have."

"Is that more important than being an excellent shag?"

"I don't know about that." Liam laughed, "But I know I like it."

Not long after that, we fell asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, I was trapped by Liam's heavy arm over me, and his hand was cupping one of my breasts. He was still asleep. His breathing was long and deep with a soft snore. I didn't want to disturb him, but my bladder wouldn't wait.

I tried to lift his arm off me and climb out from underneath him, but he pulled me closer. I could feel his morning erection against my bum. As much as I wanted to snuggle into it, I couldn't wait. I lifted his arm again, and I was able to sneak out.

I went to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth and washed my face. Then hopped back into bed. I looked at Liam while he slept. I brushed his hair off his forehead. His dark hair was so thick and soft. He had a few lines on his forehead that just seemed to make him appear more manly. His eyelashes seemed even longer as they laid against his cheeks. Up close, I could see a few faded freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose.

I traced my finger down his nose. He had a slight bump on the bridge. Somehow it didn't make him less attractive. His lips were so kissable, and I couldn't resist touching them either. I ran my fingertip down further, tracing his lips and then down to his dimpled chin. Liam opened his eyes and nearly made me shit myself when he growled and tried to bite my finger.

"Cunt!" I cried in shock, pulling my finger away.

Liam's face took on his own look of shock at my language. Then he laughed and tried to kiss me. I turned my head.

"Nuh-uh. You scared me half to death. How long have you bloody been awake for?"

"A while." He admitted, still smiling. My heart was racing, so I gave him a look exaggerating my anger. "Come on, Sweetheart. That was funny."

"Don't Sweetheart me. Here I was, innocently laying in bed thinking about how gorgeous you are. Meanwhile, you're laying there thinking wouldn't it be funny if I scared the shit out of her." I was trying not to smile, but I'm sure he could tell I wasn't really mad.

"You called me a cunt, though, so I guess we are even."

"That's a term of endearment in Australia." I grinned widely.

"Really?" Liam raised his eyebrows, looking dubious.

"Yeah, for sure. You'd say something like 'Oi mate! You're a sick cunt'." I was enjoying this.

"Which means?"

"Hey, friend! You're a good person, and I like you."

"I'll stick to calling you Sweetheart if that's ok?"

"Alright, cunt."

"Just bring your bum over here so I can fuck your cunt," Liam said, reaching for me.

My stomach flipped, and I felt myself getting aroused. Liam manhandled me onto my stomach and climbed on top of me. His bare hairy chest tickled my shoulders. I could feel him hard, thick and ready against me.

"Let's see if your tight little cunt is ready for me." Liam forced his hand down the front of my shorts. His fingers found their way to my centre, and I moaned as his fingers easily slid between my folds, my desire evident by how wet I was. He slipped a finger into me and my muscles clenched around it.

Too quickly, he removed his hand. Liam's wet fingers made their way to my mouth. "Open up, Sweetheart. Taste how much you want me." My lips parted for him, and he shoved his finger in. I closed my mouth around it, and my tongue lapped the sweet taste of my arousal.

Liam withdrew his finger, and his weight lifted off my back. I turned my head to see what he was doing and saw the condom in his hands. I continued to look over my shoulder as Liam dragged his underwear down, leaving them on his thighs. He held himself at the base and used the other to apply the condom. I watched in fascination as Liam rolled the condom down his shaft, his head was down, and his shoulders were hunched over the task. I really wanted to watch him masturbate one day.

When he was finished, he grabbed my hips and wrenched me up by them until I was on my knees. My head was still on the bed, and I was forced to look away by the new position. My shorts were pulled down my thighs. There was nothing gentle about Liam this morning. Then I panicked, realising how on display I would be. I tried to lay back down, but his firm hands gripped my hips, keeping me in position.

"Don't move," Liam ordered roughly. His hands moved from my hips, and he ran his hand over the curve of my bottom. "You should see yourself from this angle, Sweetheart."

He pressed his hand against my slit and put two fingers straight in. I jumped in surprise, pulling away as his thick fingers stretched me. I felt a sting on my arse cheek, and I flinched in pain.

"I told you not to move. Move again, and you'll get another one." Liam's voice was stern. He rubbed the spot he had just spanked, soothing it.

I waited, not moving, for what seemed like an eternity. The anticipation was killing me. I wanted to move, to tell Liam to stop, but I also wanted to scream at him to hurry up. I needed him inside me. Then I felt the tip of his cock rub against my wet opening, sliding smoothly up and down. Every time it grazed my clit, my anticipation built.

"Please," I murmured.

"Please what? Tell me what you want."

I licked my lips. "I want your cock."

I heard Liam inhale through his teeth. "I'm not going to be gentle."

"I don't care."

I felt Liam position himself at my entrance, and it was all the warning I had. Suddenly he was in me all the way. "Fuck," I cried out in relief and pain.

Liam didn't wait for me to adjust to his size. He started ramming into me like a piston. His hands were back on my hips, pulling me onto him with each thrust. The slap of our bodies meeting was so loud it was nearly all I could hear.

Grabbing my shoulder, Liam lifted me on my knees until our bodies were flush. He grabbed my head and turned it to the side. His lips met mine, and he forced his tongue into my mouth. His kiss devoured me, consuming me completely. His other hand lifted my singlet, freeing my breasts, and he kneaded one roughly before he found my nipple. He gripped me and pinched hard, but I barely felt it. My body reacted to the pain as though it was a pleasure, and electricity seemed to flow through my veins as my whole body felt ablaze.

Liam wrapped his fingers around my neck. The pressure was only slight, but it felt dangerous. He was so strong. If he wanted to destroy me, he could, and there would be nothing I could do about it. Instead of terrifying me, the thought thrilled me. I knew it was insane, wanting to play at the edge, confusing fear and arousal, but the combination was intoxicating.

He broke our kiss. I felt his lips tickle at my ear, and his voice was husky with exertion. "You fucking love this, don't you?"

"Yes," I panted. My voice was ragged and breathy. "Yes, I fucking love it."

I was thrown down on the bed again. My arse still in the air, and my head was pushed down into the bed. Liam held me that way while he unrelentingly pounded me. I felt like a plaything, a toy for his pleasure, as he threw me around where he wanted me. I felt helpless, but I didn't fight him. I submitted to his desires, knowing my body gave him pleasure was its own reward. I let him use me, dominate me, own me, and I knew I would beg for it to happen again and again.

He wasn't completely selfish though, his other hand found my clit, fingers moving over it in rapid little circles. "I need you to cum, Lana. I need to feel you cum."

He played with me varying his speed and firmness. He seemed to understand my body, my moans, my breathing because quickly, he found the rhythm I needed. I shattered beneath his touch. I shouted into the sheets as my release ripped through me. Liam didn't stop rubbing me until I was still.

Giving me no time to recover, Liam continued to rail me, but now he seemed to move impossibly fast. His fingers were digging into my hips, rocking them violently against his thrusts. I felt him engorge, and I braced myself for his release.

"Fuck!" Liam's voice thundered as I felt him pulse inside me. He held my hips still, his movements controlling his orgasm now. He grunted as he made each of his final drives.

Liam finally collapsed next to me, withdrawing himself as he did. I fell to the bed, unable to hold my own weight now that he wasn't holding me up. I took deep, calming breaths, and slowly I felt my strength return.

Shyly, I looked over at Liam. He was on his back, his chest heaving. A sheen of sweat glistened over his body in the morning light. He saw me peeking at him, and he half-smiled. A giggle escaped my lips.

"What are you laughing at?" He sounded amused.

"Nothing, I just feel really..." I didn't know exactly how I felt. I was sore, but that good way you feel sore after a hard workout. I was also calm, relaxed and euphoric. "Content."

"You really liked it?" I nodded. "I'm not too rough?" I shook my head. "Good, cause that was fucking amazing."

I giggled again and looked away. I felt Liam's fingers caress my back. My singlet was still pulled up, and my shorts were still around my ankles. He moved on the bed, and I felt him shuffle closer.

"Your bum's got a perfectly shaped red handprint on it. Did I slap you that hard?" He asked with a hint of concern.

"Yeah, it was hard. Good hard. I mark pretty easily." I turned to face him. He was laying on his side, his elbow bent and his head rested on his hand. He was looking down at my bare bottom, rubbing the spot where he marked me. "Bruises also show up pretty bad. They usually look worse than they feel. I rarely remember where I got them."

"You'll need a safe word if we keep this up." Liam looked up. He smiled briefly when he saw I was looking at him. "I don't want to go too far and really hurt you."

"Yeah, it's probably a good idea." I rolled over and laid on my back. I lifted my hips and put my shorts back on. Liam leaned down to kiss my exposed nipple before helping me pull my singlet back down. He laid his head on my chest, and I played with his soft hair, curling it around my fingers.

"Any ideas?" He asked. "For a safe word, I mean."

"Freeze?" I suggested.

Liam was quiet for a moment before nodded in agreement. "Freeze," he repeated. "I like it."

Part 10

[thedarkplume]

Throwback Thursday

Dust off those browsers, friends. We’re gonna travel back in time to the stories that brought us into the fandom or the ones that have stuck with you through the years.

Share your super old faves and reblog them, showing the authors their classics are not forgotten. Leave them a love note showing them how much it means to you.

Then reblog the first story you wrote for your current fandom or even the first one you wrote for each fandom you belong to. The world is our oyster. Let’s rediscover some pearls.

I'm not going to lie. This Ask made me a little bit sad. There have been some really great writers on this site that have left us for unspecified reasons, and some for the childish bullying that seems to be a daily thing.

One of my favorite blogs was @chocolatecherubs. They were a blog that was written specifically for black female characters in the Marvel Universe, with Steve and Bucky as the central love interests, particularly during the 1940s.

However, all is not lost! There are still plenty of blogs that I follow and love and can always count on to provide the most entertainment you can achieve without picking up an actual book. One of the blogs who always delivers on this front regardless of the subject matter is the beautiful and talented @avintagekiss24 . I've been following her for a year and it has been a nonstop rollercoaster of fun, excitement, surprise, and even a little bit of heartbreak.

@avintagekiss24 has so many stories that I reread over and over again, it's nearly impossible to pick just one. But...if I did have to choose a classic in a split-second decision it would be Night Shift. This was my first time ever reading a story about Andy Barber and since then I have not stopped!

As for my own forays into fanfiction, I've written for Twilight, Harry Potter, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Cruel Intentions, a few WIPs for We Have Always Lived in the Castle, Knives Out, and the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and that's not counting all of the stories knocking around in my head vying for attention!

Here is a VERY old Buffy the Vampire Slayer story I wrote.

Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Pairing: Buffy/Angelus

Setting: 1700s, New Colonies

A/N: This story is a little different from the others I’ve written. This story is set in the days of Angelus’ life when Drusilla had just turned Spike. Bear with me if everything is not exactly up to par historically – I am not a history buff! NSFW 18+ Warnings for offensive language, subject matter, violence, blood, gore, and sexual abuse.

His features could not be termed uninteresting—there lay in them something bold and daring—but the expression on the whole anything but benevolent. There were contempt and sarcasm in the cold dark eyes, whose glance, however, was at times so piercing that no one could endure it long.

from The Mysterious Stranger (1860) – Anonymous

What is obsession? Is it the madness that consumes a man when he’s confronted with the one thing he knows he is not supposed to have? Is it the burning desire to possess the aforementioned object, ensuring that she will only think of him as he only thinks of her? Angelus paced back and forth in his chosen room of the mansion. Darla was still off reconnecting with Dracula and giving Angelus some much-needed breathing room. While she was off having her own adventures, he moved his childe and grandchilde to the American Colonies. They were in the colony named New York. Angelus loved the New Colonies. The women were not as sexually repressed, and the humans as a whole were more trusting. Since their arrival, government officials, writers, artists, scholars – everyone who held wealth and power had invited Angelus, his “sister” Drusilla and her husband William, to parties. There was nothing Angelus enjoyed more than drunk socialites.

And it was at one of these parties that he saw her. The object of his obsession. Elizabeth Anne Summers. Buffy, to those who knew her intimately. She had long, golden blonde hair, not unlike Darla’s, but hers had more of a silky texture. Her eyes were large and hazel, brimming with innocence. She had sun-kissed skin that seemed to glow underneath the moonlight.

Angelus wanted her. He wanted to bury his fangs and his cock inside her. Her scent proved that she was untried, but that would only last so long. Angelus found out everything he could about her. She was promised to the governor’s son. She lived with her parents Hank and Joyce Summers. She had a baby sister – Dawn – who caught pneumonia and died at the age of six. Her father worked as a developer for the colony and his wife owned a prominent boutique. She had two best friends, Willow Osbourne née Rosenberg and Alexander Harris, husband to the beautiful and licentious Cordelia Harris née Chase.

The first time Angelus spoke to her was at a party that was thrown by an oil barren. Angelus, as usual, found himself surrounded by three potential meals. Drusilla stood by William’s side, smiling proudly as he recited poetry. It was terrible, but the women thought it was the most beautiful thing they had ever heard.

“Do you hunt, Mr. McConroy?” one of the women – Mrs. O’Hara or something or another – said, pulling him from his thoughts.

Angelus flashed an enticing smile. “Why yes, Mrs. O’Hara. ‘Tis one of my many pleasures.”

She wet her lips and fluttered her eyes in what he was sure was meant to be attractive. “Well, in that case, you should come to my husband’s estate in the country. You two can hunt and later you could tell me more about your pleasures.”

“How can a man of sound mind resist such an enticing offer?” he said, kissing the back of her hand.

The woman continued to place unnecessary hints concerning secret rendezvous and Angelus almost lost control and snapped her neck on the spot until one of the younger women spoke up.

“There’s that Elizabeth Summers.”

Angelus’ attention immediately shifted, seeking out his dark obsession. She came in with her parents. Her large hazel eyes seemed sad, and Angelus suddenly wanted to seek out that which had caused her misery and destroy it. He wanted to be the sole source of any pain she felt. But he could not gaze upon his obsession in peace as one of the three women continued her verbal assault.

“How a strange girl like that was lucky enough to have a contract with Governor Finn’s son is baffling.”

“She is a strange one, Harmony,” Cordelia Harris vehemently agreed. “My husband says that she spends all of her time reading. Reading! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Well, I hear that she wishes to become a writer! As if any respectable man would want anything written by a woman! A proper lady should spend her time learning to attend a household and concern herself with pleasing her husband.”

“Yes, well, we all know that Buffy,” she sneered the name. “Is as far from a lady as one can be. It baffles me why Alexander enjoys her company so. It’s embarrassing!” she glared as said husband made his way over to Buffy.

“I see nothing wrong with a properly educated woman, Mrs. Harris,” Angelus said, drawing their attention away from Buffy. “It would be refreshing to hear a woman contribute something to the conversation beyond how pretty the dresses are overseas.”

Cordelia Harris’ expression darkened so that if Angelus had been human, he might have been afraid. “Well,” she sniffed, highly offended. “It is upon the hour, and I believe I shall take my leave.” She stood and scowled at Angelus when he broke societal conventions and refused to stand when she did. “I bid you goodnight, Mrs. O’Hara, Harmony, Mr. McConroy.”

“Mrs. Harris,” his flourishing bow was meant and taken in all its mockery. He smirked as she huffed and stomped away. He watched her approach Buffy and Alexander, and used his enhanced hearing to listen in.

“…husband and I must be going,” she said in a clipped tone.

Buffy knew that her friend’s wife didn’t like her, but for Xander’s sake, she at least made an effort. “I am sorry that you must be leaving so soon. I hope you will feel well, Cordy.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, how many times must I remind you to call me Mrs. Harris?” she said tightly.

“Of course. I apologize.”

“Alexander.”

The dark-haired young man looked between his wife and his friend, wishing he could stay, but knowing he would never hear the last of it if he did. “Of course, dear. See you soon, Buffy.”

Her other friend, Willow, who had watched the scene from across the room, performed her usual damage control ritual. “You know I think one of these days he shall divorce her.”

“Willow!” she whispered, linking their arms. “You should not say such things.”

“Well, he should! I’m fairly certain the only reason he puts up with her is for the sex and we both know the pregnancy scare was the incentive for the marriage to start with…”

Angelus watched the two young women disappear out onto the gardens. “Ladies, if you will excuse me.” He left the woman at the table and sought out William. He didn’t have the same mental link with him as he did with Drusilla, but William could feel when his grandsire called him.

“You called?” he said, appearing moments later.

“Yes, I’m stepping out for a moment. Make sure no one sees Dru nibbling on the livestock.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s so special about this bird? I mean, she’s a cutie and all, but is she really worth our queen mother handing you your own arse?”

“What Darla doesn’t know won’t kill me.” Angelus knew William had a point. Darla was extremely jealous and possessive of him, but he was still sore around the edges where she was concerned, considering that she left him to die in a burning barn. Darla was his sire and that was a bond not easily broken, but nothing could reestablish the trust he lost for her. He glanced at Drusilla to see if she was keeping out of trouble and caught her thralling Harmony. “If you want the blonde as a party favor you should take her out of here. She’s as dumb as a post but has a pleasant peach scent to her.”

Angelus left his grandchilde to attend to Dru and followed Buffy’s scent through the large garden maze. She and her friend, Willow sat on a bench in front of a pond talking quietly.

“…says?”

“You mean when she’s not nursing a bottle? She blames me. She says even whores aren’t low enough to chase their own fathers,” she sniffled.

“Oh, Buffy, have you thought about telling Riley?”

“No, I can’t tell him, Will. If he thought for a moment that it’s gone further than a drunken fumbling, he’ll never speak to me again.”

“And right now, he’s your only way out,” Willow sighed in sympathy to her friend’s plight. “You know Oz and I will let you move in with us.”

“People will talk.”

“They’re already talking. One of New York’s most beloved sons married to a kike?”

“Willow!” Buffy admonished. “Don’t ever call yourself that.”

The redhead shrugged carelessly. “I have been called much worse. I am just telling you that Oz and I do not care what anyone else says about us.”

“I appreciate it. And if the wedding was happening later than next month I would say yes.”

“But what if he goes too far before Riley can save you?”

The unanswered question hung heavy in the air. Angelus seethed. He barely restrained himself from going back inside, grabbing Hank Summers and tearing off his worthless cock with his bare hands. It didn’t anger Angelus that the man was taking liberties with his daughter. It bothered him that his touch would not be the first she had known from a man.

“I should get back inside before Oz starts looking for me. Come with?”

“In a little while. I just want a little more time away from the noise.”

“Don’t take too long. Your parents,” she mumbled.

Angelus watched the Osbourne woman return to the party from his place in the shadows. He turned his attention back to Buffy realizing that they were finally alone. She leaned back, her hands flat on the bench and her face turned up towards the starlit sky. Her eyes were closed, and the subtle breeze disturbed the tendrils of silky tresses framing her face. Angelus had the perfect view of the golden skin of her smooth throat. His face shifted as he imagined sinking his fangs into her throat as her naked body writhed helplessly underneath his.

Buffy’s eyes suddenly snapped open. She stood and she looked around her as if sensing she was not alone. “Is someone there?” she called.

Angelus contained his excitement and returned to his human visage. “Just me,” he said, pretending as though he was simply out for a stroll through the garden’s maze. “Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Buffy stared at the man before her. She was certain that she had never seen him around before. He was tall, very tall. He had long dark hair that was bound behind his head. He had a wide mustache and she wondered if it was as soft as his hair looked. He had dark eyes. Eyes that were mischievous and secretive. She started to believe she was dreaming. She always thought Riley was cute in a boyish way, but this man before her with the long brown hair, his piercing dark eyes and his enticing smirk was…beautiful. His smirk seemed to widen, and Buffy realized with startling clarity that she was rather rudely staring at him.

“No, you did not frighten me, sir,” she recovered.

“You are Elizabeth Summers, correct?”

“Yes, but everyone calls me Buffy.”

He took her hand – it seemed tiny and engulfed by his – and pressed a small kiss to it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Buffy. I am Angelus McConroy.”

Recognition flashed in her large hazel eyes. “Of course, Mr. McConroy! You live in the Crawford’s old mansion. Your brother-in-law, William, is it? He ordered a gown from my mother’s boutique for your sister.”

Angelus suppressed another smirk. He had sent William on that particular mission to scout out the boutique and Buffy’s work hours, and to spread the word to the local undead community that she, her family and friends, were off limits.

“Yes, my family and I moved there a few months ago.”

Buffy fidgeted with her dress before resuming her place on the bench. “Would you…would you care to sit?” she offered timidly.

He flashed a dazzling smile and took his place beside her. “Now what is a lovely girl such as yourself doing out here all alone? It’s really not safe,” said the wolf to the rabbit.

Buffy glanced up at him and flushed as he stared down at her unblinkingly. “Oh, well, I just stepped out for a moment. Just for some air,” she shrugged.

“You don’t truly enjoy parties, do you?”

“They are…acceptable.”

“Ah, but a lass such as yourself would much rather be at home in front of the fire with a book. You prefer the silence and solitude to the noise and excitement.”

She flushed an attractive pink and looked up at him from under her lashes. “I realize that those are not exactly the qualities one looks for in a woman, but…”

“But you are far from a woman, lass. You’re still a wee child.” He watched appreciatively as her skin flushed a darker red.

“Sir, I will have you know that I am of sixteen years and will soon be a wife,” she said, not really succeeding in sounding offended.

“Yes, to Governor Finn’s lad no less. I find it difficult to see what it is the boy could have done to deserve the hand of such a fair lass.”

Her hazel eyes met his and she wore a smile befitting that of the most experienced of coquettes. “Do you tell all your ladies that, Mr. McConroy?”

“Only the pretty ones,” he smirked and wiggled his eyebrows.

She started laughing and Angelus thought it was the most enticing sound he had ever heard. “You are indeed a charmer, Mr. McConroy. If I may be so bold…?”

“You may.”

“Why is there not a Mrs. McConroy? A gentleman such as yourself should have amassed quite the number of prospects from the fairer sex.”

Angelus, seeing his opportunity, angled his body towards hers. “Perhaps it is because a man can only have ale for so long before he starts to long for a fine wine.”

He could hear her heart pounding in fear and excitement as their seemingly innocent conversation began to take a different turn. “But what if you’re not supposed to have the wine?” she breathed.

“That’s when it’s the sweetest.” His hand cupped her cheek and her eyes fluttered from the contact. “Look at me, Buff,” he commanded. “Look into my eyes.” Angelus knew he could have waited rather than jumping at the first opportunity to thrall her, but he was anxious to have her in his bed.

“You have pretty eyes.”

Angelus felt his eyebrows rise. You have pretty eyes? Angelus concentrated harder and Buffy flinched as he suddenly seemed to be scowling at her.

“What? Men can have pretty eyes,” she pouted slightly, thinking he was offended.

Angelus blinked. He surveyed her carefully, playing close attention not to let himself linger on her pouting pink lips. He didn’t understand how it was possible for her to resist his thrall. No one had ever resisted! The girl was obviously human. She smelled human. She had a heartbeat. What had gone wrong? His eyebrows knitted together as he ran through any and all explanations as to why his gift had failed him. He felt her warm hand press against his own.

“Angelus? Is something wrong?”

He recovered, wearing his signature smirk. “You think my eyes are pretty, do ye?”

Buffy fiddled with the sleeves of her dress looking anywhere but at him. “Yes, they resemble little pools of chocolate.” She felt his fingers lace through hers and looked down. She liked the way their hands fit.

“Now which one of us is the charmer here, Buff?” he watched her shiver as his fingers idly stroked hers.

“There you are!”

Buffy stood, withdrawing her hand from Angelus, completely missing his darkened expression. “Riley,” she said, her heart pounding heavily as though she’d been caught doing something terribly wicked.

“I have been searching all over for you, Bethie.”

He took her hand in his own, missing her subtle wince at the nickname she loathed. “Forgive me if I have caused distress. I only stepped out for a moment.”

“Your mother and father are looking for you. They –.” Riley stopped short when he saw movement behind Buffy. “Hello,” he said to the man who sat on the bench watching them unabashedly. “I do not believe we have met. I am Riley Finn, Elizabeth’s husband-to-be.”

“Oh, yes, the governor’s boy,” Angelus said, taking in the blue-eyed baby-faced boy with mocking eyes.

Although the sarcasm went completely over the boy’s head as he puffed out his chest and stood a little taller, Angelus smirk only grew when Buffy gave him a warning glare.

“Yes, yes, I am,” he said proudly.

“Riley, this is Mr. McConroy.”

Riley tensed slightly, something neither Angelus nor Buffy missed. “McConroy. You purchased the old Crawford Mansion.”

“Yes,” he confirmed, his eyes glinting slightly.

“Well, it was nice making your acquaintance, Mr. McConroy, but Elizabeth and I must be going.”

“Of course. Nice meeting you, Finn.” He turned his penetrating eyes to Buffy. He picked up her hand and gave her a lingering kiss that left her near breathless. “T’was a pleasure makin’ your acquaintance, Buffy.”

“Mr. McConroy,” she blushed.

Riley’s jaw clenched as he led Buffy away. But his annoyance over what he saw as a threat to his future wife was nothing compared to Angelus’ fury over Finn impeding the progress he had made.

“I do not trust that McConroy fellow,” he confided when they were of a safe distance away from him. Or so he thought. “He worries me.”

“Riley,” Buffy sighed. “Mr. McConroy is a nice man.”

“You know him well, then?”

“No. We only made acquaintance tonight.”

“Yet he already calls you Buffy.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Riley Finn, I do believe you are jealous.”

“Perhaps I am,” he admitted. “Do you find him attractive?”

Buffy blushed and lowered her eyes. “He is…agreeable. But it is you who will become my husband. Your name I will carry and your children I shall bear. Tell me once more why you are jealous?”

With a few well-executed words, Angelus could see Finn’s worries and inferiorities fade away. He leaned down and kissed her lips as carefully as if she were made of glass.

“Bethie?” he whispered, still holding her close.

“Yes?”

“If I asked you to do something, as your future husband, would you do it?”

Buffy tensed. Her small hands fisted the sides of his shirt as her mind twisted and turned over in itself. As her future husband, he could ask almost anything of her, and she was duty bound to obey. She trembled against him and swallowed the bile suddenly flooding her mouth. “Yes.”

“I wish for you to have no further contact with Mr. McConroy or any of his family.”

Buffy stepped back from him so that she could see into his eyes. “Riley, I have already told you that Mr. McConroy bears no threat to us.”

“But he does,” he argued. “Have you noticed the strange occurrences in our town?”

“Are you referring to Madeleine Archer?” Maddie Archer was two years younger than Buffy and had gone missing from her bed in the dead of night.

“Yes, as well as Rebekah Harte, Joshua Black, Edward Morton, Christine Adams, and countless others.”

“Riley, how do these unfortunate people pertain to you desiring distance between Mr. McConroy and myself?”

“They all vanished or perished inexplicably after McConroy, and his family took residence in the Crawford Mansion.”

“You are not suggesting…?” she gasped.

“There is something amiss about them. His sister is said to be touched in the mind, but there is more. She speaks in prophecies. Her husband, William, the poet, who may I say is not very good, he was seen with Rebekah Harte before she went missing. Then there is your new acquaintance. He never leaves the mansion during the day. He does not work and yet he attends every party and somehow amasses enough wealth to support his family. They have no servants or cooks. Their skin is unnaturally porcelain – must I go on?”

“Are you suggesting to me that Mr. McConroy, his sister and her husband may be…nefarious individuals?”

Riley smiled humorlessly. “Why does it frighten you to speak the word, Bethie? You once told me that what most would believe to be a monster, you see as a beast maintaining his nature.”

“I was referring to the work of Bram Stoker, Riley. Beasts exist, yes, but not of that sort, and certainly not amongst Mr. McConroy and his family.”

“You have always had faith in the most undeserving of creatures, Bethie.” He reached inside his trouser pocket and withdrew a silver cross on a chain.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I wish you to wear it whenever you leave the mansion.”

“Even in the sunlight?” she quipped.

“Even in the sunlight,” he answered, unaffected by her glibness. “All of the victims’ blood was drained through small punctures to the throat.”

Buffy paled as she gasped. “What? But you never said anything!”

“My father thought it was best that the families were not informed of this. It would lead to panic and at this time, the authorities have declared it a beast. Wear it. For me.”

“Okay,” she whispered, still struggling with the concept of the creatures she learned of as a child could truly exist beyond the pages of a novel.

Riley secured the cross around Buffy’s neck and exhaled in relief. “Now I believe we should find your parents. They can hardly fault a man for enjoying the company of his love.”

The couple left the garden arm in arm, completely oblivious to the heavy stare on their backs.

Angelus was beside himself with fury when the Finn’s and the Summers left the Hardy Mansion. He had covered his tracks and the tracks of his childe and grandchilde carefully. Yet, the Finn boy seemed to have linked all of their victims back to them. Although he tried his best to come across as noble and caring in Buffy’s eyes, the boy was far more concerned with her affections rather than her safety. The thought in itself caused a malicious smirk to befall his angelic features. They would have to be careful. Meticulous. One mistake and all would be lost. Nevertheless, Angelus would have Buffy Summers…even if he had to eviscerate every townsman to get her.

Angelus itched to relieve his fury and he knew just how to do it.

“Margaret, is it?” she was nothing. An aide in the Hardy household with the burden of a fatherless son. She was not remotely attractive, and her blood was not in the slightest appealing. But her polite smile and cautious eyes appeased him.

“Yes, sir.”

“I regret to bother you as I can see you are terribly busy, but I am afraid I require your assistance.”

“In what way, sir?” still so trusting.

“Come with me, please.”

Ah. There is the hesitation. “Very well, sir.”

He led her to a dark corner underneath the stairs hidden from the rest of the intoxicated socialites. “Ah, that’s better, isn’t it? Not complete privacy, but it should do for what I have in mind,” he said, letting his eyes drift over her, hoping to discomfort her. She predictably squirmed under his gaze, unaware that her used and aged body held no appeal for him.

“Sir, I…I should get back,” she stuttered, her heart pounding beautifully, forcing her blood to flow quicker through her arteries.

“Why not stay a while? After all, you did say you would help a fellow with his problem,” he purred, moving even closer to the frightful maid.

*“Sir, please, I should return to the party.”

*“Margaret, Margaret, there’s no hurry.”

She tried to pull away from him, hoping that someone might see. *“Mistress will be wondering…”

*“Sshh,” he cooed. “Mistress will be wondering how to get the good Reverend Chalmers into bed and will not notice the absence of canapé.” He stroked her chin for good measure, and she shuddered in spite of her fear. “Stay with me,” he urged.

Angelus could tell by her eyes that she was considering it. How could she not? A lowly maid, past her prime, receiving the attentions of the young and wealthy Mr. McConroy, a man that all women, be they married, betrothed, or divine worshippers, have attempted to lure into their beds.

*“Sir, people might talk,” she weakly protested. “I’ll be put out on the streets. My little boy would…I can’t lose this job,” she said, forgoing any thoughts she might have had about taking a chance with the beautiful Angelus McConroy.

Angelus, sensing her resolve, lost his temper. He grabbed her arms. *“Then you must keep quiet.”

*“You’re hurting me!” she said, speaking a little louder than she intended.

*“Ah! Cry out. Call for help. I’m sure Mistress will believe your behavior beyond reproach,” he sneered.

*“Please!” she gasped, wriggling in his embrace.

Angelus shook her roughly. *“Come, make a scene, huh?” he taunted. “Shall I?”

Margaret hesitated. *“No,” she whispered.

*“No, no. We’ll be as quiet as mice.”

Margaret lowered her head. Her shoulders sagged in defeat. If she closed her eyes and didn’t put up a fight, maybe it would be over soon. No one would believe her if she said their familiarity was forced.

Angelus could almost taste her defeat. His face shifted and when she looked back up at him, her fear and terror flooded his senses. *“No matter what.”

*“Sir!” she trembled, tears welling in her eyes. “My son!”

Good, he had almost forgotten. *“Oh, he’ll make a fine dessert, huh?”

He grabbed her, sinking his fangs into her throat before she could scream. He drained her quickly. She was unsatisfying and not at all fulfilling. He released her, letting her body fall carelessly to the floor. He tucked her away in the corner, knowing one of the other servants or perhaps her Mistress herself would find her. Angelus maneuvered around the intoxicated guests, following Margaret’s scent to the servant’s quarters. He found Margaret’s whelp sleeping in his bed. He was a boy of no more than seven years. His hair was curly like his mother's and a brighter shade of blonde. Margaret’s pallet lay positioned beside the boy’s bed. The boy clutched a worn brown bear that was missing its left eye. He was a beautiful child, clearly taking after his father. The boy opened his eyes and startling emerald green eyes met his own.

“Are you an angel?” he whispered.

His lips twitched as he fought the smirk that threatened to reveal itself. “An angel?”

“Mum says when it’s time an angel will come and take me to see my Da. Will you take me?”

He arranged the boy’s body in his bed and retrieved his mother, placing her on top of her pallet. From a distance, it would look as If they were merely sleeping. He returned to his mansion an hour before sunrise.

“Daddy, we saved her for you!” Drusilla called over the screams.

He strolled down to the “playroom” in the cellar. The room smelled of sex, blood, and fear. The young woman from the party, Harmony, was naked and railroad spikes had been driven through her hands and ankles, courtesy of William. Her legs and stomach were flayed, and Drusilla greedily lapped up her flowing blood.

William leaned against the wall, a pipe in his hand. “How did it go with the bird?”

Before he could answer, Harmony turned towards Angelus. Her face had been clawed, most likely by Drusilla, and her right eye hung out of its socket and lay limply against her cheek. “Mr. McConroy, help! Please help me!” she whimpered.

A cold smirk drifted on his lips as he played with her blood-soaked hair. “I could help you, Harmony, but you would have to do something for me first,” he taunted.

“Anything, anything.”

“Open your mouth.” A single tear fell from her good eye. She opened her mouth without hesitation. Angelus released his semi-hard cock and shoved it into her mouth. She choked and gagged as his hand knotted in her hair. “She resisted my thrall.”

William pushed off from his relaxed stance against the wall. “Resisted? How the bloody hell did she do that?”

“Gee, William, I have no idea. I’ll be sure to ask her next time,” he growled, shoving his entire length down Harmony’s throat.

“She’s not like the others,” Drusilla whispered. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. She was having a vision.

“What do you see, pet?”

Just as Harmony’s heart stopped beating, Angelus felt his seed spurt into her mouth. He pulled out, using her hair to clean himself off, smiling lightly as his seed and her blood dripped from her mouth.

“She was almost Called.”

“Called?”

“As in…?” Angelus had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“But the Powers…she was unworthy…innocent blood on her hands…now she is just a human.”

Angelus ran a hand through his hair, attempting to process what they had just learned. Buffy was meant to take the Calling. She was to be a Slayer, but she killed someone. The Powers deemed her unworthy and now she will never be a Slayer. But even though she didn’t have the Call, she was still equipped with the typical Slayer attributes. A mental block to resist the thrall. Possibly strength to fight against any demonic creature.

“Darla is going to kill you,” William snickered.

“Darla is too busy fucking Dracula to care what I do!”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Drusilla hunched over, moaning and hugging her stomach. William’s good mood faded quickly as he and Angelus flocked to her side protectively. “What do you see, Dru?”

“Bad man…bad man…bad man…”

“What bad man? What is he doing?” Angelus questioned her as she leaned against William.

“Touching…bad touch…bad touch…wants to keep her…wants to hurt her…!” she moaned.

Angelus growled deeply, startling his childe and grandchilde. “Hank Summers is a dead man. William, at first dark, I need you to do something for me.”

[cagestark]

WinterIronSpider//5

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

sorry about this, really wanted to share SOMETHING with you, even if it’s not my best work.

Here on AO3. -

At the sound of Tony Stark’s rumbling voice, Peter’s stomach drops to somewhere around his socked-toes. All the terrible things that could have happened (not that he’d been imagining any of them, not when he saw Bucky’s pale eyes drop to his lips. All thoughts of morals had been beaten away by the butterfly wings that battered inside his stomach), all those terrible things that could befall any infidelious person and this is the worst of them. Getting caught. 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter gasps, stumbling back to put distance between himself and Bucky. Nothing to see here, nothing funny, just two acquaintances slow dancing with red, raw mouths. Yeah—Peter can’t imagine anyone being able to pull the wool over Tony Stark’s eyes, much less himself. Even if he had an excuse that wasn’t thin as he is, there’s no way his conscience could let him hide behind it. Aunt May hadn’t raised him to be that kind of man. Shoulders bowing, Peter says, “Please don’t be angry at Bucky. I came on to him, he—” 

“Is that true, Bucky?” Tony asks. “Did you make this sweet, sick boy do all the work?”

“Hell no,” Bucky mutters. “My ma raised me better than that. He didn’t have to lift a finger.” 

Had the pneumonia scrambled Peter’s brain? Maybe the medicine Dr. Banner gave him had strange (wonderful) hallucinogenic properties that hadn’t manifested until now. His eyes flicker back and forth between the easy banter of the couple, throat growing tighter and tighter.

“In that case, don’t mind me. Fly on the wall,” Tony says, leaning back into the doorway. In his three piece suit, he is the picture of a respectable businessman. The way his eyes burn as he traces up and down them is anything but respectful. His tongue traces his lower lip and Peter replays the sight in his head in ultra high-definition. “Pretend I’m not here. Picture me in my underwear, if you’d prefer—you know, that idiom doesn’t work when I’m not wearing underwear, but these goddamn worsted wool suits, you can see every line—” 

“What, you’re, you—I’m sorry Mr. Stark, but are you joking?” Peter wonders. A worse thought comes with no justification save for a long history of experiencing cruelty at other people’s hands: what if they’re trying to trick him? What into, Peter can’t be certain. What he is certain of is that no man like Tony Stark (no man in general) could possibly be okay with someone else kissing their lover. 

Tony’s face goes soft, a tender twisting of his mouth. Peter’s eyes drop. No, these aren’t the kinds of men who would trick or hurt him. Surely if he looks Tony in the eye, the man will see Peter’s cowardice, his betrayal of their characters. 

“Kid—I’m sorry. It was just a joke. In a way.” Tony lifts the needle on the record player and the music cuts away, leaving a heavy silence behind that no one is sure how to fill. After a stretch, Tony goes on: “Pizza for dinner? Are you hungry?”

Peter is always hungry. “Yes, but—Mr. Stark, maybe I should go.”

“You can’t even stay for dinner?”

“I—alright. No—I mean. I don’t know.”

Tony turns to Bucky. The tone he uses to speak to the other man is night and day from the tone he uses with Peter, his voice low and familiar. “Did you not explain anything to him? What have you been up to all day, buttercup?”

Bucky’s mouth curls up at the corner, a wry, guilty look that makes him look ten years younger. “Dancin’?”

-

Peter clears his plate twice, burning the roof of his mouth (though he hardly cares, the pizza is so good. From someplace in upper Manhattan, real gourmet stuff topped with portobello mushrooms and red peppers and black olives). Bucky is almost as ravenous, folding his pizza like a true New-Yorker. When he takes his metal fingers into his mouth to suck the grease off, Peter has to look away, stomach feeling hot in a way that has nothing to do with the peppers on the pizza. That mouth, those fingers, god. 

All throughout dinner, Tony’s dark eyes flicker back and forth like they are prime entertainment, looking a little heated under the collar himself when Bucky cleans his hands. He tells them a story about running into a professional Tony Stark impersonator in the pizza shop, until Peter nearly forgets that there’s a reason Mr. Stark should hate him. By the time nothing remains but empty, grease-sodden pizza boxes, Peter feels sleepy and full, lulled in the best way. 

“Two things, kid,” Tony says, using a napkin to wipe his mouth. “Small things. We’d like you to live here, and also Bucky would like to make out—“

“Nice opening,” Bucky huffs, eyebrows low and threatening. “Any other bombshells to drop on him? You his bio dad? Tell him that I killed JKF?”

“FRIDAY, scrub the last five minutes,” Tony snaps. 

Peter struggles to follow along. Tony began to lose him somewhere around live here and left him in the dust at Bucky would like to make out. Blinking hard, nothing changes, no world slipping sideways, no veil lifting to reveal everything as a hallucination. But surely this can’t be real life. Real life wouldn’t be nearly so strange. 

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Peter admits, fingers tapping his thighs in an anxious rhythm. “Did you say something about living here, Mr. Stark?” 

“Let’s start with Bucky first, actually,” Tony says, eyes glittering like he’s getting strange pleasure from seeing Peter so flustered. 

“Tony—” 

“No, no, you had your chance to talk to him during the 9-5. You’re officially off the clock. We’re all about not violating Fair Labor Standards Act.” Bucky’s face gives away nothing. His metal hand makes a sound as he clenches it into a tight fist and then tucks it into his lap, shrugging in a way that says less fine, whatever and more I, very begrudgingly and under extreme duress, relent. When Tony’s gaze turns back on Peter, he can’t help but stare down at his lap and the fraying knees of his pants. Aunt May always said the eyes are the window to the soul. “Kid, there’s no reason to apologize to me for kissing Bucky. We’re open. Do you understand what I mean?” 

Peter clears his throat, mouth dry. “You mean you’re in an open relationship?” 

“We don’t usually label it, but that’s acceptable terminology. We aren’t people who stifle our desires, how’s that? Sometimes Bucky’s with someone else, sometimes I’m with someone else, sometimes we’re both with someone else, but we’re always with each other. Bucky has my explicit approval to make moves on young, pneumonia-ridden college students, so long as they are willing.”

Imagining Tony and Bucky together is enough to make him want to squirm in his seat. Imagining them sharing someone between them makes him long to pant like a dog, anything to help abate the volcanic heat bubbling up inside him. One thing at a time, Pete, he thinks to himself. He’s good at giving himself pep talks. After all, for a long time there was no one else around to encourage him. “That makes sense, Mr. Stark. But what does that mean? Mr.—Bucky wants to, to...you know?”

“That is a question you can direct to the defendant. Mr. Bucky?”

Peter colors, looking at the long-haired man from beneath his dark eyelashes. 

“I want to kiss you any time you’re looking sad,” Bucky says, eyes on the hardwood of the table. “I want to make sure you don’t have anymore reasons to cry when you’re around me or not. I want to protect you. I want to kill your enemies—” 

“He’s a poet, isn’t he, regular Shakespeare—FRIDAY, let’s just scrub this whole conversation okay—” 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, “But it’s Monday, Mr. Stark.” 

Tony smiles. It hints at a lot, not half of which Peter can decipher. He adjusts the blue-tinted glasses on his face. “Right. You’re right, Peter. Did Bucky answer your question?” 

Replaying it in his mind, Peter can feel himself flushing. His mouth tingles where an hour before, Bucky’s own had been pressed against it. If Bucky wants to kiss him every time he’s looking sad, then Peter won’t ever smile again. Not if he can help it. “Sort of. I guess I just don’t get why. You two have each other, and you’re both. Wow. You’re both really wow. I think if I—” Peter barely manages to stop before he says something hopelessly romantic and tragic, something like how he thinks if he had either of them, he’d never be sad again. “I just don’t understand why you’d be interested in anyone else.” 

“I don’t believe in soulmates,” Tony says. He walks to the bar in the corner and pours himself an amber-colored drink. “I believe in chemistry. That’s a renewable resource in my book, Pete, one that can be experienced between a multitude of people all at once. A gas stove has several burners, and just because you turn the gas up on one doesn’t mean you can’t ignite the others, does it?” 

“Not if it’s a good stove.” 

“Not if it’s a good stove,” Tony repeats, voice warm like the alcohol he sips at. He tips the glass towards Bucky. “Snowflake here believes that a person can have many soulmates. It’s all about the ones we choose to cultivate. Sometimes it’s that deep. And not to watch you flush, kid, but sometimes it’s just about the sex.” 

Peter works to keep his face neutral even if he can feel the heat of a blush crawling across his skin. Mr. Stark must think him a blushing virgin (and in some aspects, Peter is). Hopefully, he can’t tell that Peter’s flush is more arousal than embarrassment. 

“So which am I?” He asks, glancing nervously to Bucky. “Am I a cultivating thing or am I a sex thing?”

“You’re not a thing at all,” Bucky says. The murderous expression on his face doesn’t agree with his words. “You’re a human being. But it’s more than just sex. Sex doesn’t need to be included at all. See—I told Tony this morning that we were going to move too fast. We shouldn’t even be mentioning sex until after the third date—“

“Incredible. Do you hear that, kid? He didn’t take me on a date until after the sixth or seventh tryst in the lab. You’re something special.” Tony’s waggling eyebrows belie any jealousy or bitterness Peter might have imagined. 

Still. Peter can’t help but feel...special. Not in a million years would he have imagined someone as handsome as Bucky Barnes being interested in him, not romantically, not sexually, not any way at all. He feels more than a little like he’s stepped into the Twilight Zone. Surely any moment Rod Sterling will appear leaning against the bar talking to some invisible camera.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Peter says, wringing his hands in his lap. He smiles at Bucky with shaking lips, watching the furrowed brow smooth. “I don’t expect anything at all. This is like, not expected. At all. Way out of left field. I still don’t understand…”

“Which part?” Tony asks. He puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, thumb soothing the skin just above the collar of the man’s shirt, and Peter feels it all over. 

“The me part,” Peter admits. “You could have anybody. Why me? Not to sound like, like I’m fishing for compliments or anything but I’m not the sort of guy people are attracted to.” But. Bad thoughts come rolling in like thunderheads, always clinging to the edges of his mind eager to blot out any sun that might appear, because there’s one thing Peter knows he’s good at. One thing people are attracted to. 

Mr. Rumlow tells him so. 

Peter shivers despite the warmth of the room, pizza sitting like a heavy stone in his gut. God, why had he told Bucky and Mr. Stark about the arrangement between himself and the super of his apartment complex? Their reactions were fuzzy in his mind, the effects of the medicine he’d taken turning everything mottled and loose at the edges, but Peter knows how it sounds. He knows what he would think, if it had been another student sucking Mr. Rumlow’s dick anytime he knocks just to keep from having to pay rent. 

It’s not as bad as it sounds, though. Mr. Rumlow (“Call me Brock, I think you’ve more than earned it, Pete”) is attractive enough. He’s not really rough, not large enough to leave Peter’s throat sore the way a bigger cock might (Peter has read on the internet that that’s Possible). He likes to say foul things while Peter’s on his knees, things he knows that are just said during sex, like how Peter is so dirty, such a slut for his cock. But more often than not, Peter just drowns that out. 

Why he feels so pathetic thinking about it, he isn’t sure. 

“Kid.”

Peter looks up and sees the blurry form of Tony, the taller form of Bucky crouched down beside his seat. Eyes stinging, he reaches up to palm at them. His hands come away damp, vision clear, but now he can see the worry on Tony’s face, the intense stare Bucky has fixed him with, and that makes it so much worse. People caring rubs a tender part of him raw and it hurts. 

“I’m not doing such a good job keeping you from crying,” Bucky mutters, handing Peter a cloth plucked from beneath the bar to wipe his face with. 

Peter laughs wetly. “Can’t kiss all my sadness away.” 

“Can sure as hell try,” Bucky says. His metal hand cups Peter’s chin with contradicting tenderness, cooler than skin. His eyes flutter closed on instinct, opening only when the older man pauses close enough that Peter can feel his warm breath against his face. Those eyes, the entire expression—it makes Peter feel like Bucky could swallow him whole. And Peter might like it. “Tell me if you want it.” 

“I want it,” Peter breathes. 

Bucky kisses him. The sound that slips past Peter’s lips is downright disgraceful, a needy desperate little thing that Bucky swallows, his metal thumb coming up to coax Peter’s jaw open. Peter’s only prior kiss was a girl in highschool, and it was nothing like this. That had been an anxious, quick thing, more time spent worrying about his breath and where to put his hands and how to turn his head so their noses wouldn’t touch than time spent actually kissing. This is a submersive experience. Nothing but Bucky exists, Bucky and his tender hand, the tongue that teases, the mouth that sucks when Peter is brave enough to go exploring with his own. 

Eyes opening a fraction, his heart jerks in his chest because—

Tony. 

Tony stands having taken a few steps back, watching them with wide, wondrous eyes. His throat bobs as he swallows, Peter’s eyes tracking the movement. Why, Peter wonders, does the sight of Mr. Stark watching them make every last drop of blood in his body turn tail and head south? He can’t help but groan, letting his heavy lids fall shut again, neck going lax while Bucky kisses him deep and slow and filthy. 

Maybe they kiss for a minute or ten. Long enough for Peter’s tears to dry, for his cock to ache, for his lips to feel raw and swollen. When they part, Bucky’s eyes seem to burn, the thinnest sliver of silver corona around the aroused pupil—and then they flicker over Peter’s shoulder. Peter turns to see that Tony is lounging against the bar, face buried in his phone. He glances up at their movement and gives them a smile that is small but real and warm. 

“Coming up for air?” Tony asks. He slips his phone into his pocket. “Before you have Peter as desert on the dining room table, there is one more important item to discuss.” 

Peter’s head swims drunkenly. Fingers tighten at the nape of his neck where they are buried in his curls. They release in an instant—just an anxious reflex—but Peter’s eyes flutter anyway. How long has it been since he was touched? Mr. Rumlow. Before that? MJ and Ned, when they’d visited him over their semester break last year. Sometimes his skin downright itched, he was so desperate for someone to hug him, to put their hand on his shoulder. His heart would burst at the sound of Rumlow knocking on his door, just to feel human contact, just to feel wanted.

Shaking his head, Peter struggles to clear it. “Sorry Mr. Stark. What, what else is there?” 

“The matter of your destitution,” Tony says, taking his seat at the table again. His glass is full now, though Peter never heard him pour it. “Delicately put—you lack resources. I have an abundance of them. I’d like us to come to some sort of arrangement. Preferably one that doesn’t make me feel seedy, but even more importantly!—one that doesn’t make you feel trapped.” 

Peter blinks. “Trapped?” 

Tony clears his throat. His hands can’t seem to still, fiddling with the tumbler glass, adjusting where it rests on the napkin. Nervous ticks?, Peter wonders. What could a brilliant, powerful man like Tony Stark have to be worried about? “I wanted to invite you to move in to our penthouse; there’s plenty of room. But my better half over there told me that you might feel obliged to say yes even if you didn’t really want to. Or that saying yes might make it difficult for you to maintain your independence.” 

“You want me to live with you?” Peter can hear how his voice grows high towards the end. Even to his own ears, it sounds like hysteria. Maybe most of it is shock, but there’s a part of it (a frighteningly large part) that is...excited. This is young Peter’s dream, his idol asking him to live with him. Kid fantasies. Nothing that should ever be possible.

At his shrill voice, Tony winces. “Here’s what we want: your security ensured and your health maintained. Whatever it takes to see those things come to fruition. Our one request is that you don’t go back to Lafayette Hall. There are people there who would, who are taking advantage of you, kid. As it is, I have it under good authority that Lafayette Hall will be experiencing a change of management soon, but until it does, it would be a real comfort to Bucky and I to know that you aren’t vulnerable.” 

His face burns. It takes effort to swallow past the knot in his throat. “If I didn’t go back there, where else would I go?” 

“You’ve got options,” Bucky says, voice a warm, comforting timber from beside him. 

“One,” Tony says, holding up a finger. “I can set you up in a nice apartment close to campus. All amenities taken care of. I know the supers, very hands off kinds of people. Two, I could set you up on a different floor in the Tower here. I have several that used to belong to the Avengers, but they come and go so sporadically now that there’s no sense in giving them their own permanent space. You’d be free to come and go from the Tower the way you would any apartment. It would be as much your home as ours.” 

“Or I could stay here with you?” Peter asks. 

“I’m prepared to have provide any legal requisite that would make you feel comfortable, so that you would know there’s no obligation to Bucky or to myself. I have lawyers at the Tower six days a week; they’d be more than glad to do paperwork that prevents me from potentially causing a legal scandal. For once.” 

“Mr. Stark, this is, that—it’s all more than generous. Not to sound like a broken record, I just don’t understand why,” Peter says. “Why me? Why would you spend so much money on me, if you aren’t getting anything in return?” 

If there’s one thing Peter has learned in life, it’s that no kindness is unconditional. Yet here Tony is trying to convince him of that very thing, that Peter can have his cake and eat it too, that there are no strings attached to this gift. Just a big, beautiful bow. 

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” says Tony. It’s too difficult to look away from his heated gaze. And Peter doesn’t want to. “ You’re intelligent, hardworking, kind. I was barely two of those things when I was your age, and I’ll let you decide which. I want to see you thrive kid, and if that means investing some—not even a fraction—of my resources, then it will be more than worth it. If nothing else, feel free to consider me a lecherous rich bastard who will sleep easier at night knowing he’s doing his civic duty.

“So what do you say, Pete? No need to break it to me gently, though there will be a mandatory period of forty-eight hours of sulking should you say no, just a warning, but don’t—” 

“Yes. Yes, absolutely,” Peter says, tucking his fingers beneath his thighs to keep from doing something embarrassing like clapping or throwing his arms around the man. He should say no. May never liked the idea of handouts. She was a proud woman who worked until she couldn’t stand anymore and had instilled in him the same work ethic. Would she be disappointed in him for taking this easy way out, for accepting generosity without giving Mr. Stark anything in return? 

If Peter lets himself wonder questions like that, then he’d never stop. 

“Yes? Yes? That was easy.”

“Tony’s used to people telling him no,” Bucky says slyly. 

“As they should,” says Tony, leaning back in his chair. It’s not hard to imagine that the smile on the older man’s face might be thanks to Peter, but it’s certainly hard enough to believe. “I was convinced I might have to beg you to take my money, kid. I’ve been turned down a few times in the name of pride.” 

Peter smiles, lips pressed together tight so that he doesn’t have to say anything like, Don’t worry Mr. Stark, I have no pride.

“You could have Sam’s floor, it’s right below this one, and he spends most of his time in DC anyway,” Bucky suggests. The man looks about as happy as Peter’s seen him. Something about his serious face isn’t made for smiling, the low brows and narrowed eyes and downturned lips, but his brow is smooth and the corners of his lips quirk upwards. 

“Oh, not here? Up here, I mean. With you two?” Peter cringes even as the words slip out. Of course they wouldn’t want him up here in their space, not when there were better options so close by. Still, an entire slideshow had played inside his brain of all the domestic activities they could get up to together: watching movies on the couch at night after Mr. Stark came home from work, cooking breakfast in the morning with Bucky at the stove. He should just be grateful, though. Grateful he’ll be in a place with food and heat and running water that doesn’t taste like iron and rust.

“Up here?” Tony asks. He claps his hands. “All the better. My lawyers will be here first thing in the morning to draw up a makeshift lease of sorts—anything to let you know that your security isn’t contingent on any relationship with us. But if you leave crumbs on my carpet, kid, I’ll throw you to the wolves I swear to—kidding! Jesus, Buck, don’t slap me with the metal hand.” 

“I can walk home tomorrow and grab my stuff,” Peter says, mind far away in the tiny apartment. All he’ll need is to fill his backpack with the few clothing items that he hasn’t worn to death, the picture of Ned and MJ, May and Ben’s and his parents’ wedding rings, his school books. He could pack up his entire life into one bag, which is both a little sad and a godsend. Peter hates moving.

“Take one of my cars; I have plenty of them.” Tony stands from the table and holds out a hand. When Peter takes it, it’s warm and calloused. They shake, but it isn’t enough, no amount of gratitude can be poured from palm to palm. Peter rounds the table and wraps his arms around the man’s waist, smelling cologne and sharp alcohol, feeling Tony arms carefully come down around him. When the man speaks, it rumbles through Peter’s own body. “Lovely doing business with you, Mr. Parker. Saturday is for chores and Sunday is funday.” 

“I’m really good at doing dishes,” Peter grins. 

“That’s what the dishwasher is for, kid. Unless you’re Bucky who likes to do them by hand.” They pull away and Tony smiles down at him, and Peter thinks that maybe things are actually getting better. Maybe all those prayers he made finally reached up through the clouds and were heard and answered. Maybe he’s suffered enough, and the universe is finally giving him some good karma. “You know,” Tony says. He winks at Bucky. “I think this business deal could absolutely be sealed by a kiss—” 

“Tony,” Bucky sighs. 

“Good idea,” Peter says brightly. He shifts up onto his toes, letting his eyes fall shut as he presses a chaste kiss to Tony’s mouth—

What he wasn’t expecting was for Mr. Stark to pull away the way he does, to turn his head so that the kiss falls on his whiskered cheek. When Peter blinks up at him, he can’t understand the shocked, no, the horrified expression on the older man’s face. 

“Kid—I meant you and Bucky,” Tony says. “This thing—between you two? I’m not included.” 

[young-bev]

An essay abt Fabian Aramais Seacaster

This is the essay that i wrote for my greek myth class. The assignment was to find a contemporary example of Hubris and Nemesis.Understand that some story elements are simplified and glossed over bc this was only supposed to be three pages and i wrote five. Idk like one person on tumblr wanted to see it and a few ppl on twitter as well. So enjoy??

In recent years there has been a rise in popularity in TableTop Role Playing Games (RPG), this is due to shows like Critical Role, The Adventure Zone, Not Another DnD Podcast and Dimension 20. These shows have amassed large followings and have even gone and performed live around the world. Viewed as a collaborative storytelling medium, using dice to define the success of one's actions, it is only reasonable to wonder if the traditional storytelling devices seen in classic mythology translates into this medium. Examining the plot to Dimension 20 Fantasy High a clear example of hubris comes to mind. This hubris is shown by a Player Character (PC) named Fabian Aramais Seacaster in the second season of Fantasy High. To understand the significance of the hubris and Nemesis, one must understand Fabian’s personality in the context of this show and how that relates to the situation he was placed in. Understanding Fabian as a character will also allow the viewer to understand how cruel Nemesis was to him. Nemesis’ cruelty can also be examined as a part of games mechanics and reflected in the relations between Dungeon Master and Player.

 For ease of understanding, I will first explain the context in which Fantasy High takes place. In the introduction to the show, the Dungeon Master (DM) Brennan Lee Mulligan explains that: “Now we can answer the age-old question of; What if John Hughes ran a tabletop RPG game?” The show follows a group of heroes who call themselves the Bad Kids as they attend the Aguefort Adventuring Academy: the world’s premier training ground for would-be Heroes. It is the first episode of the show that Fabian is introduced. He is a half-elven fighter raised by infamous pirate Bill Seacaster and Hallariel Seacaster. Played by Lou Wilson, Fabian is: “Everything [Lou Wilson] wanted to be in high school; rich and hot.” as he stated in an episode of Fantasy High: Extra Credit. It is here in Fabian’s very first scene that the viewer is given a key insight into Fabian’s hubris. While talking to his father before the first day of school, Bill Seacaster says to Fabian; “You’re my son, you’re a direct reflection of me! You and your glory is the same as mine and my glory! That’s how we relate to each other!” (Mulligan, S1 E1).  This statement is important because it will directly play into many of the choices Fabian makes in the following episodes. In the very same interaction, Fabian is gifted by his father an Auguefort Owlbears letterman jacket, as Fabian hopes to make it onto the team with the tryouts happening later that day.  The jacket becomes a great symbol for both Fabian’s hubris and identity as he does not initially make the team but still decides to wear the jacket to school nearly every day. As hubris is defined as someone viewing themselves as either above or below their true social rank. hubris is also seen as acting out of an overblown sense of importance. In a society where a social ladder is clear, Jocks and cheerleaders ‘rule the school’ and the nerds find themselves at the bottom, wearing a letterman jacket for a team that you are not a part of is very much believing yourself above your true position on the social ladder.

While the jacket is a minor display of hubris in the first season as Fabian does eventually find his way onto the Owlbears, it is not until Fantasy High: Sophomore Year that Fabian’s hubris is met with Nemesis. In sophomore year, the Bad Kids find themselves on a quest to retrieve the crown of the Nightmare King. Their journey leads them to the pirate city of Leviathan. Here the city is made up of ships roped and assembled together, it floats in the Celestine Sea. On their first night in Leviathan, Fabian separates himself from the party and heads off, now pensive as this city reminds him of Bill Seacaster. On his own, he meets members of his father’s cult. Warlocks who have given patronage to Bill Seacaster as he is now causing chaos as a devil in the nine hells after dying at the end of freshman year. Initially, these pirates praise and celebrate Fabian as he is their patron’s son. They believe Fabian their saviour. Their reaction changes, however, when they ask Fabian to describe how he defeated Bill Seacaster in combat. These warlocks believe Fabian to have killed his father in a grand and epic battle. Although, in actuality, Fabian killed his father in an act of mercy after their home was attacked by mercenaries. Fabian tries to explain this to these pirates and they immediately become frantic and fearful of the lack of potency and power of their patron. They believed Fabian a powerful enough swordsman to defeat Bill Seacaster, thus powerful enough to defeat one of Bill’s long standing rivals, a man named James Wicklaw (Mulligan, S2 E5). With a hurt pride and desperate to prove himself, Fabian declares: “I am perfectly capable of leading an army, Alright? I am my father’s son through and through. And I am as good as he is...” (Mulligan, S2 E5). It is here with wounded pride that Fabian sets out to prove himself in the eyes of his father’s cult. He leads them in an attack against James Wicklaw. Fabian’s hubris here comes from overcompensating for his hurt pride. He goes above his social standing, believing himself powerful enough to defeat Wicklaw on his own. This is however not true, as Dungeons & Dragons is a game where antagonists have challenge ratings and players gain levels in certain abilities. It is up to the Dungeon Master to balance encounters and choose antagonists appropriately. James Wicklaw was a Mind Flayer, listed in the Monster Manual as a level 7 challenge rating. Fabian at the time was a level 8 Fighter (Perkins, p.222). While this seems balanced, Fabian was immediately grappled and stunned, leaving him unable to do anything but watch, while Wicklaw and his crew slaughtered the 20 followers he had brought into battle. Nemesis comes to Fabian by removing his sense of identity. As Chungledown Bim, one of the warlocks says to Fabian before dying; “Ye ain’t no pirate and Bill would spit in your eye…I’m gonna shit in your mouth” (Mulligan, S2 E5). Ultimately these words would affect Fabian so much that they will come to haunt him in later episodes. Punishment in Dungeons & Dragons does play out differently then it does in classic Mythology. Where the gods of the pantheon are near impossible to reason with and are cruel and unforgiving in their punishments, the ones in control of the world of D&D are you and your friends. A good DM is on the side of their players but it is their job to react as the world in which their players find themselves. In this situation, Lou Wilson made a series of dangerous and reckless decisions as Fabian but these decisions were exactly the decisions that Fabian would make. He is prideful, he is overconfident, he is selfish and ultimately insecure when his pride is threatened. By losing his sense of identity, Lou and Brennan made the decision away from the table to push Fabian’s punishment past simply a character choice and into the mechanics of the game. At the table, we see Fabian shed his father’s eyepatch and sword along with his letterman jacket. These items are obvious symbols of Fabian’s sense of self. It isn’t until a later episode that the viewer sees the true effect that losing his identity has on Fabian. He suffers from exhaustion and pneumonia in the following episode and seems to have fallen into a depressive state. In episode 8, the Bad Kids go to face Wicklaw again, this time together as a team. It is here that the viewers and the other players learn that Lou and Brennan decided to remove all classes and feats Fabian had taken throughout the campaign. This leaves him with a single attack. Talking about this decision in the Fireside Chat, Brennan and Lou said: “[Lou Wilson]: A lot of it is a relationship and trust between you and your DM; in that your DM sees you make that choice, the less strategic choice…and meets you in the middle...It was so much more fun because...Brennan rewarded my choices with the reality and groundedness they deserve...’[Brennan Lee Mulligan]: ‘I think there comes a moment when playing D&D, where you can say: ‘I can really blow it and tell a better story’...I need to honor the danger Lou has put himself in and I need to put consequences here and I just can’t be vindictive.” This quote highlights the main difference with how hubris is treated in this media. Nemesis and the other Greek gods do not care, as characters, if their punishments are juste. They are particularly vindictive and often do not care if you die because of your hubris. Athena did not care about the importance of storytelling when cursing Arachne for boasting of her weaving skills, she simply cared that Arachne be punished for her hubris (Buxton, p.80). In opposition to this, a Dungeon Master and their players are more similar to the poets composing the myths. They make choices while considering the narrative, they enforce nemesis in a way that adds to the narrative. Using Nemesis allows the DM to enforce consequences onto the players allowing their decisions to feel more significant and raise the stakes. However, because of teamwork between player and DM, Nemesis will be much more forgiving to a Player Character then a Non-Player Character (NPC) or those showing hubris in myths. In conclusion, hubris and Nemesis still find their place in the world of RPGS. Fabian Aramais Seacaster is a clear example of this. He boasts of his abilities, believes himself a captain, when in actuality he is at his best when working in a team. Nemesis removes his sense of identity and confidence, forcing him to face his enemies without the skills he had honed in the past few years. She forced Fabian to realize that his true strength comes from the bonds he has with his friends and not borrowed from another's reputation. Nemesis forced Fabian to face his insecurities for which he was overcompensating, playing a key part in the larger elements of Fabian’s journey to becoming his ‘own darling man-boy’.

[etherealwaifgoddess]

One In A Million - Chpt.4

Summary: After a nearly perfect Thanksgiving Rose does her best to enjoy her final days in 1941 with the guys. As much as leaving will hurt, she takes comfort in knowing she’s doing the right thing. But sometimes, doing the right thing isn’t what you had planned. Content Warning for very brief sexual content.

Word Count: 3.5k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! There is a whole lot packed into this chapter and I apologize for exactly none of it. Especially the last bit :D XOXO  - Ash

Chapter Four

You had expected a month in the 40s to feel like a long time but the first three weeks fly by before you can blink. You’ve adapted to life there pretty easily, though you do miss modern conveniences from time to time. There are moments where would murder for a Starbucks and just ten minutes with your iPhone. It’s worth it though. You are getting to see life in a completely different time period and learning so much more than you expected. Macie has been a great friend both at work and outside of it as well. It’s refreshing having a close female friend who you actually get to see frequently. You haven’t had regular girl time since you were studying for your bachelors degree. 

Bucky and Steve have become fixtures in your life even though you know the risk you’re running with timelines and realities. It’s only a month, you keep reminding yourself. You can’t change someone’s life that much in just a month. 

The guys come over for dinner more days than not during the week, and on weekends you find yourself hanging out with them those days too. You refuse to show either man any preference, not that you would be able to pick between them if you tried, and you hope it will keep either of them from getting any ideas. You wouldn’t do anything to intervene with what they have anyway, they’re perfect together. They both make comments from time to time about taking you out on a proper date but you just laugh off their sweet advances as nothing more than joking flattery. 

Despite Thanksgiving being abnormally late due to the way the weeks fell, the holiday sneaks up on you and you find yourself scrambling to find a turkey that Monday. The SSR office will be closed for Thanksgiving and the day after, giving you an unexpected four day weekend. The prices on meat and butter are up due to it being war time but you planned well and get everything you’ll need to make a traditional dinner for the three of you. You even get enough supplies to make both pumpkin and pecan pies. You’re looking forward to seeing Bucky’s face when he tastes the pecan pie, his sweet tooth is ridiculous. 

The girls in the typing pool are given leave at noon the day before Thanksgiving. It’s a thank you from the senior agents for their hard work and the assumption that the women will be busy in the kitchen preparing for the holiday. You don’t complain as you’re still being paid for the full week despite the time off and you hurry home to get started on the pies. 

When Steve and Bucky arrive on Thanksgiving they’re barely speaking to one another and the tension is palpable. Both men are cordial towards you but don’t spare so much as a word to the other. You settle in around your dining room table and after a few niceties from them about your cooking, the room quiets to the point where only the scraping of silverware on china can be heard. 

“Okay,” you say, setting your napkin on the table, “I’m not putting up with this shit.” two sets of eyes snap to your attention. “What on earth are you two fighting over?” 

Steve glares at Bucky who sends daggers of his own right back. “Why don’t you tell her, Steve from Murray Hill?” Bucky snipes at him. 

“Don’t start this at dinner. Please, Buck. I won’t apologize for it.” Steve grits out at him. 

“One of you had better start talking or I swear I’m throwing the pies out the window.” you threaten. 

Bucky sighs and scrubs a frustrated hand through his hair, “Stevie here went and tried to enlist again yesterday. Earned himself his fifth 4F letter. Claimed he was from Murray Hill this time. Because he’s so eager to get himself killed overseas instead of listening to what his doctors keep telling him.” 

“I’m only doing what’s right. Good men are putting their lives on the line for our country, why should I be any different?” Steve challenges, his voice low and firm.

“Because damn it Steve, you are different! What do you think you’re gonna do when your asthma stirs up in the middle of a firefight? Or when you get pneumonia again from being out in the damp cold for too long? God, or what happens when those coke bottle glasses of yours break and you can’t see two feet from your face?” Bucky’s trembling by the time his outburst is finished and he gets up, heading outside for a smoke to settle his nerves. 

“I’m sorry we ruined dinner, Rose.” Steve says quietly, his head hanging in shame and defeat.

“You did no such thing. But Steve, another 4F? Really?” you get up from your seat and go over to stand behind him, leaning over to hug him tightly. You know this is part of his story but it doesn’t make witnessing it any easier.

“I have to. My pa served in the first great war and it’s my turn now. I’m just doing what every man should.” 

You measure your words carefully, “You know if the doctors are worried about your health it’s probably for good reason, right?” 

“I know, but I manage just fine even with everything I’ve got going on. I can do it, I know I can.” 

“I’m sure you could, but sometimes life has different plans than we do.” you press a chaste kiss to his cheek and squeeze his thin shoulders just a little tighter for a moment. “I’m going to go check on Bucky, see if I can coax him back in so we can eat.” 

Steve nods as you grab your coat and head outside. 

Bucky is leaning against the wall of your apartment building, smoking; thick tendrils of blue smoke wafting up from his lips to the sky. He has to be freezing, having hurried out without his jacket. He watches you walk down the steps and over to him, studying you as if to try and figure out if you’re there to take his side or push Steve’s. 

“Hey you.” you say when you get in front of him, giving his boot a little kick with your shoe.

“Hey.” his tone is guarded and he looks tired. Your heart clenches, knowing how worried he must be about Steve.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with this today. I mean… I get why he’s doing it. But it has to be hard for you to watch him do it.”

“It’s hell. He’s better than any of us, ya know? He wants to go do his ‘civic duty’ more than anything, regardless of what it’ll cost him. And here I am, terrified that my number is gonna be the next out of the fish bowl.” 

You pull Bucky into a tight embrace, holding onto him for dear life. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Bucky.” 

Bucky drops his cigarette and wraps his arms around your shoulders, hugging you back and letting your warmth leech through to his goose bumped skin. You want to tell him it’ll be okay but you know it won’t be. By this time next year he’ll have been drafted and off fighting in Azzano. Steve will keep trying until he meets Dr. Erskine and then it’s all history from there. 

You hold on for what feels like hours until Bucky finally pulls back. He gives a harsh sniff, his face ducked out of view and you suspect he’s hiding a few tears. You give him a minute, rubbing your hand from his shoulder to his elbow a few times in a meager offering of comfort. 

“You said there’s pie?” he asks finally.

You laugh at his question before pulling him in for a quick hug and a soft peck on the cheek. “Two kinds. But only if you eat your dinner first.” 

“Well then we should probably get back to it.” he slings an arm around your waist and together you rejoin Steve in the dining room. 

The air having been cleared, the rest of Thanksgiving dinner goes much better. You keep everyone's wine glasses full of the nice red wine you had found and stocked up on. It had been an unnecessary indulgence but you’re glad you had bought a few bottles to share. By the end of the meal their argument is long forgotten and Steve and Bucky are back to their normal bantering. You top off everyone’s glasses and move your little party to the living room to listen to President Roosevelt on the radio. The three of you are sprawled out on your sofa, limbs overlapping in a haphazard, yet comfortable, way. It’s probably not era appropriate in the least but the guys don’t seem to mind and you are too buzzed from the wine to worry. You giggle when you catch Bucky running his fingers through Steve’s hair and smiling down at him fondly. You wish more than anything you could tell them how sweet they are together, how absolutely right they are for each other, and that someday the world will be a friendlier place for their love. Instead you burrow yourself into the warmth of Steve’s chest and hum the tune of your favorite song, wishing you could hear it for a moment. 

“That’s pretty, what is it?” Steve asks when you’re done your sporadic humming.

“Ah, you haven’t heard of it.” you wave your hand dismissively, “We should go dancing.” you topic hop trying to avoid having to explain a song that won’t be written for another seventy years. 

“I’m in.” Bucky mumbles from the other side of Steve. “I’ll even keep Stevie from stepping on your toes.”

“It was one time!” Steve protests.

“I’ll wear sturdy shoes.” you assure them, “I want to dance with both of my guys.” 

Steve blushes lightly, “Oh, we’re yours now, are we?” 

You nod, the wine making you bold. “Yep. You’re stuck with me fellas.” 

“It ain’t a hardship, doll.” Bucky chimes in. 

The guys don’t stay late that night. While you have off work the following day neither of them do. You stretch out on the sofa which seems too big now that you’re the only one on it. Normally you would go out the weekend after Thanksgiving to start your Christmas shopping. You only buy big presents for a few close friends and you need time to have them picked out, wrapped, and shipped to arrive on time. You also pick up smaller things for the guys at work and you like to take your time picking things out so they are personalized for each person. You don’t have to do that right now though. It’s only October back in your real life and it’s not like you plan to take anything back with you. Well, not much anyway. You have a blouse you’ve become fond of that is absolutely going with you. There’s a lot about 1941 that you’re going to miss, both people and things. It’s going to be harder than you originally expected to go back to your time but you take comfort in knowing it’s for the best.

You end up spending the weekend hanging out with Macie. Bucky and Steve are going to see Bucky’s family for a late Thanksgiving gathering on Saturday and plan to stay over, getting back at some point Sunday night. It’s your last weekend in 1941 and you’re a little disappointed but that’s a feeling you’re just going to have to become comfortable with. You have less than a week left and a little distance from the guys might be exactly what you need, despite it being the very opposite of what you want. Your phone rings a little after eight o’clock Sunday night and you almost jump out of your skin. No one calls that late in this era. 

“Hello?” you say into the mouthpiece. 

“Rose! We’re back.” Steve’s voice comes through the receiver, a slightly tinny quality to his usual baritone. 

“Great! How was your trip? Is everything alright?” 

“I told you it was too late to call!” you hear Bucky shout in the background, followed by a thump sound and a hiss of pain. “Sorry, Rose. Everything’s fine. We just missed you, is all.”

“I missed you guys too. How was it with Bucky’s family?”

Steve tells you about their trip and a few anecdotes about Bucky’s sisters and how they tormented him as usual. The conversation doesn’t run overly long but hearing his voice, and a few choice interjections from Bucky in the background, have the ache in your chest dissipating. You invite them over for dinner on Wednesday, wanting to see them just one last time before you leave. It’s stupid, you’re only making it harder for yourself but you need to see them. One more time can’t make that much of a difference in the grand scheme of things.

Dinner on Wednesday is a lavish affair, you’ve pulled out all the stops wanting to make sure the last meal you make them is one they’ll remember. They fawn over your cooking and insist you come over one night soon so Steve can cook for a change. In the end, it’s no different than every other night the guys have come over. You laugh and talk late into the night, happy to just sit around and enjoy each other’s company. 

“We still have to take you out dancing.” Bucky reminds you as you’re saying your goodbyes for the night.

You nod past the lump that’s formed in your throat. “We do.” you agree. 

“How about Saturday night? We can get all dressed up and go down to the Stork Club.” Steve suggests. 

You fight back the wave of emotion rising up. Steve will be saying something very similar to another woman in about four years if the transcripts from the Valkyrie crash are accurate. “Sounds great.” you manage to respond, burying your face in the crook of Steve’s neck while you hug him. It’s excruciating forcing yourself to let him go. 

Bucky pulls you in for his hug next, “Wear something pretty for us, okay doll?” 

You nod against his chest, “I’ll put on my best dress. You won’t know what to do with yourselves.” 

“I can’t wait.” Bucky lets you go and turns to Steve who’s waiting patiently next to him. Slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulders the pair head out into the cold December night. You stay on the stoop watching them go until they disappear around the corner. It’s only once you’re back inside your apartment that you let yourself fall apart. It’s wrong. It’s impossible. It’s completely ridiculous, but you know you’ll be leaving two pieces of your heart back in 1941 when you leave. You barely make it to your bed before the tears start up and once they do, they don’t stop until your eyes are burning and your throat is sandpaper raw. Forgetting about your lights and the dishes you let your anguish consume you until sleep comes to claim you at last. 

You take off work the day of your jump back to modern times. It’s not like you’ll be needing the paycheck and you want time to get your apartment in order. Someone will come find it the way you leave it in a few days and you at least want to make things easy on them. You also want time to write a letter to Steve and Bucky. You can’t just leave without a word at this point, who knows what they would do to find you and how that might upset the timeline of things. It pains you to write them your goodbye letter but the closure is good for everyone. You claim you’re moving across the country to help your ailing Aunt, which seems like a plausible enough story for the times. You tell them how much their friendship means to you and that you’ll miss them. You tell them to take care of each other, wishing them only the best in their future. 

You’re wandering around your apartment, trying to find ways to kill time until your jump when you decide to make a pan of brownies to drop off with your letter. It feels fitting to leave them with one last treat. You still have all the ingredients and just enough time to make them. You get to work, not a minute to spare. Afterwards, having to re-clean the kitchen gives you something to do and fills your time while you wait for them to bake. By the time the brownies are cool enough to transport you have half an hour to your jump time. It gives you plenty of breathing room to drop off the brownies and the letter before heading to SSR. 

Steve and Bucky should both be at work but they never bother to lock their front door. You plan to leave everything on the kitchen counter and be on your way within five minutes when you arrive. A creaking, thumping sound is your first indication that something is amiss as you open the front door. The door is in mid-swing, your arms full of your bag and the brownie pan, when you hear a throaty gasp that stops you in your tracks. You’re standing in the doorway when you see them and you drop everything you’re carrying. 

Bucky is seated on the sofa, his pants down around his ankles and his shirt tossed carelessly off to the side. His head is canted back against the top of the sofa, an expression of strained determination on his face as his hips snap up against Steve’s. And then there’s Steve. He’s so beautiful, his hair shining in the midday light that filters in through the curtains. A sheen of sweat covers his naked body as he rides Bucky, meeting him thrust for thrust. He’s breathless and panting, his blunt nails scrabbling mindlessly for purchase against Bucky’s chest. It’s raw, hedonistic, and you can’t help but stare even as you drop everything in shock. At the sound of the pan and your bag hitting the floor both men’s eyes snap open to see you standing in the doorway. Bucky shouts your name and Steve flies off of him with a yelp, both of them equally frantic to cover themselves and chase after you. You grab your bag, leaving the brownies, and run down the street to the sound of Bucky calling your name. 

You don’t stop running until you’re outside the SSR office. You check your watch as you lean against the brick wall to catch your breath. You have just under ten minutes to get in and in position. God, but the looks on their faces when they saw you. You know that being a known gay man in the 1940s is as good as a death sentence and they have to be terrified you’ll turn them in. Friend or not, the ‘40s were not a forgiving time for homosexuality. And you’re leaving, they’ll never see you again so of course they’ll assume the worst. You look down at your bag where your goodbye letter to them is still safely tucked. It all went to hell so fast. You wish you had time to go back and tell them it’s okay, you won’t turn them in. You still care about them and you’re happy they have each other. You don’t realize you’re crying until you notice the tears falling on the pocket watch you’re still holding. 

You have four minutes to get to your jump point. It’s just not enough time. This is why there were alternative jump points, in case something went wrong. Well, something had sure as hell gone wrong. You can’t leave them like this, you just can’t. They’re too sweet and kind and good to abandon like this. You rub the antique brooch on your collar, you’ll just have to make the next jump instead. It’s only five more minutes in your world, the team will just have to be patient and wait. Your mind made up, you toss the goodbye letter in the trash and head down the street back to the guys apartment. 

“It’ll be okay.” you hear Bucky saying as you climb the stairs to their door, “I promise, sweetheart. No matter what happens, it’s gonna be okay.” 

The sound of Steve’s sobs tears your heart in two. You open their door unannounced yet again, letting the sound of it get their attention.

“So, are you two decent yet so I can come in or do you still need a minute?” you joke through your tears. 

Two sets of blue eyes stare at you in disbelief. 

“Oh come here you idiots.” you move towards them with outstretched arms, welcoming them to your embrace. Both men dive into your arms, clinging to you while muttering apologies and desperate thanks that you came back. You know that you did the right thing. Timelines and timing be damned. You needed more time with your guys and you’re gonna have it.

[hms-chill]

If you’re inspired, could you please do #1 from hurt/comfort with firstprince? I love your writing and have read nearly all of it on AO3 lol

#1:“Why do you think you’re not worth taking care of?”

Henry wakes up coughing, and the first thing Alex says to him is, “you’re sick.”

“I’m fine.” It’s not the first time they’ve had this argument, and it won’t be the last.

“You’re clearly not. You pulled a muscle coughing.”

“And so long as I don’t do it again, I’ll be alright.”

“Henry, look at me. Just... admit you’re sick and stay in for the day so I can bring you tea and honey and-- no. No getting up.” Alex reaches to grab Henry’s hand, but Henry ignores him, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to get himself ready to get up and face the day.

“I can’t make you stay in, or make other people pick up my job at work, or let the kids down. I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And you won’t be until you stop-- no. Please, Henry, just let us help.” Henry’s standing now, and Alex is up almost immediately, coming around the bed to Henry’s side. Henry just shakes his head.

“No; it’s not worth--” he’s cut off by a coughing fit that has him almost doubled over, hand on the side where he’d pulled a muscle. It scrapes along his throat and makes the ache in his chest worse, leaving him gasping for air.

Alex moves to hug him, but Henry pushes him away, worried about getting him sick. He’s been like this a week now, and he doesn’t want Alex to catch whatever he has.

“H, please. It is worth it. Why do you think you’re not worth being taken care of?”

“It’s just not worth bothering anyone; it’s just a cold.” And it is just a cold. It has to be. Even if his head is always pounding and he’s always tired, if every cough feels like his body is trying to eject a lung, he’s just got a bad cold. He coughs one more time and allows himself a single grimace at the pain in his side, but when he looks up with a carefully neutral face, Alex has tears in his eyes. Henry wants so badly to wipe them away, but he’s trying to be careful not to touch Alex’s face.

“It... I really am alright,” Henry says, but Alex shakes his head. He tries to hug him again, but Henry won’t let him, even if it breaks both their hearts.

“No, you... you’re not alright. Please, just... let me take you to a doctor? And if they say you’re fine, we can both drop it, but otherwise, you’ll listen and let me help? Please?”

Henry weighs his options there. If a doctor says it’s just a cold, Alex will stop worrying. It’ll be a relatively quick appointment; he can make up the time he’ll miss at work. So he nods, and he follows Alex to the car.

An hour later, they’re getting back in the car to go from the urgent care to a hospital for chest x-rays to decide if Henry has pneumonia. It’s a tense ride, the only sounds the radio and Henry’s hacking cough. At one point, Alex reaches over to squeeze his knee. 

They leave the hospital two hours later with a pneumonia diagnosis, a prescription, and a doctor’s confusion about why they didn’t come in sooner. She’d told Henry on no uncertain terms that he’s to stay home for the rest of the week.

Alex is the one to break the silence, because of course he is. But it isn’t to gloat, or to badger Henry, or to be upset that he’s let himself get this bad or wasted so much of their time. It’s simply to say, “I texted Bea, and she said you usually do green tea with honey and lemon when you’re not feeling well? And then I thought maybe I could make a big pot of chicken noodle soup, since that’s supposed to be good when you’re sick? I’ll have to pick up your prescription and I could get the ingredients, and then you could reheat it when you’re hungry if I have to go to class or something.”

“You don’t have to; I--”

“I want to. Please?”

Alex is driving, so he can’t look for long, but Henry can feel his boyfriend studying him, trying to read him and figure out what’s wrong. Henry’s not entirely sure himself; all he knows is that his sickness has never been anything but a nuisance to be ignored when possible or dealt with on his own. Having someone try to take care of him is new.

“I’m not... not very good at being looked after,” he says eventually. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” There’s a moment, then Alex asks, “you... you know I love you, right?” He’s trying to stay casual, but Henry knows him too well for that, and the genuine worry in the question breaks his heart.

“Of course I do.”

“Okay. I just... I’m kind of scared you don’t. Because if I was this sick, then you’d want me to try to get better, because you love me. And I... I know that you love me, so I... I think... fuck, H, it just hurts to see you hurt. And now you’re so... I don’t know if you’re scared to let me help you, or... I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m kind of scared, and I want... I just want you to feel better, and I don’t know how to make that happen.”

“I’m... I’m not sure, either. I... I’ve not been looked after when I’m sick for a long time. Between boarding school, and uni, and Mum being, you know, and everyone always being busy, it’s been lots of just... ignoring things, or taking care of it alone so no one else has to get sick and miss more important things. I don’t mean to push you away. I’m just.. I’m not used to this. To being looked after when I’m sick, I mean.” Alex’s hand finds Henry’s knee again, and he squeezes.

“If it wouldn’t maybe kill us, I’d give you the biggest hug right now.”

Henry laughs a bit, and as it turns into a cough, he realizes it’s the first time he’s laughed in days. Alex smiles at him, and Henry smiles back. Maybe he’s not used to being looked after, but maybe he can learn. He can learn to accept that he’s important to people, maybe even more important than a meeting or a job or appearance. And after all, the doctor did say that Alex has already been exposed to whatever Henry has. Maybe, he’ll be able to convince Alex to stay in too. 

They get home, and Alex gets Henry into bed with the promise to come back with meds and soup. When he comes back half an hour later, Henry is able to convince him to come to bed, and as Alex emails the shelter to let them know Henry’s sick and will be out for the week, Henry gets to fall asleep with Alex’s hand on his hair, his head resting against Alex’s hip. Maybe, this whole ‘being taken care of’ thing isn’t so hard after all.

[aty-altiria]

Breath In and Out

No 13. BREATHE IN BREATHE OUT Delayed Drowning | Chemical Pneumonia | Oxygen Mask

Word count: 1668

Universe: Harry Potter, Naruto

Pairings: Fem!Harry/Uchiha Shisui

Rating: T

Themes: Delayed Drowning, Uchiha massacre, Drowning

Summary: Holly finds him drowned, blinded, and broken. She finds the one she’s sought for all her life moments before he leaves the world entirely, and she clutches to him hoping that her grip alone will keep Shisui from slipping away where she can not, nor can ever truly follow. 

---

He should not be alive, should not have survived. Dying had frankly been the entire point of jumping into that part of the river. No one ever survived it, especially when they weren't fighting the current. The river was known as a location that killed civilians and shinobi alike. It's slick walks, huge piercing rocks, the rushing rapids below. If you fell in, there would have been no chance for rescue, for survival, you were dead.

And yet here he was. Floating in the reeds, his leg tangled in something he couldn't even begin to fathom. Body broken, but lungs still miraculously pulling in air. Shisui was alive despite everything leaning toward the opposite. He should have died from blood loss, internal or external, should have drowned, should have fallen to the poison the Root had pumped his body with. But he wasn't, Shisui was very much alive and being saved.

Thin callused hands clutched at his biceps - not a kunoichi, but not a civilian either. Someone was pulling him from the water's grip as if it had no claim to him. They brought him closer so that Shisui could smell them; the scent of water, ink, and something flowery permeated his senses. While a panting grumbling voice - a woman's - sounded in his ears, her feet slid in the mud, squished in the water as she tugged him steadily free.

Shisui was alive despite the impossible. A stranger was saving him.

"Hey? Are you dead?"

Shisui kept his eyes closed. If they stayed like that, he could pretend, for a moment, that he wasn't eternally blind, that he truly just had his eyes closed. Shisui wished he could actually believe it; unfortunately, he was painfully aware that he'd never see again. Shisui knew that the one way he could find his soulmate was forever lost to him. That he'd never lock his gaze with theirs and feel that instant connection.

"You're breathing, so you have to be… hey?" Fingers brushed his hair away from his face. She was gentle in a way that made him sure that it was a civilian touching him, a civilian that managed to save him, despite how impossible the idea was.

Cold fingertips glided over his skin to reveal his face. There, the fingers stilled. She had brushed the hair from away from his eyes, and Shisui couldn't help it; he flinched. The hand instantly recoiled, wary she'd hurt him before she breathed a soft 'oh.'

The sunkenness of his eyelids had to have told her the truth. He had no eyes.

He had no eyes.

But she didn't comment on it as he'd expected her to as everyone Shisui would ever meet in the future would. Instead, she said: "are you awake? I know CPR, but I've never actually had to do it on anyone, so… just, let me know if you're alive?"

"I'm-" ouch, dammit, ouch, "alive-" his lungs were on fire. Shisui instantly started coughing, struggled because his body wanted to heave and yet he was broken, and trapped on his back. The positioning made it nearly impossible to properly cough, let alone take it air- her hands met his back. She hauled Shisui into a seated position.

Shisui, had he been able to breathe, would have thanked her. However, as it was, he was too busy attempting to hack out his lungs.

Her fingers gently pressed into his back, she started to rub gently as he road out the attack, but it wasn't- it wasn't getting better- it was getting- worse. He tried to suck in a desperate breath, but he couldn't- no air was coming- he was suffocating on dry land. Choking to death without a thing in his throat. He couldn't breathe.

"Bloody- hold on- I've got you-"

Shisui had tried to die and had dropped into the river, hoping that his death would distract Danzo long enough so that Itachi could save their clan. He'd been prepared… and he'd been saved. Shisui hadn't even gotten the chance to adjust to that before he… he started dying anyway. He wasn't even in the river anymore, and he was-

Something pressed to his chest. Maybe a weapon, perhaps a finger, it didn't matter anymore really- he couldn't breathe- couldn't breathe- couldn't breathe- and the woman who tried to save him said something alien. Something that made no logical sense and- something wrenched at his lungs. It felt like a hiccup but a thousand times worse. Like his lungs had spasmed. Like he'd just been punched in them but-

Shisui gasped.

-Air filled his lungs so swiftly that Shisui was left reeling. Left coughing frantically as he breathed for the first time in minutes. He grabbed at his chest, tried to dig into his skin because it burned- it burned and felt hands catch his own.

"It's alright, just breathe, calm down and breathe." She was the most soothing thing he'd ever experienced. Though that might have to do with the circumstance. Miraculously though, her calm nudges worked, Shisui was, after several minutes, slowly able to slow his gasps. He was able to take in full breathes until he was almost breathing normally. This took nearly twenty minutes, or so his internal clock told him, but she never stopped. The woman held onto his hands and worked with him non-stop until he was finally sitting calmly.

He was alive.

The thought was an alien as the word she'd used.

"Alright?"

"No," he rasped, "not really." A parody of a smile lit his face, and Shisui wondered what the woman's expression would be doing, he'd never be able to tell. He wouldn't even learn what she looked like, if she wore their hitai-ate, if she was a civilian, if her hair was dark like his or not.

An amused sound left her; "that's fair, you did almost drown… twice. But you're alive now, so that's good." She gripped his hand tight, and Shisui appreciated it. He could track her location with his other senses, but he appreciated the fact that he knew exactly where both her hands were. She couldn't stab him if he knew where her hands were, funny that he was actually concerned about her that after just purposely jumping to his death. "And I know you can't exactly see me, but I can see you, which is important."

"Why?" Shisui tilted his head toward where he thought hers would be.

"Ah, tha-ts… err…" There was a blush in her voice, an obvious one, "be-cause well… because I can see you."

"Not to sound stupid, but… that's important why?" He wasn't trying to be obtuse. He really was rather confused by her point and mildly offended. She had been discreet before, now suddenly she wasn't- then she interrupted his thought.

"As in, I can see you." The emphasis was different that time and Shisui felt himself still slightly. She wasn't saying that- no, that wasn't possible- "merlin's beard- you're my soulmate stupid!"

Oh

Shisui suddenly burst out into pained laughter. Well, didn't that just fit. He'd found his soulmate blind after trying to kill himself. That was just his luck. Damn, the universe was cruel.

A hand swatted his palm, gentle and not ill-intended. "Mean!" she proclaimed with a hefty amount of hurt in her voice, but- she didn't understand. She had no idea what he'd just done, what he'd sacrificed, what was happening in the village with his clan.

"S-sorry, it's just… the timing-" his laughter was manic, frantic and Shisui knew he'd have to explain. To explain that he'd been searching for her his entire life. He had looked into the eyes of every person he passed in the hopes that he'd feel that connection form. That he'd feel that sync. He'd hoped against hope he wouldn't find it in an enemy he was about to kill, but had still chanced it and looked into every one of his kills eyes. She… didn't know that he'd finally given up as Danzo's hand plunged into his skull to take his-

And now he'd never feel that connection. He'd never feel it because he didn't have his eyes-

"Then I'll just have to regrow them for you." She said after he got out the barest of explanations. She spoke a sentence, spoke words that didn't quite make sense to him as they linked together because people couldn't do that. It was beyond chakra, and yet she'd just- "come on, up you get. We'll go to my tent, it's nearby- oh you can't see it, well it's over in the forest to our left. Once we get there, I can take a look at your injuries, and hopefully, I should have a potion to do that, but if I don't, I can always brew one." She tugged at his hands, pulled him into a standing position, escorted him blindly forward.

Shisui had never felt quite so uncertain. He was tripping, stumbling over things he couldn't see. He was blind in both the figurative and literal meanings. Yet somehow he felt… safe. Which was an utterly alien idea.

Perhaps that was what a sync was supposed to feel like. Maybe Shisui had managed it even without his eyes. Because as a shinobi, he really shouldn't trust anyone like this and hadn't beyond Itachi.

"Duck for the tree, almost there."

"Shisui… I'm Shisui-" he felt a branch catch at his hair, but he didn't run into the tree, so he took it as a win. "-Uchiha…"

"I'm Holly." He could just picture her turning toward him, all smiles with a touch of mild concern, "Holly Potter, and I'm going to make sure you see again, Shisui. That's a promise!"

Somehow, he didn't doubt that as all.

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 2/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Notes: So here's the chapter where we really lean into that post-accident imagery. Again, it's not gory, but it may be unsettling. Please be warned. Also some very mild thoughts of suicide on Aziraphale's part, the typical 'why don't I off myself to be with me husband instead' sort of inner monologue.

Read on AO3.

I drove back to The South Downs in the Celestial Blue Fiat Crowley had gifted me last anniversary completely on autopilot. I never really used the thing, to be honest, so I was astonished I hadn’t run off the side of the road, especially when the thought was ever in the back of my mind. I kept the windows down, breathing in deep the brisk air and trying not to think too hard over what I was about to do. Or what I could do instead, the possibilities ranging between getting on with my life - sell the cottage and travel the world, forget about everything that had led up to this point … or driving straight off a cliff.

Of course, if I was lucky, fate would decide for me, and I would catch pneumonia driving in the freezing cold with the windows down and only a thin jumper for protection.

I put the radio on and cranked the volume. I caught a replay of The London Symphony Orchestra performing Holst’s The Planets as I tried to focus on everything and anything besides my dead husband waiting for me, lying naked on our bed, packed in ice with several brand new swamp coolers blasting on high to keep decomposition at bay. I thought it best to stow him out here in the middle of nowhere for the time being instead of at our flat in Mayfair - less a chance of anything going wrong, of the swamp coolers drawing suspicion (seeing as it had barely broken seven degrees Celsius over the past month), or (if this worked) people who knew my husband to be dead seeing him walking around, and asking questions.

Accepting that that was a possibility led me back to the question of why was I doing this? Why was I so set on bringing my husband back? Why didn’t I leave him be, allow him peace? Why didn’t I take the opposite route, off myself, and go be with him instead? Had to admit, it was a lot more natural than what I was intending. But there was a simple reason for that.

I’m a coward.

A bloody coward.

I don’t know what awaits us after death. Not truly. I’d been raised a Catholic, and I hold strong to many of those principles still (mostly out of guilt inflicted upon me by my dear old mum). According to the teachings of the church, a Heavenly kingdom would be ours after death … but not if I killed myself.

Suicide was an unforgivable sin.

If I wanted to see my husband again, this might be the only avenue available to me.

I didn’t want to wait, rely on “faith” that we would be together again, and risk being wrong. I was tired of playing guessing games with my future.

I felt like a massive ball of contradictions flying down the motorway at felony speeds, both exhilarated and terrified at the venture I was about to embark on. The old woman wasn’t wrong. For as blisteringly angry as I got with her, that was the worst part. I was tampering with the laws of nature. I knew that. I loved Crowley more than anything, more than my own life, but Crowley was dead, and in the eyes of the universe, there should be nothing I can do to change that.

But apparently there was.

I’d found it.

And I was going through with it regardless, even if it scared the shit out of me.

I’d not told another living soul about this. I had a pretty good idea of what might happen if I did. I didn’t require an intervention, and I didn’t need institutionalization. I wasn’t crazy. I was grieving, searching for the same solutions that dozens of people have probably thought of but would never admit to. But other people - people who knew me as the eccentric book seller of Soho who didn’t actually sell any books and who once rented a live python for the sole purpose of roaming the store in order to keep uni students away at the start of the school year - might not see it that way.

I had also entertained the possibility that this might be a scam - a way to extort five thousand pounds out of a grieving widower willing to pay anything to have his husband back. Except that the old woman – possibly a hundred or so years older than God – put on a convincing act of being afraid for the paltry sum of five thousand (paltry considering what the granddaughter had said about their financial straits - tens of thousands in mounting debts, interest on bank loans that have ballooned into larger sums than their principals, and the shady men who dropped by most nights to ‘browse’ even though they bought nothing but always broke something in ways that implied mishaps more sinister).

They probably could have gotten twenty thousand out of me easily.

I switched off the radio when I turned off the motorway. It wasn’t like the music would disturb anyone. I lived miles away from my closest neighbor. But it seemed disrespectful to keep the volume so loud.

Disrespectful to the dead.

I love our cottage, fell in love with it the first moment I laid eyes on it, but that was back when it was about to become a home.

Now, it was a tomb.

What would our property agent think - that kindly, middle-aged woman who kept making moon eyes at us every time we snuck a kiss - if she knew I was harboring a corpse in my bedroom? The expression of shock that would erupt on her pinched face nearly made me laugh. But the overwhelming pitch blackness of the cottage sapped me of anything even remotely similar to glee.

When I had left earlier in the day, I had neglected to keep any lights on. It seemed fitting to have the place dark while my husband’s body lay within. But I wished I had left one light on at least, or put a torch by the door. My cellular phone battery had died somewhere along the way so it was of no help whatsoever.

As I opened the door and peered into the living room, I held my breath, half-expecting Crowley’s naked corpse to meet me at the entryway. I chided myself for being an idiot, though how ridiculous was it really? A day ago, when I went searching Soho shops for that horrid incense Crowley used to love in the hopes of keeping his favorite scent alive in the house, I would have agreed that the concept of life after death was ludicrous.

That was until I stumbled upon a teenage girl who promised me the secret to bringing Crowley back.

“Cr---Crowley? Crowley, honey? I’m home, my dear,” I called out, hoping that he wouldn’t actually answer. I was thirty steps away from walking out of my comfort zone and into a world I would rather not know existed, so Crowley coming back to life on his own would tip me over the edge into insanity.

I reached out a hand and turned on the light. My living room, warm and comforting, decorated in muted blues, cinnamon browns, and subtle creams, welcomed me. There was nothing out-of-place here.

Nothing dead.

I continued to the bedroom, switching on lights as I went. With every step, I had to convince myself to keep going. I originally pictured me racing into the house, eager to get this started. But with reality staring me in the face, I wasn’t sure. But I didn’t have the luxury of waiting to see if I would eventually change my mind. Crowley’s internal organs, especially his brain, were decaying fast, regardless of how much ice or air conditioning I piped into the place.

Soon the choice wouldn’t be mine to make.

Twenty steps brought me to the threshold of my bedroom where I stopped, staring at the closed door. I reached down and patted the bottle in my pocket, feeling the lump through the linen of my trousers. Touching it gave me the strength I needed to move my hand to the doorknob, but I halted once more with it hovering when I heard a small creak – like a foot stepping lightly on the hardwood floor. It was the house settling, I told myself. That was what Crowley always said when I woke him in the middle of the night to the sound of odd creaking and whining.

“It’s a mid-century house,” he’d say. “The floors contract in the cold and expand in the heat.”

“So what your saying is …?” I quipped.

“... the house talks in our sleep,” Crowley had replied without opening his eyes. “Now go back to your reading so I can get some sleep, too.”

“Just the house settling,” I muttered in my best rendition of Crowley’s accent, plucking the explanation from my mind and saying it out loud to make it real. “Nothing else alive in the house except for me.”

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to open the door.

I heard the creak repeat, closer this time.

I swallowed so hard, everything from my jaw to my stomach ached.

“Crowley? Are you there? Are you … are you waiting for me, my dear?”

Of course he’s waiting for you! I scolded myself. He’s waiting for you to grow a pair and get this over with.

I sighed, allowing the rush of breath in my deflating body to give my hand momentum, touch the doorknob, and open it like I had hundreds of times before.

This time was no different.

Yup. Maybe if I kept telling myself that, it would feel real.

I turned the knob and switched on the light without thinking about the sight that awaited me on the bed. My eyes flicked up … and my stomach fell to the floor.

There was Crowley, right where I had left him, lying in bed, eyes closed. He looked asleep and, from this distance, normal except for a few cuts and bruises on his face. The accident hadn’t banged his body up that badly, not from what I had noticed, though I didn’t make it a point to look at him for too long.

His neck was why not.

His broken neck from the whiplash that had killed him instantly.

He’d been leaning forward in his car seat, looking at street signs, stuck on a small, offshoot road that the GPS on his phone had apparently never heard of before. He had cautiously entered the intersection when a pickup flew through out of nowhere and slammed into him from behind. Crowley jettisoned forward and hit the steering wheel.

Being a classic car, restored to original condition, it had no airbag.

I blinked back the tears that leaped to my eyes at the thought of the accident that took my husband from me, at the fact that the driver of the truck, being sloshed out of his gourd, walked away from the same accident with only blacks and blues. The police caught the bastard a few miles down the road when his engine stalled.

He claimed he didn’t stop because he thought he had only struck a deer.

“H—hey,” I said, trying to get comfortable with the idea of talking to my husband again. “I went out shopping today, and you’ll never believe what I brought home.”

I could see my own breath as it met the air in the room, like walking into a gigantic meat locker, making what I was doing that much more morbid. My knees knocked but I clamped them together to keep them mobile. I reached the bed, and my casual, conversational tone disappeared, the words wavering as I spoke them.

“I think … this might … help …” I hiccuped, side-eyeing my husband’s body. Crowley’s skin appeared waxy, coated in moisture from the frigid air, and the color wasn’t right. I knew that soon blood would pool and Crowley’s unnaturally pale skin would turn black so I had to hurry, but every muscle in my body screamed for me to turn and run.

I touched the bed, and I’m ashamed to say, I whimpered.

I can do this, I can do this … I chanted to myself. I reached out and let my hand brush Crowley’s fingers. I tried to recall their warmth, the way Crowley’s touch made me feel loved, desired. Whole. I wanted that back, and I wasn’t going to let anything stand in my way. I knelt on the bed, crawled over to Crowley’s body, and leaned over his serene face.

“I’m going to get you back,” I whispered, cursing the fear in my voice. “If I have to claw my way into Heaven and drag you back with my own two hands, I’m going to get you back.”

I pulled the blue bottle out of my pocket. I held it to the light and gave it a swirl, watching the liquid spin around the belly of the glass and then settle into a shimmering mass. Crowley’s life was sitting in the bottom of that bottle. All I need do was give it back.

I yanked out the stopper and brought the bottle to Crowley’s lips.

“Bottoms up, love.” I pecked a kiss to his cold skin and then tipped the contents into his mouth. I expected to see Crowley’s throat move as he swallowed, his eyes snap urgently open, but they didn’t. The potion didn’t act instantaneously the way I’d assumed then. He was still dead … but not for long.

I remained kneeling at Crowley’s side, staring into my husband’s face, heeding the ancient woman’s words to be the first person Crowley saw when he opened his eyes. I knelt and knelt for over an hour, thighs cramping in the freezing cold. The sharp prickle that comes with poor blood circulation assaulted my skin, the thought that this was an elaborately planned and executed hoax becoming more a likelihood as time passed.

The sun started to light the grass and hills outside. I could barely see the early morning rays seep in beneath the blackout curtains, but there they were nonetheless - evidence of a brand new day. Still, there was no change, no sign, nothing on Crowley’s face that might give me a reason to hold on. I struggled against exhaustion, grasping at thin straws of hope, but with each passing minute, I was failing.

It had been a dream – a wonderful dream.

But I had to wake up and face facts - my husband wasn’t coming back to me in any form.

I’d been most grievously had.

I stretched my limbs - one leg, then the other. Then I lifted my torso, bending my arms and flexing my hands. I crawled backward off the bed, raising my arms above my head, listening to my spine snap and pop. I looked at Crowley again, peacefully expired – one last look before I made plans for his burial.

I was beginning to feel it was about time.

I walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer, looking for my pajamas. Before I did anything, I needed a nap or I would drop dead on my feet.

I winced at the ill-placed pun, but chalked it up as part of the healing process. Gallows humor. I could never appreciate it before.

That probably wouldn’t change.

I rummaged through the drawer, looking past perfectly suitable shirts and lounge pants but for what, I didn’t know … until I found it.

A journal.

I have lots of journals, to be honest. Writing is a passion of mine, along with reading. In their pages, I have documented everything that has ever happened to me in excruciating detail - as if anyone would ever be interested in that sort of thing. As if reading about my pains or my triumphs would help anyone. I don’t find myself to be remotely (as the kids put it) relatable. I have no desire to be famous, and the circumstances of my life (mainly my marriage to Crowley) have made me wealthier than I could ever possibly enjoy in my lifetime.

But not today.

Today I felt numb to everything around me, and not just because of the intense cold. Nothing seemed to matter. I left my pajamas in the drawer and hopped back onto the bed. I might have been cavalier about it, but there was nothing here for me to fear. What lay in bed beside me was a body, nothing more - flesh and blood rotting from the inside with no unique soul to keep it all together.

Make it worth something.

I opened my journal - this journal - to the first empty page where a blue ballpoint pen had been shoved into the spine, waiting for me. For how long …  I can’t remember. I picked the thing out and uncapped it. I put the tip to the paper, but I didn’t start writing right away. I hadn’t written in a journal in weeks. Where should I start? Do I pick up where my last journal entry left off, no matter how long ago that was? Even if it ended on a happy memory, like me and Crowley going to the cinema, having dinner at The Ritz?

Making love in the backseat of his Bentley?

Or do I forget all that and start a few minutes ago when I finally decided to give up on the possibility of my husband coming back? A couple of hours ago when the old woman almost refused to sell me the potion? Or that horrible night, when the police showed up at my door with apologetic looks and horrendous news?

While I juggled those thoughts, trying to decide, the world around me began to awaken. Birds sang their melodious songs in the bitter cold. The wind outside knocked against my window. A tiny critter scritched inside the walls, which would have had me running for the traps, but not today. Whatever you are, little creature, you have been granted a stay of execution.

Nothing would be dying within my home today.

The sun rose higher and the room got brighter. To my surprise, it heated up a little, and the ice cubes on the bed began to melt. I heard them collapsing in their piles, some having turned to water, making way for others to fall. The bed dipped as I shifted my legs beneath me, my crossed limbs having fallen asleep in their bent up positions. I cleared my throat, the sound rumbling in my chest, though the voice didn’t sound entirely my own. My ears had been ringing during the drive home and for most of the night, so I imagined I must have caught some kind of cold.

But as I reasoned out all of this, going about my task, my heart realized a truth that my mind hadn’t.

When my mind caught up, it went blank.

My blood turned to ice, secondary to the chill in the room, helped naught an inch by the invading sun. I didn’t think I could get any colder, but I did. That inside out feeling returned as another started to register.

I no longer felt quite so alone.

I lowered my journal, glancing up from the blank page to find Crowley, rolled onto his side, staring at me with wide, emotionless eyes.

[dancedelion]

Be Good to Me (part 2 / 3)

Genre: angst with a happy ending, Beauty and the Beast AU Summary: Jaskier has just been broken up with (again), he has nowhere to stay (again) and people are booing his songs (again). He overhears the villagers talk about a beast in a castle in the woods. Then they mention it's supposed to be dangerous. Well, now he's got no other choice. That beast won't even know what's coming for it. (Geralt doesn't.) ao3: Be Good to Me part 1 Jaskier blearily blinks his eyes open, trying to find his bearings. Has he managed to charm his way into someone's bed again? Sneaked into someone's stables?

He turns his head and flinches back immediately – Geralt is standing next to the dining table and staring at him. Right, that's what happened. Forest walk, weird castle, incredibly handsome and vaguely threatening witcher.

“Have you just been watching me this whole time?” Jaskier says and sits up. “Don't know if that's more flattering or creepy.”

Geralt doesn't react to his flirting, but he doesn't rip Jaskier's throat out for it either, so Jaskier assumes that means he's free to go wild with it.

“Oh, hey, did you – did you put a blanket on me?” Jaskier says startled. “And didn't I fall asleep at the table?” “No, you didn't,” Geralt says – the filthy liar - and turns his head away – but Jaskier has decided he likes him, now. There is no more escape.

“You should leave as long as the sun is still up,” Geralt says.

“Leave? There is no way I'm leaving now. You should have thought about that before you let me eat cake and carried me to the sofa – you big softhearted brute, you. Yeah, pretty sure that's one of the most basic rules in the book called 'How to Come Across like a Monster' – if you want me to be scared of you, don't put a blanket on me while I'm sleeping. That's just not working out.”

Geralt turns to look at him with one of the old favorites, Menacing Glare.

“Oh, come on, don't make that face. Here's the good news – I'm going to stick around.”

“You're leaving tomorrow.” Clear step up from leaving before sun down. Jaskier hides his smile.

“Next week?” Jaskier tries to bargain.

“Tonight,” Geralt snarls.

“Yeah, yeah, tomorrow it is,” Jaskier quickly concedes. “Wanna give me a tour of the place?”

“It's a place.”

“Yeah, I gathered, but what about the rooms? How many are there? What are they like?” “Don't know. Haven't looked.” “You haven't looked? Well, you do seem more like an ourdoors-y kind of guy. Is that it? You roam the monster-infested forest for fun?”

“No. I'm just. Here.”

“Ah, that sounds... depressing. I'm going to take a look around, if you don't mind.”

Geralt starts to open his mouth, but Jaskier quickly lifts a finger. “And also if you do.”

Jaskier goes up the stairs again and walks down the hallway. He starts counting the doors, but stops at a lot. One door is a little bigger and framed with gold, so Jaskier opens it and finds – a library. A giant one, shelves up to the ceiling. Jaskier coughs, because there seems to be even more dust in this room.

He starts walking between the shelves. Oh, the educators at Oxenfurt would be so jealous if they knew about this place. The books seem to be about all kinds of topics, scientific and fictional alike. Jaskier turns to go back downstairs but stops – Geralt is leaning in the doorway.

“Gee, Geralt, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Jaskier says. “You're so sneaky, like a – a – an assassin? A spy? No, like a -”

Geralt does that almost-smirk-thing again.

“A witcher?” he asks.

“Nah, that's not it,” Jaskier says thoughtfully. “A cuttlefish!”

Geralt raises his eyebrows.

“Yes, they're sneaky,” Jaskier scowls. “How would you know? Have you ever met one?”

“Have you?” “I – no, but – only because they're so good at sneaking away. I'm just gonna put it out there – a witcher is genetically probably at least ten percent cuttlefish.”

“Well, you don't choose your mutations. They choose you.”

Jaskier shakes his head a little, smiling, and steps closer.

“Did you know about this library?” Jaskier says. “I can't believe this is just in the middle of nowhere. I mean – this is incredible!”

“Hm,” Geralt says, “I've never been in this room.”

“A travesty. Look at this stuff! It's just got everything.”

Jaskier starts wandering again. Behind one of the shelves, he finds a cushioned armchair and gasps. “Okay, that does it. I'm living here now.”

Geralt looks like he's going to say something, so Jaskier shushes him. “No objections!” And it's working, because Geralt doesn't object.

So Jaskier picks one of the novels and sits down in the armchair, thinking to himself that he's not going to get up again in the next twelve years at least. Curled up in the armchair, Jaskier can forget about the loneliness that always seems to be just a step behind, about his songs that are really just as stale as the bread people throw at him. When he looks up again, Geralt is gone, so Jaskier turns to his book again. A while later, Jaskier sees him sitting by the window, carving something into wood. Jaskier smiles and pretends he read something funny. They sit there morning, midday, afternoon.

Jaskier asks the dinner table for warm bread like his mother used to make it. Apples like from the tree in front of his old house. He'd nearly forgotten what they tasted like.

Jaskier doesn't try to get close to Geralt. (He does wish he knew how to build a bridge.)

When evening breaks, Jaskier tries to find out which room Geralt lives in, but Geralt never seems to sleep. Instead, Jaskier goes into the room next to the library and falls onto the bed. His mind won't stop churning. The library, the magic dinner table, the strange but strangely kind witcher. Jaskier has to keep this somehow, he has to convince Geralt to let him stay. He falls asleep trying to think of something to say - please, I can offer you – free view of my gorgeous good looks, an abundance of annoying comments, accidental insults intended as compliments, songs no one wants to hear... a smile an ear a hand

*** “It's raining.”

Deep sigh.

“Do you want me to get wet, Geralt? Cold and wet, Geralt, that's just one step away from pneumonia, and that's just a step away from death.” “Fine. You're leaving tomorrow.”

*** “I heard a noise outside.”

Moderate sigh.

“I think there might be a monster just out the door just waiting for me. Do you want me to get killed, Geralt? Killed!”

“Fine. But tomorrow.”

*** “You know, I've really made friends with the bald guy in the painting over the fireplace and I feel like he might cry if I were leaving, maybe commit suicide -” “Jaskier.” “Yeah?” “Just stay.”

***

He does.

*** “No, I don't like him,” Geralt tells Roach. Roach huffs. “I don't! What, you think I like his chatter or his stupid questions or his pretty smile? Don't be ridiculous.”

He continues brushing down her side. “I don't even like his singing. I just like... that it's not quiet.”

Roach flicks her ear and tilts her head. Geralt pets her throat.

“He's not charming. He's annoying. Today, he found a chest with old clothes in them and decided to try them all on. And show me, too. It was very annoying.”

Roach neighs softly.

“No, I didn't like it,” Geralt says, “I don't even know why I bother talking to you. If you keep this up, I'm not going to give you another carrot.”

At that, she snubs her nose against his hand. He is already feeding her another carrot.

“You're supposed to be on my side, you know. Did he sneak down here to give you these snacks he remembered form Skellige? He did, didn't he?”

Geralt is going to say something else about Jaskier when he suddenly hears the front gate closing. His heart lodges in his throat immediately. Only one person could be at that gate – is Jaskier leaving? Why would he not say something?

(Afraid he'll get violent? Afraid he'll keep him here, forever, forever, forever? Or just so done with him – with his grunts, with his stilted responses, with his beastly eyes – that all he wants is to get away?)

And Geralt still doesn't know how to catch a ray of light, but he rushes out of the stables anyway. It's been weeks since Jaskier first came here – and Geralt is just – he's used to him now.

He stops in his tracks when he sees the figure on the courtyard – not Jaskier. Someone new. If his head hadn't been so clouded, he'd have noticed the smell earlier. Different.

She is rushing towards the castle. She hasn't seen him, but she's not looking left or right. He can hear her heavy breathing, her pained gasp. She trips and scrambles hurriedly to her feet again. Geralt quickly skims his surroundings, something must be following her. He can't sense anything in immediate proximity, so he goes after the girl instead.

He slips into the castle after her. She flinches at his grunt and spins around. A veil of relief lays itself over the deeper fear. He's a stranger and he knows how he looks – if she's relieved to see him, that means something scarier is after her.

“Please,” she says and he skims her slim figure, the ragged pale blue dress. Not appropriate for the colder temperatures. “Please, you have to help me hide.” “What's after you?” Geralt asks, already drawing his sword. “Species, size, state?”

“He's -”

She cuts herself off, too panicked to keep speaking, but she has already answered his first question. Human. The worst kind to get involved with.

“Come here,” someone says from the side. Jaskier is in the door of the dining room, beckoning her closer. “You're safe here.” She shuffles over to him and Jaskier quickly shuts the door behind them. Not a second later, a loud knock on the door rips through the air. Geralt swiftly moves behind the door, just as it opens.

“Hello?”

A stocky man walks through. Geralt presses his back to the door and lifts his sword quietly. Geralt takes in the plain clothes, the sweaty skin of his neck, the slow movements. Not a threat. Carefully, he sheathes his sword again and steps forward.

“What do you want?” Geralt asks. The man startles at his deep voice and turns.

“Oh, sir, I'm sorry to intrude. Did you happen to see that misbehaved girl somewhere around?”

“Why are you asking?”

“That miserable wench was promised to me by her father. We had... a slight disagreement.”

“I see,” Geralt says slowly. The man steps a little closer.

“You look strange,” he says, “oh Melitele, you're a freak, aren't you?” Geralt slams him against the door open door. The man clutches at his throat, but Geralt presses down harder.

“You're going to forget about this girl,” Geralt says, his voice deeper than usual. “You're going to walk out of this castle. You are never going to return to this place.” The man nods frantically. Geralt fixes him with a particularly vicious gaze and growls deeply. He snarls once, then punches the door right next to the man's head. The punch breaks the wood, but not Geralt's skin. When Geralt finally lets go of him, the man slumps. He keeps standing there a little frozen, shaking. Geralt barks. That's enough to get the man running. Geralt stands and waits until he sees that the man is gone, then he closes the door softly.

Behind him, the dining room door opens slowly. Geralt tries to relax his fist and get his breathing under control.

Jaskier and the girl are both staring at him wide-eyed.

“You heard that,” Geralt says quietly, knowing they did. He drops his shoulders, trying to appear as non-threateningly as he can. It's not a lot.

He knows how this goes. The girl was desperate before, didn't really get a good look at him when she asked for his help. Now it'll be different. She stares at him out of brown eyes, blown wide. She sees him. Jaskier does, too. They have seen the deranged look in his animal eyes, the hot anger he hides in his fists. Any minute now, she'll run from this place, from him, as far as she can. She looks so small next to Jaskier, a sheep in front of a wolf.

This is where Jaskier knows that the depictions of the townspeople may not reflect his appearance, but they paint a perfect portrait of his soul.

This is the monster living a mockery of human day-by-day.

This is escape into the biting cold, into the arms of kikimoras, ghouls, men with booming voices.

Let me try again, I think there is something human somewhere deep inside of me -

This is Geralt without a weapon, with his neck exposed.

This is -

“Wow. That was impressive,” Jaskier says. “Your hand went straight through and you didn't even take a swing. Phew, you scared the living daylights out of that guy. I reckon we won't be seeing him again for a while. We should have pie. Anyone else in the mood for pie? Yeah, we should definitely have pie. That was stressful.”

Geralt lets out a breath through his nose. His jaw slowly slacks. The girl finally takes her eyes off him.

Jaskier is already wandering back into the living room. With heavy steps, Geralt goes after him. The girl goes a little tense when he gets close, but she doesn't flinch.

She is shivering a little. Geralt quickly strides over to the sofa and grabs the blanket that's still lying there. He approaches her with it slowly – draping it over her might not go over too well. He holds it in her direction from a safe distance.

Jaskier is at the table, conjuring three different kinds of pie. The girl sits down on shaky legs.

“So,” Jaskier says, sliding into the seat next to hers. “What's your name?” “Zofia,” she says in a small voice. “I – Oh gods. Oh – thank you.” She turns to Geralt, who is standing awkwardly behind the seat across from Jaskier. “Thank you for saving me.” Geralt is too startled to answer.

“Do you want to tell us what happened?” Jaskier says, gentle in a way that Geralt could never manage.

“I – Gods, I can't go back. I have nowhere to go. My father -” she stops and clams her fingers across her mouth. She keeps speaking through her fingers. “He wanted me to marry that – that beast. I just had to – I ran. I don't -”

“You can stay here,” Jaskier says, giving her a reassuring smile. Geralt wants to curse the stupidity of it, of course she doesn't-

“Can I?” she asks him, a little shy, a little insecure.

Confused, Geralt hms.

“That means 'yes', don't worry about it,” Jaskier says, “now, may I offer you some pie?” Zofia is not very talkative, but Jaskier fills the silence for them. Geralt makes another fire, but his mind still goes over the encounter again and again. It's hard to make sense of. Why would she let him near her? Why would she eat in his presence? The only thing different than any time before is – Jaskier. He acts the way he always has – foolish, reckless, like Geralt doesn't scare him. Is he skilled at being an actor or skilled at being a fool?

After lighting the fire, Geralt stays on guard. Peace never lasts. That strange warm feeling in his chest never lasts. But just for tonight, when the sun sets, Geralt is still here, in front of the fire, listening to two voices.

*** A few days later, Jaskier finds the flowers. Geralt hadn't really tried to hide them, but he had almost forgotten about them, placed in one of the many rooms of the castle.

“Geralt, why are you letting these poor flowers die? These ones are fine, but there were petals all around them.”

Geralt stares at the flowers. There's only a handful of them left. Bright yellow buttercups. Flowers need tending to. But these ones have been cut off at the stem – they're doomed to die.

“Don't touch them,” Geralt grinds out. He's still staring at them, counting them, again and again. Five buttercups. Five weeks. He'd thought there were still more of them.

“Fuck,” he says.

“What's wrong?” Jaskier asks softly, eyebrows drawn together.

Five buttercups, forlorn in the big vase. There had been a bouquet of them once. Weeks, months, years even, once. Sunsets and sunrises.

(It is easy to lose track of the flowers in your garden.)

“Nothing,” Geralt lies. He snatches the vase and clutches it in his fingers. He's already thinking of another hiding spot.

(Can flowers grow eyes?) (How long before Jaskier finds the wooden statue of her?) (How many questions can Geralt evade?)

Jaskier accepts his lie, but Geralt can't that easily. Sunrises have become precious again.

*** The next time it happens, it's a scream, so much closer than usual. Geralt runs outside immediately. The days have been getting colder, snow has settled on the ground. This time, no one is in the court yard, but he rushes to the gate and there is another woman, in a blue cloak. Geralt's eyes dart around through the bars of the gate and it takes him only a moment to spot the kikimora, eight-legged and disgusting.

He knows the gate won't open for him, can feel the magic holding him in. Instead, he makes a grab for the dagger in his boot. The kikimora roars, looming over the white-haired woman. The dagger lodges itself in its jaw, and it gurgles, sways.

“Get over here,” Geralt calls.

The woman looks up at him helplessly. While she hurries to the gate, Geralt throws another knife, this time hitting its throat. The monster is still quick and after her. Geralt brandishes his sword, standing alert. He's out of daggers, out of options. There's nothing he can do.

(And he curses his curse -) Her hair, her pale skin, it would be barely visible in the snow, she would be nothing but a bloodstain on the ground.

Geralt would shake the iron bars, trying to rip them off with brute strength, if he didn't know how futile it was.

Do you want me to live in that moment forever, witch? How many times do I have to lose her?

The forest has become a stage for Geralt's worst mistakes and he is trapped in the audience. (Every corpse in this forest has died by Geralt's hand, has died by a footstep not taken.)

The woman reaches the gate fast, she slips in and as soon as the kikimora is here, has rushed after her, Geralt stabs it with his sword, easily. He hasn't unlearned how to take lives, monsters never do -

He is standing over its body, his fingers tightening around the handle of the sword. Breaths come out heavy. Here is another dead body, another one he didn't save. He looks into its eyes and wonders what it must be like.

Children lay down in snow sometimes. Joyfully laughing. Is snow soft to lay down in? Is snow a kinder coffin? Is it comfortable to be forgotten under the cold blanket of it?

(Are four yellow buttercups drowning in that too big vase?)

His teeth press together hard, like he's trying to bite through stone.

“I'm armed,” someone says. “So don't try anything.”

Geralt abruptly shakes his head and steps back, sheathing his sword again.

“Why didn't you use your weapon against him?” Geralt nods to the body.

He turns his head. The girl – the woman – old girl, young woman – clutches a pointy rock in her fingers. She didn't have it before, must have picked it up while he was distracted. Smart.

“I didn't have it before,” she says, “but don't think I'll hesitate to use it.” “Good on the improvisation,” Geralt says. “Don't think that'd be a fair fight.” He lifts his weaponless hands.

“Don't worry, I won't hurt you,” he continues.

“And why would I believe you, Mister Stranger?”

“I mean,” he says, tilting his head, “I did just save your life.”

She scrutinizes him a little and lowers the hand holding the rock.

“Okay. That's fair,” she says. Her shoulders relax, too. Then her head snaps up again. “But I'm keeping my eyes on you!”

Immediately, she turns her eyes away from him and starts walking towards the castle. Smiling quietly, Geralt follows behind.

“You wouldn't happen to have any food, would you?” she asks.

***

“So what's your name?” Jaskier asks, sliding a bowl of soup across the table. When Geralt had come in with the white haired girl, he hadn't even blinked, just led her to the dining room with easy touches, easy smiles.

The girl's gaze is guarded and she hesitates. “Fiona,” she says. Geralt can tell she has learned to be weary of strangers, but she has not yet learned how to lie. “I just got lost in the woods. I'm a peasant's daughter.”

Geralt watches her quietly, the way she looks down on the table and takes a sip from the soup. She's too thin, even considering that winter has started. She's running from something, and it's not just a kikimora.

“Shouldn't have gone through the swamp,” Geralt says.

He can't believe a word out of her mouth, but Geralt isn't too concerned. How do you trust someone who has nothing to hide?

“Yes, well, I was...” the girl says, still trying to find a place to look that's not Geralt's face, “I was in a hurry.”

She presses her lips together, like she's already said too much, and Geralt doesn't ask. In dimmed light, the face of a friend is indistinguishable from that of a foe. Sometimes closed lip smiles hide razor-sharp teeth. Sometimes someone will offer you a hand to get you to show yours.

“You can always stay here, if you want,” Jaskier says, not asking for permission because he knows Geralt's answer, “there's plenty of room everywhere. Too much, certainly. Lots of space unused, you'd really be doing us a favor.”

The girl stay silent for a long while. She's understood she's better off on her own, but not used to it. (Would you sleep in a monster's den if you had nowhere else to go?)

“You're good with a sword,” she says to Geralt eventually.

“I am.”

“Would you teach me?” she says, starts rambling, “I'm not completely useless, I can help around the house. I'll help clean, I'll dust, not to be rude, but that floor could really use a scrubbing -” “See, Geralt, she understands,” Jaskier says triumphantly. “Come on. You could use a real sparring opponent, I'm sure that tree you always hack away at has had enough of you by now.”

It's two against one. Geralt never really stood a chance.

*** Three voices. Heartbeats. Laughter, sometimes. Shuffling. Footsteps. The occasional crash. The occasional giggle.

Is this how to be human?

Is this how a house is lived in?

The girl – Fiona – the girl – has little fighting skill, but she learns quickly. They're in the entrance hall because it's big and bright. Jaskier is lounging on the stairs, Zofia next to him sewing.

Jaskier's quiet tune floats over to them. Geralt steps carefully, the girl imitates him. Are these ballroom dances, like stepping into footprints in the snow?

She still has an uncertain grip on her sword, even thought Geralt has showed her before. But she is quick, he'll giver her that, has good reflexes.

They spar every day now. Geralt picks up the wood to carve less and less.

He gets used to humans scarily quickly, barely looks at the paintings anymore.

She's a little better today and Geralt lets her knock the sword out of his hand. She smirks proudly, but Geralt's gaze skitters over to Jaskier.

“You're getting slower, old man,” he says, eyes twinkling.

Geralt holds his gaze.

Is this how to be human, with sweaty palms and an unsettling feeling in your stomach? With your throat dry? With your heart too quick?

Jaskier's smile is always a challenge and Geralt always loses against it.

These people are staying, for a little while. Like light in a bottle. Like something not to be kept.

Sometimes Geralt is alone, but from somewhere in the castle, he can always hear singing.

[leafenclaw]

For the “Ask questions about my WIPs!” game

@inkstainedfingers97 asked:

“Perchance would you be willing to send me a brief summary of the premises of "Gem" and "Fearful Symmetry" ?”

First of all, thank you for asking! ^^

Gem is actually one of my earliest Mentalist works, one of several character studies I wrote in preparation for another story called Visions (which I was supposed to go back to right after Chasing Storms, but then Kindred happened x3). The concept was quite simple, a long drabble in which Lisbon was pondering all the ways Jane reminds her of a diamond (the dazzling smiles, flashy tricks, cutting edges of his personality, the fatal flaw at heart, etc.). That said, 400-ish words in I realised I was pushing that metaphor just a little bit too far? XD So unless I recycle parts of it for Kindred at some point (perhaps for 2x09, with that subplot about a diamond Jane lost in the bullpen? ^^), it’ll probably never see the light of day and to be honest I’m pretty okay with that. x)

Fearful Symmetry is a different animal entirely. I don’t know if you remember 2x10 well, it’s the episode where Jane gets hit by a baseball and gets a concussion, so he spends the whole episode fainting and having intrusive memories of his father? And in one of those memories, you see him and his father conning an old lady and her dying granddaughter. For some reason as I was watching I started thinking on that kid, wondering what would happen to her if she survived after this. Would she think the crystal really saved her, or would she know it’s a con and resent the Janes for it? I followed those thoughts for a while, got mislaid by a few Shakespeare references, and ended up with a story in which Celia (the dying girl) is Red John, because the application of the crystal nearly killed her and she wants revenge on the boy who lied to her. x)

It’s not a happy story. Written in 2nd person from the POV of an extremely unreliable narrator, it’s meant to be an illustration of how a healthy mind can sink into really unhealthy thought patterns because of a single event, how holding onto hate and a desire for revenge usually ends up poisoning your own life, and (as the title implies) it was also meant to be a commentary on thematic parallels between Jane and Red John, how similar they are, how you just need to fill in a few blanks to realise they have the same nature.

Anyway. x) It was SUPER cathartic to write and I was all set to publish as soon as it was done... until a computer mishap ate half my progress (more than 5k gone, I had almost 12k by then), including a scene I struggled a lot on, so it never recovered. I’m still keeping that one on the back-burner though, it’s one of ten stories across all my fandoms that I definitely intend to come back to and complete.

Excerpt under cut. Trigger warnings for obsessive thoughts of hatred and revenge, graphic descriptions of pain, some internalised ableism, and violent rejection of morals and religion. (There may be other things, as I said it’s not a happy story.)

(Feel free to comment but please don’t reblog.)

*****

Fearful Symmetry

*****

"Breathe," says your grandmother softly.

And you do, one laborious inhalation after the other, even as the wet, squelching sound makes you shiver, and the pain tears you apart. You do, and you clutch the crystal against your chest – because it will help, won't it? It must. Your grandmother says so, and the Carney man at the fair said so, and the boy. The boy said so. The beautiful boy who cried for you, with the golden curls that makes you want to giggle and sigh and feel their softness under your fingers. He said so.

"Breathe," repeats your grandmother, and you do – again and again and again and why isn't it working?

"I'm sorry to tell you, ma'am. You were robbed," says the doctor, shaking his head. "Crystals aren't magic. They can't heal anything."

But neither you nor your grandmother will listen to those lies, because you saw it. You saw the blister on the boy's finger heal with your own two eyes. How is that not magic? So you breathe, and breathe again, and cough up phlegm until even your grandmother pales and shakes her head.

*****

"What if – " you ask, then cough some more. "What if it needs to be inside?"

"Direct application," whispers your grandmother, eyes feverish. "Yes! We could put it in your oxygen tank – that should work. It will work, Celia. I promise."

Of course, no doctor will allow her to put a foreign object in your oxygen tank, not even a magic healing crystal that could save you. You should have known. They never took you seriously, even in the beginning. That's why the cancer was allowed to spread so far.

But you and your grandmother know what you're doing. You've seen it work. And when it does, when you're healed, you will walk back to the county fair on your own feet and kiss that boy right on his generous mouth to thank him for everything he did.

One day. If you dare. You need to heal first, for that to happen.

So you and your grandmother talk about it, and come to a decision.

Forget about the doctors.

Trust in the crystal.

Trust in the boy.

"Keep your eyes closed," whispers your grandmother, a handful of carefully grounded crystal in her palm. "I will blow it toward you. And when I say so, take a deep breath, as deep as you can. Are you ready?"

You nod.

"Now!"

You open your mouth wide and breathe, and cough, and open your eyes because it hurts so much, and dust flies in your eyes and your mouth is burning, your eyes are burning, your lungs, NO, burning scratching burning bleeding leaking painpainpain –

You scream.

*****

"What were you thinking!" bellows the doctor, somewhere on the other side of the door.

Your grandmother is crying, all hysterical sobs and blubbering mess, incoherent words of desolation falling out of her mouth like a waterfall. You want to tell her it's not her fault – it's not her fault, it's the boy's. The lying boy with his lying tears and those lying curls of shining gold you still want to feel under your fingers, except now you want to feel his lying throat bobbing up and down as you squeeze it just as much.

You want to tell her, but they hooked you up to your oxygen tank and you can't say a word, and you can't reach out to her either because you can't see with all those bandages covering your eyes.

Can’t, can’t, can’t do anything, anything at all.

"It's a miracle it didn't kill her on the spot!" yells the doctor again.

You can hear the angry breath he takes and releases, almost covering your grandmother's cries.

"Your crystal dust buried itself in the tissues, scarred her lungs and cornea," the doctor adds, so quietly you have to strain your ears to hear him speak. "If she was to live, it would be a miracle for her to escape pneumonia and infections. But as it is..."

You shouldn't be listening to this. But you do, you do even if you're not supposed to, even if you're supposed to be sleeping, and resting, and recovering. That's what they told you to do, anyway. Rest, and don't bother your pretty little head with grown-up talk.

Rest.

Rest in peace.

"Her last days will be painful," concludes the doctor. "Dying will be a kindness."

Your grandmother's wail covers every other sound.

The pang of shock in your mind covers every other thought.

Until shock turns to helplessness.

Then anger.

Then hate.

*****

You lie on your back, eyes closed as the priest anoints your forehead with oil, muttering blessings for your soul. Your grandmother cries softly by your bedside as you take one painful inhalation after the other. They've all given you for dead already, talking about you in past tense, hushed murmurs and sniffles in every corner of the room.

You don't care.

You're such a raw mass of unending pain. Nothing else matters but the burning in your lungs and the fever in your eyes and the pounding in your head that erases all ideas, all thoughts, all emotions.

Except one.

And the growing thirst for revenge sustains you in a way nothing else – no medicine, no prayer, no crystal – ever could.

*****

You never knew there was an emotion so powerful as to conjure up miracles – but if you had, you would have bet on love.

And you would have been wrong.

Love, in the end, wasn't enough to save you. Be it the love of God with its many prayers all through the night, or the love of Science on the altar of which you sacrificed your hair – both utterly failed you. Even the love of your grandmother only brought you worse suffering instead of the promised peace and relief.

Love wasn't enough.

But hate is.

Hate allows you to survive night after night until a full month passes. Hate allows you to hang on by a thread until breathing comes easier, until pain ceases. So slowly at first nobody notices you healing. So slowly at first you don't even notice it yourself.

Until you do.

Until they do.

"It's a miracle. Praises be to God," says the priest, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because there is no miracle, there is no God, there is only hate burning bright and hot inside you, turning the cancer to cinders and coal dust.

"It was the crystal. It gave her back her life," says your grandmother, and you want to tell her to shut up shut up shut up, because the crystal nearly killed you, the crystal scratched your eyes away and even hate couldn't give you back your sight.

"It was the treatment. In a few months, we may be able to graft her a new cornea," says the doctor, and you want to tell him to shut up shut up shut up, because the medicine was never helpful to begin with, they didn't even bother treating your eye infection properly when they thought you were dying, and when you finally get out of here you will never trust a doctor again.

But you don't say a word – because you may be healed but you're still weak, and arguing over what exactly saved you would be a waste of time, a waste of energy. Instead you let hate eat away at any warm emotion you once felt, shield your mind with its cold, hard shell of frozen magma.

Who cares what they all think anyway? You know the truth, and at night you dream of a thousand humiliations and pains for the boy who grievously betrayed you.

[chicgeekgirl89]

Mercy is Out of Your Reach: Chap. 6

Fandom: SEAL Team

Characters: Sonny Quinn, Clay Spenser, Lisa Davis, and the rest of the team

Read Chapters 1-5 Here

                                       XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sonny was choking. He was choking and he couldn’t breathe. His eyes flew open in panic, hands clawing at his throat, his face, trying to stop whoever was killing him. Alarms were going off, beeping everywhere, and people yelling. His hands were grabbed and he couldn’t fight off his attackers. He was going to die. But before he could panic about that he felt a heaviness flood through him and he drifted away.

The next time he woke up he was not choking. A definite improvement. So was the bed he was lying on. Huh. Had their abductors decided to take things up a few levels? Was he a pretty princess locked in a tower now?

Risking a look he cracked an eye open and found white ceiling tiles rather than dirty cement. “Oh thank god,” he croaked out.

“Pretty sure it was Davis, not God,” said a familiar voice.

Turning his head Sonny spotted Clay in a matching hospital bed. “Hey, we’re both alive.”

“Surprise,” Clay said with a grin. “No thanks to you. You slept through the whole thing.”

“I’m willing to give you full credit,” Sonny said, wincing as he shifted in the bed. “Once you take into account the fact that I took the heat at the beginning to save your pretty face.”

Clay glared at him. “I have five broken ribs asshole.”

That took him aback. “Shit. When did that happen?”

“Right before the guys showed up.”

“Damn it.” Sonny shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You have such a bad case of pneumonia they had to intubate you. Which you did not like, by the way. Nearly gave the doctor a black eye the first time you woke up. Took both Trent and Jason to hold you down. They gave you so much sedation after that I thought you were going to sleep forever.”

Whoops. No wonder his throat was raw and his chest felt like it was full of fire. “How’d they find us?”

“Davis. And the girl who brought us the water and food.”

There was a lot more to that story but Sonny was too tired for all the details now. “How long have we been here?”

“Two days in a hospital overseas until you were good to travel. Only been home a day. I’m getting sprung tomorrow. You’re in for a while.”

Sonny frowned at him. “How come you get early release?”

“Because I’m the pretty one.”

Sonny tried to chuckle but it made him cough. Apparently he wasn’t quite back to top form. Fatigue was pulling at his eyes and he couldn’t seem to stop it. “They’ve got you on some pretty strong stuff,” Clay said, all teasing gone from his voice. “It’s all right if you need to take a nap.”

“Just a little one,” Sonny mumbled.

When he woke up the next time an oxygen mask had replaced the nasal cannula he’d been sporting earlier. A glance to his right told him Clay was sleeping and the darkness of the room told him it was late. Or maybe early. His internal clock was out of whack.

He felt worse than he had earlier. His head and joints ached again and he was sweaty but cold. Maybe the medication was wearing off.

Worse than all that, he had to pee. He wasn’t sure he could make it out of bed, let alone stand in front of a toilet, but when nature called…

He clumsily shoved the mask off his face and shifted, wincing in pain as he tried to sit up. He slid to the edge of the mattress, legs dangling in the air as the world tilted back and forth. Oh…this was probably a bad idea.

Something stirred in the corner next to him and nearly scared him out of his wits. “Sonny, what are you doing?” Lisa asked sleepily.

Apparently she had been sleeping by his bedside and she was looking at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Hitting the head,” Sonny told her.

“Uh, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think they took care of that for you,” she said meaningfully, glancing down at his groin area.

It took his brain a second to catch what she was referring to; he hadn’t noticed the catheter earlier. “Well ain’t that a delight,” he drawled.

Moving to the edge of the bed had cost him. He felt shaky and just…sick. Davis sat forward, uncertainty on her face. “You all right?”

“I’ve…been better,” he admitted.

“You need help?”

His inclination was to say no, but damn it he wasn’t sure he could move. “Sonny?” The look in her eyes told him she was about to panic and call a nurse or something so he nodded. “Yeah. Please.”

She stood and helped guide him back against the pillows, pushing the oxygen back over his face. Her hand caressed his forehead, fingers trailing gently down his cheek. “Your fever keeps spiking and your lungs are full of fluid again. That’s why they put you back on oxygen. You want me to call a nurse?”

What he really wanted was for her to keep touching him like that. The tenderness of it after so many days of brutality made his throat tighten up as tears pricked his eyes. “No,” he said, voice muffled by the mask. “No I don’t need the nurse.”

She sat back down in the chair, sliding it a little closer to his bed. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“This was the first I could get away,” she said. “I wanted to check on you. Both of you.”

Right, both of them. Her team members. That was why she was here. “You just decided to spend the night because…you like plastic hospital chairs?”

She shrugged. “You weren’t breathing very well. And I didn’t want to leave until I was sure you were okay.”

Oh. “I’m all right. Take more’n a bunch of bad guys to keep me down.”

She slid her hands up and down her legs like she did when she was nervous. “You uh mind if I stay and make sure?”

Lord he hoped she couldn’t tell that his heart monitor had started beeping faster. “Yeah, sure that’s fine.”

He must have drifted off after that because when he woke in the morning Lisa was gone and Clay was eating breakfast. “Told them you didn’t want any,” he said over a mouthful of hospital jello. “They let me have yours.”

Sonny rallied enough strength to toss a pillow at him, which Clay deflected easily, even with half a dozen broken ribs. Beyond that the day was pretty miserable. Clay was discharged which left Sonny bereft and lonely. His fever continued its up and down game, making him feel achey and ill and meant nurses were constantly in and out of the room.

He declined any and all sedatives they’d tried to force on him because he hated the way they muddled his brain, but it meant sleep was nearly impossible. He couldn’t get comfortable and every time he coughed it felt like his ribs were about to crack apart. It wasn’t a huge surprise therefore that Trent made an appearance in the evening. The look on his face said he was not here to say hello and keep Sonny company. “Hey there buddy,” Sonny wheezed.

“Don’t you even start with me.” Trent pointed a finger at him. “You’re being an asshole.”

“That’s not a very nice way to talk to your sick friend.” The long sentence cost him, making him cough weakly as his chest tightened.

“Yeah well I come in to check on you and find out you’re intent on undoing all the good work we did getting you out of that hellhole, I’m going to be a little pissed off.” Trent glared at him. “Why are you being such a problem?”

“I’m not being a problem,” Sonny said between labored breaths. 

“You’re not taking your medicine.”

“It’s just a sedative.”

“To help you rest and get better. That’s how a body heals dumbass.”

“I don’t need to rest. I’m fine.”

“Sonny, I will tie you down to this bed and sedate you myself if you don’t knock it off. You want them to intubate you again? Because that’s what’s going to happen. Your lungs can’t take much more of this. They need to start healing and for that to work you need to rest.”

There was a bite to Trent’s tone and while he wasn’t yet punctuating every sentence with a swear word, Sonny could sense he was close to it.

He did feel like shit. Maybe a little sleep wasn’t such a bad idea. At the very least it would end this argument. He nodded and Trent immediately pressed the call button. A nurse arrived within minutes and Trent exchanged a few sentences with her before she adjusted the IV’s. Sonny felt his body start to relax and his head go floaty. 

Trent dropped into the chair by his bed. “You staying?” Sonny asked.

“Gotta make sure all my hard work doesn’t go to waste.” Trent kicked his feet up on the bed. “Get some sleep.”

He had to admit, when he woke up he felt better. It was late again and the oxygen had been removed, which he hoped meant things were looking up. He was less achey and his head felt more clear. And breathing wasn’t quite as painful as before. He glanced to his left expecting to find Trent or one of the other guys, but was met with a different face. “How do you keep getting in here after hours?” 

Lisa smiled and leaned forward in the chair, setting aside the book she’d been reading. “Charm. Looks. My officer’s badge doesn’t hurt either.” She studied him for a second. “You look better.”

“Yeah I feel a little better.” He shifted a bit, pressing the button on the bed that let him sit up higher. “Where’d Trent go?”

“Told him to head home for the night. Said I’d make sure you didn’t punch any more doctors or make any more nurses cry.”

“I didn’t make anybody cry. And I was basically unconscious when I hit that guy.”

“Apparently you still packed quite a punch.”

He cracked a smile. “Gotta keep my reputation. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I was a sissy.”

“Is that why you were refusing medication earlier?”

“I took the medicine!” Sonny grumbled in outrage. “I’ve been good!”

She snorted. “Only because Trent threatened you.”

“I still did it,” he said. “Why are you here again? Don’t you have better things to do than play doctor?”

“Thank you for assuming I’d be a doctor, not a nurse, and no. I don’t.” 

She smiled at him and he felt something twist in his gut. He’d missed this so much; having her close, talking to her, just being together.

She sat forward, elbows on her knees. “You know you and Clay, you really scared us.”

“I hear I owe you a thank you. Seems like you were the one that put the pieces together. You want to tell me how exactly you managed that?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m saying thank you! I’m being nice!”

“You’re trying to keep me from lecturing you on running an op when you’re not at one hundred percent.”

“I am always at one hundred percent!”

“Sonny don’t!”

The outburst startled him. “Just don’t,” she said, a little quieter this time. “Don’t pretend like this wasn’t a big deal. This was a very big, very bad deal.”

There were tears sparkling in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Well you did. You did, Sonny and I—“ Lisa shook her head. “I’m not ready to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me.”

“But I almost did. And I hate that. I hate that I’ve been pushing you away. And that you could have died before I—before we—“ She took a breath. “I didn’t want you to die thinking that we weren’t okay. Because we are. You and me. We’re okay.”

“I know.” He nodded. “I would have known. You don’t have to—“

“Could you please shut up and just let me say this?” she interrupted him, pausing to see if he would let her continue. “I was so fucking scared Sonny and I promised myself that if we—if I got you back that I would make sure you knew—” she hesitated and smiled ruefully, “God this all sounded so much better in my head.”

“Hey.” He touched her arm. “It’s okay.”

She stared at him for a second and then, without warning, grabbed his face, and kissed him. Hard. “Do not ever get kidnapped and almost die again,” she said when she finally pulled away.

Before he could formulate any kind of response she was gone. He was alone again, heart thundering inside his chest. Damn. That hadn’t gone the way he’d expected. Not even a little bit.