#i love drawing ugly disheveled men

[berryicet]

I've been going insane over i.o.n on twitter the past two days and I feel like it's only fair I show them here too

[raekahwritings]

BNHA Gods AU - Thanatos - Shindou Yo

GODS AU! - What kind of shitty god are you?

Pairing: Shindou You x Reader

Rating: Explicit, NSFW, Minors, DO NOT ENTER.

Warning: NSFW, Mentions of non-consent, slight blood/gore/murder,slight yandere.

Word Count: 2016

Authors Note: This was written in one night, I really wanted to make it in time for this collaboration despite everything going on right now. I hope you all can forgive me since this wasn’t proof read but hopefully you all can enjoy the Gods!AU Shindou!

GODS!AU Collaboration: Please check out the collab here from @lemonlordleah-shinzawa-kitten​

The age of gods was long over. They no longer walked this earth. No one worshipped them; they became the words of fiction and stories.

Let the gods guide you.

Live your life well and the gods may reward you.

Do not turn away from the path of good, lest the gods punish you.

Where were the gods when you needed them? When your mother had dressed you up as a pretty doll, when you smiled and jumped in the excitement of a new dress, and when she had shown you to a portly older gentleman. He took you, none-too-gently, and placed a bag of coins into your mother’s palm. She had left brusquely, curtly, and took care not to look you in the eyes.

How long had it been since then? Your childhood had gone by in the mess of yelling, screams, and scullery work. When you were old enough? You now lay on the floor with your clothing strewn apart, dried tears on your face and a voice hoarse from screaming.

This was a life where no gods deigned to visit—this was a place of vileness, sordidness, and loathsome men. You were nothing more than a commodity to them—they had no qualms about leaving you on this dirty floor.

God, you had prayed so many times. Save me.

You’d been delivered to them, lent like broken toy until they called the brothel master to fetch you.

You had been defiled too many times to believe that any God would help you now.

Where were you? What had they consecrated this time? They had laughed and they had jeered while you had cringed at the blasphemy they spewed. They had taken their belts to mark you, left you bleeding, and then poured acridly old liquid, “—better hope this fucking holy water works.”

“They would laugh at this.” You blinked away the tears, blinked to see the dormant idolatry of Thanatos nearby. You scrabbled at the ground, trying to find a perch to lay your hands on so you could get up. You winced at seeing the dried blood and spilt fluids. If there was a moment for Thanatos to judge you, this would be now.  

But would he?

Gods had come and gone, with nary a care. You tried to stand, tried to ignore the mess they had made, and you glared at the idolatry. “You didn’t stop this.” You pointed to the empty room – “You’re supposed to be some merciless, hateful god of death.” You scoffed, knowing it was pathetic. Here you were, reaching a level of desperation to talk to some useless piece of stone and an empty room like it would answer you. But all the resentment, anger, and bitterness spewed out – here and now— you hissing, “You’re a fucking piece of shit god.”

And yet.

“If my life was enough of a price, would you come here and now? Or am I too dirty for someone like you? You want a precious little girl, an innocent naïve little sheep?” You furiously took the idol, glaring before slamming it as hard as you could to the floor. Take that, you fucker.

You watched the idol shatter into pieces, the useless stone rolling away. You should fear your own blasphemy and yet… satisfaction had you feeling smug.

“My, my, that doesn’t seem very nice.”

Holy fuck. You whipped around—the room was empty. When had someone come in? You nearly screamed at the mysterious voice, your arms reaching out to blindly shove at the culprit while you stumbled backwards.

A masculine hand caught your arm, tsking at you and he emerged from the shadows with a disappointed look. You nearly fell backwards but his iron clasp had you standing upright.

“Who are you?” Shock and fear colored your tone, the smugness was fleeting as you look to the door, a door that hadn’t budged since the scraggle of men had left earlier. How did he get in? You looked at him, swallowing nervously, your gaze flitting up and down to make out this stranger in the darkness.

“You called me and yet, you still ask me?” He stepped further into the firelight… You looked up at this dizzyingly tall man, you could make out the messy, dark locks framing his chiseled face. But more so, you found yourself staring into eyes the color of pure jade. He was far too handsome, his features bold and brooding, the stubble on his face giving him a heathenish look. He was broad and lean, the muscles of his arms and chest visible through his disheveled shirt.

Someone who made you stop breathing.

“No.” You breathed— “You’re lying.” You called no one, he was here to take you back to the brothel, you tried to wrench your hand pathetically away. He couldn’t fool you, no matter how handsome he was.

“Calm down.” He pulled you into his chest, you were the one falling forward as he stopped your mewling struggles. You heard those words countless times; it had always preceded the acrid smell of chloroform…

“I don’t want to go back.” You choked out, letting your wrists fall slack. “I don’t want this.”

His voice lilted up, questioning. “Go back where?” You could almost believe the sincerity in his voice, the confusion, the perplexity of the situation. But people loved playing with you, toying with you in these games— men liked playing with women as if it were a game of cat and mouse. You curled your fingers into your palms, once again trying to suppress any kindle of hope—because you inevitably always were sold back.

Meanwhile, Thanatos, the god you had summoned with your blood, piety, and holy water—looked heavenwards in frustration. “Girl, speak your name.” He commanded—you answered obediently.

How? You didn’t mean to answer him.

“I am Thanatos. Now speak plainly. I’ve heard your desperate cry for help, for vengeance.” He leaned back against the stone table, tugging you into his lap. “Now can we dispense with the formalities? I’d much rather you call me Shindou instead.” You found yourself caged in—your chest against his bare one as he gestured for you to look up. “You summoned  me. And while I normally ignore mortals…” He let his hand fall loosely to your back—you stiffened, squirming—as his calloused fingers brushed against the filth on your skin, the torn scraps of fabric that hid nothing from his gaze.

“I was personally interested in this offering of yours.” You stilled. There had been no one in the room with you to hear your vitriol words—but this was the temple of Thanatos. Could it be?  “Oh. You don’t believe me?” You looked doubtful. Well he couldn’t blame you. His lips curved, expecting this reaction. He waved a hand in the air, letting the firelights flicker to black and purple flames, letting it dance across the room hauntingly for you. You watched transfixed. “But parlor tricks? A dime a dozen.” He said dismissively. He tapped the table, a prompt for the shadows around you to contort menacingly and snaking up your legs.

You jumped more into his arms, away from the strangely prying and invasive shadows as it crawled disturbingly high up your body.

“Girl, they’re simply an extension of me.” You could hear the humor in his tone, see the shadows snake away as he chuckled at your close contact with him. “But I suppose I can be nice for a bit.” He let the darkness recede and the orange firelight to flicker back.

“Now that’s settled, may I discuss your price?” You… took a moment to blink, to really focus on him. Something about him, the closer you were, was making your senses hazy. He seemed to realize, crooning gently to you. “Oh baby, I know gods are supposed to be tempting to mortals and all that but where’s the little spitfire that threw a little tantrum at me? I quite enjoyed it.”

The haze dissipated a bit. You… had thrown down the idolatry, you had committed blasphemy in the actual face of a god. You wanted to die, the shame overwhelming you. Thanatos—no, Shindou simply laughed though—“Baby, don’t think of me as one of the pious assholes. I don’t need you to prostrate yourself to me and those hopeless,” he waved at the ostentatious ornaments adorning the room, “piece of shit, ugly crap of me. I’m a lot more handsome in person, don’t you think?” You couldn’t disagree.

This kind of man—God, you corrected yourself—exuded charisma, aura, sexuality that vibrated with your own being. Like you were made for him, your body melted against his light touch.

“Demon got your tongue? I can fix that.” Shindou cradled the side of your face, leaning in to press a kiss. You gasped, giving him an opportunity for his tongue invade your mouth—ravishing and giving you no air to breathe. He reached down to anchor your hips against his, drawing you more into his lap and letting his hardness press into your dampened, slickened ache between your thighs.

But you were dirty and filthy. You pushed him, and he let you, you knew his strength far outstripped yours. “I can’t.” You shook your head. “You must’ve seen what happened…” It wasn’t just one disgusting man, it was many who had left you sticky and ruined with their fluids on your unwilling body.

Even now.

“Seriously? Shindou sighed. He tutted at you like a child—which as a mortal, you must’ve been. “I came all this way out for your offering, for this delectable and luscious body and you dare to impugn me with your sense of shame?” He cocked his head. “Like I didn’t know? All those men…” He parted your legs, let the sticky fluid drip. “All those men, and they didn’t break your spirit. You come to me, fiery and burning with revenge, and I answered your call. What could be more attractive than this?” Albeit… Shindou did frown. “I don’t care for those worms to mark what’s mine. I guess they all have to die, wont they?”

Your eyes widened… your words caught. You wanted to protest—the mocking feeling of horror should’ve come at the thought of such senseless murder and death…. But you could only feel the sense of relish, of pure desire to see the blood of your captors. You bit your lips, futilely trying to hide your anticipation and eagerness.

“Ah, that’s my girl. I knew you and I would get along.” Shindou pulled down the rags of your dress,  watched your nubile body pull close to his and you shivered—his hardness grinded against you—a god like this wanted you. You could hardly believe it. You whimpered as he bit down your throat, bit at the junction of your shoulders while you bled. He licked the bloody trail down your ample breasts, swirling his hot tongue around the hardened peaks and making you arch in muted pleasure.

“Oh no, you can’t stay quiet.” He let the shadowy tendrils return, let it wrap around your throat and craning your neck backwards. His hands traced over your slickened breasts, pinching, pulling, vibrating as you screamed in pleasure and pain. “Sounds quite nice.” He mused, condescendingly. His hands eventually travelled to your taut thighs, teasing the inside of them, and drawing them further apart.  His fingers brushed against the dirty cum—he didn’t care for it but he supposed he’d just have to fuck you enough so you’d be dripping with his own cum—all the more reason to cleanse this lustful, vengeful darling of a human.

He had waited for someone like you. Other gods deigned to have their innocent little virgins on their sacrificial alter.

He wanted a tainted, corrupted human whose lust rivalled their desire for revenge—a human he could turn into his little fuck toy of a god, one who would stand by his side as he ruled over mayhem, murder, and death. Preferably, begging for his cock and drunk on cum – not a bad start, he mused. Not a bad start.

[spaceorphan18]

Head Over Feet (2/14)

After Kurt and Blaine broke up the second time, they went their separate ways, living their separate lives in New York City. Fifteen years later, a retirement party brings them back together into each other’s orbit, with surprising, for both of them, consequences. Are they able to fit each other into their already complicated and messy lives? And are these newfound feelings real? Or just echoes of a past relationship?

Canon Divergent after Season 5.

Ao3 Link

A/N: Since the first chapter seemed to be such a huge hit - I'm dropping this today. This was all originally supposed to be the first chapter anyway! Going forward, I'm going to try to update once a month. Thanks for reading - and I hope you enjoy! :)

Thanks to @snarkyhag for the beta. :)

***

Chapter 2: Loser Like Me (Part Two) 

Kurt Hummel loves sex.  He loves the feeling of strong hands holding his body, rough lips against his skin, and a hard cock buried deep within him.  And that morning he had woken up feeling particularly horny.  He isn’t sure what exactly he had been dreaming about but his dick aches to be touched.  And luckily he shares his bed with a very hot guy who doesn’t mind taking care of it for him.  

He and Ian have been together a little over a year now, though this moving in together thing is new and still taking time to get used to.  Sex, however, is not an adjustment they need to make.  Ian doesn’t seem to mind Kurt waking him up with a hand on his cock, desperate to be fucked.  Ian might be a little slow to wake, but not long after they start, Ian’s already pulling Kurt to a quick orgasm; Kurt spilling all over Ian’s fist as Ian pumps his hips into Kurt from behind.  

The thing is, as much as Kurt loves sex, he’s not one to draw it out.  Kurt finds himself holding steady onto the bed frame, staring at the wallpaper, as Ian takes his time fucking him.  And the wallpaper is incredibly ugly.  Seriously.  He knows that Ian isn’t the one to have picked it out, but it’s a striped puke-green, burnt-orange, and tacky-gold, left over, most likely, from a renovation to the old building from the sixties.  It’s a travesty that it’s remained on the wall so long, and if Ian would just fucking come already, he wouldn’t be forced to stare at it for so long.  

Kurt fucks his hips back a little, hoping that Ian will pick up the pace.  He leans back for a kiss (that wallpaper is seared forever in his head, god) and gives out a little moan.  It’s a tiny bit performative, but it seems to do the trick, and Ian’s hips finally begin to snap, pushing him to his own orgasm.  

“Fuck, Kurt, I could wake up this way every day for forever,” Ian says, sucking a kiss to his shoulder.  

The word ‘forever’ echoes in Kurt’s brain uncomfortably.  Kurt turns in Ian’s arms, quieting him with a kiss.  “Happy to oblige.”

Ian goes in to deepen the kiss, but Kurt pulls away.  Now that he’s feeling a bit satisfied, he wants nothing more than to take a shower and get ready for the day.  He’s got about a thousand things to do, and he’s eager to get started.  Ian tries to keep him close -- he’s always wanting to make out after sex -- but Kurt manages to slip out of Ian’s light grasp.  

“Shower time,” Kurt says, wiggling his eyebrows.  

“Mmm, let me join you.”

The thought suddenly makes Kurt twitch but he tries not to show it.  What is wrong with him? His incredibly handsome boyfriend, with his disheveled dark hair and playfully pleading light eyes wants to join him in the shower for a possible part two of morning sexy times.  But having Ian shoved in next to him in their tiny shower stall makes him feel claustrophobic.  

He pushes past his discomfort to allow Ian to join him.  He even gives in to a little light making-out.  But there’s no way sex is happening in that bathroom.  

They do their morning routine together, bumping into each other in the tiny bathroom.  The sink is covered in bottles and sprays, creams and soaps, razors and combs, and they have to reach over each other to grab what they need.  Kurt is normally a very organized person, and when he moved in, he took the time to organize a side for each of them. But since then, Ian’s stuff has slowly migrated over to his side, and Ian’s slowly been using the products on Kurt’s side.  And mostly, he’d be fine with the sharing if things would just keep their place.  However, he doesn’t say anything, enjoying Ian’s good mood.  

Ian suggests breakfast, wanting to go to the little bagel shop a few blocks down.  He asks Kurt to walk with him but, just wanting a few minutes to check his emails alone, he declines.  Ian throws a look of disappointment but heads out, stating he’ll bring Kurt something back.  Kurt tries not to feel guilty about it, and reminds himself that there’s nothing wrong with wanting a few minutes to yourself.  Besides, Ian’s still excited that they’re living together.  He’ll calm down.  Surely.   Right?  

Ian being gone gives Kurt a few minutes to pick up the apartment.  There are clothes discarded in the living room, where they had been left after starting sex on the couch the night before.  There’s an old pizza box sitting on the coffee table, a few mugs with half-drunk tea, and a scattering of papers.  And underneath a pile of Ian’s sheet music is the mail from the previous week, most of which is Kurt’s.  He clenches his jaw as he goes through it, annoyed that he’s just now seeing it.  

There are a couple of old bills in here that need to be paid, as well as a bright red envelope that looks like an invitation sent from McKinley High.  He looks over the invitation with curiosity, though something else quickly catches his eye.  It’s a jewelry catalogue sent to Ian.  Specifically, a men’s jewelry catalogue.  And Ian doesn’t wear jewelry.  Highly suspect of it, he looks it over, and a growing anxiety starts to spread.  This could not possibly mean…

The door slams shut and Kurt jumps from his spot on the couch.  It’s just Ian home from the bagel shop.  

“I got your favorite, multigrain with that fancy whipped cream cheese that you like,” Ian says.  He hands him the bag and gives him a kiss on the cheek before sitting down next to him.  

“You didn’t give me my mail,” Kurt grumbles, taking the bag.  Then adds a quiet, “thank you.”  

Ian shrugs it off.  “I figured you’d see it eventually.  I’ve been wondering when you’d open that red envelope.  I wanna know what it is.”

“Oh,” Kurt places the bag with his breakfast on the coffee table and picks up the envelope from his lap, opening it.  He gives it a fond smile.  “I guess my old choir director is retiring.  There’s a party for him back in Lima.”  

“Well, that’s cool,” Ian says, grabbing the invitation out of his hand.  “Quaint.  I’m guessing you aren’t going?  I mean, other than mentioning your dad, I’ve never heard you talk about your time in Ohio.  Hell, I’ve never even heard early New York stories.  All I know is one day you walked into my piano bar, a full grown man, mysterious and sexy.”  Ian wiggles his eyebrows.  “Hard to imagine you in high school.”  

“Well, I can assure you I was anything but sexy,” Kurt says.  A flash of a memory crosses his brain - one of a performance in a warehouse, lots of boys in blazers, and a really uncomfortable situation for young Kurt.  He shakes his head, ridding his mind of it.  

“So, are you going to go?” Ian asks, far more interested in the idea than Kurt is.  

Kurt scrunches his nose at the thought.  He hasn’t stepped foot in Ohio for a better part of a decade.  There aren’t even people from high school he still talks to, not on a regular basis anyway.  It’s sweet of Will Schuester’s family to think of him, but maybe he’s better off sending a card or something.  

“I don’t know,” Kurt says, he stares at the invitation, unsure of how he feels about it.  “I don’t know.”

***

Wednesdays mean that Ian is home all day.  He is a classical pianist by trade and his day job is playing with one of New York’s symphony orchestras.  In the evenings, he usually plays gigs at local bars.  But on Wednesday, he has time off from both jobs to be home all day.  Wednesday used to be the day where Kurt spent all his time with Ian.  Now that they live together, Kurt usually spends his Wednesday anywhere but home.  

It usually lands him at his own job, running a small theater that he co-owns with his old friend, Elliott Gilbert.  Technically, Elliott’s rich grandmother’s money bought the theater, and Kurt had been brought on to manage the projects and productions that happened there.  It’s still quite a work in progress, as the building had been nearly condemned when they originally bought it a few years earlier.  But with all their hard work, they’re beginning to draw in better productions, and this might be the first year they actually draw a profit.  

When he gets in that afternoon, he finds Elliott up in the rafters, working on some of the lights.  Kurt watches for a moment as Elliott finishes whatever he’s working on.  It’s hard to say, but he has the toolbox with him, so Kurt can only guess it has to do with the lights nearly coming down the other night.  They really need to get an electrician in, but Elliott’s pretty handy about these things, and will at least try to do what he can before they have to ask for help.  

Kurt watches a good few minutes as Elliott finishes up and comes down the ladder.  

“You’re being quiet,” Elliott says, carefully bringing down the toolbox as he reaches the bottom of the ladder.  Kurt, hands in pockets, just gives a gentle shrug.  “You’re not usually quiet, which means it can only be one of a few things.  Something’s up with your dad.  You want a favor.  Or it’s boyfriend problems.”

“Well, my dad is fine, and I don’t need anything,” Kurt says.  “So….”

Elliott lets out a heavy sigh, and places the toolbox on the ground.  “It wouldn’t kill you to go to therapy, you know.”

“You’re not my therapist?”

“Alright, so this session is going to cost you three-hundred dollars,” Elliott looks at his watch.  “You have twenty minutes.  Go.”

Kurt lets out a laugh as he follows Elliott to the edge of the stage.  Elliott jumps off but Kurt lowers himself to sit on the edge, his legs hanging off.  Elliott makes a shrug for Kurt to get on with it.  

“So, I was going through some mail, and I found this jewelry catalogue.  It had a lot of men’s engagement rings,” Kurt says.  Elliott makes a face as if to say ‘and…?’  Kurt purses his lips.  “I think Ian might ask me to marry him.”  

“Have you guys even talked about marriage?”

“Definitely not.”  

Elliott doesn’t seem at all convinced.  “Maybe it was just an ad then.  I get shit like that all the time.  I somehow managed to be subscribed to a women’s lingerie catalogue for years.”  

Kurt still can’t rid himself of the low-level anxiety he’s been feeling about it all day.  “Even so, I just… don’t like the idea.”  

“I thought you and Ian were doing great?”

“We are, we are,” Kurt says.  Elliott, again, doesn’t seem convinced.  “Ian’s in the honeymoon stage of wanting to do everything together, and I don’t know.  We’ve been together for a year.  We know how we are.  Do we really need to do everything together now that we live together?”  

Elliott folds his arms across his chest.  “Kurt, if this is becoming an issue, why did you agree to move in with him in the first place?”

Kurt stares up at the ceilings.  The old, red curtains have a few fringes and tears, and Kurt wonders vaguely, if they should get new ones or if anyone would really notice.  He kicks the stage lightly as he avoids Elliott’s question.  “I mean, my apartment lease was up, and they were going to double my rent.”  

“Oh, god,” Elliott chokes out.  “Please tell me that wasn’t the only reason.”  

“It’s not,” his voice squeaks a little too much on the words.  “I also, you know, love him.”  

Elliott shakes his head.  Kurt knows judgment when he sees it.  “This is just classic Kurt,” he says.  

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with having an adjustment period with having to live with someone after I’ve had my own place for so long,” Kurt says, defending himself.  

“Uh-huh.”

“I just like my independence.”

Elliott’s eyebrow is arched high.  “Or you like sabotaging your relationships.”

Kurt scoffs, looking off to the side of the stage.  They’re going to need to scrub this whole place down before allowing anyone to do a production here again.  Elliott, however, is not letting him off the hook, and eyes him hard.  “I do not do that.”

“Then why have I seen you more in the past couple of weeks than you’ve probably seen him?”

It’s a fair question, Kurt admits to himself.  “Well, I do find you tolerable.”  

“Kurt, you don’t find any of your boyfriends tolerable,” Elliott says.  He almost sounds annoyed, but he knows Elliott’s limits and he knows he hasn’t reached them.  But truth be told, he’s as sick of himself as Elliott probably is.  “Who was that guy before Ian? That Matt guy? Why did you break up with him?”

He picked the scab, of course Elliott is going to rip open the old wounds.  “Because he wanted me to be ‘a part of the family’,” Kurt replies, using air quotes to highlight his point.  Matt had been a sweet guy, but his family had been his life.  He hadn’t been ready to be a part of any family, let alone one that had been as close as Matt’s had been.  He felt as if he had been suffocating every time they went to visit.  “His family was crazy.  I didn’t need to be a part of that.”  

Elliott nods, continuing on.  “Okay, and Joey was the one before that.  I remember him because he helped clean up this place when we bought it.”  

Kurt bites his lip.  He did feel bad about that.  Joey had been so quick to offer his time.  But Joey also had been there.  All the time.  It had been too much.  “He was super clingy,” Kurt says quietly, though he hates that he’s seeing the trend.

“Sure he was,” Elliott says.  A grin slips onto his lips.  “And then there was Steven.”  

“He wanted to marry me six months into the relationship,” Kurt says.  He snaps a little too loud, his voice echoing in the empty theater.  Elliott remains amused, even if Kurt is not.  “Who knows they want to get married six months into a relationship?  Why are you getting on my case about this?  It’s not like you don’t go through, like, three guys a week.”  

Elliott throws his head back in a laugh.  “Well, I am at peace with my slutty ways.  Look, Kurt, it’s not about the number of guys you go through.   It’s just that, well, honestly, I’ve known you forever.  And I know you’re this old school romantic and the slutty ways will never be satisfying for you.  Did it ever occur to you that the reason it doesn’t work out with these guys is not because you’re this progressive independent, but because deep down you want to be an old school married, and haven’t found the right person to be with yet?”

The gnawing pit in his stomach starts to fade as he thinks about the old fantasy -- the one he had as a kid, where you met your prince, and you lived happily ever after.  Only, real life doesn’t happen like that.  Most guys are not princes, and the ones who are don’t always lead to happily ever after.  He knows better than to be unrealistic, but maybe he’s pushing people too far away.  

“Do you think I’ve made a mistake?” Kurt asks, he begins bouncing his foot against the stage again.  

Elliott goes soft in deposition.  “You know I can’t answer that for you.”

“You’re probably right,” Kurt says.  He thinks of Ian - of his kind smile and good heart.   He shouldn’t be running, even if every ounce of him feels like it’s too much.  “Ian is a good guy, and I’ve been…”

“Difficult?”

“I was going to say myself, but thank you.”

“I do my best.” Elliott playfully taps his knee.  “If you want, though, you can crash at my place for a few days.  I’m gonna be out of town.  Some third cousin is getting married, and Mom insists that everyone be there.”

“No, I’m good,” Kurt insists.  And then an idea hits him.  “You know, I got an invitation to go back to Lima.  Old high school choir thing.  Maybe I’ll take a long vacation and do that.  It could give me some time to clear my head -- reflect on my questionable life choices.”  

Elliott gives a hearty laugh.  “You haven’t talked about Lima in years.  Besides, going back to Lima might force you to dig into your past, and we all know how much you enjoy doing that.”

Kurt swats at Elliott.  “It’ll be fine.  What’s the worst that can happen?”

***

After work, Kurt doesn’t go home right away.  Instead, he opts to walk around the city for a while.  There’s a slight chill, causing him to bundle his jacket a little tighter, and the sky is overcast, threatening a storm rolling in.  He won’t be out too late, but he knows Ian is back home waiting for him and he’s just not ready for it yet.  

His conversation with Elliott plays over in his head.  He does like his independence.  He always has.  Even when he had been a little boy, his parents had let him play on his own.  And after years of rejection from kids his own age, he learned that sometimes being on your own is your best bet.  It’s not that he doesn’t like the company his boyfriends have brought him over the years.  He just likes his space. And his peace and quiet. And his room to move about as he pleases.  And sometimes boyfriends make him feel too tied down.  

But he can’t help but think about what Elliott had said.  The thing that seems to stick in his brain, wiggling to the forefront of his thoughts.  Maybe he wants to be an old married? Maybe he does want that connection, that one person who seems to know him, who understands him enough that there will be days when they’re inseparable, and days when they’re apart.  He likes the idea of coming home to the same face every day to see someone who can read him like a book, who will enjoy the same things as him, who will love him for the insufferable human being he always seems to be.  

But are there really people out there like that?  

Maybe he’s not giving Ian enough credit.  When they had decided to move in together, Kurt thought it had been the most optimal choice.  Living costs would come down.  He’d have a partner to spend his time with.  And the sex.  God, Ian knows how to have sex.  

But permanently?  The buzz of anxiety begins to grow at the thought.  There are too many little things about Ian, too many things about himself that just don’t feel right.  It’s not perfect.  Well -- it’s never going to be perfect, he argues with himself.  But still…  

The storm breaks sooner than Kurt expects, a sudden heavy rain coming down.  Kurt stands on the street corner, looking up at the sky as he gets drenched.  Maybe the universe is trying to tell him something, and he can’t help but laugh as the rain splashes his face.  

Just as he’s about to head home, however, he catches a sign on the corner of a building.  A sign advertising an open leasing on a loft, with a number attached.  For a moment, he’s transferred back in time to all those years ago, when he lived in a loft in Bushwick with four other people all of whom had been trying to make it in the city.  He hasn’t thought about that loft in ages.  Hasn’t thought about those people in ages.  God, what even happened to…  

He tries hard not to think of the name that first pops in his head.  But he can’t help but see the face.  He shakes his head, as if attempting to get rid of the image.  

Nostalgia hits him just then.  

Nostalgia for a place he left long ago, for people whom he never thought he’d miss.  He is going to take that trip to Lima.  He does need a break from Ian.  He does need to get his life sorted out.  But mostly, he feels a soft ache for returning home -- even if he’s not sure where that is anymore.  

***

A week later, Kurt finds himself rolling up to one of Lima’s three motels in a car he rented at the airport.  It’s strange coming back to the city he grew up in and, yet, not returning back to his childhood home.  He had thought about driving past, but he hadn’t necessarily wanted to see through the window to see whatever happy suburban family had bought the place.  Instead, he had driven straight to the motel that he had booked himself the moment he knew he would be coming back.  

There is something surreal about returning to the place you grew up after so much time has passed.  It’s like time has frozen, remaining exactly the same as the moment you left, even if there are new storefronts in the old buildings, expansions where wooded areas used to be, and a real attempt, it seems, to clean the place up.  It feels unchanged, and Kurt can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.  It’s just a thing.  

It’s evening by the time he gets in.  The motel room is bland and tiny, and the four channels on the TV don’t offer much entertainment.  He lays down on the bed to stare at the ceiling, thinking if there’s anything he could do.  Most places in Lima shut down before eight, even on a Friday night.  And it’s not like he has anyone to call. He had been texting Mercedes Jones earlier in the week, shocked that her number had still been the same, but she had explained that she wouldn’t be getting in until very late and implied that whatever plans she had wouldn’t be with him.  He had understood, and it’s not like he won’t be seeing her the next day anyway.  Scrolling through his phone, he finds that he doesn’t have a single other contact from high school he could call.  

Maybe he should just text Ian -- but as his thumb hovers over his boyfriend’s name, he remembers that Ian is probably playing a concert that weekend. And even if he waits until later when Ian’s home, he just doesn’t want to ruin Ian’s good time by explaining that he can’t quite quash the crushing sense of loneliness that seems to be his homecoming.  

Why did he think this would be a good idea?

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a neon flashing light, and through the window he sees a building that he hasn’t thought about in years.  Thinking anywhere is better than being stuck in that sad motel room for the next twelve hours, Kurt heads out into the night.  

***

Scandals is, if nothing else, exactly how he remembers it.  Not that his memories are anything more than fuzzy blips of moments from long ago.  He remembers the same posters being on the wall, in the same tattered state.  He remembers the huge, neon signs lining the walls.  And god, the music even feels strikingly similar.  There aren’t, he thinks with a laugh, any drag queens though.  

The atmosphere is quiet for a Friday night.  There are a few guys out on the dance floor, enjoying each other’s company, but most of the people in the bar are huddled in the darkened corners.  No one looks up from their conversations to notice him come in.  The bouncer is too busy flirting with a denim dressed, bearded guy leaning against the wall to notice him slip by.  

He’s not a few steps in when he realizes coming out to a bar seems like a silly thing to do, but makes a deal with himself to have one drink before he heads back to the motel and to do the sensible thing in calling Ian.  

But as he heads to the bar, he sees something that makes him freeze in his tracks.  

Is that…?

It can’t possibly be…?

Blaine Anderson is sitting at the bar, casually chatting with the bartender as he sips a beer.  Kurt is stunned to see him, his mind reeling at how this is even possible.  There is only one gay bar in Lima.  And he’s probably here for the reunion.  

But still… Blaine Anderson, of all people.  

There’s a tiny part of him that wants to run.  Turn on his heel and walk right back out of that bar and not even worry about the formal meeting they’ll inevitably have tomorrow at the reunion.  He doesn’t though.  

He watches Blaine for a moment, in his element, throwing his head back to laugh at something the bartender said.  It’s astounding to Kurt at how much and how little Blaine has changed.  Age, it seems, has done him well.  There’s less gel in his hair, allowing the natural curls to reveal themselves.  His face is harder, jawbone more defined. He’s wearing a dark sweater vest, but no bowtie, and the shirt underneath is unbutton, revealing a wisp of hair on his chest.  Blaine is no longer that young boy he once knew.  Sitting at the bar is a man.  

And yet… his movements are exactly the same.  The way he crinkles his eyes when he laughs, the way he lightly touches the bartender’s arm while expressing his point, the way casually plays with the napkin on the counter.  That’s still the Blaine he used to know.  

Kurt takes a deep breath, releasing the tension running through him.  He could leave… but he doesn’t really want to.  It’s been a decade since they’ve seen each other.  That’s enough time to let old wounds heal, right?

Kurt takes the plunge.

“I’m guessing this place rarely sees a man as gorgeous as you.  Mind if I buy you a drink?”

Blaine turns around, utterly shocked to see him there.  Kurt’s confidence slips as the silence lingers.  Maybe this had been a bad idea.  But then, Blaine breaks out into a grin.  

“Kurt?” He says his name slowly, as if it’s unfamiliar in a way, but easily slides off his stool, going in for a hug.  It’s awkward -- where do you put your hands and arms? How close do you stand? How do you properly greet someone you once agreed to share your life with?  Someone who is a relative stranger now.  It’s bizarre to him that somehow, Blaine still feels so familiar in his arms. “Please, join me.” Blaine offers the stool next to him as they slip apart.  “I’ll definitely take you up on that drink.”

Kurt sits down, suddenly feeling much more nervous than he had been.  Blaine waives down the bartender -- asking for beer, while Kurt shortly asks for an amaretto sour.  He definitely needs something to calm him down.  How is Blaine being so calm? Is he hiding it better? Or is it that he’s soon to be on his third beer?

“So, what are you doing here?” Blaine asks, placing his head on his hand, now looking amused.  There’s no anger there. No resentment, or negativity.  Blaine genuinely seems to be happy to see him.  Based on how they had left things all that time ago, Blaine could have harbored some ill will towards him.  But they are both adults now.  And it had been a long, long time ago.  

“I’m in town for Mr. Schue’s retirement party,” Kurt says.  He rubs his legs, not sure what to do with his hands.

Blaine nods, finishing off the beer he had been drinking when Kurt had arrived.  “Oh, yeah, I figured that.  I meant, what are you doing here ?” He uses both hands to point down.  

“Oh!” Kurt feels a little silly not understanding.  Thankfully, the bartender brings them their drinks.  Kurt wastes no time gulping half of it down as if it were a shot.  “I saw it from the motel window.  Call me crazy, but I was feeling nostalgic.”

“Huh,” Blaine takes a long sip from his bottle, narrowing his eyes as he thinks it over.  “You’re not staying with Burt?”

“Oh, god, right you wouldn’t know,” Kurt laughs as he stirs his drink.  “Dad retired a few years ago.  He and Carole moved to Arizona to be closer to her sister.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

“I guess I could have stayed with Uncle Andy,” Kurt continues, remaining fixated on his drink as he talks.  “He and his sons took over the tire shop.  But we’re not exactly close.  And he has, like, ten dogs.  I’d rather take my chances with the motel.”

Blaine nods, sympathetically.  

“What about you?” Kurt asks.  “How’s your family?”

“They’re pretty good,” Blaine says, easily.  “Cooper has three little girls.  Here, let me show you.”  Blaine wastes no time fishing out his phone, scrolling through the roll for a picture of three gorgeous young girls who all, clearly, take after Cooper.  Kurt coos accordingly but he can’t help but notice Blaine’s left hand, and the indentation of skin where a ring used to be.  It makes him wonder.

“So, what are you doing now?” Kurt asks, trying to relax on his stool.  He rests his elbow on the wooden bar, and his head on his hand.

“I teach, actually.  New York Institute of Fine Arts,” Blaine says, taking another sip of his beer with a laugh.  “I mean, I still perform every now and then.  But an adjunct professor was needed, and a friend of mine pulled some strings, and I just kind of fell into it.  I love it though.”  There’s no lie in Blaine’s voice.  Blaine had always been a passionate person, but it’s clear by his demeanor that he loves his job.  

Kurt smiles meekly, happy for him.  “A private school, of course.  How very you.  Actually, now that I think of it, that’s not far from my theater.”

“You have a theater?” Blaine’s eyes grow wide with interest.  

“Well, half a theater,” Kurt rocks his head from side to side, as if it’s a silly little thing, and not the pride and joy that he’s sunk most of his adult life into, now.  He plays with the nearby peanut bowl.  “The Gilbert Theater.”

“Oh, I know that place,” Blaine says.  There’s excitement in his voice.  Kurt isn’t sure why this makes him happy.    “I thought it had been condemned.  I mean - I’m sure you’ve fixed it up.”

“Oh we have,” Kurt says, thinking about all the work he’s put into it over the years.  “Elliott and I renovated it.  You wouldn’t even recognize it now.”

Blaine takes another slow slip of his drink.  “Elliott?  Like from college?” Kurt nods slowly. “Ah. So are you guys…”

“Oh, no,” Kurt quickly corrects.   “God, no.  Business partners only.”  It’s such a funny thought to him.  Elliott.  They’re like brothers.  No, he’s definitely not romantically linked with Elliott.  There is someone else… but he quickly pushes Ian out of his brain.  He doesn’t want to think about him. “So this is crazy, right? That we both ended up in the same sleazy place?  Maybe the universe was trying to push us together again.”

Blaine gives an uncomfortable laugh. “Well, there is only one gay bar in Lima, but I suppose…”

An awkward silence grows between them.  Blaine bops his head to the music.  Kurt munches on some peanuts.  They both avoid direct eye contact.  The uneasiness that Kurt had felt when he first walked in begins to return.  Maybe he should go.  

The bartender breaks the silence, asking Blaine if he’d like another drink.  There’s an ease there that Kurt picks up on.  Blaine knows the guy -- like really knows the guy.  Kurt shifts from side to side not sure what to say or do.  He eyes the door, he can still slip out if he needs to.  

“Man, I cannot believe how little this place has changed since I used to come here,” Blaine says, taking a look around.  

“You mean when we were in high school?” Kurt asks.  He’d hardly say coming the three times that they did a lot.  

“No, it was actually after…” he trails off but Kurt picks up on what he’s saying.  After they broke up.  After he broke Blaine’s heart.  Blaine kind of skips past the beat.  Why dredge up all that old stuff.  That’s what the reunion is for, right? Something turns in the pit of Kurt’s stomach.  “When I moved back to Lima, I used to come here a lot.  Thought maybe throwing myself into this place might make me feel better.  Not so alone, you know?”

“Did it help?” Kurt’s voice is small.  

“Maybe,” Blaine says with another laugh.  “I don’t know, it was so long ago.  You know it…” he pauses, thinking it over.  “Alright, if I tell you something - do you promise not to run screaming?”

Kurt’s intrigued.  “Of course.”

Blaine stares intently at his bottle.  “After you and I ended things -- I came back to Lima.  And I sorta, kinda dated Dave Karofsky for a while.”

Of all the things that Blaine could have said -- that is the last thing Kurt expects to hear.  It makes Kurt chuckle into his drink.  He can’t even picture it, it’s such a wild thought.  “Wait, seriously?”

“Shocking, right?”

“A little.  More so that you were into a bear.”

The tension breaks as they let go into easy laughter.  The conversation becomes lighter as they begin to discuss old things.  They talk about Dave Karofsky, and how someone who had once been Kurt’s ghost had turned into a friend whom Kurt sees every few years for lunch.  Blaine mentions he had attended Dave’s wedding.  Kurt mentions he had lunch with Dave and his husband last year.  It’s strange how things can change so much in twenty years.  

They talk about Dalton -- though not about that staircase.  The staircase that will forever be burned in his memory for better or worse.  Instead, they talk about Sebastian Smythe with fondness, though neither could say where he ended up. And about the one time Blaine sang at the Gap to impress a guy whose name neither can remember.  

And for a moment, unprovoked, Blaine mentions his husband.  It’s a startling jolt into reality, but Blaine doesn’t give him any more than a name and a passing story about having to explain to his husband why he refuses to shop at The Gap.  It’s not like Kurt hadn’t heard Blaine had gotten married.  He doesn't remember who had told him or when or even how he had felt about it.  Blaine had wanted to be married.  He got his wish.  And Kurt is happy for him.  He wants to be happy for him.  Still, that missing ring…

As they reminisce, the bartender brings them more drinks.  The room begins to feel warm and familiar.  Kurt isn’t sure if it’s alcohol or Blaine that is making him feel so comfortable so far from home.  They talk about high school and old friends, people whom they’ve lost touch with and people they’re looking forward to seeing tomorrow.  Kurt learns that Blaine developed a surprisingly deep friendship with Santana Lopez.  Blaine learns that Kurt hasn’t talked to Rachel Berry since college.

“I just couldn’t after that show,” Kurt explains.  They’re both giggly from drinking too much - Kurt having to hold his hands up when the bartender offers him a third.  “I mean - not that she even tried to keep in touch with me.  But my god did you watch that thing? It was terrible! She was fine - she was always fine.  But who decided that would be what America wanted to see for a decade?”

Blaine snickers into his drink.  “Well, personally I was offended.  ‘Slaine’,” he uses both hands to make air quotes around the character’s names, “was written out after year two.  I was like ‘fuck that’.  It’s just as well.  Had he stayed on, I might have had to sue their asses for defamation of character.”

“You are not wrong,” Kurt says, unable to stop laughing as he thinks about it.  He puts a hand on Blaine’s shoulder to balance himself so as to not fall off his stool.  

Blaine notices and smirks.  “How drunk are you right now?”

“Less drunk than you are,” Kurt smiles into his glass.  He is buzzed but not at all drunk.  In fact, he feels good and relaxed and happy.  When had he last been this happy?  “Anyway… All I know is that a terrible writer wrote ‘Cert’ as the sassy yet sexless gay best friend.  And he stayed on the show.  The. Entire. Run.  If anyone has the right to sue, it’s going to be me.”  

“Well, for what it’s worth.  I don’t think Cert was anything like you,” Blaine says.  He leans in close.  Kurt can smell the sweet scent of raspberries.   “Personally, I thought you were always sexy.”

Something in the atmosphere shifts.  Suddenly, Blaine is close.  Close enough that he can see the depths of Blaine’s golden eyes.  There’s something there that Kurt hasn’t seen in a long time, and it causes him to break.  

He’s not sure what it is that makes him say it.  He’s not sure if it’s the heaviness of guilt, or the friendliness of Blaine’s demeanor, or the fact that all of this nostalgia is causing him to reflect on his life’s choices - but he can’t help but let the words stumble out.  “Blaine, I’m so sorry.”  

Blaine looks at him, genuinely confused.  “For what?

“For a lot of things, I feel like I owe you an apology for so many things,” Kurt rambles on.  “I was not in a good place and you… I shouldn’t have ended it.  I mean I shouldn’t have ended it the way that I did.  I shouldn’t have hurt you like that.  And I’m sorry that I did.”

Blaine takes a moment to think it over, as if he’s processing everything Kurt’s saying.  “Kurt…” he lets out a sigh. “You weren’t the only one who was a mess back then.  You don’t have anything to be sorry about.  We had a good thing.  We had a great thing, even.  But it’s fine.  It’s all in the past, and I’m fine.”  

Kurt feels a bit of relief wash over him.  Maybe this is why he needed to come back.  Maybe he had just needed to bury his demons.  He feels lighter than he has in, well, a while.  He reaches out for Blaine’s hand and squeezes it.  It feels comforting in his own.  

“Look at us now, all grown up,” Kurt says, a smile sliding across his face.  “I mean, you’re married and I’m…”

“Kurt?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s an open marriage.”

Blaine places his free hand just above Kurt’s knee and squeezes, ever so lightly, he holds it there, stroking his thumb along the side of his thigh.  It’s an invitation.  His cock gets there first, as he watches Blaine’s hand, firm and strong.  His brain becomes fuzzy, but all he can fixate on is the urge to have Blaine’s hand travel up.  This is closure, right?

“Come with me,” Kurt makes the quick decision not to second guess this.  He grabs onto Blaine’s hand with purpose, sliding off the stool and taking Blaine with him.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Blaine smirk as he throws out a few bills on the counter to pay for the drinks.  

***

They’re in the bathroom stall, where Kurt vaguely remembers making out once back at the end of his senior year.  They never would have done anything as daring as have sex in a public place, but just kissing, even in a place that accepted it, felt naughty and fun back then.  

Now, he couldn’t care less that there are people who might know what they’re doing.  His desire is too strong, his brain clouded in a haze of need to taste Blaine again; the wonder of if it will feel so good after so long.  The room is broken up into stalls, dimly lit, and smells as if they are the next in a long line of gay men who will use this place to relieve themselves in more ways than one.  Kurt pulls Blaine back to the farthest stall, ignoring that there’s another couple occupying another stall, the panting sounds of their fucking echoing in the room.  It only turns him on more.  

Once the stall door is locked, Blaine looks at Kurt, his large, dark eyes more sure than Kurt is about this.  It almost throws him off kilter but Kurt looks to Blaine’s mouth, and suddenly he remembers all the things that can be done with it.  His resolve broken, Kurt lunges for a kiss.  

Blaine kisses back with force, pushing Kurt back into the wall.  Kurt doesn’t even care that the metal bar for handicap use is pressing against the back of his thighs.  He just wants to feel Blaine.  They kiss deeply, wantonly.  His sense memory returns and suddenly he feels like a teenager again, hungry for Blaine back when he had been first discovering what sex is.  Kurt moans into the kiss that encourages Blaine to slide his tongue against Kurt’s.  

They’re all hands and mouths, wrapping themselves around each other as they make-out.  Kurt wraps his arms around Blaine’s neck, combing his fingers through Blaine’s curls as he pulls Blaine closer to him, enough so that their bodies are sliding against each other.  Blaine brings his hands down to Kurt’s ass and squeezes with both hands.  Fuck.  He doesn’t remember the last time he’s gotten so hard so fast.  

They begin to rock against each other as they kiss.  Kurt can feel Blaine’s hard cock pushing up against his own.  If they keep going at this speed, he is not going to last long, and dammit, he refuses to come in his pants.  

Kurt breaks the kiss, only for Blaine to start kissing along his jaw and down his neck, Blaine’s touch is electric, and Kurt can’t help but feel dizzy with pleasure.  He loses himself in Blaine’s embrace, soaking up the feeling as much as he can.  It’s been fifteen years since they’ve fucked - how can this possibly feel so good?  

Blaine works his way back up to Kurt’s mouth, though this time, Kurt is able to slow it down.  Kurt busies his hands with the buttons on Blaine’s pants.  Blaine takes a slight step back, allowing for Kurt to pull him out.  Kurt takes a quick second to look down at Blaine’s cock; his thick and delicious cock.  If only they weren’t in a bathroom stall right now, Kurt would take his time devouring that cock.  Instead, he takes to stroking it, becoming satisfied with the low moans and grunts that are eliciting Blaine’s mouth.  

Blaine steadies himself against the wall, as he begins to pump his hips in time with Kurt’s strokes, fucking himself into Kurt’s hand.  “Let me,” Kurt says, in a low whisper, biting gently at Blaine’s lips before they fall into a sloppy kiss.  Blaine is close - he knows Blaine is close, he can feel it as Blaine arches further into his hand.  Kurt speeds up his hand, deliberate in his strokes.  It’s a little rough, but Blaine becomes more and more undone, uttering little obscenities as he closes eyes and allows himself the pleasure.  Blaine comes, jolting into Kurt’s hand, and lets out a moan that Kurt covers with a kiss.  

“Give me a second,” Blaine says, breathlessly, holding firmly against the wall as he comes down.  

Kurt smirks, licking the come off his fingers.  His own cock is throbbing with need but there’s something incredibly satisfying seeing Blaine loose and fucked out.  

Blaine takes a second to put himself back in his pants and then goes down on his knees.  This isn’t at all what Kurt had been expecting, and his eyes go wide as Blaine sucks a kiss over Kurt’s clothed cock.  

“You really don’t have to do that,” Kurt says, feeling a little guilty.  Blaine’s legs are sticking out of the stall door and anyone could interrupt them.  

“Shut up and let me blow you, Kurt,” Blaine says, a wicked grin on his face as he unzips Kurt’s zipper.  Kurt’s cock bobs free, and like a man allowed to drink water after years in the desert, Blaine sucks Kurt all the way down in one go.  

“Jesus, fuck Blaine.”  He really doesn’t care if there’s anyone else in there who can hear them.  Blaine had always been good at blow jobs; always so eager to give them, and Kurt’s glad to know that Blaine’s enthusiasm hasn’t changed.  Blaine sucks him down, greedily, and he loses himself in the sensation of Blaine’s velvety mouth on him.  

“I’m curious about something,” Blaine says, pulling off.  Kurt can’t imagine what, but he doesn’t have to wait long to find out.  Blaine begins to stroke him, slowly, drawing it out.  Then sucks a kiss to the tip of Kurt’s cock, using his tongue to swirl and tease it, before he sucks him down once more.  Kurt lets out a heavy groan as his knees nearly buckle.  “Huh. So that really still does things for you?”

Kurt can’t help but give a little laugh.  “Shut up and finish me off, Blaine,” Kurt manages the tease despite him now being desperate to come.  

Amused, Blaine obliges, sucking Kurt into his mouth again. Kurt closes his eyes, taking it all in as he lets Blaine take him over the edge.   He spills into Blaine’s mouth, Blaine being able to swallow with ease -- something, he notes, Blaine hadn’t been able to do before.  As Blaine pulls off, he licks his lips, and remains on his knees for a long moment.  

The atmosphere then shifts suddenly.  Blaine looks down for a long while, and Kurt can’t tell what Blaine’s feeling -- Guilt? Sadness? Regret?

“Thank you for that,” Blaine says, his sincerity layered with something that feels like finality.  Blaine gives Kurt’s hip a kiss before helping put Kurt back into his jeans.  There’s something strangely intimate about it, and despite the fact that Kurt is feeling blissed out from his orgasm it’s now tinged with a heavier, unknown feeling.  Blaine gets to his feet.  There’s a lot going on behind his eyes that Kurt can’t read, but Blaine says nothing, only gives Kurt a soft kiss on the lips.  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”  

Blaine leaves the stall but Kurt stays, unsure what to make of everything that happened.  A lot just happened.  A lot.  And as the buzz of sex begins to wear off, a sickening gnawing grows in his stomach.  He just had sex with his ex-fiancé whom he hasn’t seen in years.  He just cheated on his boyfriend.  But what makes Kurt feel the worst, as he slides down the wall to sit on the sticky floor because his legs can no longer hold him, is the realization that for Blaine - that might have been his way of saying goodbye.  

[guksauce]

~TickledPink!~

Part Five

Pairing: Jjk x Reader Pregnant AU

Word Count: 4,091K

Rated: M

Book Warnings: Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mild Smut, Adult Language, Fluff City.

Author: @guksauce

Notes: Thank you to those who give this story and myself love 💖 Thank you go the likes and shares, that helps spread this story and that’s something is writers are so grateful for. I’m so glad you’re all enjoying this.

Tag List: @jamkookies @jk97luv @1-in-abillion

Tick. Tock.

The hands on the clock hanging high above the end of isle 9 tick loudly in time with the pounding of your heart threatening to escape your chest.

Tick. Tock.

You’re stuck. Frozen to the linoleum floor beneath you by the soles of your shoes with a giant, foreboding wall of pregnancy tests in all different brands towering above you. Maybe you should just get one of every kind. Maybe you should ask for help. Your eyes dart from one end of the isle to the other finding only stock boys and creepy men in the pharmacy. Looking back to the wall, a blue box stands out to you. Neon yellow letters advertise that 3 tests come in one pack and you quickly yank it off the peg its slid onto. Your eyes slide down further to the bottom of the wall and a bright pink box display’s the words “FASTER RESULTS” written in all caps and you grab that one too. It holds 2 more test and you wonder vaguely if five tests is too many. Drawing small, firm circles into your temple, you think heavily about how you shouldn’t even have to take a test at all.

Tick. Tock.

You shouldn’t even have to be standing in this isle worrying about what kind to get.

Tick. Tock.

You shouldn’t have to be staying with the boys and-

A ringing in your pocket pulls you from your mind babbles, the screen showing a text from Namjoon.

Joon♥: Y/n. Are you ok? You left without saying anything. And…in a hurry, might I add.

For the first time today, a smile graces your lips and you make a mental note to give him a giant hug when you get home. Quickly you type your reply.

Y/N: I’m fine! Just needed some things from the store. Sorry. Do you need anything from here? I could get some things for dinner if you need me to.

Deciding that five tests is enough, you scramble to get to the check-out line and throw the tests down onto the moving black belt as a ding from your phone signals Namjoon reply.

Joon♥: No, I think we’re ok. Jin is making Yukaejang tonight. Thanks though.

The bags under the cashier’s eyes suggest that she’s probably been here for more hours than she’d like to be as she runs the first box through the red laser in front of her. You can tell by the empathetic look in her eyes that she’s unsure of how you’re feeling about the possibility of being pregnant, but you’re eternally grateful when she doesn’t say anything and just slides both boxes quickly into a small paper bag she had hidden under the counter. You must be frowning because as much as you wish she wouldn’t say anything at all, when she hands you the bag, her smile grows fonder and the pitch of her voice sinks to a low motherly tone you didn’t know you needed to hear.

“I hope you get the results you’re looking for.” She says and turns away from you to the customer behind you. Even though she isn’t looking at you anymore, to the best of your ability you return her smile and rush out of the store to your car. The weight of the tests in the paper bag feels lighter than you imagined, as well as the world of nervousness you carry on your shoulders.

When you arrive at the apartment, you ignore the concerned calls the guys throw at you and rush straight to the bathroom in the hallway. You can feel the way each of the nerves in your body quivers and rips apart into more, smaller, nerves that quiver two times as violently as you open each package of Tests, laying them all out on the counter. They’re all equally as intimidating as the next, but you prepare them all the same. Your hands sweat and shake after you’ve taken them all and the cold edge of the tub you sit upon only offers you a tiny amount of relief as you wait. While you think of all the ways this could literally go ANY slower, as though you were watching a pot of water waiting for it to boil, your mind wonders off in directions you wish it wouldn’t. What if Joon kicks you out? If Yoongi finds out will he fight with the boys again? Beg them to make you leave? You should anyway…shouldn’t you? And what if this is too much for the boys? This is totally unfair of you right? They…don’t deserve this.

Too many minutes pass before Jungkook starts to worry you’ve fallen in the toilet to an entirely different universe. He intends to check your room to see if maybe you’ve snuck out without them knowing. But as he passes door after door, a terrifying, blood curdling scream curls around the door frame of the bathroom, threatening to warp everything in its path as it floods the hall. Barging in feels like the sane thing to do as the hairs on his arms stand on end from the hilt of his elbow to the very tips of his fingers, but he stays glued to the door as he knocks heavily.

“Y/n?! Are you alright?” Jungkook pushes his ear against the door and listens when you don’t answer but he understands why when he hears the unnerving sound of gagging and vomit splashing the back of the porcelain toilet bowl. “I…Can I get you anything? A glass of ice water? Y/n…?” Again, he hears nothing and his worry spikes as he tries the door handle. Normally he wouldn’t invade on your privacy, but he finds the door unlocked and you on the other side with your head in your hands and your lips parted with exhaustion as your body trembles.

“Y/n…” He breathes out and immediately grabs a washcloth out of the vanity drawer, soaking it in warm water. Kneeling next to you, he tucks strands of your hair behind your ear. Tears streak your cheeks, dragging with them streams of black mascara. “Hey. Look at me.” He instructs gently. When you lift your head to look at him, his brows scrunch together sympathetically, and a small smile grows on his lips. He takes his time looking over your face and glides his fingers into your hair, holding you in place to wipe away your tears. The action is a rather intimate one you think, but you watch his concentrated eyes as he worries at your obvious pain.

“Why are you crying, beautiful? What happened?” He asks, blushing only slightly at the endearment he’d let slip, and uses the cloth to wipe your pretty pink lips free of any left-over residue. He’s careful and slow, never missing a single detail. The truth of the situation floats around in your mind. The way Jungkook’s eyes burn into your soul only upsets you further, making telling him the results that much more devastating.

Today marks the 6th day that you’d woken with the violent need to empty your stomach of all its contents. At first you thought nothing of it. Maybe it was something Jin made that you simply didn’t agree with. The second night could have been the 2 and a half bowls of ice cream you and Jimin had consumed together in front of the TV on movie night. The third could have been how you’d brushed your teeth and then downed a glass of orange juice immediately after, gagging when the two substances mixed on your tongue. The fourth day you’d tried to convince yourself that maybe you were sick but with only 2 ugly acts of puking first thing in the morning every morning, you knew this was something different. You’d made all the excuses you could for yourself before you started to panic on the fifth day. Thinking back to your last period and reminding yourself of the current date, your mind had shut down and you’d retreated to bed early during the middle of the show you had been watching with the boys. So far, you were 2 weeks late and counting. Five pregnancy tests and another round of puking that only validated the results later, proved that your worst fear had come true.

And it’s in this moment, looking into Jungkook’s eyes, that you crumble completely. “I…I’m pregnant.” Initially it comes out in a choked sob. But the flickering Diner sign reflects in the toilet water, a horror mirage that makes what comes out next shrill. “That bastard impregnated me!” You screech out, the fear in your voice making Jungkook flinch. He doesn’t know what to say, afraid to tip you over an edge that holds no ground beneath it as a helplessness overrides his every thought and stops his hands from working on drying your tears.

In a rush of speed and worry, one by one the rest of the men come around the corner of the hallway and pile into the bathroom just as Jungkook snaps from his shock and wraps his arms around you, scooping you onto his lap. The cold porcelain of the tub shoots bolts of icy sensations along his back, but your body keeps him warm as he gently shushes your cries. They’re quiet and muffled in the fabric of his shirt but they still kill him a little on the inside. Namjoon, confused by your disheveled state, kneels at his feet and rests his hand on the back of your head.

“What the hell happened, Kook?” He asks, watching the way you bunch up Kooks shirt in your palm.

“Namjoon…” Jimin breathes out as Namjoon raises his head to look at him. The language Jimins body speaks is one of staccato words and stiff motions as one of your five pregnancy tests weighs heavily in his hand. He double, no, triple thinks about giving it to Joon before regrettably handing it over. Joon falls next to Jungkook against the tub and covers his mouth as he examines the test. Two red lines, side by side, stare back him.

Yoongi stands idly by, an arm wrapped around his midsection while the other presses stiffly against his side, heart clenching and fingers playing nervously with the opening of his jeans pocket. Through the small window above the toilet, a flash of lightning strikes too close for comfort and everyone in the bathroom jumps.

“I should have killed that guy. Who the hell does he think he is anyway!? Putting his hands on you! On ANY woman! How dare he put you in this situation! DAMN IT I SHOULD HAVE KILLED HIM!” Namjoon yells. The others stay silent and you peek at the 7 men standing before you. Their faces are twisted with sadness and a new kind of guilt settles in the pit of your stomach for making such beautiful features into blue, blurred paintings. They know now, why you’re here.

“Namjoon…” Jin warns with a loving hand on his brothers’ shoulder.

“I’m sorry…I’m just so…” Namjoon tries to explain but goes radio silent, only the subtle sound of unsteady breathing amongst the boys left over. His eyes rim a dark maroon and the swell of a single tear whelms them, but they never fall.

Outside, a monstrous growl of thunder rolls slowly over Seoul. Heavy drops of rain pelt the earth, leaving the air stagnant with the sweet scent of soil. It contrasts the delicious scent of Yukaejang boiling on the stove that no one seems to want to eat now. Wind howls and rattles the glass of the window, the room going dark as another crack of thunder pounds overhead.

“I’ll get some candles lit.” Jimin announces and quickly leaves the room.

“Kook bring her to the living room. I’ll light the fireplace. Hoseok, gather up some blankets. And Yoongi, pillows. We’ll all sleep together tonight.” Jin snaps into action and orders all his younger brothers to their tasks, the timbre of his voice light and friendly. “Taehyung, can you clean up for Y/n? Maybe get her some fresh pajamas?”

Tae doesn’t move. His eyes are glued to the tests lined in a row on the counter, all of them with double red lines showing on their little screens. All of them giving a new meaning to why you’re here. To why Namjoon brought you here. To why he wanted-no, NEEDED to take care of you.

“Taehyung-ah.” Jin said softer and watched the young one’s eyes move to where Jungkook still cradled you in his arms before turning on his heals, following his eldest brother away from the thickness of the bathroom.

Namjoon leaves too. He says nothing and you don’t expect him too. The soft kiss he leaves on top of your head says enough before he exits.

“Jungkook…I’m scared.” You whisper low enough that you don’t think he heard you over the sound of the downpour outside. But he hugs you closer to him and talks into your hair. Yet again he doesn’t know what to say, what he should say. The first thing that comes to mind seems like the most obvious and the least sensitive, but it feels right.

“Don’t be.” Right. As if that were even an option. Mentally smacking himself for saying that, he doesn’t expect you to curl into him anymore than you already have and squeeze him.

“Okay.” Is all you say, defeated and tired as he stands and carries you with him to his room. You honestly don’t have the strength to disagree but the choice you make to believe him settles something in your heart. If he says don’t be scared, then you won’t be. Taehyung meets you both in the hall, your pajamas in hand as he follows you into Jungkook’s room to leave them for you before exiting. It’s very dark, illuminated only by the occasional flash of lightning. Warmth leaves your body as you’re torn from his body, your hands reaching out and catching his arm and the hem of his shirt before he can get too far away.

“Hey.” He says softly, close enough that you can feel his warm breath dance over the apples of your cheeks. “I’ll be right back. Just getting you some baby wipes for your face, ok? I’ll be back, I promise.” A flash of lighting illuminates his face for a split second and your breath catches at how close he is, and how painfully beautiful he looks. His hair, a heap of black waves, frames his face perfectly. Its’ darkness lightens his chocolate irises and porcelain skin, and only deepens the rosy pink of his lips. They’re parted, his lips, slightly and dripping with his promise as he pulls away from you. You listen to the pitter patter of his feet mix with the raindrops hitting the window and quickly change when you hear him rummaging around in his cabinets.

The pajamas delivered to you were a gift from Jimin and his mountain of Chanel products. A baby pink silk set with the Chanel logo embroidered in black clung to your frame perfectly. The bottoms alone made you want to just sink under Jungkook’s blankets and fall asleep right on the spot. The top has long sleeves that you’re sure are going to be too long for you. Yes, Jimin seems to be just a tad more petit that the rest of the guys but his physique still holds its own strength, a strength you don’t fit into. Still, you pull your top off just as Jungkook steps out from his bathroom. Flashes of light freeze images of your bare back to him. The curve of your side and swell of your hip making him take a slow step forward before the room goes dark again. More flashes reveal to him your arms raised high above your head, your hair waving and grazing your skin as silk slinks down your body. But one last flash shows him the yellowing bruises at your hips and the deep cuts the man’s nails scarred your body with at the small of your back. Clearing his throat so as not to startle you, he walks in your direction, the bag of baby wipes crinkling in his hands the closer he gets.

“Are you ready?” He asks as you turn to him, eyes finally adjusting to the dark as you reach out for him again. He takes your hand in his and glides it up your arm as you lean into him.

“Yeah I think so.” A part of you is afraid to meet the others in the living room. You can imagine it now, the looks on their faces. Disgust. Did you disgust them?

“Do I…disgust you? Or…or do you think the others are disgusted by me now that they know what happened?” You know it’s ridiculous to ask this question, but it gurgles just beneath the surface of your already overflowing mind.

His features become disgruntled in an array of different emotions. “Y/n. If there is anyone that we are disgusted with, it’s the sorry excuse for a man that did this to you.” A quiver breaks through his voice that almost makes you wish you hadn’t brought it up. Even in the darkness of the room, when he cups your cheeks in his gentle hands and strokes your tear stained skin with his thumbs, you’re glad that all your deepest thoughts and emotions come out in front of him. “Trust me when I tell you that there’s nothing in this entire world that could ever make the guys or myself disgusted by you. Okay?” He asks and again you choose to lean on any reason to believe him that he gives you. “Trust me.” Jungkook says softer this time. With unsteady hands you reach up and holds his wrists like they’re the only things keeping you from drowning.

“I trust you.” You whisper and push your cheek deeper into the curve of Jungkook’s palm, who pulls you into his chest and curls his fingers in your hair. Laced with hints of cocoanut and peppermint, the scent of his cologne reminds you of the beach. The warmth of his chest against your cheek makes you think of the sun and the feeling of being baked by its rays. And the sound of his steady breathing feels like your standing in the sand listening to the pulse of the waves as they crash and pull on the shore. For a moment you forget its raining. You forget about the lightning that strikes the ground and the ominous roll of thunder. For a moment…you’re at your happy place.

“Come on. The boys are probably worried.” Protective arms detach from around you, but he doesn’t step away. Instead, with his free hand, he laces your fingers together and guides you to the living room. Everyone is there, and regardless of the mood they had all entered through the bathroom, the new mood they brought to the living room was much lighter. Each of them smiled up at you as you joined then, Jungkook plopping the two of you down on the couch next to Taehyung who had already made you a spot there.

“I hope you like comedy because there’s this hilarious Adam Sandler movie I’ve been waiting to watch.” Hobi announces in a voice that brightens the room, and presses play for the flat screen hanging on the wall. You don’t have time to pay much attention to the movie because Jungkook gets to work opening the package of baby wipes. Long, nimble fingers pull out one of the damp white cloths and presses it to your skin. In carefully calculated swipes, Jungkook clears your face of all the residue left over from your make up. You watch his eyes. They’re stunning, you think to yourself. His extra dark chocolate orbs turn into a nutty honey color under the flickering light of the candles lit and scattered around the living room. And the deeper you look, the more you see. A ring of coal black encircles them, matching the void in the center. Cracks that resemble that of the bark of trees trap flecks of gold within them. Though you know how young he is, its as if you can see every age ring within him, see the oldest of oaks, a golden wood.

With each swipe, he becomes less concentrated, less accurate in his movements and finds himself going over parts of your face he knows he’s already cleaned but he chooses them as his favorite’s as he goes over them one last time. The line of your jaw just under your ear, the very top of your cheekbone just under your eye, and the thin path of your nose that buttons right at the end. It’s only when he catches your eyes on him that he remembers what he’s doing.

“Um. I think we’re done.” He says quietly, dropping his head down to attempt to hide the way he sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, but you don’t miss it. And you definitely don’t miss the adorably tiny mole just under his bottom lip. How enchanting, you think. “I’m going to put this away and grab an extra pillow. Do you need anything?” He asks, daring to peek at you.

“Maybe an extra blanket?” Behind you, you observe a sleeping Tae curled up into the corner of the couch with his arms covering his face. A light snore seeps through his plush lips and the blanket he’d gathered for you on the couch was cocooned around him. “Mine is being used.” You say through a small giggle as you turn back to Jungkook who smiles down at his sleeping friend and nods.

“Ill be right back.” He races off down the hall, leaving you with the rest of the guys. Hobi and Jimin are snuggled up together under the same blanket on the floor, clinging to each other as they giggle and chuckle at the scenes playing before them. Namjoon reads with his back pressed into Jin who snores louder than Tae, in a lounge chair. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, reading glasses resting on the edge of his nose as he turns page after page. Its ridiculously adorable how both unbothered and comforted by his older brother he is. Jin stirs in his sleep and Joon looks up just long enough to make sure he’s ok and you smile. Suga sits with his back against the leg of the coffee table and his arms folded over his chest. His eyes are closed but you can tell he isn’t asleep by the way his foot ticks to a beat you can’t hear. From what you can see he doesn’t seem to have any headphones in but he’s listening to a song only he can hear. You wish you could hear it too.

Jungkook returns as quickly as he can, a pillow and the comforter from his bed spilling out of his arms as he approaches you. Into the opposite corner from Tae, kook throws one of the pillows behind his head and places the other into his side for you. If he were anyone else besides Joon, you probably would have hesitated. However, as you lay your head upon the pillow and tuck your legs behind Tae’s, you can’t imagine being anywhere else. You take one last look around the room and find a comfort in it you can only recall experiencing one other time in your life; your friendship with Joon.

Sparring a glance at your childhood friend, your savior in many ways, an old smile you’ve smiled more times than you can count perks up the corners of your lips. He’s sound asleep, the book in his hands closed on his lap as his glasses tip closer and closer to the end of his nose while he breathes deeply, his head tilted to the side in an endearing way. Before long, Jungkook goes limp beneath you as well. Both your bodies and minds calm from the stress and excitement of the day as the thunder outside persists, all of it a natural lullaby that’s sung to you one note at a time. You are only granted a moment long enough to wonder if this is the song Yoongi is listening to, but as soon as you focus on all the components to the song, the lyrics, the melody, the tempo, you’re drifting far, far, off into dreamland.

Part Four

Master List

Part Six

[keare-linnua]

Way Out There

I'm a long way from the one that I loved

I've been tending old flames, lamenting what was

Drifting in a land time forgot

If you think that I've changed, you know me not

~Lord Huron - Way Out There

There's only angst.

___

Sometimes she wakes up and he's not there. She then lies still for a while, only a whisper of breath in the silence of the morning, listening carefully to any sign he is somewhere out of sight. Even though she's sure if he's not by her side he's nowhere to be found. She spends such days longing for his smile and small touch, every hour dull and similar, like a neverending loop until the sun moves beyond the horizon and a softer, warmer light illuminates the room.

Then he comes back.

"Hello, babe," a whisper and a soft brush of lips pull her out of a feverish nap. She opens her eyes, sees his face and smiles.

When her hand touches his cheek he's warm, a little scruffy and without a doubt back.

"Hey."

He sits on the edge of the bed, pets her hair gently, tries to hide a worry in his eyes but she has learned to see past through him a long time ago.

"Have you been sleeping all day?" He asks softly and there is no shaming in his tone.

"I don't have much to do when you're away."

He scowls at those words but quickly takes her hand and kisses the top of it. Then he lies down on the bed next to her and it takes them a moment of fumbling under the sheets to finally rest, cuddling. His warm lips kiss her temples.

They don't speak much, there's not really much left to say and she just chooses to cherish the ethereal intimacy of this moment. While it lasts.

Hours pass with them not sharing a single word.

"You know," she starts timid, afraid to break the silence. "Sometimes I think all of this has only been in my head. That I've just... made you up."

He traces a small circle at her palm, and then another right next to it. He mimics the gesture a few times, carefully drawing an infinity loop on her bare skin. When she looks up at him he wears a bitter smile, his eyes are shining with that barely visible trace of tears.

"No, babe, I'm too perfect to be made up, even your beautiful mind can't come up with something like that," he jokes but his voice is brittle.

"I miss you."

"I'm here. I'm always here. Remember that." He turns to the side and shelters her in his arms, his warmth and a steady heartbeat so different, so opposed to her own ragged breath and cold skin. "They're here," he announces with a whisper.

They're here to take him away again.

She only has enough time to sit up when the door shoot open and the sick white light pours in.

They come in threes. Fully armed with sticks and tasers. Even so, she had already killed two. They hate her for that, they have no mercy, no regard of her feelings.

"Why do you have to do this, you know you will get it anyway," one of the men sighs, pulling out a syringe. "Hold her."

She waits up in place to fool them, to lure them, only when they are about to grab her both arms, she slides down from the bed to dive under their feet. One catches her by the ankle but she kicks the second with enough strength to push him away. She kicks and growls, punches and scratches everywhere she can see because maybe this time, maybe this time...

The electric shock comes like a wave through her whole body, twitching every muscle with terrible pain. She gets pushed on the floor brutally, one of them kneels at her back while the other presses his whole weight at her legs. But her head is turned to the bed now and she can see Elliott even through her tearing eyes and disheveled hair. He kneels closer and covers her palm with his.

She blabbers 'no' over and over again when the syringe breaches her skin and the cold medicine spills in her veins.

She closes her eyes, weeping ugly into the cold tiled floor as long as she can feel a light touch of fingers on her own hand.

Two men jump up and back off fast, like expecting her to try and get them but she doesn't move.

Curled on the floor, she feels the touch slowly disappearing.

"I love you," she mumbles through cries.

"For fucks sake, when are you gonna understand this man is dead?" One of the men snaps and then they leave.

When she opens her eyes Elliott is not there anymore.

She's left there alone in the darkness of the room.

[reifromrfa]

On the Line - Chapter 6

Prompt: Alternate Universe

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 | Day 5

Also posted this on fanfiction.net because I realized that the italicized words don’t always come out when you read using your phone so here it is :)

On the Line

Thanks for all the likes, reblogs and comments! :) Please let me know what you think :)

Warning: This chapter contains violence.

Day 6

Assistant Kang couldn’t leave today because the storm in the town had gotten worse and no planes could land. Jumin was about to lose his mind. He still had crappy signal and virtually zero internet. He couldn’t research about MC. The library in town was also closed. He lowered his head and gripped his hair, swearing. He hadn’t felt this helpless in a long time. His worry for MC grew and even though he knew he should be exhausted from getting very little sleep the night before, the stress and anxiety he felt kept him going.

Thunder broke through the loud pitter patter of the rain on the roof and Jumin groaned.

He wanted to do something. Was time travel possible? Maybe he could organize a team of the most brilliant scientists and ask them to find a way to allow him to go back in time?

And then what? He was going to change history? He would save MC and bring her into the future? For all he knew, MC could be alive and well right now, albeit he would be as old as his grandmother. But that didn’t matter. If she was alive, then he would be able to alleviate some of the stress.

Finally the phone rang and Jumin picked up before it could ring for more than a second.

“MC? Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer, which made him worry even more.

“MC?”

“Jumin.”

He inhaled sharply. Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been crying. The way she said his name sounded so broken that Jumin’s heart shattered into a million pieces.

“MC, what happened? Are you hurt?”

“Jumin, I’m scared.”

He gripped the phone so hard he thought it would break in two.

“What happened? Tell me everything.”

MC marched into her father’s office and demanded him to call off the wedding. Her father was taken aback, of course, but his shock quickly turned to fury.

“You should be thankful Hong Chul fell for you and wants to marry you! Such a strapping young man with a bright future ahead —he will make a fine husband, MC!”

“But father, that man is mean and cruel and vile. I can’t stand the sight of him, much less imagine living with him!” MC screamed, frustrated. Why can’t her father see what a terrible person Hong Chul was? Why wouldn’t he listen to her?

“Nonsense! He’s quite the gentleman and I heard from his father that he fended off men who were rude to you!”

MC looked at him incredulously before slamming her fist on her father’s desk. “He attacked men who were simply talking to me! Father, there is a fine line between a jealous boyfriend and an obsessive psychopath!”

“How dare you throw a tantrum here! Slamming your fist down a man’s desk? My God, have I taught you nothing?!”

“Father, please,” MC begged. “Please listen to me. I cannot —no, I will not marry Hong Chul!”

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. MC and her father both turned towards it. Without waiting for permission to enter, the door was knocked back against the wall and MC paled.

Hong Chul strode inside, his face twisted in anger, a bouquet of roses in his hand.

“What’s this? I come over to surprise my bride-to-be with flowers and I hear her say that she will not marry me?” Hong Chul said, glaring menacingly at MC.

“I’m so sorry, Hong Chul. MC doesn’t know what she’s saying. Don’t worry, I will speak with her and—"

MC took a deep breath and met his gaze. It was now or never.

“No.” MC said loudly and clearly. “You heard correctly. I will not marry you, Hong Chul.”

Hong Chul’s handsome face morphed into the ugly man that she knew he was as he gave MC a vicious snarl. “How dare you insult me! After I’ve given you money, this is how you repay me?!”

MC’s eyes widened and she turned to her father, who held his head high but refused to meet his daughter’s gaze.

“Father, how could you?”

“How could he? He did it so he could feed you and your sisters! He’s doing his duty as the man of the house! You’re quite bold to be so selfish when your father is doing everything he can to keep you alive!” Hong Chul screamed, taking a step closer to her.

“Father, we can find a way out of this. Please reconsider! I can help you, father! We don’t need them—“

All of a sudden, strong fingers wrapped around MC’s upper arm and yanked her back, making MC cry out in pain.

“You don’t know anything, do you?” Hong Chul said, drawing his face close to hers. “I bought the vineyard from your father. I own this place now.”

MC felt the floor disappearing from under her as her legs gave way. But Hong Chul wouldn’t let her go. Instead, he tightened his grip and kept her upright, an evil smile making its way to his face.

“Everything you own is now mine, MC. In a few days, your soul will be mine too.”

MC shook her head. “No.”

She turned to her father, who had sunk to his chair and had his head in his hands. “Father. Father, take it back. Please. Father, I’m begging you. If you love me, don’t let me do this, please!”

“Shut up!” Hong Chul exclaimed, his nails sinking into her arm as he shook her. He turned to her father and said, “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll make sure MC knows that this deal is final.” Before dragging her out of her father’s office.

“Let go of me!” MC screamed, struggling against his grip. Several of their workers who were inside the house turned to look at them. MC saw her friend looking at them with worry, heard her sisters calling out to her, but she was pulled forward by Hong Chul towards her room.

“How dare you make a fool out of me?! Me! Your husband!”

“We’re not married yet, Hong Chul.” MC responded vehemently.

Hong Chul gritted his teeth. He pushed open the door to her room and dragged her inside, shutting the door behind them. MC’s heart banged against her ribcage and her eyes unconsciously slid to the phone sitting on the bedside table.

Jumin…God, please help me.

Hong Chul grabbed her face in his hand, forcing her to look at him.

“I will not be made into the laughing stock of this decade. You will marry me, MC. No other man can have you. You will love me and worship me and only me.”

“I will never love a man like you, Hong Chul.” MC replied.

Hong Chul’s eyes burned with rage and MC saw him drop the bouquet to the ground and raise his hand. MC’s head snapped to the side as his palm connected with her cheek, her jaw throbbing from the pain. The force of the slap disoriented her for a while and as Hong Chul released her arm, she fell to the ground, clutching the side of her face.

Tears flowed down her cheeks and MC closed her eyes, wishing —no, praying that she could be by Jumin’s side instead of the monster who stood in front of her.

“That should teach you to stay in your place, MC.” Hong Chul said. He got down in front of her and looked at her and MC stared at him icily, the tears still flowing down her cheeks. Hong Chul chuckled. “You’re really something, MC. Such a beautiful girl but I didn't know you had so much fire in you. I can’t wait for the day that we get married. Taming you will be so much fun.” He reached out to her but MC involuntarily flinched backwards. Hong Chul dropped his hand and got to his feet, smirking.

“I’m so glad we had this discussion. See you tomorrow, MC.”

With that, he left, closing the door behind him as MC buried her face in her hands and cried, her sobs echoing around the empty room.

Jumin’s fists were clenched and he had gotten to his feet, pacing the room. He kept swearing, seeing nothing but red.

“I’ll kill him,” he said, his anger rolling off him in waves. He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. It killed him to be in this position. He had everything —he had the money and the power to ensure her safety. But what he didn’t have was a freaking time machine!

“I’m seriously considering that right now.” MC replied quietly.

“I can’t stand this.” Jumin said, frustrated. “I want to help you. I desperately want to reach you but I can’t. How can I be your angel when I can’t even do this for you, MC? What is the purpose of letting me meet you if I can’t even save you?”

He slammed his fist hard against the wall, angry at Hong Chul, angry at their circumstance, angry at himself.

“What are you doing?” MC asked, having heard the thumping noise from Jumin’s side.

Jumin let out a breath and counted to ten in his head, calming himself down. It was like telling an erupting volcano to stop spitting out lava.

“Jumin?” came MC’s worried voice.

“I’m here. I…I’m trying to calm down.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump my problems on you.”

“No, don’t apologize. I’m the one who should apologize. How can I call myself a man if I can’t protect you?”

“Jumin…It’s not your fault we’re 67 years apart. And hearing your voice is comforting enough.”

“I will speak to you until my last breath if only that can save you from that wretched man.” Jumin sighed. “I really wish I can protect you. I wish I had invested money into research regarding time traveling.”

That made MC laugh a little. “Jumin, I wouldn’t want you anywhere near that guy. He’s crazy. I don’t want you to get hurt. And also, time traveling isn’t possible. Don’t waste your money on it. I’d rather you put your money to better use.”

“I am capable of defending myself. And what better use could there be for my money if not time travel?”

“Jumin…”

“I’m kidding,” he replied sadly. “I know time travel is impossible if not dangerous.”

But that doesn’t mean I won’t travel back in time if I were given a chance.

"What are you going to do now?" Jumin asked her quietly, finally getting some control over his emotions..

"I don't know. I want to run away but seeing how violent Hong Chul is, I'm afraid of what he would do to my family if I were to escape."

Jumin groaned internally. MC cared so much about her family that she was willing to sacrifice her happiness and her freedom for them; why couldn't her father do the same? For once, he wanted someone to be selfish. He wanted her to put herself above her family and think about her well-being before theirs. But even though they only spoke through the phone, he knew MC would never abandon her family or put them in harm’s way.

“What about the authorities? Have you tried going to them?”

“The authorities are putty in his hands. A little bit of extra cash goes a long here.”

Jumin wasn’t surprised. “What if you left with your family? All of you.”

“I’ve thought of that as well. But my father…he’s quite attached to this place. My mother designed our house, you see…”

“I’m about to lose my mind.”

“What?”

Jumin sank onto his bed and propped his elbow on his knee, resting his head on his hand. “I’ve never felt this helpless in my entire life. It’s driving me insane. Why is this happening to us?”

“Jumin,” came her sweet voice. “you gave me hope. You’re giving me strength to fight. I was quite content to just slip into the role of the obedient daughter and do everything I was told. I was preparing to kill my emotions on the night the phone rang. But as I listened to you talking about Elizabeth the 3rd…well, it was so cute that I was smiling the entire night. And the more we talked, the more I wanted to get to know you more…the more I wanted to see you.” She laughed. “It may be impossible, but I…I want to believe that we’ll see each other someday. I want to believe that I am capable of shaping my own destiny, like you.”

His face felt hot. His pulse quickened and it felt like his heart was bursting out of his chest. His anger vanished and Jumin felt like he was soaring.

“Jumin?”

“MC,” he said. “You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear you say that. I…I really want to see you.”

“Me too. Perhaps in our next life.”

“You believe in reincarnation too, MC?”

“Yes. I do. I hope I get to meet you in my next life, Jumin.”

He never believed in the supernatural. He was a man of logic, of science and facts.

But for her, he would believe anything.

“I hope I get to meet you in my next life, as well.”

1  |  2  |  3  |  4  |  5  |  x  |  7  |  8  |  9  |  Soon?

Buy me a Mango Shake? (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞

[lagrin9a]

Draugr 02 - The High Prophet

   Well, what do you know? There was a road all the way out here, which gave Llew two more obstacles to deal with. For one, he had to find a new spot to relax in. And two, who were these people?    At a safe distance, tucked within the brush and foliage, Llew found a procession of dark-robed individuals. Healers, he assumed upon first glance, but upon further inspection, he not only realized the cut of their garments were different, but he found that their robes were far too dark to be that of Healers. Raelah often described their robes as a light purple, which appeared as a light shade to him. Llew scanned each and every member, bowing their heads beneath their hoods and uttering a song-like chant in unison. Then he reached something that made him freeze, as though he were locking eyes with a viper. The figure at the head of the procession darkened the space around him, carrying a hefty scent of decay that Llew could feel from his hiding spot. He dawned robes that appeared more ornate than the others, complete with trimming, a light stole around his shoulders, and a silver pendant. The figure bore a staff adorned with feral gwythaint feathers and topped with a lamb skull, which seemed to drain all energy around it. Llew felt the organ in his chest tremble as he focused on the leader who guided the head of the train. Every fiber of his muscle and bone begged him to run in the opposite direction, but his intrigue bade him to stay put.    One by one, the procession disappeared down the path as it winded between the trees. When the last one vanished out of sight, Llew breathed again. He slumped down and praised the gods he hadn’t been seen. When he was confident that he was alone again, Llew approached the small path. It was far too narrow and overgrown for anyone to use regularly. Perhaps this procession was a fluke. He sighed in relief, knowing that his chances of ever been seen via this road were low.    Llew was ready to return to his favorite river spot, but hesitated. He peered down the road with numerous questions invading his mind. Who were they? Why were they traveling down this road and not the main one? How come he had never seen men like them before? And what was the story with their leader?    The logical part of Llew’s mind nagged him, Don’t! You remember what happened yesterday. If you really care about Raelah and Ronan, you’ll return to the river, and come home before dusk like you promised.    Llew turned his head in the directed of his place of comfort. He could just go about his day, never mention it to Raelah or Ronan, and all would be fine in the world. But he looked down the path that these strange men disappeared through. He had to know. With the organ in his chest fluttering, begging him to return to his place of safety, he disobeyed and proceeded down the path.

   The village was robust as usual, which meant Llew had go about this carefully. Llew stuck close to the boulders and sparse trees after breaking the safety of the tree line. He steered clear of the main road that led into town, seeing as it was the most populated spot outside the main gate. Llew waited behind a ledge as the guard who swept the parameters made his rounds. He dashed for the fence once the coast was clear and slipped through his usual gap between the posts. Upon finding himself within the back alleyways of the village he praised himself for his stealth. Now to avoid getting caught during his investigation.    Over the years of sneaking in and out of the village, Llew had become skilled at climbing, jumping, and lurking in the shadows. He knew most blind spots of the town like the back of his hand, and the roof top of the cobbler’s shop was his best shot. After crawling over some crates to reach the roof’s ledge, he edged up to the peak which gave him the perfect view of the trade square. The dark-robed figures dotted the square and all corners of the village, causing the greatest commotion he had seen in years.    In the center of the square, perched atop a crate, one of the robed figures boomed, “The gods you praise are false! They want to lead you to a life of sin and damnation, so that their true master, the Seven Eyed Goat can devour you in Hell! Turn now from your sins, and embrace the All Mighty Savior! He is the one true way to Eternal Life. And the time is neigh! Repent for your sins, your wrong doings and embrace the love of the Savior!”    The people gathered at his feet shook their heads in disapproval. But one protested, “If all gods are false, then why are you acknowledging the Seven Eyed Goat?”    Another added. “The Seven Eyed Goat doesn’t want to eat people. Just because he’s prone to madness doesn’t make him evil.”    The preacher interrupted, “The servants of the Seven Eyed Goat deny and hate the Truth!”    This proceeded to riel them up into a screaming match.    The other members of this strange group split up into pairs, and appeared to converse with villagers who clearly didn’t want to listen. Llew could see the blacksmith getting increasingly annoyed at a man who refused to leave him alone, and continued to talk his ear off. Another dark-robed man scolded and yelled obscenities to a group of women, accusing of them of being temptresses. And to Llew’s surprise, some villagers actually sat down and listened to the words spilling from the mouths of these men.    Llew had seen enough. He slid off the roof top, navigating his feet onto the crate tops as to avoid crashing and drawing attention. As he did, he heard voices bickering nearby. Llew took extra care to be quiet, but the men’s conversation picked up his ears.    “Why must we waste our time with this? Can’t we just promise them riches, and then have them mindlessly join us?”    “No. Those who love this world and all it has to offer, will be damned with this world when judgement day comes. Life eternal and fear of the Savior is what will save his children. Besides, Magg, if you hate serving so much, you can wait outside the village and wash our feet later.”    Llew froze… Did that man just refer to the other one as Magg?... Well, who knows. There could be a dozen Maggs in Prydain. It couldn’t possibly be that Magg.    “Absolutely not! If I have to look at one more pair of dirty feet, I’ll kill myself! I wasn’t made to wander dirt roads or live in this squalor. I just want eternal life!”    “That’s the price you have to pay for eternal life… Or you could just return to Mona, face judgement from House Llyr, but then you will face judgement from the Savior as well.”    Mona? House Llyr? Maybe it was that Magg.    Llew dared to peak around the corner to satisfy his curiosity. Two men barred the shade of the alleyway from the light of the square. A tall bald man, built of pure muscle towered over a scrawny, lean one, with dark disheveled hair that tried desperately to appear groomed. As the tall man shifted slightly, Llew stole a better look at the smaller one’s face. The haughty, arrogant features that would have once been prided as beauty, were disrupted by four jagged gashes over his right eye and cheek.    And the cat chased Magg, and to this day, no one knows where he went, Raelah’s words echoed in Llew’s head.    Llew’s mouth dropped at what he saw. This was the Magg. The Magg from Raelah’s story. And with these hateful men. He needed to tell somebody. He needed to warn somebody. A wanted criminal was hiding in their midst… But he couldn’t. If Llew went ahead and reported this criminal, everyone would be more concerned about the monster terrorizing their village than this wanted man. Llew was at a loss. What could he do? He couldn’t just let this monster in human skin roam free. Raelah. He could return home and tell Raelah. She’d be a little miffed about his escapade into town. But he could tell her. She could go into town, and report Magg! Yes! That would work!    But in the split second of Llew’s scheming, the scarred criminal who faced in his direction made eye contact with him. Llew froze in place. The man’s lips twisted into a cruel grin.    “What’ve we here? A little rat in the alley?”    The big man rotated once Magg acknowledged their unwelcomed guest and glowered at Llew. Everything in Llew’s being told him to run, but he couldn’t budge. Before he knew it, the man shadowed him, staring him down with conviction. At the last minute, Llew’s muscles finally obeyed, but it was too late. The man’s grip seized Llew by the back of the neck and hoisted him off his feet. Llew wriggled and squirmed, which resulted in the man tightening his grasp, causing a jolt of shock to course through him.    “Now, now. Don’t go running off on us just yet,” Magg taunted as he neared the struggling creature. When they were face to face, Magg winced in disgust. “My, you’re an ugly one. No wonder you hide in the shadows. And yet, something is so familiar about you.”    Like a spider creeping to a fly caught in its nest, his hand delicately reached up and traced Llew’s horns. “Hm. What magnificent antlers. They’re almost regal… like a king’s,” Magg snidely remarked. “I wonder, would others find them as regal and magnificent as I do? Or will they run in terror at the abomination holding them.”    Magg’s hand trailed from Llew’s horns to his mouth, where he proceeded to clamp his hand on either side of his upper jaw, peeling back the lips on the left side of his face and pinching the fangs. Magg licked his lips as an idea pleasured him. “It would be a shame if I screamed, and all those people would flock to the shadows here. Then, what would happen to you? I do wonder.”    “Magg, that’s enough,” a bold voiced commanded from the entrance to the alleyway.    Magg peeled around to face the figure, and shrunk. “Oh, um, Grimgower. I was just… uh… teaching this young man a lesson. Didn’t want people to know a certain somebody turned over a new leaf, and was trying to start a new life.”    It was their leader. The strange figure from the head of the procession. If seeing the man on the path from a distance was like locking eyes with a viper, seeing him eye to eye was like confronting a bear. Llew could only tremble in the strong man’s grasp.    “Huel. You can drop him,” the man named Grimgower commanded.    “Yes, High Prophet,” the strong man corresponded, bowing his head.    Llew landed on the pavement with a thud. As he rubbed the back of his neck which bruised, Grimgower approached him. Llew tried to scramble to his feet as fear overtook him.    “Wait! It’s alright. I don’t wish to harm you,” Grimgower knelt to his level and placed a gentle hand on Llew’s arm as he recoiled. Upon contact, Llew felt a sudden sense of calm, as though he were seated next to the fireplace in the midst of a rainy afternoon. Or as though he were bundled in layers of blankets while a great blizzard raged outside. Llew eased, and made eye contact with the man before him. The left half of the man’s face was bandaged, but the other half was young, sophisticated, and full of deep understanding. “I just wish to talk.”    After Llew eased, the High Prophet helped him to his feet.    “I apologize for my disciples’ rather hostile treatment towards you. While they have repented and made strides to turn from their sinful ways, their former selves strive to reclaim them, and they slip back into sin, as do most of us.”    “Hey! I –,”    “Shhh,” Huel interrupted Magg, retaining his stony composure. Grimgower glanced back over his shoulder with a disapproving frown, before returning his attention to Llew and continued. “I should introduce myself. I am Grimgower, the High Prophet of the Savior and founder of the Cult of the Resurrection. Now, are you the young man who spotted us on our way over here?”    Llew jolted. How did he know? He didn’t think anyone had spotted him. But judging by the questioning looks on Huel and Magg’s faces, only their leader was aware of Llew’s presence.    Llew reluctantly nodded. “Yes.”    “Tell me, young man, what is your name?”    “Llew.”    “Ah. So it’s Llew. I can see you are teeming with questions, which is probably why you followed us here. Am I correct?’    “Yes.”    Grimgower gave a warm smile. “Fear not. I hope to answer all of your questions. But something tells me you’re not supposed to be here, and you don’t want other villagers to see you. May I suggest a more private place?”    Llew met the man’s gaze and smiled.

   After the four men snuck out of the village, the High Prophet led them to the edge of the forest, where they had established a small encampment. There, more disciples gathered, lost in the pages of hefty tomes, and deep in prayer with amulets clutched between their palms. Upon entering, Llew drew the attention of the disciples, many of which gave him cold, unwelcoming stares. Llew shrunk back, staying in close proximity of Grimgower.    “Don’t mind them. Many of them still cling to fear like your fellow townsmen. But their enlightenment has taught them not to pass judgement, for only the Savior can do that,” Grimgower explained, offering a sliver of confidence to the timid young man.    At the edge of the camp, Grimgower and Llew situated themselves around a small fire with a tea kettle perched on top. The High Prophet ordered the giant and spidery man to fetch them some cups and biscuits, leaving the pair alone.    “Tell me, who is this Llew?” Grimgower inquired.    Llew gave a puzzled look, before realizing what he was asking.    “Well, I live on a farm. We farm potatoes, and my friend usually takes them into town every weekend. I live with the farmer and his daughter, and we all help each other on the farm.”    “Any relation?” Grimgower raised a brow.    Llew shook his head. “My mother left me as soon as I was born. She worked as a farm hand to Ronan… the farmer, to repay him for taking her in when she was injured. In the middle of the night, she just left with no explanation. She just left me and took the only horse the farmer had.”    “I see,” Grimgower nodded. “And the father?”    Llew shrugged. “Never knew him. Ronan hasn’t told me this directly, but he theorizes my mother made love to a demon, and practiced witchcraft.” To this, Grimgower chuckled.    Llew tilted his head. “What’s so funny?”    “There’s no such thing as witchcraft. Believe me. I would know as a former warlock,” Grimgower smiled.    “Well fine then,” Llew crossed his arms, and raised a brow. “Now it’s my turn to ask. Who is Grimgower?”    Grimgower halted, and his smile fell. “You wish to know?”    Llew nodded with conviction.    A smirk peeled onto Grimgower’s lips. “Grimgower was once the name of a powerful warlock. The High Warlock of Demonology, to be exact.” Llew tilted his head.    “You probably are unfamiliar with the Magical Orders of Prydain, not that it would concern a farmer. But in short, I was a man who delved neck deep into what commoners call witchcraft.”    Llew sat up, retaining a gasp as to not appear rude.    “It was my dabbling in this art that was my undoing. A potential bride once remarked that the demons I had enslaved appeared starved and lonely. Instead of receiving it as a useful warning, I took that remark as an insult… I should have listened to her warning. The next time I summoned them attacked me, feeling betrayed at their maltreatment by my hands, and that was the end of Grimgower.”    He made full eye contact with Llew. “There was nothing, just an endless void… But from that void came a voice… ‘Grimgower, I am not finished with you. I have chosen you to do my will and bring me glory. Serve me, and not even the chains of death can hold you’. I accepted this being’s offer. And when I awoke, I was a new man. No longer was I Grimgower the High Warlock of Demonology. From that day forth, I would be Grimgower, the High Prophet of the Savior… And that’s why I’ve allowed men like our dear, Magg here, to join our discipleship,” Grimgower grinned, gesturing towards Magg, as he handed him his cup.    “… Uh. Why yes! I’m a new man! Better than ever!” the man snapped. “A completely different man. Absolutely… No need for suspicion. None at all!” Llew caught Huel scowling and rolling his eyes at his fellow disciple.    “And what about you?” Llew questioned the giant man.    “Isn’t it obvious? I smashed skulls in. It’s the way of the Northmen,” Huel grumbled out.    “Yes. Many of these men have sinned greatly, and thus have been rejected by the world. However, the Savior and I have offered these men a home, a chance to become anew. And it is this reason that they share the gospel. Have you heard the gospel, Llew?”    Llew’s brow furrowed. “I may have caught a glimpse of it back in town, but other than that, no.”    Grimgower smiled. “I will tell it to you, then. But first, I must ask you, where do you will go when you die?”    Llew pondered for a bit. “Ronan say that when you’re dead, you’re dead. But Raelah says that when you die, you go to the Summer Isles if you’ve served the gods well… But you don’t believe in the gods, do you?”    Grimgower frowned. “The Gods of the Great Pantheon are false, and instead want to lead you astray. There is only one true God who is perfect and created everything in our existence. He even took special time and effort into creating you.”    Llew recoiled at this.    “What’s wrong? You suddenly seem deeply offended by what I just said.”    “Yes. I am,” Llew’s fisted clenched.    “Care to explain why?”    “If he took special time and effort into creating me, then why do I look like this,” Llew snapped, gesturing at his features. “Why do I have to keep myself hidden from the world, so that people don’t come after me and my family? Why does a little girl scream in terror upon seeing me in the alleys? Why do I look like a monster?”    “You aren’t a monster, Llew,” Grimgower answered. “The false gods they worship have lied to them, ordering them to shun you or anyone who comes from God. Your case is quite similar to that of the Savior, and many of his chosen.”    Llew picked up his head.    The High Prophet continued. “As I had said, we believe in a God who is perfect and has everything planned. But the false god, the Seven Eyed Goat, hated our God, and wanted to overthrow Him. So he, and his servants, the other false gods, made us imperfect through sin. Sin is anything that displeases God. And anything short of perfection is punishable by death. However, the God sent a Savior, who would not only save us of our sin, but bring us to Eternal Life. But, the false gods hated and feared the Savior, so they imprisoned him, where he has suffered for our sins ever since. But, Llew, this is where you come in, and why you are so special.”    Llew perked up in question, which bade the High Prophet to continue.    “The people of this world reject you, because God has chosen you specifically, just as He has chosen me and His disciples here. You see, it was written that the Savior would return one day, and break from His prison. But it would be by the help of one who is rejected by the world. One who the false gods hate and have his own people shun. One whose design mocks the Seven Eyed Goat. And you, Llew, I believe are that Chosen One.”    Llew leaned back. “Wait. You’re saying I’m some Chosen One who can bring back this Savior, and I’m like this because this God you’re talking about designed me specifically this way?”    “Exactly,” Grimgower nodded.    “And that’s why you brought me all the way out here? So you can tell me this?”    Grimgower nodded again.    “Little do you know, we have been searching for you this entire time. And Llew, my dear boy, I believe this meeting was no accident.”    Llew stood up and paced around. “T-that can’t be. I’m just a deformed guy who farms potatoes. I hide because my mother performed witchcraft.”    “You hide because the false gods have convinced your loved ones that you are a monster.”    Llew shook his head. That’s not true. It couldn’t be. Raelah didn’t see him as a monster. Ronan didn’t either, and kept him in hiding so that no one would hurt him… Unless Ronan did see him as a monster, and just didn’t want to tell him directly. Maybe that’s why he wanted so much control over him. Because in reality, he was special. Perhaps that’s why he never wanted him to be seen… and to be home before dusk…    It’s dusk!!!!    Llew bolted up. “Oh no! I have to go right now. Ronan’s going to be furious.”    “Wait, Llew,” Grimgower called out.    “I’m very sorry, High Prophet. Thank you for the tea, and sharing your gospel, but I really have to get going,” Llew scrambled.    “Llew, please think over what I told you. If you decide that perhaps you are the Chosen One, please meet us in our place of worship, tonight. It’s just down the path where you first found us.”    “Right. I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you again.”    Llew rushed away from the encampment, and back into the forest.

[wri0thesley]

abbacchio cheating on his s/o and having to confess because i love to SUFFER (whether they forgive him or not can be up to you~)

angstbacchio

 What Abbacchio does when he’s at work is something you know little about, so you keep your mouth pressed shut when he comes in with blood on his clothes or bags under his eyes. He does his best - he tells you if he’ll be gone for a few days, he tries to call (even if it’s in the middle of the night) - but you know that whatever he’s involved in, it’s dangerous, and you’re better off not knowing.

It’s that knowledge that means you don’t scream at him for scaring you when he arrives, disheveled, after six days of being away. There’s something in his eyes when you answer the door to him that you can’t quite pin down, but there are hundreds of things about Abbacchio you haven’t managed to get a proper read on even after a year, so you don’t think much of it as he steps in.

You feel a little slighted as you reach around to grip his neck and pull him into a kiss and he pulls away, face twisting as if you’ve hit him instead of embraced him.

“Leone–”

“Don’t,” he says, voice sharp and hoarse all at once. “I … I don’t deserve it.”

Ah.

So that’s it.

You’re no stranger to Abbacchio’s dark moods, clouds of self-loathing and regret that threaten to engulf him at any one time. You’d met him when he was in one of those and seen in him something that you could so easily have become, and your bleeding heart hadn’t been able to leave the man with the thunder in his eyes at the bar drinking alone - when he’d pressed you against the alleyway and thumbs had dug into your hips, you’d broken the kiss and asked him to come home with you instead.

And he’d come like a lost puppy grateful for a scrap of attention; you’d kissed across his shoulders and he’d sighed as if nobody else had ever touched him with affection in their movements. When he’d gone to be rough with you, you’d pushed him away and smiled at him through unbound hair, and Abbacchio’s heart had surged with something that he hadn’t felt in months. A feeling that perhaps he might be worth something.

As time had worn on, you’d imbued your day to day life with sentiment for him, and even though he left the apartment for days at a time, when he came back a week later with a rucksack and a suitcase you’d welcomed him in with open arms and the whisper of his name on your lips.

By degrees, his past comes out - by degrees, his present comes out, though this is guarded and careful. You see grazes on his knuckles and the gun he keeps tucked into your bedside drawer (“Use it if you have to,” he says, sharp, “Shoot first, ask questions later. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”) and you connect the dots that he’s involved in something shady. A disgraced cop, he’d told you - of course a disgraced cop had become a gangster. What else could he have done?

You tell him you love him, and he ducks his head and smiles with dark-painted lips, and that’s as close as you get. Once, or twice, he’s gasped out that he loves you into your hair when he’s above you, and afterwards he always clams up. You’re not as bothered as you should be - Abbacchio is a thing to be treated delicately, like a repaired china teapot, and you know that the longer you spend together the less frightened he will be to pour himself out to you.

He doesn’t seem to have friends - occasionally, with a look you don’t understand, he mentions a man he refers to as ‘Buccellati’, and you think he might be the only other person Abbacchio has in the world. You’re not jealous. You’re the one who gets Abbacchio in a grey shirt with his hair falling over his shoulders tangled from sleep, pale lips unpainted - you get Abbacchio in his rawest form beside you, and you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” you try and say to him, laying a hand on one of his forearms, and he shakes you off with a violence that’s unlike him.

“Don’t,” he snarls out, again, and you’d be a fool to miss how his hands are shaking as he goes to open the door to your bedroom.

Nobody would ever say you aren’t insistent - you follow him into the room and close the door behind you. You’d have gotten nowhere if you hadn’t been persistent with Abbacchio. He didn’t appreciate being hounded, but he needs to know that somebody is there for him. Your constant presence at his side had eventually been enough to convince him to trust you, and from that trust he’d spilled himself for you entirely. Without that devotion to seeing what was behind the facade of black leather and wine, you’d still be drinking in bars alone and waiting to find someone.

He says your name like a whispered prayer, aware of your presence behind him. You make a soothing noise in the back of your throat, but other than that don’t speak. He’s weakening - he wants you to leave him alone to wallow in his own sadness, to reflect on what a wreck of a human being he is. He doesn’t want you to look at him with compassion in your eyes and ask what’s wrong.

“I need to …” His shoulders shake, and he lets out a ragged breath before turning to see you - those eyes are lit with a fire you still don’t understand but makes your breath catch anyway. “Let me kiss you.”

“Leone,” you say, voice reprimanding, and you lay a hand over his. The contact of your skin on his makes him start and you see the brief moment of panic in his eyes, like a wounded animal, “what happened?”

His eyes darken.

“I fucked up.”

His voice is low, deceptively simple. Abbacchio feels like he’s fucked up if he forgets to bring you back a carton of milk, though. His confidence is as frail as the light blue veins in his eyelids, ones you’re intimately familiar with through soft kisses and gentle touches.

“I’m sure you didn’t–” you soothe, and he lets you cup his face. He’s not crying, but you recognize the taut line of his jaw and the tremble in the corner of his lip. He’s doing his best not to cry. Those trembling lips curve into a mocking smile.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I did, tesoro.” The pet name falls mockingly from his lips, though you don’t know why - he doesn’t call you them very often, that’s true, but when he does there’s generally sincerity in his words. It doesn’t matter if the bedroom is one of few places he lets his guard down enough to let them slip out - he means them.

“What did you do, Leone?” you say, tugging on that hand, your voice veering into desperate territory. The hand cupping his face tries to turn it closer to you and he grits his teeth, shaking you off.

“I don’t deserve you,” he repeats, sinking onto his knees by the bed. The tension drawing his shoulders up releases, but it doesn’t make him seem any more relaxed. “Oh, God, I fuck everything up, don’t I–?”

“Please tell me what happened,” you say, the words tight in your throat. A hundred possibilities are going through your head, now - Abbacchio’s involved in a dangerous game. Has he brought down the wrath of an entire Mafia on his head? Betrayed a family? Killed an innocent or a child or–

He laughs, bitter and self loathing, and you wonder if this is the last time you will ever see your boyfriend. Whether the next time you’ll read his name will be on a gravestone - if there’s enough of him left to bury after a Mafia has had their way with him.

“I love you,” he says, but there isn’t any affection in it. “I love you and I can’t fucking handle it. I love you, I love you, and I’m so fucking afraid of loving someone–”

He looks up at you with tears on his face, this time. You’ve seen Leone in any number of emotional positions. He wakes up from nightmares and burrows into your chest, winces and grits his teeth whilst you tend to wounds, shouts and cries when he’s drunk too much - but this is different. These tears are … more.

There are three marks on his neck you know you didn’t leave there, bruised and rough and ugly. He asks you to hurt him, sometimes, and you kiss him instead - Abbacchio needs to be handled gently, even if he wants you to make him cry.

He smells like cheap alcohol and cigarettes, and he doesn’t smoke any more. He doesn’t drink anything cheap, either - it’s a scent that you’re familiar with from bars and shady places, and it hits you with clear, cool certainty exactly what he’s done.

It hits you right in the stomach, and you feel your own lip tremble.

You’re not stupid.

Perhaps you and Abbacchio won’t last - perhaps in a few years you’ll go separate ways, amicably parted, keep in touch once or twice a year. You hope if that does happen, Abbacchio will leave you happier than he came to you.

He’d told you once that you were the only person he’d seen more than once since he’d left the police force. He’d admitted to you in a rare moment of emotional vulnerability that he’d chased hedonism and women and men who’d fuck him hard and leave him, remind him that he was trash, that he wasn’t worth loving …

“Even if someone only wanted me for my body,” he said, lips twisting and mocking himself, “at least they wanted me.”

“Leone,” you whisper, and he breaks.

“You’re not even angry at me, are you?” He says. “You never are - when are you going to realize that I’m dragging you down? That I’m not worth as much of your time as you seem to determined to put into me - that I’m not going to be … fucking fixed–”

You shut him up with a kiss, squeezing your eyes shut, a sob transferring from your mouth to his. When you pull away, it tastes like salt. Both of you have been crying.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you whisper, “I just want you to understand that I love you– Leone, if you don’t want me, if you’ve never loved me, just let me know. I… I’m angry at you,” a mad laugh bubbles from your throat unbidden, “I could fucking throttle you.”

“You should.” His words are grave. You shake your head at him.

“But … fuck. Leone–” You touch the bruising on his neck, “you’re not doing this out of … anger, or dissatisfaction with me, are you? You just believe you don’t deserve to be happy, and you do–” He goes to shake his head and you stop him, gripping his face close enough to slide further into him. “You didn’t cheat on me because you want to be with someone else.”

“I could never want to be with anyone but you,” his voice is a rasp, but it’s candid and real, and he slides arms around you until you’re embracing on the floor next to your bed.

“Don’t torture yourself like this,” you whisper, into the hard expanse of his chest. “You deserve better. I’ll be your better, if you’ll let me.”

[bubbletimestories]

Crimson arrow (Clint x reader)

Summary: After Thanos snap, Clint Barton lost everything and even his name. Become Ronin, he drowns in the blood the pain that gnaws at him. When he saves you one night, he sees you as an unknown in the fog but the future proves he's wrong. Pain, love, blood, some relationships are short but intense.Clint is a vampire but frankly, is that so important? (Yes a bit)

Warnings: Major character death (?), sadness, blood, violence, erotism

Themes: vampire, Avengers Endgame, Sad ending, or not, blood drinking, Love, sexual tension, slightly erotic, death, holdinh out for a hero

A/N. I placed the action before the start of Endgame, just to oust Hawkeye's family. One-shot. Have fun and enjoy <3

Translated with Google traduction, sorry ^^'

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21397405

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The rain that falls in big drops on the windows creates a vague filter between you and the world, the illuminated city which extends as far as the eye can see under the timid light of a rounded moon. You had to get used to seeing the world from above, always sleeping close to the clouds because he could not take any room other than the top floor, wherever you go. This makes his former nickname even more present, the very one he refuses to pronounce and has buried deep down like the rest of his past. Hawkeye ... sometimes you're extremely frustrated at not being able to joke about it, referring to Assassin's creed for example. But you hold on brilliantly.

A slight rustle comes to you and you smile before your companion returns, his face soaked with rain despite the dark hood that protects him and he pushes back with a grunt. The night seems to have been long, again. But at least he's alive and does not seem hurt, that's not always the case. Seeing you, the mask of coldness cracks a little and Ronin gives you a look almost tender, the blue of his orbs finding a child warmth despite the folds that mark the outline of his eyes. In these moments, you can easily imagine the simple and funny man that he must have been, his dad jokes while cutting wood, you catch yourself dreaming of chimney fires, a place where to cook and which would be yours, just yours. But already a cloud of bitterness covers the fragile sunbeam and the scenery becomes dark, real, that of an existence where everyone has lost loved ones.

- The manager has passed; I gave her a supplement. Even if she has to make concessions and leave us this room, I wanted her to be good. It's not easy for her.

You don’t really wait for an answer, you quickly understood that his silence was easily offset by your chatter and it suits you. Gently, you help your lover to get rid of his thick coat that falls on the ground, on hand like the sharp arc that always makes you cold in the back after all this time. You saw it in action, this weapon can shoot arrows and decapitate a man in the same movement. And what about the man who handles it ? For the moment, the latter is contemplating you with his usual sullen air, frowning as if you had done something stupid. But it's like the rest, you get used to it and you see it more as his natural expression (like Grumpy Cat) than as an attack. Not at all impressed, you address him a grimace by pressing you against his chest, feeling it frozen through his clothes. Your hand slips under the fabric, almost hot against his skin and you feel Ronin relax slightly. He literally needs to be warmed up, it's cute. Well, he also has cold feet syndrome in bed but does it matter? Tight against each other, you back to the mattress and the young man sits, drawing you between his legs so that you do not move away. His gesture is hesitant, as always, but he finally raises his hand to the back of your neck so that you can bend and he can give you a kiss. His lips are cold but incredibly soft, feeling a slight pressure on yours to translate how much you missed him. He struggles to admit it but to find you again after he has slaughtered criminals does him good, it gives him the impression that he is not totally empty.

A shudder runs through you as the kiss continues and you feel something pointing against your flesh, responding to your own desire. But you have all your time and the atmosphere is not rushing. You step aside slightly, straightening up to look at the face of the vigilante whose tongue passes quickly on his mouth while he observes you. The next part, he knows it, he guesses it rather and he wants it, he wants this time out of the time where he no longer thinks about the pain or the murder. Without pronouncing a word, he removes his shirt, letting you explore his chest as you like to do so, as if it allowed you to have access to a part of him he conceals. On his skin mingles all his life, many scars date back in recent years but some testify to a secret past. You explore them one by one, the touch of your hands warming the hero little by little while you walk each muscle of his being with pleasure. Thoughtful, Ronin lets you do, just caress your jaw and the long scar that goes up on your cheek without it disfigures you. On the contrary, he thinks you are beautiful like that and he had to make you understand it often so that you accept this mark. Concentrated on the pink or white lines, you end up, as always, by looking up to your lover with a supplicating look that amuses him because he likes your curiosity, your natural.

- One day, you will tell me their story, how you made them ... - Maybe but, for now, let me keep some secrets.

You pout and turn your head towards the suspended mirror, towards your solitary reflection in the dim light of the room. You touch the corners of his mouth with a knowing look, smiling as he kisses the pulp of your fingers.

- Don’t you think I already know your darkest secrets ?

The mercenary shakes his head and presses you against him by tipping you on the bed to fold the blanket over your entwined bodies, it's time to take some rest. Your hand caresses his shaved temple while he traces indistinct forms in the hollow of your loins until sleep takes you, tight against each other until morning.

****Flash-back****

The worm-eaten wood is frozen under your legs and you focus on the feeling of freshness rather than the strong smell that emanate from wet boards. Your bare arms are agitated with painful spasms despite your attempts to breathe deeply, panic threatens to overwhelm you at any time and it is imperative that you avoid losing your mind. The rope that grips your wrists, the burning sensation where they put their hands to drag you, everything resonates in your flesh with too much intensity, you struggle to think even if your life is at risk.

At the other end of the room, the men are talking and they don’t hesitate to speak loudly, your notions of Korean leaving you no doubt about their intentions. Without being particularly pretty, you remain appetizing and they will not be choosy, who looks closely in a brothel ? With your heart on the edge of your lips, you listen to them discussing your future through murky scenarios, and the more you think about how you got there, the less you understand when you made a mistake. You were not accosted by a stranger who had offered you a drink, you did not hang out in hot areas, it was not even so late ... You simply lost your way, your hotel was to be a few meters and that was enough for them to fall on you. Everything happened so fast ...

A sob writhes your throat, no one will ever know what you have become, no one. You are a stranger in this country, who came alone to spend a few days in Korea. Who would think to seek you? You'll become an umpteenth gone, your parents will let the local police do some research and then ... they'll forget you, what's a missing when half of the world's population has fallen to dust? Shit ! That's not the way it should be ... It's out of the question that you're sold as a sex toy, you'll be ugly, scream all the curses you know, distort your face to make it repulsive, become a filthy creature that nobody will ever want. We'll see if they can find a buyer ! This thought gives you back a little courage and helps to move away a little the despondency and terror that paralyzed you. It does not save you but at least you are less likely to fall apart.

One of your captors suddenly seems to lose interest in the conversation and turns to you, glancing at your cheap clothes, your absolutly not feminine posture, and your lack of shoes after being dragged away. For some obscure reason, it excites him that you are so disheveled, he wants to test you before letting his boss decide your fate. With a foul smile, he moves away from the group to join you, playing thoughtfully with the waistband of his pants enjoying the fear that rounds your eyes and contracts your limbs. He has always adored women with curves, that's not what is missing from you so he licks his chops in advance. Driven by a kind of instinct halfway between the Harpie and the seagull, you decide to shout at your lungs what goes through your head, an anime opening to be more precise. You are more animated by the hope that your discordant voice twists the eardrums of the pervert than by the idea that a helping soul can hear you (you are far from everything), which does not prevent you from putting heart at work. The Mafioso remains for a moment frozen in amazement before your cry of Valkyrie, a moment much too short. With a kick, he puts an end to your song and cuts your breath, squatting in front of you while you fold in two, your face red and your eyes flooded with tears. Too bad if he is bawling, he wants to give you a good lesson and make you pass the desire to play the rebels. With a steady hand, he raises your chin to meet your eyes, his face cracked with a happy grin testifying to the pleasure he takes with all this. Then, without warning, without losing his smile, he strikes you violently in the face, his signet biting the flesh of your cheek by drawing a scarlet line. Your jaw supports the shock but your vision is totally blurred, your head goes to the side and you make no movement, shocked. Tears flow without restraint, pricking your wound raw but you don’t pay attention.

Your abuser smirks, totally ignoring his companions who are shouting at him, he has the right to have a little fun, right? It's not like you’re going to be expensive. Vibrating with excitement, he extends his hand to your thighs, without noticing the whistling that splits the air behind him. With a dull sound, the arrow pierces through as if he were made of butter and the guy crumbles to the side, dead without even realizing what was happening. The sound of the corpse collapsing heavily near you draws you from your grip and you contemplate the body with a mixture of horror and amazement. But that's nothing next to what's happening a little further, while a hooded figure enters the warehouse through a skylight and begins to slaughter the men present. Although clearly sub-number compared to Mafiosi, this new character is not allowed to defeat, striking on all sides with force and wielding his long and sharp weapon (?) with an impressive fluidity.

First captivated by this extraordinary show, your survival instinct takes over and you seek ways to free yourself and escape. Before you even understood what you were doing, you approach your aggressor and rub the rope that holds your hands against the arrowhead that proudly protrudes from the cadaverous torso. It takes you a moment but you manage to free yourself from your bonds, breathing a sigh of relief that is lost in the mass of combative grunts and groans of agony. When you turn your head, the mysterious assailant executes his last opponent and you watch the mafioso crumble to his knees while holding his throat, a thick liquid escaping from between his fingers. It only took a few minutes and yet none of your kidnappers still breathe. The one who is likely to save your life is catching his breath, running a hand through his hair that the hood no longer covers. He does not seem to be paying attention to you, carefully wiping in his arm the weapon that allowed him to effortlessly decimate half a dozen Mafiosos. From the back, he releases so much anger and pain that you hesitate to approach but the desire to be near a person a little friendly (or at least, who will not try to hurt you) is louder and you walk slowly to this man whose face is vaguely familiar.

- Th... thank you.

Your voice is flickering but you're happy that it's not chopped by the sobs, there's nothing more annoying and embarrassing. The hero turns around and looks at you for a brief moment, seemingly wondering what to answer or do. His face closes and he remains silent, passing you to leave the warehouse with the firm intention to let you get by. He has eliminated these criminals, that's all that matters, he cannot take the time to be nice, it's better that he stays constantly in that fog of anger that prevents him from thinking about what he lost, about his old life of Clint Barton. But you knew it already, right? Seeing the young man about to leave, you are feeling panicky, and if one of the mafia had survived? The mere idea of leaving alone in the night terrifies you and you grab your savior by the sleeve of his coat to prevent him from getting too far away.

- Please ... Just ... just the time to find my hotel.

The supplicating tone contrasts a little with the strength of your grip but the whole has the merit of making Clint hesitate, he really looks at you for the first time. You're chilled with cold, barefoot and your cheek is still bleeding, leaving you here would almost be no assistance to a person in danger ... And then there is something in you that softened a little, which pierces his shell. Nothing very obvious, just a little bit. The young man fixes your wound for a few seconds that seem long before closing the fist and recovering.

- Okay, I'll take you back. Put it on your cheek, you risk attracting attention.

He throws you a piece of fabric that you don’t try to detail, just plating on your cheek (it could be underpants, you don’t care) looking at the strange Robin Hood. As the shock dissipates, you begin to collect the pieces of the puzzle, associating his face with the arrow that killed your aggressor. So, he survived. If you had been told that you would meet Hawkeye ... the hero on whom you got a big crush. He has changed since the attack in New York, but it is the case for everyone. Next to Clint as a chick behind his mother, you leave the warehouse, a cool wind caressing your skin to remind you that you are free, the nightmare as short as intense that you lived is over. After giving him the name of your hotel, you set out in silence and you totally rely on this man you do not really know despite the media but to whom you trust completely. The latter ruminates his thoughts while walking quickly, the body tense as if he was constantly on the lookout. Soon, he puts between him and you several meters away that your short legs and bruised feet cannot fill. Out of breath, you end up stopping, removing an umpteenth pebble from your heel with a grimace. How on earth are hobbits doing?

- Tolkien, hippie bastard ...!

Your extremely gracious exclamation has the merit of attracting the attention of the vigilante who turns around and sees you on one leg, dusting your sore plant. Why do you talk about Tolkien, he does not know anything about it but as he is often compared to Legolas, he feels targeted. Well, he was compared to Legolas. Before. Still, your distress is fun and he comes back to you with a resigned sigh, he must be in a good mood tonight to agree to do that. Anyway, he must help you if he wants to drop you safely before sunrise.

- Hang on my neck and don’t wriggle too much. - What?

You scowl with a lost look before stifling a curse when Clint passes an arm under your knees and lifts you up. Reflexively, you cling to him and you miss strangling him before resting your calm. The situation is completely incongruous, perched that you are in the arms of an Avenger because you have foot pain. His coat rustles against your body and you resist the urge to inhale deeply, even if you already perceive the musky and masculine smell under the fragrances of leather and rain. Red as a peony, you turn your head and cross an extremely disapproving and very blue look, which makes you blush to the extreme. The young man stiffens even more, what you do not think possible, and looks straight ahead as he walks the streets, looking extremely focused as to forget that he carries you. Or, it's because you're heavy. Possible.

Fortunately for you, the hotel is soon in sight and you find the mainland with a mixture of relief and disappointment : without being particularly big, Clint gave you the impression of being in the arms of a giant. Once standing on your two legs, you hand him his handkerchief/piece of tissue regretting to have stained it with blood and he refuses with a categorical gesture. It is now time to leave (and go to bed) so you waddle a bit of a foot on the other before daring to look at your savior trying to remain calm, impassive, zen. And this despite being in front of one of your biggest crushes.

- Thanks for everything, Hawk ... - Ronin, he cuts you stiffly. - Ronin ... Thank you for saving me. - You're welcome. Hmm ... - Y/N. My name is Y/N. - Very good, Y/N. Take care of yourself and... it'll leave a scar.

He indicates your cheek with a sign of the chin then turns his heels and disappears, dark silhouette in the dark night leaving you still lost in the face of this incredible and frightening evening. Your wound stings you and you grimace, provide that he was wrong on this point. Silently, you go to your room and ask yourself what's going to be next, and let's face it, if you’ll ever see Ronin again. It may be your soul nourished by drama and rosy-water scenarios that speak but you sense something special, as if you were led to find him for a specific purpose. But there you may be a little too dreamy. A specific purpose... pff ... and why not Fate ?

**** Back to the present ****

- Take the time to feel it between your fingers, when it slides on your cheek of all its length. Breathe deeply and when you are ready, release the tension.

Ronin's breath makes your hair tremble as he puts his hands on your hips to improve your position, his pelvis pressed against yours. Even if this contact does not leave you indifferent, you remain focused on the tension in your muscles and on the target of fortune several meters away from you. You have already managed to reach closer, bigger ones, so there is no reason why you can not pierce this one. After taking a deep breath, you drop the arrow and grimace feeling the rope hit your breast, you really do not get used to it. The long, dark line splits the air and enters not far from the center. It is not perfect yet but your arms cannot endure anymore so it will be enough for today. In any case, the sun is setting and the increasing darkness will soon prevent you from shooting properly. Keeping you from smiling proudly, you surrender his weapon to the young man by folding and unfolding your aching fingers. Your companion looks at your arrow trying to remain impassive even if, inside, he is rather happy.

- Not bad ... you still need train but it's a good start. - Do not spare my modesty, I was great. Say it.

The man rolls his eyes to the sky by recovering his equipment, keeping silence while knowing very well that it will make you enrage, that you wait some compliments after the long hours of training which you have just undergone (with request).

- Let's say I'm a good teacher.

A teasing glow that one might have thought dead shines fleetingly in his blue eyes before he regains his seriousness. But you don’t need more and you smile in front of his look of badly licked bear that you got to know and appreciate. You return to your nest of the day, walking side by side, letting your hands brush against each other. You're totally exhausted but it was worth it, the day went much better than you expected. Ronin is not fooled by your intentions and as you go past an umpteenth monument in memory of the missing, he glances at you.

- Thank you for keeping me busy.

He adds nothing, plunging into his thoughts turned to the past, to those he misses and he does not hope to see again. This day is a hell for everyone, remembering that the years pass though the world has stopped turning round. You often think of the life you had, the people who have evaporated as those who have remained. Do you miss them? Infinitely. Do you regret having fled to a foreign country ? No, you cannot say it.

You arrive quickly "at home", it will be time to separate, at least for this night. Having managed to divert Ronin from his dark thoughts for several hours is already a feat, but he must also be allowed to perform his own rituals. As he prepares to leave you, you hold him by the hand, taken by a strange presentiment.

- Kiss me, I deserved a little tenderness, you torturer.

Even if he grumbles a little for the form, your lover nods and wraps you in his coat, placing a kiss on your mouth and your forehead. He never thought he could meet someone like you, a semblance of calm and warmth in the darkness. Sometimes he feels remorse at the idea that you make him happy but he can not leave you, there are limits to his punishment. But already he departs, adjust his coat making sure his bow is ready, his quiver is full. He faints in the shadows and shudders as he thinks about what he's going to do. Like every night, he will hunt, slaughter the underworld and criminals who swarm when night falls. He does his own justice and if it does him good, it’s perfect. It is not as if the order still really reigned since Thanos arrival.

As you return to your room and get rid of your shoes, you imagine what these hunts look like. You have already attended one of them but not until the end, Ronin could not finish the job since you were there. He agreed to tell you about it once, long after he told you his secret, and in vague terms. He simply said that he felt no pleasure and that their blood had a taste of ash, a stale aroma. Three, four bastards are enough to keep him alive for several days, the rest is simply for execution. But tonight is special, who knows what anger can trigger in him, if he will have the same control over his thirst for revenge and blood. You hope so, you have confidence. After all, he never hurt you. He is a hero.

The door slams and you stand up abruptly, you had to fall asleep after this long day of archery. Still half in the vapes, you look for the young man, a little surprised that he made noise, he who knows how to be discreet as a shadow.

- Ronin?

Nobody answers you and you wonder if you did not dream that sound of door when a muffled sound reaches you. It's not really a sound of pain, more a complaint or... a sob? The worry ends to wake you and you approach the door, hardly distinguishing a silhouette in the darkness. No doubt about his identity, you learned to recognize his musculature, the line of his hair... But you are surprised to find him prostrated, a slight tremor running down his shoulders, him you've never known otherwise than impassible and master of himself. Made dumb with anguish, you lay your hand on the thick leather of his cloak, still wet with a rain that must have fallen during your sleep, and drag him to the window to contemplate him by the moonlight. The young man lets himself go, feeling like he's out of his body.

The first thing that strikes you is the pallor of your companion's face, how much his features are drawn. His azure eyes don’t rest on you, preferring to fix the exterior landscape, darkened or rather veiled by a strong emotion. It is only then that you notice the blood that stains his hands, makes his coat shine and defiles his face with an infamous mark. This is the first time he appears before you so... dark, still carrying traces of his nocturnal activities. You often had to heal his wounds but never to see him in this vampiric aspect. The visible shock of your lover prevents you from believing that it is the blood of a simple criminal, but whose is it?

- What happened ?

In spite of your efforts to maintain a calm tone, your voice is weak and you cannot hide the fear on your face. Ronin shudders as he hear your voice and he looks down at his scarlet hands. He, the icy assassin, is unable to tell you about his crime. How could you accept what he did? His mouth articulates mute words as he looks back at the alley, her corpse laid in the rain, her face frozen in a mask of horror. Everything happened so fast... he was so obsessed with his pain, his anger, his desire for blood that he slipped. The silence drags on and you begin to imagine the worst scenarios, this evening was already a trial for him, what happened ?

- Talk to me... I’m freaking out.

Not knowing what else to do, you take a towel, anything, and start wiping Ronin's face and hands to remove the crimson stains. The softness of your gestures even as he sees only a monster in himself triggers like a shock in the young man who seizes your wrists forcefully and falls to his knees, shaking with sobs that hurtling down his cheeks, completing to wash the blood. He cries for a long time, without trying to hold back his tears, like a child, and you hold him tightly without a word, cradling him until he calms down and confesses everything to you. Never have you seen him so vulnerable, pressed against you as you protect him from the world. Or maybe of himself.

****

Midnight sounds and you sigh, another year has elapsed since Thanos wiped out family, friends, normality ... You take the time to quietly gather for those you have lost but deep in your mind resonates a worried voice that prevents you from being perfectly focused on your mourning. Today, billions of candles will be lit, we will wear black, we will commemorate the memories, because it feels good. But a person will not manage to get better and this despite all his efforts. Or maybe he refuses to really get better because it would be horrible, that would mean continuing to live. We can not talk enough about the guilt of the survivors ... This person, you would like to help him, it's been a long time since you think about it and you seem to have found an idea. Stupid probably.

Ronin passes in front of you, dressed in his shadow suit, his bow clenched in his fist. This night more than any other, he is preparing to make a massacre, to shed blood hoping to feel better then. But you both know that he will come home exhausted, his gaze empty and burned with a feeling of shame and disgust, because he will not be able to restrain himself. The thirst that animates him is inexhaustible, you are aware of it, but maybe you can help a little. Your hand closes on his and you stand in front of him, the latter guessing your thoughts even before you open your mouth.

- Don’t stop me, Y/N, I need it. - Really ? Do you think that will help you, really? - Yes, to eliminate rots makes me feel good, that's enough for my happiness. - It was not enough last time...

There is no real reproach in your voice, only sadness and a statement. Clint's face cringes, however, at the memory of the teenager who has suffered his vengeful fury. He felt nothing killing her, nothing at all, as if she had been one of those criminals. Hatred, anger, pain, he was blinded by his thirst for blood and it was enough for a moment... You perceive how painful this memory is, you remember his return, livid and his hands still wet, uncontrollable tears thar had shaken him. This scene, you have often thought about it, almost every day and it has deeply marked you. At the time, you didn’t know what to say; now you sense what you have to do. You look into the eyes reddened by thirst, squeezing your lover's icy hand.

- Let me help you…

You have absolutely no intention of preventing him from killing garbage or feeding on their blood, he is doing it all year long and this is just one way of enforcing justice while allowing him to feed himself. On the other hand, you do not want him to slip further, that the pain of having lost all those he loved burns him to the point that he does not only slaughter those who deserve it. If you can spare him this shame, you will do it without hesitation. It's all about control, not throwing himself into the darkness like a wild beast. When you think about it, you accept his condition of vampire with a lot of calm, maybe because it's not crazier than the rest or because you love him too much to be afraid. Who would have thought that the Avenger that is often forgotten was much more than an archer? Even before the Snap, Clint had a dark secret that no one, except Natasha, knew. Even the great Nick Fury had no suspicion. It must be said that the hero was a model of exemplarity, able to walk in full sun despite the pain, feeding exclusively on blood bags. Never had anyone seen his fangs, nobody before you. Bu it seems taht the Snap has removed all control at the same time as his family. But let's go back to the present, to Ronin who refuses to listen to you, to your clenched hand on his, to determination in your eyes.

- Don’t go like that, let me help you stay in control, stay a hero.

The young man groans on hearing this word but you don’t care, he remains forever an Avenger for you, in spite of everything. And you too, you want to be heroic, even if it's short-term, just tonight. You push back the hood that hides the features loved, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek while you feel him tremble by hugging you gently. You have won, you feel it. You are aware that you may die, it is a risk to consider, but it is not only for the survival of the one you love but also of the one he was, the one he is still deep within, he has to continue to exist. And then it saves an innocent life. No, you are not totally a saint, there is a little pride there. But no matter your motivations. And then, you trust him. You just have to avoid him leaving thirsty, it's simple. As you spread your neck apprehensively, you whisper in Clint's ear, a laugh in your voice.

- I guess I had to meet you. Nice to help you fill your gap.

It's awfully awkward but it doesn’t matter, you feel the hot breath of the young man against your throat as he laughs silently and that's enough for you. Eyes closed, you focus on your other senses, note how Ronin tightly squeezes you against him in a last movement of hesitation before accepting your decision (you're always right). He will know how to contain himself, he loves you too much to lose you. His mouth is on the thin skin and you shudder at this contact, the hard lips seem cold as stone but it is not fear that softens your knees. Not only. The time stretches and you feel him against you as the caress becomes kiss, both tender and feverish, tearing you a sigh. How could you be afraid ?

You cling a little harder when his tongue touches the hollow of your neck, it could look like any hug if the end was not special. Your heart beats wildly and you smile murmuring his name, his real name, while your lover decides to dive into your flesh to quench his thirst. Without being able to return to him what he has lost, you have the possibility to fill him, just a little, and that makes you happy. At the moment, the pain pierces you and you moan but it only lasts a moment, the young man is so sweet that you do not pay attention to the burn on your throat. Carefully, Ronin lies you down on the floor, still drinking, supporting your head as you feel lost. Your thoughts are confused but you feel the tenderness of the embrace, the sweetness with which he drinks while making sure not to hurt you, the movement of his mouth. He gave you love, a happy life despite the circumstances, so what is a little blood?

The one who was called Hawkeye kisses your throat one last time before standing up, split between gratitude and pain. He admires your lifeless body, your face frozen in a half-smile as an ultimate finger to the sadness of this world in ruins. He could not stop but you both knew it would happen. Before he leaves, he plants a rose between your teeth, because he knew your dramatic side perhaps, or to make the scene less morbid. Then he disappears murmuring your name gently. He will never forget you, it's a promise.

[pokeasleepingsmaug]

The Raider’s Wife: Part One

So literally the same day I said I hadn’t written anything about Hvitserk, a request for an imagine involving him found its way into my inbox! The request was: a Hvitserk imagine where the reader is a princess and he and Bjorn are on a raid and to become allies, Bjorn notices Hvitserk has taken an interest in you, so Bjorn and the king (your dad) agree you and Hvitserk will marry as an ally. This is going to be a multi-parter, because I just love this idea so much! I started writing it and just couldn’t stop. Here’s part one, I hope you like it, nonny!

It can be read below, or it can be read on AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11491590/chapters/25776891

The rumors of these men in their fast ships had reached your kingdom only a few days before the men themselves—their ships were so swift they were almost faster than rumors. Your homeland was sun-drenched, a land of rolling hills and fertile soil. Your father ruled only a small kingdom along the coast, but its position was vital. The seat of his power was a city with high walls, right in the place the sea narrowed to a channel between the mainland and the nearby island. It was a hub of trade, an exciting city full of people from many far-off lands.

But the men from the north, with their harsh tongue and coarse customs, had never walked these broad streets. You first saw their ships from the ramparts—you loved to watch the sun rise over the sea. It was a clear morning, your keen eyes could see for miles. But there was no need. The long, lean ships, their sails the color of hellfire, were close enough that you could hear the splash of their oars in your bright blue ocean, could see the water dripping from them as they left the water. The prows on the front of the ships were hideous; growling wolves and dragons with curved teeth.

You couldn't stop the scream that flew from your lips—you had to warn somebody, anybody, of the doom that was about to befall your beloved home. Every eye from down below turned to you, their shock mirroring yours. Clearly they had expected to strike before anyone was awake. One of them waved to you, you almost swore you could see a grin stretching his mouth. You ran down the stone steps of the city walls as fast as your shaking knees would carry you. Your feet pounded along the street and you hitched your skirt high with your hands. Damn decorum, God would forgive you this moment of indecency when the lives of your people were on the line.

You crashed through the door of the guard house in a disheveled rush, “the...Northmen are...here,” you panted, trying to catch your breath. Both panic and the unexpected run made it difficult.

“Luca, take the princess back to the palace immediately. Do not leave her until you have delivered her into the hands of the king's household guard. After that, run back, rousing as many men as you can, and lead them to the walls.” The captain turned his attention from you, and a tall, dark-haired young man, sword at his hip and shield slung across his back, ushered you out the door. You jogged back to the palace, the silent guard behind you the whole way.

The palace guards sprang to attention when they saw you approaching, and finally your guardian spoke. “The Northmen have arrived at our city gates. The captain of the guard will send a message about the invaders as soon as he is able.” He placed his hand between your shoulder blades and shoved you roughly forward. “The princess alerted us of their coming. She has saved us all.” And then he turned and ran, shouting as he went, rousing the men to arms in defense of our home.

The guards hurried you inside the palace, one escorting you to your father's chamber and the other running off to alert the captain of the news. Three hard knocks on his heavy wooden door and you were invited inside. The guard dropped instantly to his knees in a deep bow, but you couldn't stop yourself from blurting the news. “The Northmen have come! The ones who have been plundering the coast.”

Your father regarded you, nodding. “I suspected they would.” He turned to the guard. “On your feet, man, there is no time for this. Gather my children, take them to my wife's chamber. I will have four guards posted there, two within the chamber and two without. I go to the gates.” Irritation flashed through you as the guard placed his hand on your shoulder to guide you to your mother's chamber. Did these men have no respect for their princess?

They worked swiftly, and soon you sat in your mother's chambers, eating breakfast with your younger sisters. The food turned to ash in your mouth, and you pushed it away. Your mother—believing idle hands to be an invitation for sin—somehow found embroidery for you to do, even during a raid. You sighed. The city could be in flames around you, and still your unshakable, dutiful mother would be tending to her work. Your younger brother sat at Mother's knee, reading an old Bible aloud. You envied him the easier work, but had to admit you found the familiar passages comforting.

It was near mid-day when your father returned to the palace, releasing you from the prison of embroidering in your mother's chambers. It wasn't that you disliked embroidery, you simply preferred weaving. And not being locked in one room all day was even better. The guard informed you all that you were to meet your father in the hall for the noon meal.

Your mother sent you off to your room with a maid to redo your hair. You hadn't bothered to fix it after your misadventures that morning. Quickly, the maid pinned your curls into place and straightened the cap covering your hair, and you made your way quickly to the hall to join your family for the meal.

Except it wasn't just your family. Your father was seated at the table with a small group of the Northmen, and your knees turned to water just like they had earlier. “My daughter,” your father greeted you, beckoning to you to come sit at the table. “Our guests do not speak our language, I am afraid, but they do speak the Frankish tongue. I know your mother has taught you the language of her people.”

You moved toward the seat your father motioned you to, dread curling itself in your belly as you took your place between two of the Northmen. One of them—you were almost certain he was the one that waved at you from his ship, arrogant man—turned his attention to you immediately. “What is your name? I am called Hvitserk.” He did indeed speak the Frankish tongue, but the words fell clumsily from his mouth. You tried to hide your disgust at his poor mastery of the language, and at the ugliness of his name. Hvitserk? What a harsh, strange language they had, if that one word was any indication at all.

“My name is Y/n,” you told him, the Frankish language coming easily to you. You hoped he would feel embarrassed by his clumsy way of speaking, maybe see that him and his people simply did not belong here. Maybe it would send him back to the ice and snow he came from, never to bother your sunny shores again.

“Your home is pretty,” he told you, taking a large bite out of a chicken leg. You pursed your lips in distaste. Obviously this man was incapable of feeling shame, doomed heathen that he was. What had your people done to offend God so, that he sent these wild men to plague you? However, unlike this man, you had manners.

You took a delicate bite of bread, taking your time to chew and swallow before answering. “Prettier than your home?”

He grinned at you, mouth full of more chicken, and you had to look away from the site. He wouldn't have been so hideous if he had better manners. In fact, you found him quite pleasing to look at—light brown hair pulled back in braids, eyes a shade of green that reminded you of a jade bead your father had given you. His hands—covered in chicken grease, you noted with some disdain—were strong; the tendons stood out beneath his pale skin, startling you. You had never seen hands so strong, and the thought of what they might be capable of sent an involuntary shudder through you.

You'd heard the stories of the Northmen, of course, but seeing them in the flesh, the strength of Hviterk's hands, the mischievous glint in his green eyes.... You could imagine the destruction such men could bring, and before you realized what you were doing, you crossed yourself. God would save you. “Why are you doing that?” Hvitserk asked, reaching for his goblet.

Embarrassed by your rude behavior, you looked down at your plate. It was a good thing Father didn't see you, or he would punish you for that rudeness. “It is to call the protection of God,” you explained. “To bless my food.” You felt only a  little guilty over the lie. It would save Hvitserk's feelings, and perhaps he wouldn't kill you. From what you'd heard of these savages, they were just the type to break bread with a man before killing his family.

Hvitserk considered this, chewing bread. “Does the blessing make it taste better?” You giggled at the absurdity of the question and he grinned at you, the corners of his forest-green eyes crinkling. His chest swelled out with pride, pleased to have gotten a positive reaction from you at last.“You have a pretty laugh.” He swallowed, took another bite, and smiled even as he was chewing. “Good thing I am funny.”

His glimmering green eyes drew a warm blush across your cheeks, widening his grin and forcing you to turn your flustered gaze to your plate. How could this stranger, this heathen, draw such impossible feelings in you already? You should hate him, instead you found yourself intrigued by him, charmed by his easy smile and jade-green eyes, even by his voracious appetite and sickening manners. Everything about this man was so vibrant. You only ever felt this alive watching the sun rise over the ocean. Your quiet, safe life was far from exciting, but that's what it meant to be a princess. He was more open than any person you had ever met, guileless, not wanting to make you laugh than for any reason other than he liked the sound of it.

In his company it was easy to ignore the hum of conversation in the background as Hvitserk continued to smile at you, waggling his eyebrows to make you laugh. You were shocked when your father called for your attention. “Yes, Father?” You tore your eyes away from Hviterk's laughing mouth to find your father's gaze.

“You are to be wed on Sunday. You will help your mother with the preparations.” The air sucked itself from your lungs, leaving you gasping in shock. You knew you were old enough to be wed, and there had been several suitors seeking your hand, but your father had made no mention to you of choosing one. In fact, he had seemed unimpressed by every single one.

“To whom, Father?”

“The young man sitting beside you. I believe his name is Hvitserk.” Your father was speaking in your native tongue, but upon hearing his name Hvitserk looked up. His eyes traveled from your father's face to yours, confusion plain on his features, and he looked to the man with the long blond braid for answers. You'd been so intent on Hvitserk before you'd barely noticed him. Even though he smiled, the words sounded harsh and low coming from his throat. Would you be forced to speak that terrible language, to hear it every day until you died? This must be God punishing you for your indecency this morning, showing your legs as you ran through the city.

The tall blond stopped speaking at the choking sound from the chair beside you, and the man on the other side of Hvitserk—another blond—pounded on his back. Hvitserk gasped, took a drink to compose himself, and turned his shocked green eyes to you with a weak smile. “I....” he shrugged. “There could be worse things, right?” You nodded slowly, still in shock. As far as punishments go, marrying a heathen was about as bad as it could get, no matter the jade of his eyes or the strength of his hands.

[ecotone99]

'[RF] The Funeral of Joan Jacobs'

Joan overdosed last night in her home on the edge of downtown. Romero, Joan’s husband called me early at work, telling me he hadn’t called police because there was hash everywhere and he needed time. “I need you to get here man, I mean I need you to get here man.” He kept saying. Turns out he needed me to distract Rocket, their nine-year-old son, so he could get away. Before I hung up, he mentioned that Rocket found Joan first, strung out on a dirty couch with dried vomit clung to her face.

The two were playing catch in the gated front yard when I drove in. “Uncle Alex!” Rocket screamed. Romero handed me the glove and went inside for the better part of an hour, dusting the hash off surfaces and disposing of pipes. Rocket talked constantly about last night’s game against the Tiger Sharks and I listened carefully for the moment he would think of his mother again. Eventually I thought to call a funeral home to arrange a booking for today. The woman on the line was trying to offer different packages and plan fine details and I finally told her all I needed was the cheapest option with a nice wood casket and a set of purple flowers. Before our parents, my brother, and the rest of the world knew of Joan’s overdose, the funeral was set for 4 p.m.

The authorities came and officers questioned Romero and I while the medical responders bagged Joan. We were convincing a group of officers she was using alone when an older Caucasian officer said, “Junkies don’t just happen, there’s always a supplier.” He examined us and faced Romero. “Where’d you buy the dope Hombre?” He was acting like some vigilante, pointing and stomping around drawing the neighbors’ attention. Romero avoided the bait and kept his mouth shut, only asking if all this was necessary.

The examiners finished their assessment and confirmed our confession of an overdose, and they offered an autopsy if Romero wanted it. “It’s obvious.” He said. “Please just send her to be prepared.” I gave them the funeral address and the authorities trickled away to file their paperwork. Rocket had escaped to play with the neighbors’ kids, so Romero and I went to sit with their parents and talk about Joan.

Among the people in this small part of the city, Joan was a Rockstar. She loved singing and would go around to bars with Rocket performing and collecting tips to buy ice-cream.

“The thing about Joan,” Stacie, the neighbor said. “Everyone heard her in the bars singing the classics in her raspy get-it-all-out sort of way. But you know I heard Joan’s real voice. On summer nights, she would sit on her porch and sing some of those old folk or blues twangy songs. I’d listen from the back door so she wouldn’t see me, but she sounded beautiful and I always wondered why she hid that side.” Her husband Dave agreed and told his own stories about her. It was a happy time until they started talking about addiction, assuring us it wasn’t our fault. I stepped away to call my parents. Mom answered.

“Mom, Joan’s died, hand the phone to Dad.” I said.

“Joan! No! Oh, my Joan!” She fell into a fit of crying and it took some time for my dad to wrestle the phone from her.

“Alex! Joan’s dead?” He asked.

“Yea, the funeral is at four.” I said.

“Four! Four today? Are you serious Alex? I can’t do four. Your mother and I have a board meeting at 6 we can’t miss. Those bastards want to raise taxes to fund higher education while our workers lose jobs!” He was screaming.

“Uh huh, sure… Yup.” I said. “So, it’s at 6, be sure to tell Ron Jr. if he wants to come.” Ron Jr. was my eldest brother, a real man’s man who was dishonorably discharged from the Marines for his drinking habits. Nobody but me bothered to fact check him when he came home saying his foot was twisted in a drill.

“Why don’t you call him Ronnie?” My father asked. “Nobody says Ron Jr.”

“Just tell him.” I said. We said goodbye and I sat down to chat until it was time for Romero, Rocket and I to leave. I told him it was best to keep her addiction a secret. “Tell them we’re waiting on the autopsy.” He nodded and we left in separate cars.

I stood by my mother for most of the service. Various neighbors and friends filtered in to pay respects. My mother would ask, “Who’s died.” Every half hour. She seemed sedated somehow and would then see Joan, saying, “Oh, my baby.” The other minutes she spent talking my father’s ear off with stories that didn’t happen, smiling all the while.

From the start, everyone was tired and disheveled. My brother, Ron Jr., came late, wearing his full Marine Corps uniform and cap, hollering about his fallen brother Joan and how he missed her, stumbling about and smelling the plastic flowers. My father didn’t question the erratic behavior and went to shake hands and hug like men. Dave and Stacie then entered, approaching Ron and Ron Jr.

“My condolences, you must be Joan’s father and brother, she spoke about you two often. We’re Joan’s neighbors.” I heard Stacie say.

Trying to comfort the men, David said, “It’s a real tragedy, there’s plenty of good people I know out there helping families through this opioid epidemic.” He handed my father his number. “Give me a call if you ever need some help, I’ve got friends in similar spots who help people like you.”

“What?” Ron said. “Alex what are they talking about?” I looked at Romero and he looked at me. Furious and sweaty, Ron and Ron Jr. rushed Romero who was standing with Rocket in near Joan.

“You Junkie!” Ron Jr. shouted. Romero stood and tried to calm them. I grabbed Rocket and my Mother, sitting them down in the pews. A shouting match of ugly and demeaning finger pointing ensued. Romero was trying to explain she began using after Rocket’s birth for the pain. They would have none of it and kept digging into his skin. In frustration Romero desperately said, “I didn’t do nothing! If anything, Rocket got her hooked!” Rocket heard it all—this was the last straw. My father tried rather stupidly to shove the much larger Romero. He failed with a spectacular whiff, and Romero returned with a haymaker, hitting my father square in the temple, knocking him into the casket and Joan fell onto him. Two unconscious bodies lay on the ground. My mother, in hysterical laughter, fell to the floor and crawled to the pile, laying down with them and whispering. Romero and my ex-Marine brother were wrestling for advantage and fell onto the pile. A crowded group of employees formed outside and the two were pulled apart by security.

Rocket and I stood in an open field with the priest as she descended into her final resting place. It was peacefully quiet and neither of us spoke, we let the priest do his job. When it was just the two of us Rocket said, “Uncle Alex, our family is fucking crazy.” We laughed for a while and when we were both satisfied with our goodbyes, I produced a baseball. We played barehanded catch until it was too dark.

submitted by /u/jamjacob99 [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2GipCVa

[themomsandthecity]

5 Simple (and Kid-Friendly) Places This Stay-at-Home Mom Goes to Maintain Her Sanity

The morning has gone well. My little girl and I are cool. We move through our day like well-choreographed dance partners. Like a feather bouncing on the breeze, our movement appears effortless, light, without burden or rigidity. We are all flow. She is in her room playing. I am making lunch, pausing periodically amidst egg-salad preparations to check in on her because toddlers are like the ocean: you look away one minute and the next, a tsunami-size wave is coming at you. But not this day. She has turned her pink CD player on, and I can hear "Bamboo the Bear," her new favorite song. My eyes are greeted with a delightfully eccentric view. She has pulled her pink princess backpack on over her striped shirt and yanked yellow rain boots onto the wrong feet. Her unicorn hair clip is still in, but her unicorn pants are off. She is dancing around in her Doc McStuffins pull-ups, wielding a purple magnifying glass as she sings about a "giant panda from Central China." We have days like this, and when they come along, it's easy to feel grateful for the gift of being home with my girl. The season we are in is vital, fortifying, life-giving. It is when the emotional foundation of who my daughter will be gets established. To be given such a mission is a weighty privilege. Related 13 Habits of Highly Effective (and Sane) Stay-at-Home Moms And yet, I have often heard my current parenting stage - the 0 to 3 years - described by veteran parents as the "trenches." Maybe that's why you can so often feel disheveled and dirtied up, bruised and battered by the early work of shaping a human. I don't always get the feather-dancing-on-the-wind days. Sometimes, I get the tsunami. In truth, so often during this period of my life, I go out into the world mentally and emotionally frazzled, with paint or glue-stick residue on my fingers and my arms, food on my clothes, consecutive showerless days, my hair knotted up in the proverbial scrunchie-encircled bun on top of my head, no makeup. These are the ugly, beautiful days, days where my thoughts are perpetually scattered like candy exploding out of a piñata, and I am utterly beat down by the effort it takes to get out the door (dressing a toddler can be like attempting to thread a needle while someone continually smacks you in the face). But, my child is flourishing, changing, growing, an inevitable rite of passage that somehow manages to fill me with awe and wonder every day I witness it. It makes me happy. And yet, I've realized, it's good to keep a lookout for an oasis during those days when your existence feels like a desert. I have learned that these places of sanity are usually very ordinary and simple. 1. The Neighborhood Park One such place for me is a small park a few blocks from where we live. Almost entirely enclosed, equipped with a large sandbox and a slew of abandoned but still workable toys, we made this our go-to locale throughout the Summer. Sometimes she'd sit in the sandbox for 30 uninterrupted minutes, mixing up culinary masterpieces of sandy delight. There is a large hill for running up and down. Pine trees dot the top of it, providing great hiding spots for my wee one who does not know yet how to play hide-and-seek without being adorably conspicuous. The train runs nearby; always popular with the under-3 crowd. There are swings, stairs, and a slide all tailored to her size. A noticeable shift in her physical capabilities and capacity for independent play seemed to culminate at the same time during one of our visits to this park, marking it forever in my memory as the little urban paradise where, for the first time in a long while, I was able to enjoy a coffee, a thought, a long sigh, all to blissful completion. 2. Wherever Other Moms Are "Look mama! I have a swinging buddy!" my daughter observes on any given day, as another mom deposits her toddler-size companion into the swing next to us. The other mom smiles. Our kids are side by side, grinning, chattering away as the swings grind out their loud metal creaking. "How old is she/he?" one of us asks, invoking what is often a standard mommy conversation starter. The days when this typical playground preamble transitions into full-fledged sharing about our mutual adventures in toddler world, perspective is suddenly no longer elusive, I laugh a little easier. It's like the first breath you take in a stuffy room after opening the window. Fresh air comes rushing through, and the space you're in feels less confining. These encounters remind me that other moms are my fellow comrades, and they are indeed a refuge for me. Some are veterans of the toddler trenches, others still knee-deep in the muck as I am, but all are well-versed in the language of survival, which is, simply put, encouragement. The mom with older kids or more than one can tell me with a knowing authority, "honey this stage will pass." The mom who is like me, wrangling a 2- or 3-year-old day in and day out, can say "Yes! Me too!" With those few words of validation, I am plucked out of soul-crushing isolation. Related This Is What Stay-At-Home-Moms Actually Do - For the Men Who Just Don't Get It As one recent conversation with a neighborhood mom taught me, it is just as important to create opportunities for yourself to talk about things besides your kids. As we shadowed our girls running throughout the playground, we talked about writing, the craft of it, our mutual interest in memoir and short-story writing. It was invigorating, and I came away from my time with her energized and inspired. Similarly, another mom friend of mine and I recently decided to try and meet up once a month for coffee, brunch, or even just a long walk without the kids. Sounds like a recipe for sanity to me! 3. The Local Coffee Shop Frequenting neighborhood coffee shops and cafes has also been instrumental in drawing me out of the mommy doldrums. My daughter and I built up a ritual around visiting such places. I get a coffee, she gets a muffin. We got to know the people who worked in the cafes. We learned things about them, like how the owner of one shop keeps a stash of Yorkshire Gold tea - the same kind my husband drinks - to remind him of his fondness for England. Or the barista who is a fellow singer and performer of musical theater. These places have been like my stay-at-home-mom version of Cheers, "a spot where everybody knows my name," or at least recognizes my face. The brief conversations, while not always deep, still engender a feeling of community. Sometimes that's all it takes to set me right again. 4. Outside on a Rainy Day The weather can often provide a place of refuge if you are willing to let it impress its natural pause on you. Travel becomes harder. Schedules get interrupted. Days like this are often declared pajama days. We hole up and build with blocks, or color, or crank out art projects with construction paper and glue. But if we do venture outside, our activity is slowed down. The world beyond our door is wet with snow or rain, limiting what can be done. But the limitation is where I find my peace. Rainy days are my favorite example of this right now. My little love's wearing and using her rain boots. And thanks to an affinity with Peppa Pig, muddy puddles are a must on a cold, wet day. We walk around the block slowly, chatting to one another, watching for puddles to splash in. It is a leisurely stroll without the pressure to entertain. I can breathe in the smell of the rain, the brisk cold of the air. I can listen to her tell me stories in her broken toddler English about the world as she sees it. I look on as she throws her 34-inch frame into a jump. She watches her boots lift off the ground and crash into pooled water. Bits of leaves, ejected from their previous homes by Autumn's arrival, fly every which way with the collected raindrops. We are content and unhurried. Related The 1 Thing to Consider Before Leaving Your Job to Be a SAHM, According to an Expert 5. The Library Sometimes, refuge can be found and sanity maintained in spaces designed with you and your kiddo in mind, like the children's area at your neighborhood library. The activities they provide, usually free and open to the public, bring in the community at large, fostering a cheerful, warm environment. We are all here, together, in the service of our children who simply want to play, explore, and be read to. I love going to the library. Beyond the gratitude I feel toward the communal, civic willingness to invest in my child, I am filled with nostalgia for my own childhood. I recall fondly a time when the Brown County Library, in my home town, Green Bay, WI, was indeed a place of refuge because it possessed one of the things I loved best as a child and still do: books. Books of every kind. Books with pictures, books with chapters. Books that I could check out over and over and over again. When I see how excited my little girl is by the same collective literary presence - one we have unlimited access to - I feel confident I am passing on a valuable pastime that will keep her company for years to come. I hope I am also passing on the importance of self-care. I hope my demonstration of this over time is consistent enough so she will see how everyday things, everyday encounters, can sometimes take you out of the quotidian of life. In those moments, it may not seem like much is happening. But like a seed in a pot of earth, waiting in stillness, the good stuff eventually gets awakened and really starts to bloom. http://bit.ly/2AHEJFN

[dorthykindler16-blog]

Relationship Advise Contents.

If he really isn't calling, isn't really asking you out, as well as has actually essentially quit all call, merely permit it be actually. This is tough, however is achievable if you will certainly merely continue to be identified to allow him resolve his personal concerns. He searched along as stealthily, with as cautious a walk, and as skeptical an overview, as a thief going into an enclosure where a man rests merely half of sleeping - or even, this might be, extensive wide awake - along with objective to swipe the quite prize which this man guards as the apple of his eye. aldone-diet-blog.de You find, there are actually particular things that girls perform which determine which form of guy they can easily possess; as well as clearly, if you are actually attracting the incorrect kind of guy, you are actually certainly not sending the signals that will draw in the RIGHT fella. Elijah Blue told The Daily Mail that he and Angie are preparing 2 even more wedding festivities during the following year - in Germany in May as well as an additional at their Los Angeles residence eventually in the summer months - so possibly Cher will show up at one of those. Yes, he's pitiless as well as destructive, yet Shakespeare proposes that there is an individual being actually beneath all that - a guy which is actually impersonating of emotional states our company are actually all prone to. Yes, he has all of them to the severe, yet there still remains a compassionate character beneath those violent, rough process. The spirits generated in Gordons recent stand-up system mediumship efficiency included a massacre victim that was a boy merely in the incorrect place at the incorrect time and had been actually wounded - although ripped from the deadly ordinary in such a dreadful means he came by means of to affirm he is still alive and is thankful for the high amounts joining his funeral service and along with some depression that the situation had stayed unsolved as no arrests had been actually created concerning his murder. Untameable Mop - If your male has among those mop leadings and that resembles he's simply rolled out from bedroom every time you find him, he is actually either performing this deliberately, or he's absolutely unaware to this. Some individuals select that disheveled look, and while some could draw this off, a lot of can not. It all began with accounts from popular XIV-XV century chronicler Rashid ad Hullabaloo and also Abhu l Ghazi which state that Genghis Khan as well as Genghisids possessed blue eco-friendly eye and soft sand hair and according to them some also possessed reddish beards. I have actually fulfilled the great, the unsatisfactory, the lovely, and also the ugly off lots of countries and also find that in the long run, you are coping with people and your very own paricular prejudice which is additionally determined by your society as well as citizenship. One of the best indications that your guy is actually unfaithful is actually when he instantly transforms regularly wishes to have a brand-new present day style from garments, fragrances, brand-new hairdo, definitely have to review their abrupt facelift due to the fact that unfaithful men discover means to appear great for othersBe extra observant particularly when your man is not that incredibly egotistic along with his garments and hair; your male is performing this may be actually given that he wants to make an impression on the female. The family is at 1st extremely separated through her open-arms welcome of the refugee, played through Eric Cabongo of Belgium, yet soon warms to the man along with his delightfully faulty German even though neighbors and right-wing racists later on hold loud candlelight vigils from demonstration outside their suite.