#still in the early phases so. please stand by things might get worse before they get better

[grimbothefool]

say hi to him

[luxwritesfanfic]

Definitely Not Your Color

In true Sherlock fashion, he shows you exactly why green isn’t his color. Or, the one where reader can read auras and Sherlock is going through it at the sight of her new friend. AU!Bucky makes an appearance because I can’t live without him. Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes/Reader

You were stood off to the side of the crime scene recounting your conversation with the last witness of the night. There had been yet another murder and Lestrade had requested Sherlock’s help for what seemed to be a serial killer in the making. Two murders in less than a week and Sherlock was thrilled and it was easy to tell. An array of yellows and subtle oranges surrounded him, engulfed him, as he explained how vacant Scotland Yard truly could be and how quickly he had figured out the killer’s M.O. He shined like the sun, and you swore you saw tendrils of sunlight shoot off of his fingers as he analyzed every aspect of the scene before him. All confidence, he paraded around the crime scene in a way you knew so well, pointing out things that even after working with him for months that you wouldn’t of picked up on. He was happy to be working again, to be playing, no, winning the game once more. 

You were thankful no one else saw his colors like you did. Because as sure as you were that he was what they meant when they said, “let there be light!”, you were sure that others would gravitate towards him even more until it got to a point that there was so much in between the two of you that you would only be able to see his shine from between the cracks of other people.

Pulling you out of your thoughts of Sherlock and things that you couldn’t control, you turned your head at the sound of someone’s throat clearing.

“He’s seriously brilliant.” An officer who you hadn’t recognized before stood behind you, holding his cap in his hands and drumming his fingers along the rim. He looked past you to where Sherlock and John were, a laugh slipped out from under his breath. “Makes it look so easy.”

Your lips twitched at the statement, a warmth you knew too well for your liking spreading around you. If anyone else could see you, really see you, you’d surely be figured out. Sherlock Holmes was a great man, you were sure of it. He was as intelligent as they came and as handsome as the devil, and sure— sometimes he could be rude, and maybe a little ignorant, and sometimes you really wanted to slap the smirk off of his face when playing Cluedo (Because, Sherlock, it can’t be the victim!) but you wouldn’t change him. 

They told you not to stare at the sun but you couldn’t help it. You needed to see what was really there because you refused to believe that a man who couldn’t feel a thing made the world look that vivid. You were the moth and he was the flame and if that meant dying a painful death just to bask in everything that he was, so be it. Evidently, there were worse ways to die.

Stealing one last glance like you couldn’t help yourself, you shoved your notebook and pen in your purse and made your way back to your conversation.

“He really is. You’re new, right? Lestrade mentioned he had some new guys joining the force. Can’t say you didn’t have an interesting first week.” You wanted to lighten the mood as much as you could because you knew this wasn’t an easy crime to see. You still couldn’t look at the body too long yourself without feeling the black sit heavy in your stomach.

“Don’t worry ma’am, I can handle it.” As if he read your mind, he gave you a warm smile and nodded. “My father, he, uh, he was an officer as well. Started me with the bad stuff early. Said it would give me a little more character and a lot more advantage. There’s not too much that can scare me away, I don’t think.”

You returned his smile. He was a cool blue, and it matched his eyes perfectly. It looked good on him, you decided. “Good. London needs all the help that we can get. Oh- I’m Y/N, by the way! I work with Sherlock and John sometimes. I’m not a genius or a doctor but I can take damn good notes.” And at that you both laughed, as he reassured you that the boys would have nothing to study from if it wasn’t for you. In turn it made you laugh even harder when you realized he hadn’t got the chance to see Sherlock visit his Mind Palace yet, where everything you could offer him he already had.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m James, but I hardly ever use my government if I don’t have to. Please, call me Bucky.” He reached his hand out to you and shook yours, that boyish smile never leaving his lips. From behind you, you could tell subconsciously that it had gotten significantly darker. Like a light had went out. You didn’t think enough of it to turn around and investigate it.

---

You found it was easy to talk to Bucky and you had more things in common than you could have expected. He was polite and seemed to have seriously believed that you were an integral part of the team that he needed to get to know. You appreciated his kindness and how friendly he was, and it seemed like more than anything he was grateful you were giving him a chance to belong. You couldn’t figure out why.

It just so happens that from the angle you were looking, you saw Sherlock’s shoes before you saw his face. It looked like moss had grown through the concrete and saturated him so thoroughly that you thought he wouldn’t soon be able to move. It made you uneasy how sickly the green made him look. You had never seen this color on him before.

“If I knew all you were going to do was stand around and disregard everything I say, I would have brought Molly instead. She listens. Intently.” Sherlock spat and cut his eyes at you before looking to Bucky and giving him a once over before digging in. 

“Generally, they say to try again and again if you fail. I would think that wouldn’t apply to something like the police academy. Third, no... fourth times the charm as they say?” The green fog spilled out of Sherlock’s mouth and continued to cover him, wrapping so tightly around his body that you thought he might have trouble breathing. Even though you were standing a few good feet away from him, you could feel how heavy the fog had made you, and you worried for Sherlock as it encompassed him. You almost made to reach for him because you were afraid you’d lose him under all the smoke.  

“You’re a favored drop out who still lives with his mother, no, father. That’s where the drinking problem comes from I assume? One failed relationship too many and now suddenly your calling is keeping the streets clean of the people you used to run them with. Now, I know Lestrade has horrible taste when it comes to putting together a team but tell me, how did he get so lucky as to stumble across you? It can’t be the... no wait, it is because of-“

“Sherlock!” You say exasperatedly, looking at him like he’s he’s got three heads when you can’t even see the one he’s got as it is. He is solid and dark and lost in this feeling that you can’t name and he’s not him. Well, he is him, but weighed down so much by whatever he’s trying to carry through that you can’t imagine he’s acting this hateful for no reason. You refuse to believe it.

Bucky sighed and somehow still managed to twitch his lips upwards, a ghost of the grin he wore before. “Well, Mr. Holmes, you are what they say you are. Brilliant for sure. Hell, you haven’t even spoken a word to me prior and you know my life.” You were shocked to see Bucky’s reaction, most people would of blacked out on Sherlock for an outburst like that and this one definitely warranted it. “You’re right, about all of those things. I guess I’m just trying to play the best game I can with the hand I was dealt. I’m not one for feeling sorry for myself.” He straightened up and fastened his cap back on as he caught eyes with Lestrade and returned a knowing nod. 

Turning to you, Bucky grinned as if it never phased him, like he had grown used to being talked down on. The blue never left him and that made you happy. You didn’t want him to feel bad.

“Goodnight, Y/N. I look forward to speaking with you again. Mr. Holmes.” With that, he bid you both a good night and headed towards his team.

“Sherlock,” you murmured when you turned back to face him. The fog was so dark that you couldn’t make out his features anymore. You felt the fear creeping up your neck while you were trying to figure out what was so wrong with him. “What’s wrong with you? I figured you’d be happy that you practically solved the case...?” 

You saw it, he had been happy. And then you remembered his earlier comment about Molly. Maybe he wished she was here instead to celebrate his win with him.

“Listen... if this is about Molly, you know you can always ask her to tag along instead. I don’t want you to feel... obligated to invite me. She’s probably more useful in a situation like this anyway.” 

You felt yourself internally deflate as you spoke, but you were able to make out Sherlock’s face once more under the city lights. The green began to thin out. He must’ve been relieved at your confession, you thought.

Sherlock visibly tensed for a second before quickly masking it under an air of nonchalance.

“I could care less about Molly or what she’s good for. All I care about is the work and that it gets done. You know that.”

You watched as time passed and you could start seeing more of him. You realized you’d been holding your breath for some time waiting for the green to dissipate and set your detective free. Sherlock was back with you, and whatever feeling tried to take him away from you was lost now. That’s all that mattered.

And, of course, because there were still pressing matters to finish attending to, your moment with Sherlock didn’t last long. You swore something had changed within him. Something you couldn’t name just yet.

You weren’t totally quite convinced that whatever had happened between you two back there wasn’t about Molly, or some strange feeling that Sherlock was having that he’d surely never talk about. Even still you continued to follow after him wherever he asked you to go, as he still always asked you to go. 

And if he happened to stand a little closer to you the next time you worked alongside Scotland Yard, you were none the wiser.

[serrj215]

There is no place like home for the holidays (Thank god! One is enough)

Beast Boy closed the door and put his back against it. He had let out a breath he had been holding since they came onto the estate grounds. He slid down the door to the floor in defeat. He should have known better, he should have known that this was going to happen. It's not like these people were going to change since he left. They were not going to put any effort into being better people just because he was doing something as trivial as bringing his girlfriend for Christmas. Still the Doom Patrol was family, and that was what holidays were supposed to be about right?

"You're late." That was Steve's greeting when Beast Boy and Raven came to the front door. No Merry Christmas, no how are you?, or how have you been? Just "You're late." and "Dinner is on the table." As Steve walked away. Leaving them holding their bags standing on the snow covered landing. They were actually almost 20 minutes early but that was late enough for Steve. Then, right then Beast Boy knew he should have grabbed Raven and ran. Rita was a different story and was quickly at the door ushering them inside, trying to warm the cold welcome her husband had given them. It was Rita that had asked them to come, wanting to see them, wanting her family together for Christmas.

It was December 23rd a Friday and a holiday weekend, that is when it started to set in that this might be the longest 72 hours of their lives. Beast Boy knew that bringing Raven home for the holidays was going to be rough, a bit awkward, he just didn’t think that Steve's greeting was going to be one of that high points of the evening. Everything went downhill from there.

From the moment they came into the dining room they were bombarded with horrible questions. Negative man kept asking Raven "So what do you see in him?" He repeated the question throughout the meal. Like Raven was going to change her mind since the last time he had asked. When he alternated it with asking Beast Boy "You off that no meat thing yet?"

Robot man was almost as bad, after shaking hands with Raven he asked "So when are you due?" Raven tried to take it in stride but her other hand tightened around Beast Boy's . "Come on, to stick around Jolly Green midget he must have knocked you up?" he said with a laugh. Raven's fingers tighten so hard Beast Boy was sure something cracked in his hand.

"Charming." She said in her monotone.

As they sat down at the table the questions just got worse.

"So are you a Rabbit too, or do you eat real food?"

"How is his training going, been keeping him off the furniture?"

"Has he met your parents yet?"

"The last election was a sham wasn't it?"

"What are you exactly?"

He couldn’t remember who asked what, it was coming at them from all sides. It was like a mortar attack of all the things normal people knew better to ask. All Beast Boy could do was look at Raven and try to convey to her how sorry he was with his eyes. It was like they were trying to one up each other, who could ask the absolutely most Inappropriate thing. Raven did her best to stay polite, trying to redirect the conversation and sipping water. Rita tried to cut through the noise, asking about the other Titans, or talking about the holiday plans, but those conversations got lost in the storm of the others awful comments and horrid questions.

The food was not much of a distraction. Roast Beef, a rice pilaf with bits of sausage, and salad drenched in a ranch dressing. Apparently they really did think that being a vegetarian was a phase. This left their two guests a dinner of some steamed green beans and peanut butter sandwiches that Rita made for them on the fly.

Then came the stories that Beast boy had hoped they would have forgotten already, and politics, and more questions. The meal lasted about 15 years, or about an hour and a half depending on your perspective. Neither of the couple ate much, who knew that embarrassment was so filling.

The desert course was an augment about sleeping arrangements. After a lecture about what is proper and how they went to the trouble of getting the guest room ready for Raven and the old chestnut of "No unmarried couples are sleeping together under my roof!" Beast Boy found himself alone in his old childhood bedroom. Raven was ushered off before he could even really say "goodnight" or more importantly "I am sorry".

He sat there staring at the carpeted floor for a while. Eventually he lifted his head up to look around. Cartoon posters, some of his old action figures locked in the same battle he left them in years ago, a dozen other reminders of how young he was when he lived in that room. It was exactly the same as when he left. Beast Boy was not sure how he felt about that. He remembered Robin once telling him that when he went home to Gotham his old room gave him a sense of comfort. This place just reminded Beast Boy that no matter what, to the Doom Patrol he will always be a child. Reinforced by the fact that his bunk bed was made with his old Snoopy bed sheets.

He took off his shirt and let it drop to the floor before laying down on the bottom bunk. His feet stuck out over the end of the mattress by a good 6 inches. He closed his eyes and folded his arms under his head. He had to figure out what to say to Raven to make up for all of this. What could he say? "I am sorry Raven I was raised by horrible people please don’t leave me!?" He thought it was a miracle that she put up with his personal brand of bullshit, asking her to put up with his families collective insanity, he half expected her to teleport all the way back to Titans Tower as soon as she was alone.

"What is it with you and bunk beds?"

Beast Boy's eyes shot open and he sat up so fast that banged his head on the bed above him.

"Aaa…That sounded like it hurt." Raven said quietly, her head hanging down from the bunk above him. Her head disappeared and she gracefully lowered herself to the ground. She was wearing her night clothes, an oversized T-shirt and cotton pajama pants. Beast Boy didn’t know what to say as she joined him on the small mattress.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, messaging his aching forehead.

"Cuddling" She said as she wrapped her arm around his chest. "We have done it before, or did that blow to your head affect your memory?"

"Ha ha, Seriously. We're going to get in trouble."

"Oh yes" she said pulling herself tighter to him . "They might find us and throw us out of here," She softly kissed his bare chest "Force us to go get a hotel room" another kiss just below his collar bone. "Where we could share a bed like we have been doing for the last year now." Her lips touched the base of his neck. "Then the next morning we can get food we can both eat and might even have sex. " She raised her eyes to meet his. "Wouldn’t that be awful?"

Beast Boy's smile broke though. "Rae I am-" He couldn’t get the words out, she attacked, the kiss was insistent and hungry. Her tongue pushed its way in to caress his. His arms out of pure instinct wrapped around her, his left hand sliding down her back to rest on her ass. What had happened and where they were had started to fade away as she nipped on his earlobe knowing exactly what it would do to him.

"Raven" he groaned out as he felt her teeth gently biting into his neck, a distraction from her free hand undoing his belt

Knock!

Knock!

"Garfield? Can I come in?" Rita was outside the door immediately breaking the two apart, off the bed and onto their feet.

Neither of them thought about teleporting, or shifting or anything that they had practiced or trained for. At that moment they were not superheroes, they were two young people about to get caught. So in a panic Raven hid in the closet and Beast Boy tried to look and sound calm when he said "Come in"

Rita came in wearing a silk robe that went down to her bare feet. "Are you okay?" a look of genuine concern on her face.

"Yea, I mean I am fine" He was trying to stay calm, hoping Rita wouldn't notice that anything was amiss. If she had knocked just a few minutes later…Beast Boy sat back on the bed and tried to appear calm, but if there was a woman on earth walking that knew him as well or maybe better then Raven it was Rita.

"About Dinner, it's just how they are. " She said as she walked over to sit on the bed next to him "They mean well. Is Raven alright? Steve might be a telepath but that man can be cast Iron dense. "

"I hope so. " He said, trying not to look at the closet door with his lover on the other side. His sharp ears could hear Raven's heart jump when Rita mentioned her name.

"Let me make this up to you both. Do you remember that breakfast place we used to go to?"

"Bennet's?" Near the park!?" Beast Boy's ears perked at the suggestion and the memories of peanut butter pancakes, and a blueberry oatmeal that he couldn't find anywhere else.

"Why don’t the three of us sneak out early for Breakfast, do you think Raven would be up for that?"

"Totally! she loves waffles." he said with a grin. Finally something was going right on this trip.

"I do want to get to know her better, but be warned an embarrassing story or two might slip out. Oh, one more thing." She said as stood up and made a beeline for the closet.

"Ah ugh Rita!" Beast Boy started to stammer out. As Rita gently rapped on the closet door.

"Raven, Sweetheart. You can come out now, It's okay." Her tone was soft and motherly and It nearly floored Beast Boy to hear Raven be called 'sweetheart'.

Not waiting for her. Rita opened the door to find the flustered young woman. "I think you will both be more comfortable in the guest room." she said with a smile.

Raven walked into the room slowly, as if she was about to spring a trap. "Thank you" She was able to eke out "Are you sure? I mean Mento s- "

"It was not that long ago that I was young and in love. I am sure." A smile on her lips. "As for Steve," Rita leaned in close to whisper to Raven. "I will take care of my man, you take care of yours. The guest room is on the other side of the house, but we will try not to keep you two awake."

Rita turned quickly and was out the room with a hast "goodnight kids" leaving the young couple to stand there processing what just happened.

"What did she say to you?" Beast Boy asked.

Raven came up from behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest. "Gar, with those ears you heard what she said to me. Do you really want conformation?"

"No" He shook his head "I don’t need that mental image."

"Good, Because there is a fairly large bed downstairs waiting for us. "

In a swirl of black energy they were gone.

****************************************************

"WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!" Steve said as soon as Rita entered their bedroom.

“Do what darling?” Rita was completely calm knowing her husband's words were all bluster.

“You know exactly what I am talking about!” He folded his arms across his chest. “Why did you-”

"Because Steve, this is my home too! And sometimes I think I need to remind you." She said slowly walking toward him. "Because they're in love and I think you forget what that is like as well.” Her hands pulled the knot apart on the robe she was wearing. "Because you may have no interest in grandchildren does not mean I feel that way. “She pulled the robe off her shoulders and let it fall around her feet. “Because you have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.”

AN

So its been a while. This has been sitting in my draft folder for too long, I wanted to get it done by Christmas but that didn't happen. I do not know if I will write more but trying.

Also I am on Ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/30270621 here and other works.

[mindofharry]

Garden Song

chapter 1 - motion sickness

It’s been two years since the divorce between Julie and Grayson. A lot has changed. Grayson wants Julie more than ever. Will she take him back?

TW: some of the stuff mentioned in this series might trigger some people. please don’t read if you get triggered easily!

“You need to leave before the boys wake up” Julie mumbled and Grayson nipped at her neck. It wasn’t meant to happen, not in this way. They got carried away — Julie was upset because of Ethan and Grayson just wanted to comfort her. So three episodes of Brooklyn nine-nine and a whole bottle of wine later, they ended up in Julies bed naked and somewhat embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time something like this happened, the night Ethan broke up with Julie, she went straight to Grayson. She didn’t even think which was why she was so frustrated.

Grayson put Julie through hell and back. With his cheating, drinking and just being a total dickhead. She’s been trying to distance herself in the nicest way possible. As you can tell, it’s not going very well.

“Hmm, i know you don’t want me to” Grayson hummed kissing down her neck.

“I don’t want you to leave, but sebastian knows what sex is. No lying anymore” Julie said with a smirk, Grayson groaned and rolled onto the ‘his’ side of the bed. It was weird for him to even say that, but he stays over here more than he does his own home. It’s safe to say, it’s his side of the bed. He wished Julie would let him stay in bed with her, instead of worrying about the boys. Julie is constantly worrying about Alexander and Sebastian, even more than she probably should.

She just doesn’t want them to get hurt again. And instead of talking with the boys and her therapist — she’s keeping it all inside and projecting it on other people. Luckily she’s made some good friends, so they know all the shit Grayson put her through. Julie met Sarah a couple months ago at a parent teacher meeting. Alexander bit her son — he’s going through a biting phase. Of course Sarah thought it was the funniest thing in the world, and now they’re both best friends. The same with Alexander and Sarah’s daughter Maria. Alexander gets all blushy around her which is the cutest thing.

Sarah would all kill Julie if she found out she was sleeping with the enemy (the enemy being grayson). Julie had too much whine, and sarah was talking about her divorce, and all it just sort of slipped out. It felt good to have another person to talk to.

“i’ll go make breakfast then?” he asked and Julie nodded getting up and pulling her silk dressing gown over her naked body. Grayson was sat up in the bed, watching her every move. “you’re undeniably sexy, you know that?” Grayson said pulling his boxers on.

Julie grinned and leaned against the bathroom door. “you’ve told me once or twice”.

Grayson sighed to himself in content as Julie hopped in the shower. He got up, only his boxers, all of his muscles and tattoos on show. He went downstairs and went straight to the kitchen to start preparing breakfast. He had major deja vu. All the fights, the sex, the cheating — this kitchen had seen it all. Grayson is surprised that Julie didn’t just up and leave, he really wouldn’t of opposed at all. She deserved a happy ending, and Grayson really thought that was with Ethan.

Everyone thought that Ethan and Julie were meant to be after Grayson. That they would get married and do better.

But it was just so much worse.

No Ethan didn’t cheat or abuse her emotionally. But he promised. He promised Julie so many things, a happy life was one of them and that just didn’t happen. The first job that was thrown his way, he took it and left without so much of explanation. He just came home from the current job he had, ate the dinner Julie and the boys made him and then told Julie that night that he was leaving because he just couldn’t handle the pressure of being a dad and having a full time job he didn’t love. Of course, Julie was upset — she went straight to the person who fucking cheated on her, that’s how messed up she was after what Ethan did. And the fact that it wasn’t just for a job, it was because he wasn’t able to look after children.

Ethan promised marriage, more kids, a new home. And he gave shit, just like his brother. The Dolan twins were a drug, and Julie apparently just couldn’t get enough.

“Daddy?” a voice called out by the kitchen door. Grayson turned around with a big green to his youngest boy, Alexander. He had gotten so big after the last two years, his curls more prominent and god was he a tall five year old. Don’t get Grayson started on Sebastian — he’s like the tallest 10 year old Grayson’s ever seen. Julie always said they take after their daddy in that department.

“Hi, baby. You wanna help daddy make some pancakes for mama and Seb?” Grayson asked flipping a pancake over. Alexander nodded quickly with a smile and ran over to his dad, his favourite pink blanket now on the floor. He put his hands up, and Grayson lifted him up resting him on his hip. Julie raised such good boys, always wanting a cuddle, kiss or hug. Always listening and never fighting. The most mature boys ever. She a really good job, Grayson wished he was around more during those times.

“What are you doing up so early, little man?” Grayson asked and Alexander shrugged. “Heard you and mama” he said and Grayson pouted.

“Did we wake you?”

Alexander nodded resting his head in Grayson’s chest. “you can sleep some more” Grayson murmured kissing his forehead and continued making breakfast. About ten minutes later, alexander was up again helping grayson set the table for breakfast. “good job, buddy” Grayson grinned messing up Alexander’s hair.

Julie walked down the stairs hand in hand with Sebastian, she could smell the pancakes and coffee already. She missed having someone do this for her and the boys.

“Hey, honey” Grayson said as he saw Julie and Sebastian coming through the kitchen.

honey? that’s new.

Sebastian grinned and hugged his dad before sitting down beside his brother and digging into his pancakes. Julie walked over to grayson who was leaning against the island, drinking his coffee — still shirtless. She smirked and stood beside him.

“why don’t you stay over again tonight?” She asked and grayson smirked placing a hand on her hip. Julie bit her lip and tried to keep her breathing in check. “i’m going to fuck you so hard, Julie Dolan” grayson mumbled kissing her neck before walking off to the boys.

Julie blushed and placed her hand on her forehead. Was she flustered or nauseous? Maybe her period was on the way.

Her period..... shit. Julie opened her phone and looked at her calendar counting the weeks down.

She had missed her period. Fuck, this isn’t happening. Just went things with grayson were getting good. This has to happened — a pregnancy scare. God really was testing her. Everything was just going so well, there was no stress. They boys are happy in school and at home, they laugh and smile and they rarely cry anymore. Grayson is nicer, less stressed and such a good dad. And julie, julie is feeling amazing, like she was doing something good and right with her life. She had friends, she’s on the parents council, her and grayson have a good relationship and the boys are better than ever.

Why does this have to happen? They don’t need a pregnancy scare right now.

If she was pregnant, she knows it grayson’s as she’s only had sex with him for the past two months. Not consistently — but he is the only one shes been with since ethan.

“Mama?” Alexander called out making julie put down her phone and put on her biggest smile.

“Coming” Julie said taking the coffee Grayson made her over to the dining table where her boys are. Grayson was confused and gave her a look, but julie just smiled shaking her head.

“Eat it up, pumpkin” Julie said pushing Sebastians curls away from his eyes. Grayson smiled looking at his little family. Maybe this time, he’d get them back. No olivia, no drinking, no ethan and no surprises.

Nothing is going to get in the way of him and julie getting back together.

Sebastian and Alexander decided to spend the day with their friends down the road. They have their cousins up for the weekend so they’re having a bit of a party. Julie and Grayson want them to be out and making friends, so of course they let them go. Sebastian was a little clingy, but Alexander is a little heartbreaker. But once Sebastian saw the bouncy castle, he was ok for you and grayson to leave.

Meaning you and grayson had the house to yourselves for a couple hours.

“We’ve got the house to ourself” Julie said as she walked upstairs. Grayson followed after her like a lost puppy.

“Why don’t we take advantage of that?”

Julie took off her dress, dropping it to the ground before leaning on the bed only her matching underwear set, red, just how grayson liked it. Grayson raised an eyebrow and walked over to Julie standing in between her legs. He bent down and placed his lips on hers, Julie whimpered at his touch.

“I bet you’re already soaked” Grayson whispered dropping his hand to her panties, pulling them down. He hummed to himself as he saw her pussy glistening.

“I was right” He smirked as he watched Julie squirm. “touch me” she begged and grayson laughed to himself.

“You don’t tell me what to do” Grayson stated moving away from julie. “Now strip down and move up the bed” He said and Julie nodded quickly undoing her bra and kicking off her underwear that was already by her ankles. She felt herself down her thighs, god she needed him so much. Grayson took off his shirt and jeans, leaving him only in his black boxers, he crawled up Julies body on all fours, when he reached her stomach he placed a kiss at her belly button, then licked all the way up to her breasts.

Julie felt so vulnerable, somehow Grayson could feel that. So he pecked her lips and whispered “you’re beautiful” Julie smiled and pecked his lips. Grayson kissed down her stomach and finally, he was paying attention to Julies sex. “Well, hello” He mumbled, his breath hitting off of her core making julie moan. He parted her legs even more and buried his head in between them, kissing your thighs and stomach.

“you’re so fucking wet for me, baby” Grayson moaned as he slowly ran a finger up her slit. Julie moaned and bucked her hips at his touch. Grayson smirked at julie as began to rub the smallest, softest circles on her clit.

“Please....” Julie moaned and grayson looked up with a grin.

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me”

Grayson pressed himself further into julies body, julie felt his boner through his tight boxers. “i need you gray” Julie whimpered and that was enough for him. He pulled his boxers off, nearly falling off the bed to get the condoms from the bedside tables. Once he was ready, he smirked at julie teasing her nipples a little.

Grayson placed a kiss on her lips, before easing himself into her. Julie grabbed onto his broad shoulders pushing him deeper into her. “Fuck, Jules” Grayson moaned his head falling back. Julie took this as her opportunity to turn them around so she was on top.

“Always knew you were a secret dom” Grayson teased, making julie giggle. She eased graysons cock back into her, letting out a loud moan as she began to move up and down on his cock. “fuck, faster julie” Grayson moaned, his fingers digging into her hips. “so good” Julie moaned and Grayson nodded pulling her over so he was on top again. One leg was on his shoulder, the other laying on the bed. Grayson picked up the pace, making Julie scream out loud, becoming dizzy.

“I’m gonna cum” She moaned and grayson nodded pounding into her.

“Come on, baby, cum with me”

After both coming down from their climaxes, they both laughed and grayson was in Julies arms. “This is nice” Julie said running her fingers through his messy hair. Grayson nodded a kissed her chest.

“I miss us” Grayson admitted and Julie fit a sharp pain in her stomach, nerves? Butterflies?

No, she was going to throw up. She pushed grayson off of her and ran to the bathroom, spilling her breakfast into the toilet. No, No, this isn’t happening. She is not pregnant, she’s not letting this ruin her relationship.

Grayson picked up his shirt a brought it in with him. Julie was still puking her guts out, so he just put her hair up in a hair band (the best he could) and rubbed her back. She groaned into the toilet, sitting down fully. Grayson put the shower on and helped her in it.

“You ok?” He asked washing her hair. Julie nodded smiling “think it was your pancake mix” she teased and grayson rolled his eyes washing the shampoo out of her hair. He knew her full routine — she has a lot of hair and she likes to look after it. Grayson made sure her learnt it so he could wash her hair for her when she was sick or tired.

He knew it would come in hand one day.

“I think i ate something off, last night. Haven’t done the food shop yet” She explained, not completely lying. Grayson nodded and continued to wash her hair. “I have to head home tonight to get some work done, but i can help you with the food shop tomorrow?” he asked and julie smiled at the offer.

“That would be nice, gray”

They stayed in the shower for a little while longer, just enjoying each other’s company. Grayson had to leave, but he kissed her goodbye and promised he be here early tomorrow morning and not to move a muscle, he didn’t need her puking again. Julie had a glow about her, she smiled and wore her dresses again. Her hair was looked after and her skin looked amazing. And it was such stupid silly things, but it meant the world to her. Even last year, a year after the divorce, she still didn’t feel herself.

Julie felt amazing.

After getting dressed again, she picked up her phone and called sarah.

“Hey, i need you to pick me up something”

“yeah, for sure. What do you need?” Sarah asked and Julie closed her eyes leaning against the door.

“A pregnancy test”

Sarah didn’t say anything for a few second before, nodding to herself. “I’ll be there in 10. you’ll be ok, whatever the news” Sarah reassured before hanging up. Julie dropped her phone on the bed, sighing to herself. She found herself looking in the mirror, imagining how she would look with a little bump now after changing so much.

Stay positive - pun no intended.

Sarah arrived 10 minutes later as she promised pulling out a chocolate bar and a pregnancy test. Julie smiled pulling her friend into a hug. “Thank you for doing this” Julie said and sarah nodded squeezing her friend. “Of course, Jules, i’d do anything for you” She whispered and pulled away.

“Now go take the test. And i’m here, whether it’s negative or not”

Julie walked into the bathroom and took the test, setting 3 minutes timer on her phone. She remembers doing this with alexander and sebastian, she was 19 and 21 if she remembers correctly. And she had no friends, barely had a husband. She was so alone. This time, she has mountains of people and it really doesn’t make her feel any better. Julie was a only teenager when she felt pregnant with sebastian, she planned to go to college and get her dream job. Get a big, huge home and then get married. Julie took that pregnancy test in a gas station, by herself. And she cried all night after finding out, set on getting an abortion. But grayson convinced her to keep the baby — they would be a happy family, together.

Well, now she’s a mom to two kids, divorced, sleeping with her ex husband and had sex with his brother multiple times. Life really couldn’t get any better for Julie Dolan.

3 minutes ended and she was too scared to look at the test. “Sarah, can you please just read it” Julie cried and sarah quickly came into the bathroom and looked down at the test.

“You’re pregnant, Julie”

[mostlycompetentwriter]

Intro

F/M Pairing: Y/N x Lee Minho (SKZ)

Warnings: Angst and Fluff

Genre: Family AU; Haven Prequel (thus the title)

Word Count: 3K

Summary: It was nerve-wracking sometimes - keeping her new relationship with Minho a secret from the others. But Y/N also has bigger problems on her mind, like why Seungmin seems determined to ruin her life.

It was warm outside with the promise of summer interrupting the long weeks of mild temperatures and cool wind. But I loved when the weather felt like this - full of potential that would carry through the weeks leading to summertime. Because there was nothing better than that prospect - escaping school for a few months while I relaxed inside the house with everyone else.

When I was younger and still inexperienced, I might’ve enjoyed reading in the basement with Jeongin because he liked the sound of my voice. But that was a long time ago, and I had recently developed another preference. And he was 172 centimetres of imposing height and stature - spending most of his waking hours working at the warehouse before returning home in the evenings to relax with the rest of his family. 

At first, I tried to keep my feelings a secret from him - following Minho around the house or helping him outside. But I must’ve been too obvious, especially when he confronted me about my sudden interest. It was probably around the same time when I realized that one of hugs was far more arousing than it should’ve been.

Thankfully, Minho reciprocated my admiration, and we both agreed to try out a relationship. But one that we kept to ourselves because the rest of our family might prove to be an unanticipated obstacle. I trembled just thinking about the idea of Chan finding out that Minho often snuck into my room at night to sleep with me while we tried to keep silent. Because there was no way that he would understand, and I was afraid that Chan would try to separate us before we could truly explore our feelings.

But I guess we were really good at keeping things private, and it was probably for the best. In the meantime, I could prosper under Minho’s affection, and it was kinda nice to keep him to myself without anyone else’s intervention. It almost felt like we were lost in our own little world - enjoying the honeymoon phase of our romance.

I smiled just thinking about it, even though I was still in the middle of my class, and I was startled out of my thoughts by the sound of the dismissal bell. “Good work, everyone,” our teacher said as I collected my books together - listening to my classmates wish one another a great summer vacation. I offered several of them a courteous smile on the way out the door since they were nice, but I was far more excited to see Minho again. 

And I could already feel the tension start to lessen when I located Jeongin standing next to his locker. “Hey,” I said, knocking my shoulder against his own. “Are you ready?”

“Y/N, I’m sleeping for the entire summer,” Jeongin said. “It sucks to wake up early.”

I smiled at him while patting his shoulder. “We can take a nap together when we get home.”

Jeongin brightened at the suggestion before glancing at someone over my shoulder. “Seungmin!”

I hesitated at the mention of Seungmin, even as I glanced at him from my peripheral with a murmured greeting. “Felix is waiting outside,” Seungmin offered as a response when he started walking in pace with us. 

“Felix is picking us up?” I questioned, and my mood instantly deflated because Minho had promised to bring us home after school.

“Yeah?” Seungmin scoffed. “What’s the big deal?”

“Nothing,” I muttered, following behind Jeongin and Seungmin as we walked outside.

Sure enough, Felix was waiting in the parking lot next to Chan’s car with his hands tucked inside the pockets of his jeans. “Head count,” he announced before making a show of looking around.

“That will never be funny, Felix,” Seungmin said, and I wondered if he was having another one of his infamous bad days.

Felix shrugged indifferently because he had an amazing ability to remain perfectly nonchalant. “Let’s go home.”

“Can we stop by the store to get a snack?” Jeongin asked, climbing into the backseat next to me while Seungmin sat up front.

“Sure,” Felix said - agreeable as always when he started backing out of the parking spot.

“Hey, Felix,” I said, running my hands against my thighs. “Did Minho have to work?”

“He was called back in,” Felix replied, and I couldn’t help the way I sighed upon hearing this unfortunate news.

“Why are you so worried about him?” Seungmin asked before glaring at me in the rearview mirror. 

“I’m not,” I insisted while crossing my arms over my chest. 

Screw Seungmin and his stupid attitude problem!

“I wish Chan would just let you two wrestle your problems out,” Jeongin commented.

“Like she could beat me,” Seungmin said.

“I’d just substitute somebody in to fight for me,” I retorted.

“I’ve got dibs on Changbin!” Seungmin shouted.

“No way!” I exclaimed. “Changbin would fight for me!”

“I’d go for Chan,” Jeongin contributed as if he was somehow involved in our conversation. “I think he could take Changbin.”

“Whatever,” Seungmin huffed, slinking down lower in his seat. “Can’t you go any faster, Felix?”

“The speed limit is 45,” Felix said, and I glanced at the speedometer to confirm that, yes, Felix wasn’t budging over the limit.

“He’s doing fine,” I said - just to spite Seungmin because it was way too easy to rile him up.

But it was the unique dynamic that we shared - a strange coldness reserved for one another ever since I could remember. And no matter how many times Chan sat us down together in the kitchen for one of his infamous “interventions,” we still always argued over trivial things. 

“That’s wise of you, Y/N,” Jeongin remarked. “If you’re nice to the others, then you’ll have more allies in your war against Seungmin.”

Seungmin growled from the front seat, and I smiled with a renewed sense of satisfaction.

By the time we returned home, I was practically sitting on the edge of my seat as I surveyed the driveway for any sign of Minho’s car. But I found myself disappointed yet again - resigning myself to a boring afternoon until he returned home. Meanwhile, I noticed that Changbin was working at the bushes lining our front porch, and his skin was practically burning from his time under the skin.

“Put on some sunscreen,” I suggested to him as I passed on my way inside.

Changbin glared at me playfully. “Do I not get a hug?”

“Maybe later,” I replied, laughing at the pout on his face.

It was far too hot for me to be outside, and I entered the kitchen with a sigh of relief as I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. I also spotted Chan looking over some documents on the table - shifting through the pile with a concentrated expression.

“What are you doing?” I asked while trying to peer over his shoulder.

Chan didn’t respond at first - humming to himself before meeting my gaze. “Will you help me out?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, dropping my bag near the table.

“I need you to clean up the kitchen,” Chan said. “I have to help Changbin in the yard.”

“Yeah, that’s no problem,” I said, smiling when Chan ruffled my hair on his way outside.

I was actually grateful for the distraction, especially since I didn’t have anything else planned. “But what about our nap?” Jeongin whined, and I watched him sit down on top of the counter.

“Maybe Seungmin will give you some company?” I suggested - making my way over to the sink to run some warm water for the dishes. 

“He’s moody,” Jeongin replied, and I snorted around a laugh.

“You could always help me.”

Jeongin shrugged while he considered my proposal. “Okay, but I’m not touching the trash.”

“Fair,” I agreed, and we exchanged places at the kitchen sink so that Jeongin could clean the dishes while I took care of everything else. 

It wasn’t really meant to be that much work, and I had almost finished when I noticed Seungmin walk into the kitchen. “Must be nice to be Chan’s favorite,” Seungmin said. “He’s making me wash the cars.”

“The water might feel good,” I said, even though there was a slight part of me that was laughing at Seungmin’s predicament.

“Yeah, whatever,” Seungmin muttered, and he pushed me aside as he opened the fridge. “At least get out of the way!”

I frowned as I looked around to ensure the kitchen was presentable. “Fine, have it to yourself,” I snapped at Seungmin, ignoring his glare on me as I stormed down into the basement with Jeongin hot on my heels.

It was too quiet for the remainder of the afternoon, and I had been sleeping next to Jeongin in his bed when everything fell apart around me. 

At first, I was paralyzed by the remnants of sleep, and I was blinking my eyes repeatedly when I realized that Chan was calling my name: “Y/N!”

I startled awake from my nap at the sound of Chan’s voice, noticing that Jeongin was groaning from next to me. “You don’t have to get up,” I told him and he simply grunted in response.

I was careful when I rolled out of bed, trudging upstairs because I wasn’t sure why Chan needed me. But when I walked into the kitchen, my mind instantly went blank when I realized that it was a complete wreck - like I hadn’t just spent half an hour cleaning. “Y/N,” Chan said, giving me a very stern look that I usually never experienced. “Can you explain to me why the kitchen was never cleaned?”

“Channie,” I started, but there really wasn’t a rational explanation, until Seungmin made his presence known as he smirked in my direction. 

“I never ask you to do much, Y/N,” Chan said, and he seemed far more disappointed than angry, which was honestly worse. “I hope you’re not planning to be this lazy all summer.”

I could feel my heart breaking at Chan’s cruel words because I knew that they were misdirected, but the evidence was against me. Instead, I quietly murmured an apology and promised to clean everything while Chan groaned in response and messed around in the cabinets for an Advil. “Please listen to me from now on,” Chan said before leaving me alone with Seungmin.

“Why would you do that?” I asked him - getting straight to the point.

“Like you didn’t deserve it,” Seungmin snapped, and his tone was harsh.

“Can you just leave me alone?” I sighed, and he had the decency to give me enough space to re-do everything once again.

It was still a tedious process - scrubbing down the counters and re-washing the dishes. But this time I didn’t even have Jeongin’s assistance, and I couldn’t help but wonder how Seungmin even managed to make such a mess out of the kitchen. Did he not care at all about my feelings?

I was close to a breakdown, and it was the condition Minho found me in when he came home. “Y/N,” he cooed until he realized that I wasn’t returning his enthusiasm, and his smile disappeared when he saw me. “Y/N,” he said with a careful tone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, tossing aside a wayward dish rag before slumping down at the table. “I’m fine.”

“No you’re not,” Minho said, but it wasn’t accusing; instead, it was a gentle observation - a reminder that I didn’t need to lie to him about these things.

“Maybe it’s hard to talk about,” I said, and Minho sighed.

“Come upstairs with me,” he requested, and I allowed him to support my weight as he once again acted like my silent guardian.

There was nothing better than the feeling of Minho’s arms as he kept me close next to him in bed. It was warm and comfortable - allowing him to run his fingers through my hair while I breathed in the faint scent of his cologne. It had long wore off since he came home from work, but I could still find it on the collar of his shirt with every deep inhale.

“What’s going on, Y/N?” Minho asked, and I squirmed next to him.

“Seungmin and I had another fight, I guess,” I replied.

“That’s nothing new with the two of you,” Minho remarked. “I know Chan’s already said something, but what’s keeping you both from getting along?”

“We weren’t always like this,” I said - remembering all the special moments that I had once shared with Seungmin. For example, there was one in particular that stood out to me, and it had occurred only a few months after I first moved in:

Seungmin and I were still learning about each other because we had become roommates in the blink of an eye, and I could tell that we were both still reserved around one another. But I also sensed a mutual desire to open up and talk about our lives, and we developed this interesting ritual where we would talk every night before bed and share our most intimate secrets.

“What’s something that you’re embarrassed about?” Seungmin asked, and I looked over at where he was laying across his bed.

I thought long and hard about his question before allowing the first thing that popped inside my head to speak for me: “I’ve never been kissed before,” I revealed to Seungmin.

When I met his gaze from across the room, my new roommate’s eyes visibly widened upon hearing my confession. “Oh...”

I smiled at him. “It’s okay, though, I guess I have to be patient.”

“Not necessarily,” Seungmin quickly interjected. “Uh, I mean, I could always help you out.”

“What do you mean?”

Seungmin quietly scrambled off his bed, tripping over the sheets, and he was sitting next to me in a flash. “I can be your first kiss,” Seungmin said, and his chest was heaving from his previous efforts.

“Are you sure?” I asked while moving into a better sitting position.

“Yeah,” Seungmin said with his best puppy-dog eyes. “I want it, Y/N.”

“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes and puckering my lips - waiting for him to make the first move.

And the simple slide of his lips across mine sent a shiver down my spine. But I held myself in place - allowing him to move his lips against mine as he gently held my face between his hands. It was nothing outrageous, and I found a delicate peace in the simple act.

It was nice - both warm and familiar, and I had never felt closer to Seungmin. Yet, when I offered him a new secret during one unforgettable night a few years later, those moments between us eventually stopped:

“Seungmin,” I said, finding myself smiling before I could even get my words together. “I think I really like Minho.”

It felt nice to finally come clean about the confession, but there was a strange silence from the other side of the room. 

“Seungmin?” I questioned my roommate, but he never answered, and I simply assumed that he had gone to sleep.

However, in the present, my brain quickly put the pieces together, and I felt an unmeasurable guilt weigh heavy on my consciousness. “You couldn’t have known, Y/N,” Minho said - offering me one of his familiar kisses instead.

“It’s my fault that he hates me,” I said, and I could feel myself on the verge of tears before Minho quickly pulled me away from the edge.

“It’s not,” he told me sternly. “Seungmin made that decision for himself, and he’s the one who allowed that to come between you both.”

I shook my head as I buried myself into Minho’s chest. “I feel really bad.”

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Why don’t you get some sleep? We can talk about it again in the morning.”

I nodded my agreement before closing my eyes, and I found myself dreaming about the past.

It was quiet when I felt Minho whisper my name. Despite the grogginess of sleep, I craned my head to the side to see him. “What time is it?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Minho said. “I don’t have to be at work for another hour.”

“It’s early, then,” I noted, turning over onto my other side because it allowed me to burrow closer to Minho.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“I’m better,” I replied, and I met his expectant gaze. “Do I have to keep talking about it?”

“Of course not,” Minho said, and he encouraged me to lay back down. “If you’re not comfortable, then you should never force yourself.”

“But it makes me sad sometimes,” I said. “I don’t think Seungmin likes me anymore.”

“You’d have to ask him that yourself,” Minho said, but I dreaded the prospect of such a conversation. 

“No thanks,” I grumbled. “I’ll just suffer alone.”

“Look at me,” Minho instructed me softly, and I obeyed with only some hesitation because there was nothing more reassuring than the affectionate gleam in Minho’s familiar eyes. “You’re never alone, Y/N.”

He was serious - I could tell by his tone and the manner in which he forced our eye contact. “I didn’t mean to say that,” I told him. “I know that I’ll always have you.”

“That’s right,” Minho said, and he gave me a proud smile. “Whatever we have between us - I hope it’s the deepest bond you could ever imagine. Because I’m never going away, Y/N.”

I closed my eyes when I felt another soothing kiss across my lips. “I like you a lot,” I said, without really thinking.

But Minho just laughed, and there was something safe about him. “I like you too,” he said, lowering his voice to a whisper - like his next words were only meant for us to share: “More than you could ever know.”

I grinned and reached for his hand. Because if Minho liked me even half as much as I liked him, then there was nothing that could stop us.

It was our special relationship as long as we remained together.

[fanfictrashdump]

Universe in a Jar - Phase 4 fic

OK. I did something. A few days ago I reblogged this post about the magical trio. And then my brain went off on a monumental tangent and this happened. It’s not my fault, really– Loki is my all-time fave, Wanda could murder me and I’d thank her and Stephen is a smart, sassy bitch... all wins.

So, here, y’all can have it. I might leave it there or I might continue depending on my mood. 

Characters: Stephen Strange, Loki, Wanda Maximoff, OC

Rating: T? Language!

Summary: Baby-sitting beings arguably more powerful than him goes awry for Doctor Strange. He knows one person who can possibly keep them isolated and out of trouble. Well, he knew someone who could... he hasn’t seen them in decades and for stupid reasons.

XX

"Wait here. No funny business."

Doctor Stephen Strange half-dragged himself upright to deliver the warning. The portal-hopping and timeline clipping involved in the last twelve hours–if he could even call them that–of his life had really taken it out of him. Who knew fixing tears in the time-space continuum was so exhausting? Doctor Who made it look like a breeze!

Setting his companions with one last threatening glare, he walked up to a faded, run down apartment door with a crooked six hanging just above the knocker. In all honesty, the place looked even worse than what he had anticipated when the hospital directory gave him the address. Still, he knew he had made it here for a reason, despite the fact his stomach was roiling and begging him to reconsider. This was his Hail Mary. Tightening his jaw and frowning himself into another set of early wrinkles, he pounded the wooden entrance so hard the six righted itself.

A minute or so later, the door swung open, a woman filling the empty frame just long enough to lay eyes on the doctor.

"Nope."

The door slammed shut with a noisy shudder just as Stephen opened his mouth. He swallowed the dozen or so expletives that were threatening to wriggle themselves free from his throat. Instead, he straightened his hoodie, loosened his neck with an audible crack, and took a deep breath before the side of his fist struck the door four times.

Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.

Silence.

Stillness.

His companions beginning to titter in the background because for all his pomp and attitude and the timelines are not to be meddled with–I am the Sorcerer Supreme, he could not get a single human to open the door.

Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.

His teeth ground together harder in annoyance. "Seph! I have absolutely no problem in staying here all day. Making a fuss. Screaming at your door. Waking the neighbors. Being a nui–"

The door swung open, then. Stephen was met with a frown and eyes dark as storm clouds and for just a second he forgot why he was doing this. "What the fuck do you want?"

His expression softened under her glare, if only minimally. There was a reluctance in his frame that refused to give up even as he said the words. "I need help, Seph." His eyes flittered briefly over his shoulder and it was just long enough for the woman to notice that the sorcerer was not alone.

Standing on her tiptoes, she looked over his shoulder. Just down the harshly lit hallway, two figures–woman dressed in dark red and a man in an all black suit–stood watching the interaction and chattering among themselves. Her expression lightened just a fraction. "Who's the cutie?"

Stephen looked back, furrowing his brow and taking careful inspection of the other two before directing his attention back to the woman at the door. "Which one is the cutie?"

"Take your pick," she challenged back and even though his initial instinct was to roll his eyes and scoff, a little smirk tugged at his lips.

He whistled, gesturing the door with his head. His companions perked, if only due to sheer curiosity about this new person. "Wanda, Loki, meet Dr. Persephone Hale." He sighed, shoulders slumping in anticipation for what was to come out of his mouth. He gathered the most sincere look he could muster and held her gaze. "Please?"

A million expressions fluttered through her features, including a peculiar twitch of her nose he knew only happened when she was about to do something she really didn't want to. He tried not to celebrate the victory too soon. She was, after all, making him wait for it. After a moment of internal deliberation, she stepped aside and Strange signaled in no uncertain terms that the two needed to step inside.

"Thank you for having us. I'm sorry if we're intruding." Wanda looked tense as she spoke, like they had already had plenty of doors slammed in their face. Or perhaps she was just sensing the thoughts and emotions of their host and fearing the worst.

Seph waved her in. "It's not a problem. I am glad to help an Avenger and… an alien god." She offed them both a forced smile. "Where'd you leave the horns?"

Loki chuckled, straightening his suit. "They didn't go with the outfit. May I?"

"Of course. It's him I'm not crazy about."

The smile on Loki's face grew as he sidled past her, leaving Stephen to glare at them both. "Seph–"

"I don't care. I don't care about whatever excuse you're about to give me–"

"I'm sorry! I can't do anything else other than apologize."

"Yes, you're right. Why would the Sorcerer Supreme even bother with the lesser mortals?" With an icy glare, she turned on her heel and stomped into the apartment, though she left the door open in invitation.

Drawing a long sigh, Stephen reconsidered turning time back just ten minutes and foregoing this whole disaster before realizing he had no other choice, and so he followed her in and closed the door behind him.

The entrance hall of the tiny Bronx apartment melted away after a few steps, replacing stale summer air with a crisp country breeze. Faded blue flower-patterned wallpaper was familiar at first sight, as was the well-loved wooden stair banister, worn in places where the steps were squeaky from nights of trying to sneak in after curfew. Knick-knacks and pictures crammed into every possible space brought back memories that he had long since locked into the back of his mind and forgotten about. Everything within his line of sight brought with it a prickle and tingle of a life past but still haunting him, and he loved and hated it in equal measure.

"Who devised this portal? The work is rather formidable," Loki remarked, breaking the silence, in the closest thing to awe that any of the others had ever heard.

"Oh, i-it’s nothing impressive." Seph quipped, brushing away the compliment.

"So you studied alongside Strange, then?"

"No. Not magic, at least." Persephone gestured with her index around the room. "This is the only thing I can do."

"A feat like this without any of those silly rings that he needs? Impressive." He paced around, touching invisible seams and humming to himself. "With a little training you could do very well for yourself." Neither doctor could decide whether the tone he was using was encouraging or threatening.

"I don't think so," she replied, fidgeting in her oversized cardigan. "I was put off early on."

Despite the fact he was pointedly looking out the window, Stephen could tell Seph's gaze had fallen onto him. There were a million other things he would rather do than have that conversation–a root canal with no lidocaine, for example. He, instead, forced his focus on staring at the house sitting a couple of hundred meters away. The red trim of the roof was looking faded and the gutters were a little loose but it did not seem like the house was in total disrepair.

"I haven't been home in ages," he muttered, off-handedly.

"Oh! Weren't you born and raised in Manhattan? At least according to the Times, anyway." The sarcastic tone Persephone used made an uncomfortable weight press down into his stomach. He opted to count how many missing shingles there were on the roof.

"Ah, so there's history. That explains the dread at having to come to her door," Loki announced genially, clearly in need of some entertainment. "Wanda, you've lost our wager."

"Loki," Wanda warned, taking the time to fix him with a look before gesturing at the other two. They seemed to have been fighting a war entirely through stares.

"Which door leads outside?"

Seph rolled her eyes. "Which fucking door do you think leads outside, Stephen? I thought you were this hot shot genius doctor!"

"I am asking because that door," he gestured at the front door, "leads to the middle of nowhere in the Bronx."

"Then maybe don't take the door that leads to the Bronx, then, jackass. Or better yet, do. Until now, you've never had a problem finding a door away from me."

"That–" He killed the retort before it had a chance to meet the air and instead pivoted his questioning. "Is the key still under the mat?"

"I don't fucking know. Where did you leave the key twenty-whatever years ago you last graced your own doorstep?" With that last remark, she stormed off and up the stairs, cardigan billowing behind her, while Strange wrenched the back door open and threw himself into the field between the houses.

Wanda and Loki shared a look before making themselves scarce, elsewhere.

XX

About an hour later, Wanda opened the door to what she presumed was the main bedroom and peeked inside. Persephone lay with her limbs splayed out, dark curls smushed on one side, blinking blankly at the ceiling. With a sigh, she opened the door a bit more and let herself in.

"I hope you don't mind. Loki and I made some tea. And he might have eaten a whole sleeve of Oreos."

Seph laughed despite her gloom and shuffled to sit up against the headboard. Wanda smiled, offering her an extra mug in her hand, steam billowing from the top invitingly. "Sorry. I've been a terrible hostess."

"You're more hostage than hostess at the moment. I don't blame you." Wanda sipped at her tea for a minute in tense silence. "So, when did you and Stephen date? And how did he fuck it up?"

The responding snort was heartfelt and led to a long laugh. "No. Stephen and I have never dated."

"But there is history."

She ruffled her curls back into shape, out of nervous habit more than concern, and sighed. "Hard not to have when you've known him all your life. He grew up in that house across the way."

"I assumed as much." She gave her an encouraging smile, like a mother coaxing her teen into conversation. It worked exceptionally well on Seph. "Come on. We were neighbors growing up does not cover the level of tension from earlier."

Seph shrugged. "We both wanted to be doctors. I followed him to the same schools, undergrad and med school. We were pretty much our own support system. His sister passed, and his parents, my mom. We always figured it out together–"

There was a bit of confusion in the witch's face. "OK. That sounds really sweet, though."

"–and then one day I told him a secret. I told him I could make doors go to other places and I showed him, and I haven't seen him since."

“Ah, right.” Wanda winced. "That… sucks."

"Yep." She popped the 'p' before sipping at her tea.

"But when he got into magic, surely he–?"

"Nope." She swallowed at a lump in her throat and pushed away the ball of emotions that thinking on that day was dredging up. "That day he said I was crazy, that I drugged him. I've never heard an apology but he somehow gets to be Sorcerer Supreme."

Wanda sighed, taking a long draw from her tea before adding. "Jeez, what a dick."

"I'm assuming this scrawny, little thing is him," Loki remarked from the door, startling both women. He held out a framed picture of four children. "I am assuming he was bullied on that haircut alone."

"No worse than being the only Black kid in school in a small town in rural Nebraska," Seph retorted with a wry grin. Loki considered and shrugged, sitting at the bottom of the bed with what appeared to be a pack of saltines. "That's his little brother, Victor. He's the taller kid. The girl is his sister, Donna. That's the last picture we took before Victor died."

"Didn't his sister die, as well?" Persephone nodded. "So, they've all died. Seems like he's a harbinger of bad luck. Maybe we'd do well to stay away," he quipped, tossing the picture onto the mattress.

"Yes, tell us about harbingers of bad luck, Mr. I've Died More Times Than I Can Remember," Wanda sassed back, much to the other two's amusement.

"I have a question, Lady Hale."

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Seph is fine, Loki."

"These portals, can you make them go anywhere?"

She shook her head. "Only places I've been to, sorry. Can't send you back to whatever planet you want to run off to."

He tsk'ed. "Well, it was worth a try."

"What did you two do to get stuck with the magic police?"

"Created a whole new reality by escaping my first arrest" "Held a whole town hostage in a fake TV show." They replied simultaneously.

"Fuck. No wonder he's desperate," Seph muttered to herself. "Why doesn't he just keep you in the fancy sorcerer place?"

"Too many artifacts to play with." "Too many books with dark magic."

"OK. He's clearly in over his head. No wonder he came here. There's no way he could keep you both controlled and contained without the..." She gestured around the room to signify the magic of her bubble.

"It's nice to let him pretend." Loki offered with a wink. "It's endearing."

Persephone laughed, sparing a passing thought to the idiot who didn't know what he got into. "Well, if you're stuck here, anyway, there's plenty of bedrooms. The bathroom is down the hall. Make yourself comfortable and relax. I'm going to go get dinner started."

Wanda smiled, stretching happily. "I'll take you up on that. I need a shower and some sleep."

Loki smirked. "I'll join you in the kitchen, if you don't mind."

XX

When Stephen returned, a long while later, he was immediately drawn to the familiar smells permeating the house and warming him from the inside out as much as the soft, honeyed whispers being exchanged in the dim light of the kitchen. He found Loki and Persephone at the stove, speaking in hushed voices, closer to each other than he would have deemed appropriate–definitely flirty. Loki had changed out of the black suit into a pair of joggers and a dark green tshirt and seemed downright at home bantering with the human over the simmering pot. His ease made Stephen's left eye twitch immediately, some long-forgotten jealousy roiling in his chest and clenching his fists on their own accord. He cleared his throat loudly to pull their attention.

Seph rolled her eyes and turned back to the pot to stir, though Loki lingered close for a few extra moments before taking half a step back.

"I guess the fun police is back," she muttered under her breath and Loki chuckled.

"Loki, could you go check on Wanda, please?"

"Wanda is sleeping, so no." He turned back to his companion, whispered something into her ear that made her giggle and turn to face him, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

The way his eyes trailed from her lips to his gaze made something snap inside the sorcerer. "Just get lost, will you?"

Seph craned her neck, fixing him with a glare. "Leave him alone. This is my house." Loki grinned, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek with a smug glint in his eye.

"I need to talk to you."

"Funnily enough, I heard all I needed to two decades ago, so…"

"Persephone, I am not playing here, I–" His demand was cut short by the flickering of the walls. Invisible curtains dividing this world from the little ratty apartment in the Bronx were faltering. Just beyond the constraints of the space, a whole new area, neither New York nor Nebraska, was reflected for just a second before it flashed back.

"It's alright, darling. He knows he has no authority here. Settle down, dove," Loki cooed cautiously, eyeing their surroundings with caution. "Do you want me to give you a moment with him?"

Seph sighed, studying Loki’s expression before nodding reluctantly. "Like I have a choice with this idiot."

"Very well. I will make myself scarce." He inclined his head at her, a gentle smile attached. Once he turned, he gave Strange a dirty look with a multitude of silent warnings and retreated to the living room.

Stephen snorted. "What did you do, bribe him?"

Rolling her eyes, she turned back to the stove. "Nope. He was hungry. I fed him. You'd be surprised how much less surly he is when he's full."

He frowned. "We ate before coming here."

"Hm… what's your excuse, then?" After a minute of silence, she glanced over her shoulder to check he was still there. He was. Unfortunately. "Besides, he eats three times as much as you do. Whatever you had wouldn't have made a dent."

"How do you know that?"

She let out a single laugh. "It's this revolutionary practice called talking. You wouldn't know about it, scalpel jock."

"Here’s a thought. How about you let your disdain for me go long enough for us to have a conversation."

The spoon in her hand slammed into the pot with a splash, driving bits of stew everywhere. Reality flickered within the portal and time dilated just long enough for him to notice before everything went smashing back into place. She was good at repressing these feelings, he knew. She must have spent their decades apart trying to control herself, unaided, and now it was his fault that she was losing control.

"How can you pretend that the single worst day of my life is just water under the bridge, Stephen?" She turned from the stove and he noticed her eyes glowed faintly in their intense hazel. "You accused me of drugging you, of deceiving you! I was grieving, my life was a mess, and I suddenly opened doors to places I hadn't been to in years, entirely by accident." She began to close the space between them, rounding the kitchen table. He felt like he should make a hasty retreat but found he lacked the ability. "I was terrified. I needed you! And you left me! I had no one!" Her voice cracked at the end, eyes filling with tears as she did all she could to retain the glare she was directing at him. "And after all that shit, you find magic and you–you didn't even have the decency to come and talk to me until you needed something."

"I didn't understand what had happened, OK? I opened your closet door and stepped into my childhood bedroom, Seph! How was that logical?"

"How did you think I felt, fucker? I was the one doing it!" Her voice rose to a shout and Stephen was quick to match it.

"I'm sorry! OK? I am sorry. I shouldn't have left. I should have reached out to you sooner. I should have helped. I am sorry. I'm s o r r y, but I was a dumb kid and the girl I was in love with could make distances shrink into nothing and I panicked!"

"You should've stayed gone, then," she replied, icily. "Because the boy I was in love with died when you left me alone in that room."

Cold filled his veins, and his spine quivered at her words. This was pure hatred, plain and simple. He couldn't find it within himself to blame her, to logic his way out of his role in her misery. Every excuse he could offer could be countered with 'yes, and it was happening to her, too'. She had been his one support through every bit of rotten luck he ever had. And he left her to her fate in a strange city without a lifeline. He never imagined he would be back to have this conversation, to pick at the scabbed-over wounds he had inflicted long ago.

"Persephone… Seph…" His hands tentatively grasped for her shoulders and gave a squeeze. She flinched, but did not pull away. "I am so sorry." With a little more coaxing, he had enveloped her in his arms, his nose pressed into her hair and inhaling the familiar scent of coconut. "I'm sorry. I am sorry," he chanted, feeling the front of his shirt dampening with her tears as her shoulders relaxed and molded into him. "I am going to make it up to you. I swear."

Persephone sniffled, pulling away from his frame. "I've waited a lifetime for you to come back for me." She blinked and tears streamed down her cheeks. "But I don't want that, anymore.” She made distance, wiping at her eyes and steeling her resolve. He wanted to pull her back to him. She needed to understand his point of view, though it suddenly occurred to him that he never bothered to understand hers. “You're welcome to stay as long as you need. But this isn't fixable, Stephen."

After a tense moment of staring at each other, she skirted past him, ignoring his protests and pleads to talk, opened the pantry door and disappeared through it with a ripple. 

“Stellar job, Strange. Now we’re stuck until she gets back,” Loki commented as he slipped into the kitchen, grabbed a bowl of stew and sneaked back out. 

For once, Stephen did not argue.

[hongism]

hi caly boo its ur 🌊 anon! i finally finished the most brilliant darkness and oh my lawd i’m in spain without the s. to put it shortly: U DID NOT DISAPPOINT BESTIE, and it seems unreal that u and ur mind and this fic even exists bc every moment is just polished to perfection, while simultaneously every character is polished to a sort of imperfect perfection(?). i have so many questions and things to say idek where to start, and tho im not good with words and even worse at deciphering hidden meanings, here are just some of my thoughts that i remember from the story.

hello my dear!!! eee im gonna answer separately since i think i’ll be very long-winded as usual but first of all thank you so much :(( this fic is actually very full of subliminal messages and hidden nuances that are weaved throughout which i think could be quite confusing so i apologize for that! if i had managed my time better, i would have adjusted when i started the fic to account for managing those aspects of the fic but alas i’m terrible at time management and i suck so. anyways.

first of all, ngl halfway into the story i lowkey forgot this was a wooyoung fic bc SANNN and also bc wooyoung appeared like 3 times lol. even after it finishing all that, i still had my doubts as to why this is a wooyoung fic, or more like why is san this significant in a wooyoung fic. im still a bit slow on these pls forgive me and im just curious why u made it like that.

i think yeah the most interesting thing about this fic is the emphasis on san over wooyoung. and when looking over it yeah i could have switched san and wooyoung’s characters and called it a day, but wooyoung really in my mind acts as the integral turning point for decisions made in the story. 

the goal with the fic wasn’t really to be hyperfocused on the pairing itself, but rather the emotions and thought processes of each character (aside from wooyoung). wooyoung was kept intentionally mysterious and a bit set apart from the rest of the fic because his role in story was moreso an abstract of hestia, the goddess of the hearth and home. wooyoung’s character appeared in times where y/n was struggling with the thought of home or adjusting to the new changes in her life! wooyoung’s pairing itself was actually intended to be solely platonic at first, but as the story went on i thought having mc develop feelings for him added another turning point in the fic!

moving on, the second biggest question i had is the whole hestia!wooyoung and cafe aurora situation. i did a bit of reading on hestia and only found out that she was the goddess of hearth, which might explain the fireplace and the kind of homey feeling to the cafe. and ‘cafe aurora not really existing to most’ part, which was already hinted at wooyoung randomly disappearing, mc never seeing the cafe before or wooyoung only bringing people he wants into it. i get that him inviting mc must suggest her significance to him, but why was he so adamant about his friends not mentioning him or the cafe to mc before that? wooyoung is quite a mysterious character i think, and given that this fic is supposed to be about him, it’s a bit odd that there’s still so many things left unknown, but its kinda cool that way nonetheless and im guessing u would also like to explain that further outside of the story too.

i think my biggest regret about this fic is the fucking summary.... i wrote that summary well before i even started writing the fic thinking it would go in that direction but it didn’t. and since this fic was for a collab, i left the summary as is because i genuinely cannot for the life of me figure out a better one. but i’m trying to figure out a better one. but i really fucking hate the current summary because it’s not at all what the fic is truly about and i hate it.

however, i don’t hate the fic itself, and the reason why i don’t is because i got to play with both my writing style and how i displayed the story. for this collab we were asked to pick a greek god and one of the seven deadly sins, and i selected hestia and sloth. and initially i had intended to have sloth be represented by the reader’s depression, and wooyoung be a more ‘real’ depiction of hestia. i shifted gears very early on in the fic but what it became is moreso abstract realizations in the characters.

san’s character is meant to be this idea of sloth, and it’s mentioned several times that he doesn’t want to move forward, he wants to go slow, he wants to stop moving so fast through life, and those things point to him being a depiction of sloth

wooyoung’s was harder to encapsulate in a more abstract way but you hit the nail on the head really with the homey feeling of the cafe. beyond that, mc talks about just naturally feeling at ease and comfortable with how things are with wooyoung and being around him, and he takes up this role of being the likeable, warm, cozy, comforting character. it all comes to a head in the last scene where he brings both y/n and san into the cafe.

and again wooyoung’s character is meant to be most mysterious and abstract, but if i had had more time to fully flesh out the fic, i think i would have liked to touch more on him. at the same time however i left it more open-ended and open to interpretation. the significance in him inviting mc in and not being mentioned by the others sooner is twofold. one; the others never really had any reason whatsoever to mention wooyoung. he was a friend outside the circle who never joined in with them when mc was around. i personally in my own friendships don’t mention friends outside the circle by name or anything, just kinda vaguely talking about them unless im certain the people know who this person is. the concept of wooyoung having to invite mc in was more nuanced and vague as well, intentionally so, but that was moreso meant to represent this idea of ‘you can’t make a home somewhere where you aren’t invited’ so y/n couldn’t fully make a home of the place she was in without being invited in and welcomed in, but again that’s something i wish i had more time to fully flesh out.

the hongjoong speech about love (and also the interaction with seonghwa after that) deserves a standing ovation of its own 👏 unfortunately, or not, im not actually going through the emotional turmoil regarding love the same way as hj or mc to be able to fully relate to his words, but the whole ‘if you dont love what u see in the mirror then u dont love it’ mentality really hit me hard, and i’d like to hang onto that when i make decisions in the future haha thank you wise caly! seonghwa and hongjoong’s story is also beautiful, and just like mc said, the more i look at it the more it hurts :’)

the hongjoong speech about love was meant to be something very jaded and specific to his worldview. it actually isn’t wholly how i view love personally, but it was a perfect description to how both he and y/n perceived the love in their own lives. mostly thanks to their own emotional turmoils. the mentality of the mirror quote is something that i think i also struggle with, which is why i included it. it’s hard to do, but even in friendships, i think it’s necessarily to stop and look at the person you were before this relationship and then the person during this relationship. if you don’t love the one you are now, then maybe it’s a sign to reflect and see the bigger picture, so that was a lil reminder to myself and i’m glad it touched you as well!!!

“do you love him, or do you love the idea of being in love with him?” - haha i see what u did there (or maybe i didnt please dont laugh at me if i didnt). its still so good everytime i see it bc i keep finding myself loving just the idea of things time and time again even when this makes total sense to me oof :/

heh yeah again with the more abstract concepts this one was more direct and ‘cliche’ but i fully wanted that cliche in the fic because i thought it suited the situation where mc was constantly struggling with a version of san that she thought she loved vs the version of san she got every time they were together

despite how enlightened she seems to be, mc still made the same choices, and i wanna smack her for it and pat her back at the same time. and maybe also bc of the fact that she feels so differently for the two men that i feel like no ending could really justify her decision, so ending in the vague is probably the best. your ending might kind of allude to someone more than the other already, and tho i still don’t think he’s the best one for her based on just my pov on love, i kinda agree with you. but again, this raises the question of, why a wooyoung fic and not a san fic?

and yeah the whole knife in the chest at the end of it all is that she was still too scared to face the music so to speak. but really i would say she made the same choices up until the conversation on the balcony with san. and you’re absolutely right, the reason i chose the ending the way i did was because either way, there’s no justification. and actually although it might seems like i was alluding to someone specific, san being in the cafe at the very end was moreso to represent that as much as they fought, he still very much loved her and wanted to be loved by her. it was kinda an open casket ending there were no nails in the coffin, the choice between wooyoung and san still stands and an argument could be made for either of them! i think this is a fic that i could see myself revisiting one day with two endings - one for san, and one for wooyoung.

something i didn’t mention earlier about wooyoung’s character being left intentionally mysterious was that he was representing a new and budding love. the honeymoon phase where you’re falling for someone you don’t even really know. you are the reader aren’t meant to really know who wooyoung is because of that beyond what you read about him, so his past and such was left out intentionally to represent that idea of ‘hey wow im in love with a stranger!’ whereas san was this gritty love that’s bad for you. and there are pros and cons to each just as with anything!!

so,,,, why a wooyoung fic and not a san fic? well i picked wooyoung for my collab so he was one of the main focuses of the fic regardless of which direction i took with it. as for why wooyoung wasn’t more forward, i already answered that but !!! i view it as both a wooyoung fic and a san fic. both are highlighted characters with main pairing roles!

i literally just woke up to write this and am going back to sleep ahaha so i apologize if this makes no sense. i somehow felt like i’ve read so much yet so little at the same time, maybe bc there are still so many things i havent fully made sense of, and that’s where i hope you come in and enlighten me. i still stand by my word that this fic deserves so much more recognition despite the lack of explicit smut bc of how much more you’ve explored through character building. love you caly and thank u for working so hard <3 — 🌊

no worries my beloved i hope you go back to sleep and get lots and lots of rest!! and i hope my response helps enlighten the not so clear things as well dgjdklfg but really thank you so much. it was a long fic and hard to get through at times, but as a whole, i’m proud of it and what i created, so thank you for recognizing my efforts and appreciating them 🥺

[ibijau]

Asdsks your Worst Engagement AU is the best!!! Especially with how nhs's superpower is Making Good Friends. I can't stop thinking about lxc making nhs cry tears of frustration at some point, maybe even during sunshot, and wwx + jc being almost as ready to throw down as with the yanli/zixuan soup debacle. This is my give-nhs-ride-or-die-friends agenda.

Worst engagement AU // on AO3

Not quite what you asked, and oops, it’s jc and jzx instead of jc and wwx, but... nhs having protective friends who love him! here we go!

not fully sure where it stands in the timeline. Either nhs and jzx are still in their short friends-with-benefits phase, or it takes place shortly after. Either way, wwx isn’t around because he’s been sent back to Lotus Piers already :D

warning for mentions of animal death

However much Nie Huaisang has decided that he gets to do as he pleases this year, it is the first time that he appears to have simply missed a lecture. When Lan Qiren mentions it to his nephew at lunch, Nie Huaisang is still noticeably absent. Lan Xichen gets the message: his fiancé, his problem to solve.

His first idea, of course, is to check with the other two Nie disciples. After some probing, they reluctantly reveal that their young master received a letter from home. He seemed unhappy about the content and sent them ahead, saying he'd join them in class. He obviously lied but they don't think too disturbed by that. Just like Lan Xichen, they have gotten used to Nie Huaisang being somewhat unpredictable this year. To them, this is just another new oddity.

To Lan Xichen, it is concerning. Whatever else has changed, Nie Huaisang is still careful not to make Lan Qiren too angry at him, which means he wouldn't skip lessons without a good reason.

More alarmed than he would care to admit, Lan Xichen decides to look for his fiancé and figure this out. He goes first to the Nie disciples' cabin, but isn't surprised to find it empty. No traces of Nie Huaisang at the Jiang cabin either, nor the Jin one, but since Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan were both in class that was to be expected. Having eliminated the obvious, Lan Xichen starts looking everywhere he can think of, asking anyone he meets if they have seen Nie Huaisang. The answer is always negative.

It is already mid-afternoon when Lan Xichen, just as he was about to give up, finally finds the other boy.

Lan Xichen cannot say what attracted him to this particular garden, but as he walks around trees, he ends up noticing a muffled noise that grabs his attention. In a place with so many children, Lan Xichen knows what it sounds like when someone is trying to cry without being noticed. He doesn't even need to think about it and just goes straight for the source of that noise. Lan Xichen expects to find a child, or some young junior who perhaps got scolded.

Instead, sitting on a bench, curled up so tight that his head touches his knees, he finds Nie Huaisang sobbing.

“Nie gongzi?”

The instant he hears his voice, Nie Huaisang jolts and sits straighter, trying in vain to wipe away the tears that won't stop spilling.

“Nie gongzi, what's wrong?” Lan Xichen asks, striding toward his fiancé. “Did someone hurt you?”

Nie Huaisang furiously shakes his head. “I'm f-f-fi... I'm fine. I'm. D-don't bother.”

“You don't look fine. Is something wrong?” There was a letter from home, the other Nie boys said. “Did something happen in the Unclean Realm?”

That appears to be both the right and the wrong question to ask, because Nie Huaisang starts crying harder until it seems like he might choke if he doesn't calm down a little. Lan Xichen has seen people cry before, but never quite like that, because Gusu Lan disciples learn early on that they must learn to control their emotions rather than be controlled by them. Seeing Nie Huaisang so upset is distressing, and Lan Xichen just doesn't know what to do about it.

When Lan Wangji was little, he liked to have his back rubbed if he was upset. Lan Xichen isn't sure it will work in this case, but he has to try something.

The instant his hand touches Nie Huaisang's back, the other boy screeches.

“Don't!”

Lan Xichen removes his hand instantly. Before he can try to think of some other way to help, an angry voice rises behind him.

“What's going on here?”

Lan Xichen startles and turns around, only to be pushed aside by Jiang Cheng who sits on the bench, far closer than probably necessary. Just a few steps behind is Jin Zixuan, and isn't that an unexpected duo. They weren't far when Lan Xichen spoke with the Nie disciples, maybe they became intrigued by this and their friend's absence and decided to follow him. If so, Lan Xichen really must have been distracted to not have noticed them. His uncle would be disappointed in him.

“What did he say to make you cry this time?” Jiang Cheng asks, scowling at Lan Xichen who feels slapped.

This time?

Lan Xichen won't deny that things have been less than perfect between Nie Huaisang and him, but anything that might have caused his fiancé to cry happened before Jiang Cheng became friend with him. Did Nie Huaisang complain to his friends about being left behind by his mean fiancé and his big brother every time they've had to spend time together? If so, it brings new meaning to the way Jiang Cheng so often ends up putting himself in front of Nie Huaisang when Lan Xichen approached them. He had just assumed it was Jiang Cheng trying to take responsibility for whatever mess they were that time, the same he did with Wei Wuxian, but it might have been more than that.

And it's not just Jiang Cheng, Lan Xichen realises. Jin Zixuan, who came to sit on the other side of Nie Huaisang, is calmer but still throws Lan Xichen dirty looks.

“Tell us what happened,” Jin Zixuan orders.

“It's, it's my birds,” Nie Huaisang sobs. “T-they, at home, they had c-captured a beast for the juniors to, to fight against, but it...” he pauses, a few heavier sobs escaping him. ��It escaped, and it, it got to the place I k-keep my birds and it, it killed them, almost all, and those it didn't kill are wounded, and, and...”

The tears become once more too strong for Nie Huaisang to speak through them, and he hide his face in his hands. Jin Zixuan and Jiang Cheng exchange a cautious but equally worried look, while Lan Xichen carefully kneels before his fiancé and brushes his fingers against his hand.

“Nie gongzi, I'm so sorry.”

Nie Huaisang tears his hand away and glares at him.

“D-don't lie! I know you think it's stupid that I have pets!” he hisses. “I know, I, I know I couldn't have kept them anyway, not after the m-marriage, I know, I know! But they're dead, and I loved them and... even my nightingale, sh-she was the best bird ever, she was so sweet, and sh-she's dead now!”

Jiang Cheng wrap an arm around Nie Huaisang's shoulders to comfort him, while Jin Zixuan awkwardly pat his knee.

“You can visit me in Lanling,” Jin Zixuan offers. “We have peacocks in the gardens, and my mother keeps some songbirds. I'm sure she would be happy to let you see them.”

“You think?” Nie Huaisang sniffles miserably.

“At worse, you can come to Yunmeng,” Jiang Cheng intervenes, glaring at Jin Zixuan. “We can steal some eggs from a wild duck and hatch them. Wei Wuxian has done it before, it drove my mother mad that the ducks followed him everywhere for weeks.”

Through his tears, Nie Huaisang manages a weak laugh.

“He must have loved the attention,” he chuckles, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. “I'd love to see that. I hope I can come, both to Lanling and Yunmeng. It'd be fun.”

“I can even ask my mother if she'd take in the birds that you have left, after your wedding,” Jin Zixuan suggests. “That way, you'll still get to see them often. Lanling is closer to Gusu than Qinghe.”

Nie Huaisang nods, and even smiles. Next to him, Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes.

“Jin-gongzi, who knew that you could be so considerate.”

“Ah, no arguing!” Nie Huaisang pouts. “I'm still sad for now! You can argue when I'm better, for now you have to take care of me.”

Jiang Cheng frowns and removes his arm. “You! Next time, I'll let Lan Xichen console you!”

Even Jin Zixuan can't help laughing at that threat, as if all three have forgotten that Lan Xichen is right there, kneeling in front of them. He is becoming used to being unwelcome among Nie Huaisang's friends and does not mind it too much anymore, but this time it still stings. He was the first to have found Nie Huaisang, the first to have tried to comfort him, and yet... but he probably deserves that. And it doesn't matter who comforts Nie Huaisang, so long as he is comforted.

“I see Nie gongzi is in good hands,” he sighs, startling the other boys. So they really had forgotten he was there. “I really am sorry for your loss, Nie gongzi. I know how important those birds are to you.”

He turns around, already preparing himself to explain to his uncle that these three won't return to class today, and wondering how to do it so Lan Qiren won't demand a reason. This really is important to Nie Huaisang and he deserves time to grieve and friends to help him, but Lan Qiren won't understand that. He barely understood when he nephews grieved their mother, after all.

Before Lan Xichen has taken two steps, he feels a pull on his robes. Glancing behind, he sees that Nie Huaisang has grabbed the fabric and is looking up at him with an unreadable expression. It is almost painful to see him like this, his eyes reddened by tears, his face splotchy, his hair a little messy from trying to wipe his face clean. He looks more like the boy he was last year, and that's an unpleasant thought. How much pain was Nie Huaisang in back then, if he only looks that way again at the height of sadness?

“Thanks,” Nie Huaisang mumbles sullenly. “For trying.”

“I wish I could do more,” Lan Xichen replies. “Since I cannot, I will leave you with those who can, and do my best to ensure you are not disturbed today. You will have to return to class tomorrow, though. I doubt I can get you more than a day of respite.”

“Thanks,” Nie Huaisang repeats, a little more sincerely this time. “I'll have this under control by then.”

He probably will, knowing him. Lan Xichen suspects that if he hadn't found him like this, he would never have even known that some of his birds have died. It's likely that Nie Huaisang would have preferred it that way too. In fact, since he went to hide like this and didn't tell anyone, Lan Xichen wonders if Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan too wouldn't have been kept in the dark.

Lan Xichen really is glad that these two apparently followed him.

Maybe he can't help, but he's glad somebody can.

[teenthoughtsblog]

FRENEMIES

I am Arunima (please use Aru to address me). I am thirteen, and I go to school like any normal teen. In 8th grade, it’s like a whirlpool of emotions and thoughts. I feel obligated to cram as much education as I can into my brain and push forward for these last few years of school. But that being said, these are my last few years of school and possibly of my childhood. Every day I’m confused about the way forward, and today was no different.

 It was like any usual day. I struggled to wake up and get ready for school. When I boarded my school bus I dozed off as per usual, catching up on last night’s sleep. The assembly was no different with many students yawning and chatting amongst themselves. The first few classes went by in a blur (a rather boring one at that) I struggled to stay awake, let alone consciously pay attention (all courtesy of the late-night binge-watching of stranger things). As I slept the teacher must have yapped about something important because when she questioned me about the lesson, and I, flustered, answered incorrectly, she had a look of heeding malice on her cold and bony face. In homeroom, we discussed our lives’ regrets and satisfactions. At the moment I was bored, and couldn’t care less about what we did in homeroom. I remember my answer being something as general as not picking up a particular hobby.

On the bus ride home, while snacking on kurkures, and doing my homework, I couldn’t focus. 

Normally I would finish all the work given on my ride home and laze around in the afternoon, but that day fate was made for me to keep getting distracted. After a few attempts of doing my homework and packing my bag, I just gave up and decided to have dinner and go to bed early. An hour went by and I still couldn’t get myself to close my eyes and get rest for more than ten minutes. There was a cold lump in my throat, and it was not because of the unnaturally low temperature of my thermostat (as put by my beloved mom). After tossing and turning in bed for quite a while, I realized that all this drama was because of the small, insignificant discussion in homeroom.

 Without me putting much thought into it, that one question had seeped in and manipulated my whole day. Now that I sleeplessly put more thought into it, I stand corrected. My answer wouldn’t be something as brief and over the top as a missed hobby. It would be something in a completely different dimension. Something many would label as childish. A FRIENDSHIP.

 I met Shravya when we were both four, on our first day of kindergarten. I was a timid and observant child, and she was more on the outgoing and vivacious side. It all started when she came up to me and tugged at my braids. I went on to grab hold of her collar and poke her with all my might. That was followed by an obnoxious round of tickling each other and giggling. A bond finally formed over a tiffin exchange at recess and we instantly started to grow close.

 Overtime Shravya and I became like two peas in a pod, and by the end of kindergarten, everyone knew us as the two best friends who couldn’t stand a day without talking to each other. Like everything good comes to an end, the blissful phase with Shravya came crashing down as we were separated in first grade.

Those two years with Shravya were eventful, joyous and we both enjoyed them so much that we probably still know every single incident to the  last detail. We had a countless number of pool parties, sleepovers, Masterchef challenges, mud fights, and fashion shows just to name a few of our many playdate activities. Our families had also met and come close together. We had even taken a vacation to Agra together. When Shravya’s brother was born and all the spotlight was supposedly stolen from her, she would keep complaining and crying, and I, forever the listener, consoled her and offered comfort with several sleepovers and playdates.

Time passed and my friendship with Shravya remained unwavering. Over time, we did hit some rough patches, but we being best friends, we always made up. Little did I know we would go on a ballistic rollercoaster ride. After being separated from 1st to 4th grade, we were overjoyed to finally come back together in 5th grade. On the first day of class 5, we sat together and chatted a LOT. No one could blame us, because we were two besties catching up on four years of being in separate classes. We shared classwork, helped each other with homework and in general, our time was blissful. 

Then musical afternoon made its appearance. In our school, it’s a huge deal where there's a theme each year and all the classes form groups and perform songs in many languages. I remember that year the theme was heartbreak. The moment the theme was announced, everyone started talking about songs and groups to form. I rushed over to Shravya and started talking about a particularly emotional song I had in mind. At the time she blatantly agreed to everything that I said to pacify my racing mind. The next day when I unexpectedly arrived at her house with high hopes, the door was slammed on my face., leaving me confused and heartbroken. The events that occurred in the next phase, which I call the frenemies phase, really matched the musical theme of that year. 

From that day Shravya and I were on mutilated terms and she gave treatment worse than ignoring me, aka that silent treatment. Slowly the emotions inside me changed from heartbreak to disbelief and finally anger. I threw a huge tantrum back at home. My mind went into a frenzy.

 One minute I would be ripping my hair out and cursing with an astonishing speed, and then, immediately after I’d be a heap on the floor, sobbing my heart out. Days passed like this. As much as I have reluctance admitting this, but life went on, and so did our journey. Shravya was forever the socialite and had no difficulty in moving on and making new friends. I, on the other hand, would much rather keep to myself than be the expected extrovert. In a blink of the eye, Shravya had got herself an arsenal of new friends or what many Indians would recognize as chelas. My abysmal communication skills didn’t make forming friendships any easier. Her grades hiked, whereas mine dipped, she seemed buoyant and carefree, and my emotions took a toll for the worse. In general, her life had seemingly improved, and mine had taken the other path.

This feud of sorts lasted for more than a year, and in that period both of us had changed, developed, and ameliorated. A LOT. But, as the old saying goes, never judge a book by its cover. One day I ran into the person that I had learned to despise in the past year. Shravya. But there was something wrong with the person who was one of the reasons my life had hit the downward spirals.

 As I knocked on the door of an occupied bathroom stall to request the occupant to hurry up, I heard faint sobbing. Knocking harder and more persistently got her to open the door, revealing my former best friend in the most disheveled state imaginable. She was all hunched up, her neat uniform all crumpled up and her perfectly symmetrical make-up smudged. Humanity overtook the petty grudges inside me and I rushed to help her up. After getting her to calm down, she started her recital.

 “I’m..I’m..I’m” sorry was what shocked me. The stubbornness Shravya had displayed in all the years of being together, made me ponder on what this girl could want to apologize for?. I, however, was broken out of my train of thought when she started to sob again. “My life looks so good on the exterior, but inside it's just a confused pile of emotions and actions. I don’t know what to do..”

My mind went into a serious conflict mode, with one half of me wanting to keep my distance because of the way I’d been treated in this past year, and the other half, the more humane half of me, wanted to hear her out and comfort the damsel in distress. Both of my sides came to a compromise of sorts when I listened to what she had to say with a sour and displeasing expression.

“After our falling out, my mom and dad were very disappointed in me for treating you like that. I got a whole lot of speeches ‘never going back on your word’, ‘always stay true to what you and loved ones believe in’, and ‘what goes around, comes back’. At this I chuckled, shaking my head. “And yes, what I did to you did come back to bite me hard.” My eyebrows fought back all my brain's warnings and shot up into a surprised expression. “After we stopped talking, I went through many friendships, but everyone would break it off abruptly in some manner.” I wanted to apologize and make things right with you, but I figured you would be mad at me.” “Well, that and your astonishingly high standing ego”. Now it was her turn to chuckle. “Yeah, well that too.” 

That got me to smile the brightest I’d smiled since the day we got our not so happily ever after. “It's okay, I understand that, but I’ll never be ready to go back where we had been before you know what.” I pulled Shravya into a hug and whispered, “Like the old days, we’ve made up. AGAIN. But-“We’ll keep our distance.” She completed the sentence for me, knowing what I meant from the bottom of my heart. At that, I tightened the embrace I’d pulled her into.

What goes around, comes back, and the old days came back. The frenemies phase did both of us good.

[yunhostinyuyu]

broken and fixed - part 04

pairing: roommate!doyoung vs friend!taeil x original female character (ft. haechan & taeyong)

genre: roommate!au, work!au, social media!au-ish, fluff, angst, eventual smut

wc: 2.4k

synopsis: kang haneul is desperately looking for a way out of her home. as one of her best friends suggests a friend who is currently looking for a new roommate, a new and better chapter in her life begins. or so she thought...

warning: suggestive, mentions of abuse, panic attack, weed (for medical reasons)

Early Monday morning back at work, Haneul and Donghyuck are standing in thier office, next to each other and starring at the brewing coffee machine in front of them. The two friends are wearing dark circles under their eyes, but not for the same reasons. While the tanned boy was busy spending his time with someone he met while partying on friday, Haneul was unable to fall asleep. She thought nothing of it, because she was still excited, still the first few days in her new space, and she was used to feeling her nerves in situations like that. It would take some time adjusting and getting used to things. And she thought she was doing better, working on herself and trying to be the best version of herself. Most importantly, working through her trauma, which by now she agreed on calling it that, even if she denied it to herself for so long. But this was all part of the process; finding out where her weaknesses lie, even if it meant that she might loose a bit of sleep during that phase. But every now and then, she had to hold back her bad memories from dragging her down and drowning her in negativity and halting her development from growing further.

“at least someone looks like they had a good weekend”, she sighed as she brought her cup filled with hot, black coffee to her lips. The younger man did the same, mimicking her gesture and grinning to himself. “I wouldn't mind telling you the details but i figure you are not interested”. Haneul just rolled her eyes, scanning thier shared office. “Please spare me, you can tell Mark or someone about it. But on another note: you know where the others are? They are never this late for the meeting. Not to meantion Jinyoung always starts working at 6 am...” Haneul questioned as she grabbed her notebook, paper work and a pen from her desk, clearly concerned. Donghyuck just shrugged “maybe he took a day off last minute? And Yeri is just hungover like every Monday.” He explained, clearly just guessing instead of stating facts, because he honestly didn’t know either. While they walked down the corridor, towards the meeting room where they are expected to show up at as soon as possible. “Just wanna get this day done so i can go back to sleep.”

“You’re always tired, quit whining big baby. You already got your coffee!” he bickered, but Haneul just slapped his arm half heartedly. “Watch your mouth or I’ll pour it over your head.” she daunted him and he let it go as they got to thier designated spot.

“Donghyuck, Haneul, late as always.” their boss joked, but with a stern look on his face as the two entered the meeting room. Scanning the surroundings, there were new faces around, which could only mean that either someone got fired, or that a new project was about the get started.

As they sat down in their usual seats, Haneul already started going through her papers she prepared in advance, waiting for her boss to start speaking. Then, Hyuck nudged her shoulder to get her attention away from the documents and onto something - or someone - else:

“Look, isn’t that..?” he whispered and she tried to look around as casually as possible. Scanning every face of her colleagues she has already worked with before, and the handful of unknown ones. It took her awhile to get to the person Hyuck was hinting at, but as soon as she did, the stranger was already eyeing Haneul expectingly. The two locked eyes for a brief second, until-

“So, now that we are all present, I wanna get started with the important things. We are starting preparations for a new sales promotion that is planned to launch in spring of 2021. Since our Sales Team here at the HQ was cut short due to personal changes, and also because it is for our biggest customer, we had to ask one of our subsidiaries for backup. Mr. Moon and his Team will support Mr. Lee and Ms. Kang for the project. All the hard facts and details the customer wants have been emailed to you all just as we speak. Roughly, we have to do a new assortment, which the design and product management team have started working on today. To end up, we plan on a small fair at the end of April to round things up and hopefully gain a great margin in turnover.”

Haneul looks at Donghyuck, then at her boss, then back at Donghyuck. Taeil, that Taeil, friend of her brand new roommate, who just happened to have the deepest, most beautiful eyes she has ever looked at, was going to work with her. Actually, not just her, but she was still stunned. Before she could continue her train of thought into a wrong directly, she mentally slapped herself to get back to business. Not now Haneul, don’t fucking fall for this guy you just met a few days ago, she said to herself. But in addition to that, it felt like something was off though. Her Team usually consisted of four people, not only her and Donghyuck, and they have handled projects of this size before.

She clears her throat before speaking at first “What happened with Jinyoung and Yeri? Aren’t they counted into this project?” looking at her boss for clarification. He looked down at his notebook for a second before giving a well formulated answer: “Mr. Park and Ms. Kim have left the company. Just as of today”. Haneul’s and Donghyuck’s mouths turned into an ‘o’ shape at the news. At least now I know why they didn't come to work today, she thought to herself. Her bosses hand motioned towards Taeil and his colleagues, “That being said, i am deeply thankful for Mr. Moon to come in last minute and agreeing on putting his other projects on hold in order to help out here. He has worked in Sales and Marketing for the past six years, and knows what he’s talking about.”

“So, when are we starting with this, Mr. Song? And what about the current project, Haneul and I were about to finish...” Donghyuck asked, clearly curious and concerned at the work load that might be expecting them all.

“This project has top priority from now on. As far as I’m concerned Mr. Lee, only the final calculation is missing for the current project, so you should be able to get that done nonetheless. Since now at the start it’s going to move relatively slow for the first few weeks. The most work will be for and about the fair anyways. I need you both to give your all, this could make or break the following summer fairs and orders they are gonna place.”

Taeil pulls his phone out of his pocket, takes a quick glance at it before he sets it on the meeting desk right infront of him. “We should schedule a meeting for today afternoon. I already discussed with Mr. Song that me and my assistants will have our desks set out in your office. I’m already looking forward to working with everyone here at the HQ.” He smiles around the room, but his eyes stay on Haneul’s for a second longer than intended. 

She just smiled and returned the look. “Likewise, welcome to HQ” she spoke confidently, before returning the word back to her boss, who was giving a brief overview of the things we need for this project so far, and later discussing other topics that are not as important for the sales department. The older one taking her phone out quietly under the table to text the man who was seated just beside her.

She got lost quickly in the conversation over text, getting startled as a unknown number send her a text out of the blue. As soon as she saw the message, she knew who was on the other end of the line

“Are there any questions?” Mr. Song asks, targeting his question at everyone present in the room, and Haneul quickly shuts off her phone and turns her head to look forward. Nobody says anything, a short silence of people nodding their heads in unison. “Also be sure to ask me when things are unclear later on, my door is always open. Everyone back to work now.” he dismissed and the two young co-workers are the first to get out of their seats to head back to their work space. Before leaving the room, the shorter one risked a quick glance back over her shoulder, to find Taeil and his two assistants talking with your boss. She looked away before he could notice her starring and headed out, steps in sync with the taller one.

“Those two assistants look dumb as fuck, not gonna lie” Hyuck says silently as they entered the office again. Haneul let herself fall into her chair just after she slammed her things on the desk which was placed visa vie of Hyuck‘s, right next to the windows.

“Honestly, my biggest concern isn't the assistants or Taeil or the new project but the fact they kicked Jinyoung out. I’m fucking furious about it.” she complained, her blood boiling and her mood being lower than when she got up this morning. “I know it sucks, he was my co-worker as well. He taught me a lot too. But now you are the one who has been here the longest!” he tried to cheer her up while typing away at his keyboard.

Haneul dropped her face down, her forehead making contact with the wooden desk top as she tried to calm down. “Great. More responsibility, love it”

Only managing a quick eye roll and a death glare from Donghyuck before the door swung open and the three faces looking around curiously, Taeil being the first one to take a step into their direction.

“Stop being hungover on your former colleagues being caught fucking. There are worse things and it’s their fault for being so careless and horny. Let’s focus on the important things, shall we?” The short man said, his words being directed at Haneul, since her head was still pressed onto the desk. Oh, he was on thin ice. But she was able to contain her anger, which was surprising, since she is pretty much a loose canon when some talks badly about people she cares for. Hyuck even looking over his screen to check on her.

She said nothing, just lifting her head up and not taking her eyes of the screen while the newcomers where getting their PCs set up. But it didn't take Taeil more than five minutes to speak again:

“I suppose we can hold our meeting now, or are you two busy?”

As the two finished their typing and clicking, they faced the man with the curly brown hair once again.

“I want to say something for myself first. I’m not here to boss you around, we are one team and in this project together. This is new territory for me as well. Both of you have a advantage since you know the customer already, so all I'm asking you is to help me out in order to support you to my best abilities. Mr. Song puts a lot of faith in me and I hope you don't see me as an intruder, replacing the others... even if it’s the case, kind of. Just bare with me, or with us until we get into the flow.” he explained, softly and understanding, looking for a good cooperation no matter the circumstances. The tone of his voice almost made Haneul forget about his stupid words from just a few minutes ago. Again, she caught herself daydreaming and not paying attention to the words he said.

She stoop up from her chair, almost at the same moment when the younger man did the same, walking towards him and holds out her hand to shake his, like they did before in the corridor of her home.

“Welcome to the Sales department then. And lets the this project done, Taeil.”

—

“Hey, are you hungry?” a soft voice asked from outside of Haneul’s room. Doyoungs face peaked through the door, which he pushed open only a few inches to check if she was there. A sigh falls from her lips as she puts her notebook to the side and faces her roommate.

“Yeah I am pretty much starving.” she yawned and the dark haired man took a step into the room, silently watching over the decor of her room. “You’re in luck i just made Tteokbokki.” That was all it took to get the exhausted girl to her feet in an instant. “No need to tell me twice, I’m coming” and he huffed a laugh out of his nose.

Even if the two knew each other for a week max, they felt really comfortable being around each other. They kept out of each others business most times, but when it came to food or grocery shopping, they looked out for each other already, Haneul felt like Doyoung was the model roommate and couldn't imagine living with someone else. Everything flowed so naturally.

“Whats that look on your face for? Long day?” he asked, curiously as the two started to eat the freshly cooked meal.

“I just couldn't sleep properly last night, and half of my department was fired this morning with a new project has been started. I’m just tired.” she explained while shoving the rice cakes into her mouth. “Also, your friend from the other day, Taeil, is working with me and Hyuckie for the project.”

Doyoung choked on his food, Haneul patting his back until he stopped and got enough air into his system again. “Sorry what?”

She just chuckled quietly, but having suspicions about the sudden reaction. “Yeah, he was sent from one of your subsidiaries since he has quite the experience, so I just hope everything goes well until then.”

“No, uhm, please don't take this the wrong way, but Taeil can be a bit... much?”

Haneul furred her eyebrows in confusion, tilting her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

He took a deep breath before he continued talking. “Just, he’s a natural flirt. But if he get too flirty, don't be afraid to shut him down, he’s just... yeah, that’s just Taeil...”

“Don’t worry”, she spoke, almost with too much confidence “I’m not one to shut my mouth. If he gives me a reason to call him out, I will certainly do so.”

[movieexpert1978]

Rich and Famous

anon:  What about another Hans Landa story? I love how you write with him (and all your writin). Maybe something where the reader works for him (housekeeper or something like that), maybe with some slow burn sexual tension? Sorry if that's too vague haha

This kinda turned more into angst/ friendship with hints of romance. 

Hans landa is not my character 

It really sucked being a maid sometimes. Most of the clients didn’t pay you any mind but if they saw one speck of dust in the house they would blame it on you. It was hard being around the rich and famous all the time, knowing that you worked your ass off for a decent wage while they just inherited money. It also sucked to be the maid of Nazis, but not just any Nazis…a certain Colonel Hans Landa, Nazis to be precise. Landa was one of the most feared colonel’s in the war at the moment. As much as she wanted to turn down the job, he paid very well and despite him being a rich, Nazis snob, he never mocked and or undermined her work. In fact he was quiet the gentleman when she came to clean his flat. He gave her a nice extra tip when she cleaned up after one of his parties, particularly ones where someone couldn’t hold their drink. She wanted to hate him, but in all honesty she looked forward to cleaning his flat. Most of the time, he was in his office looking over paperwork and minding his own business. Today was a little different as she knocked at the door.

A woman answered it.

“Oh…who are you?” She asked unamused. Her silky robe barely was hiding the fact that she was practically naked at the front door. Elisa looked at her un-phased. There were a few other instances where women answered the door and it was always a different woman. Hans used the incredible and devious charm of his to get them into bed, but most of the time he didn’t even have to do that.

“My name is Elisa Prime. I have an appointment with the Colonel as I am his house maid.” Elisa stated. The woman let out this horrible mocking laugh that didn’t bother Elisa at all as she knew what was coming, but before the woman could tell her to go away someone else spoke.

“Ahhh, yes Elisa come in!” Hans said eagerly, waving her in. The woman frowned and all but glared at her as she came inside.

“Good morning, Herr Colonel.” Elisa said politely. Thankfully, he wasn’t in a robe, but definitely more casual with a button-up shirt and long pants with his suspenders on his shoulders. Elisa can’t help but wonder if she interrupted something.

“Don’t mind my lovely lady here Elisa. I need to call a cab for her soon anyway.” He says.

“But Hans!” The woman whines.

“Go get dressed. I have things to do.” He says firmly. She huffs as she practically stomps away to change. Elisa can tell he doesn’t like her. She figured he might be a one-night stand guy, but she could understand his distaste for this one. She was far too preppy and snobby for him. Hans could be a snob when he wanted to, but it wasn’t a permeant part of his personality. “I’m very sorry about that my dear.” Hans says sincerely when the woman is out of ear shot. “Would you like a cup of coffee by any chance? I did manage to make a pot before she woke up.” He offers kindly.

“No thank you Herr Colonel. May I ask…is the bathroom a terrible mess?” She asks.

“No, thankfully not this time. I managed to herd my guests out before they got too wild.” He chuckles. “Could you by any chance start with the den then?” He asks.

“Yes sir.” She nods.

“Elisa, you know you don’t have to be so formal. It is a Sunday after all.” He teases.

“Just a habit Herr Colonel.” She says without looking back at him. He smirks softly and heads off to call his other guest a cab as Elisa cleans away. She sprays plenty of perfume to do her best to get rid of the cigarette smell as she works. She keeps quiet as Hans herds the woman away, more than happy to get rid of her. Elisa still can’t help but feel a touch of jealousy since she got to spend the night with him. Elisa shakes her head to get rid of those thoughts as Hans goes into the kitchen to get himself some more coffee. He watches Elisa work every now and then in silence. She was recommended to him and she was well worth it. By early afternoon she had completed her cleaning. Hans handed her the money along with an extra tip.

“I was worried she would smack you.” Hans teases.

“I’ve been through worse.” Elisa shrugs.

“Really? What do you mean by that?” He asks curiously.

“Nothing Herr Colonel.” She says glancing towards the door.

“Did someone hit you?” He asks.

“Every now and then. I’ve grown used to it.” She says quietly.

“Well you shouldn’t. If it ever happens again you tell me and I’ll take care of it.” He says firmly.

“Thank you Herr Colonel. You have a good afternoon.” She says before she is out the door.

Xxxxxxx

       She wasn’t having a good week. For some reason they were all more cruel than usual lately. They made sure to remind her of her place more often than not this week. She left three houses nearly in tears and barely managed to keep it under control as she worked her second job as a waitress at a café. She nearly smacked a solider when he pinched her behind with a smirk. Luckily one of her coworkers saw and took over the table for her, knowing backlash would lead to all kinds of trouble and a possible disappearance of her in the middle of the night as she was dragged away to prison…or worse…a camp. Another Sunday came and even though she usually enjoyed cleaning the colonel’s house, today she was dreading it after her long week. She just wanted to clean, go home, and stay in bed for the rest of the day until work on Monday. She knocked on the door and waited with her cleaning supplies, half expecting another woman to answer the door. Instead, Hans answered.

“Ahhh Elisa come in, come in.” He says happily.

“Good morning Herr Colonel.” She says in usual routine. Hans can’t help but chuckle at her formality. It was hard to come by with people now these days. Hans looks her over and she seems to be more tired than usual.

“Would you like something to eat?” He asks kindly.

“No thank you sir. Shall I start in the den again?” She asks quickly.

“Yes…” Hans nods watching her. She seems upset. He tries not to look over her too much, but he wants to check in case she has bruises. So far her make-up is holding up well so he doesn’t notice for the moment. However, he doesn’t fail to notice that her hands fumble every now and then and she gets more and more frustrated as time goes on. When she gets to the bathroom she closes the door and Hans can hear her sniffling as she cries. He waits patiently, until she is nearly finished before he knocks. “Elisa…are you alright?”

“Yes Hans, almost done…sorry sir.” She says quickly as she finishes up. She gets out of the bathroom and finds him staring at her.

“Elisa, did something happen?” He asks gently.

“No sir.”

“You seem upset. Are you sure?” He asks again.

“Yes sir.”

“…alright…” He nods. She heads off to finish the other rooms. Hans watches her carefully when he spots the bruise on her cheek. “Elisa what happened?” He asks, firmly this time.

“Nothing Hans.” She says avoiding his gaze.

“Your make-up faded. I can see the bruise on your cheek.” He says. She freezes for a moment before she looks at him.

“Yeah…well…well…what do you care!?” She snaps at him angrily. He nearly jumps in surprise at her tone. He’s never heard her yell before.

“Elisa, you’re my friend. I concerned.” He says truthfully.

“Why? So you can just take me to your bed like all the other women?” She snaps. “You people are all the same!” She says bitterly.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He states. Now he’s getting angry but she doesn’t care anymore.

“Oh what are you going to do? Make me disappear…please you’d be doing me a favor.” She spats as tears run down her face. She gathers her supplies and heads for the front door.

“We’re not done here.” Hans says grabbing her arm.

“No! I’m done!” She snaps back yanking herself free. She slams her basket of cleaning supplies on the floor and the bottles rattle loudly. “I’m so sick of you people!” She shouts as she starts crying. “Every day I work and I work and I work and I have nothing to show for it, while you…you…you just flaunt all your money like it’s no big deal! It’s not fair!” She screams. “I work so hard and I have nothing! You do nothing and you have everything and I’m tired of it! I can’t do this anymore.” She says and crumbles to the ground, slumping against the wall as she sobs into her hands. Hans stares at her in shock as he processes her words. He swallows and takes a deep breath before he kneels. She doesn’t protest as he carefully pulls her into his arms and holds her as she sobs. He feels for the poor girl. He truly does. He remembers being like her, working his ass off before the wars and envying all the others. War made him prosper and he wasn’t exactly proud of that fact either.

“I’m sorry…I’m sorry Elisa.” He whispers to her every now and then as he gently kisses the top of her head. She cries for a long time and it breaks his heart as he feels her tears wet his shirt. He picks her up and carries her to the sofa where she can be comfortable as he holds her. It’s a long time before she finally manages to calm down and look at him.

“I’m so sorry sir…please…please forgive me…” She begs fearfully.

“Shhhhh…there’s nothing to forgive. I understand your frustration. I truly do.” He rasps, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ears. “I was like you once. Just trying to make ends meet…I’ve forgotten that in…privilege.” He admits. She looks at him numbly, her eyes still very wet with tears. “You need a break…you need rest.” He says. “Please…let me help you.” He nearly begs.

“Ok…ok Herr-Hans…” She whispers, correcting herself. He smiles at her, trying to cheer her up. She gives him a weak smile.

“I’m going to make you some breakfast…and then you’ll stay the night, my guest bedroom is very comfortable.” He says. She wants to protest but breakfast and a nice bed sounds like a heaven.

“Thank you Hans…again…I’m sorry about what I said. I wasn’t mad at you.” She says lowering her head.

“I know. It’s alright.” He says sincerely. He can’t help but gently kiss her temple in comfort. “Everything will work out…I promise

[meat-husband]

hey could we get some fics and the like where the reader is more of a runner type like they just really do not want this shit. maybe they fuck up their ankle and get caught. how would the killers react to escape attempts and how do they get the whole "your mine" thing to start sticking do they hurt them a little to remind them of what they can still do? ( with Brahms and Micheal please)(I'm done with fluff I want to be scared of them)

Big mood anon!!! I like some fluff and taking care of the boys, but I also love some scary, possessive murder men.

Brahms

Wet hair was stuck to your face, cold rain running into your eyes and blinding you. You couldn’t hear anything over the rumble of the storm above you, but you screamed as loud as you could anyways, hoping someone would hear.

Running should have worked. Brahms had the upper hand in the house, knowing all the twists and turns, the shortcuts inside the walls, but he wouldn’t - couldn’t - leave the house. You couldn’t take him on inside, he was stronger by far, but if you could make it outside, that was all the advantage you’d need to finally make a break for it. You wouldn’t need to worry about being hunted down, ambushed in the corridors of the old house, you’d have the whole expanse of the massive lawn between you and him.

But Brahms had left, flying out the door after you, running out into the storm and catching you only a few moments into your escape. His feet were bare, slipping in the wet, muddy grass, but his hands caught hold of you and didn’t let go, long fingers snarled into your hair and the collar of your shirt. You fought against him, screaming loud enough to be heard over the thunder, but his grip didn’t loosen despite your struggles.

“Let me go!” You spat, twisting furiously in his hands. “I hate you, let me go!”

Brahms pulls you inside, through the still open door and into the hall, letting the wind and rain soak the entry carpet. He’s silent, but his chest is heaving, red knuckled hands dug into your hair and dragging you across the floor. You don’t care what he does to you, what cruel punishments he might think up, you’re tired and angry and scared, and this failed escape is only one in a long line of things that have drained your resolve.

He half drags you up the stairs, throwing you against them and untangling his hand from your hair with harsh pulls. You lunge forward, knowing you aren’t going to make it past him, but kicking and flailing anyways, hoping that one of your strikes hits him hard enough to make him hurt.

He drops down over you, knees on either side of your waist pinning you against the hard edge of the stairs, grabbing your wild hands and holding them against your chest. You glare up at him, his red rimmed eyes glaring right back, both of you gasping. Your chest hurts with the force of the anger building inside, you’ve never felt such loathing for someone before. The greasy curls stuck to porcelain, the soggy cardigan falling off his shoulders, the cracked and painted face he wears, it all infuriates you, and you’ve never wanted to see someone hurt so badly before.

“I hate you,” you repeat, trying to get as much vitriol into the short sentence as you can manage. “I’m not your nanny, I’m not taking care of you. You’re a horrible, ugly person and I hate you!”

The words seem to have an effect, his shoulders hunching up and head tilting down, and you feel a burning sense of satisfaction at his reaction. You hear his breath hitch, feel the trembling of the hands that hold your wrists, and with a loud wail he falls over you. His whole body shakes with sobs, his covered face digging into the crook of your neck, and you jerk away from him. The sounds are pitiful, broken little noises that make your stomach hurt and twist, but you feel the grip on your wrists stay firm, the body above you still tense and ready. There are no tears, just cold rain pressing into your skin, and you hate him all the more for trying this trick.

“I know you’re faking, you’re not even crying.”

The sobs slow down, trailing off into silence until he’s simply laying over you, breathing loudly into your ear. You turn your face away from him, but he’s too close to get away from the heat and smell of him. Finally he sits up, pulling away and staring down at you with dry eyes.

“You’re no fun,”  he snaps at you, and though he only sounds a little put out, you can see his own rage burning in his eyes. “You’re not fun anymore.”

“Get rid of me then,” you say bluntly, writhing under his hands. “I don’t want to be here, just kill me and get it over with.”

He looks surprised at your request, leaning back a little. You try to put all the hate you can into the look you give him, narrowing your eyes. You don’t want to die, not really, but you can’t stay in this horrible house for another moment, and if this is the only way out, you’re ready to take it.

“You killed the others, didn’t you, you told me so. Just kill me.”

Brahms looks down at you, silent for a moment, before you see real tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. You’re not surprised, he might have faked it before, but he’s lured you into a false sense of security with tears more than once. A little whimper leaves him, and when his hands release your own, you’re quick to fling yourself at him, pounding your fists against his chest. He lets you, arms around your back pulling you in until you’re too close to hit him, arms trapped between your bodies. The sobs start up again, but they sound real now, hiccups and gasping breaths breaking up his words as he cries into your hair.

“But I love you,” he whines, stuttering the confession out. “I love you, I want you to stay here with me.”

A cold drop of fear settles into the pit of your stomach. Brahms is a liar, he’ll say whatever you need to hear so that he can have his way, but this isn’t something he’s saying to lull you into calmness. He’s not telling you this so that your compassion and empathy will keep you here, he knows that you’re done with that. You feel your throat tighten and your eyes start to tear up as you think that he might truly mean what he says, a deep repulsion bubbling in your veins at the thought that he might really be stupid enough to think that his desperate, lonely obsession with you is real love.

Michael

He doesn’t smell bad, you think, pushing your face against the curve of his shoulder, heavy arms coming up to hold you there. The house is cold and drafty, but huddled together on a piece of long unused furniture you wait out the night, hoping that the day ahead will be a little warmer.

There is always the tangy undertone of metal and blood in everything that he wears, but it’s not a dirty smell. Mostly it smells like crisp, cold air and the faint hint of sweat on skin, and a sharp, chemical scent the closer you get to the mask. You’re a little surprised that the scent of the old jumpsuit is almost pleasant, but not as surprised as he is when the knife is buried into his side.

Michael screams, the first real sound you’ve gotten out of him, and the arms around you throw you across the room before you have time to bolt away. You hit something hard, you’re not sure what in the gloom and confusion, but your head spins as you squirm on the ground in pain. You’re able to stand just long enough to take a handful of wobbly steps towards the door, but your escape attempt doesn’t last long.

A hand on the back of your neck stops you, throwing you backwards and onto the floor again, where you curl inward. The pain is coming in fast now, your brain finally catching up to your body, and you feel it when a heavy boot lands on your stomach.

“Okay,” you start, gasping in air around the weight compressing your abdomen. “Alright, that was a mistake. I’m sorry -“

You don’t get a chance to continue, the slight pressure he puts on your unprotected stomach knocking the air out of you. You open your mouth, trying to suck in air, but all you get is a few red faced sputters. You must have injured your ribs at some point, because your whole torso burns now, your heaving gasps only worsening the pain.

You can’t even be mad with him, really, not when the handle of that knife is still stuck into the bloody mess you had made in his side. It doesn’t seem to phase him now, although you’re glad that at least you’ve left your mark. You had fought back before but never actually managed to harm him, aside from scratches with your dull nails.

Michael watches you, the dark eyes behind the mask glinting in the dim light filtering in through the grimy windows. You can see dust floating through the air between you, illuminated in the day’s first rays of early morning sunshine, but the black spots in your vision grow bigger and bigger, until your eyes roll back and you can’t see anything at all. You’re sure that he’s going to kill you this time, but the weight is off you just as your frantic thoughts start to fade, body convulsing as you choke down air.

You writhe on the ground, rolling onto your side and curling your arms around your injured torso, but you can still hear the quiet sigh that drifts down from above you. You see the bloodied knife, discarded on the floor behind his feet, but you don’t even think of going for it. You aren’t sure when he removed it, maybe you were out for longer than it felt like, or maybe you were too busy trying not to suffocate to notice, but there’s not a lot of hope that the wound will keep him down at all. He’s come back with worse than that, half bled out and full of more bullet holes than you would think a human could take. It was stupid to think you could do anything more than inconvenience him, but you couldn’t resist the opportunity to try.

“S-sorry.”

You’re not sure why you’re apologizing to him, but now that you’ve gotten your breath back you feel the need to break the silence. You flinch away when he takes a step towards you, but he only crouches down, arms on his knees, and watches you. The red stain on his side continues to spread, but he shows no sign of it bothering him. It makes you feel more than a little hopeless to realize that you’re not going to be able to force your way out of this, that he’s not something that you can fight against and win.

[orenonahaichigoda]

I had a rough day, and came to a realisation. I will say a bit about my own experience, and then, after having to lay the groundwork of explaining 400 things about Japan because American schools and media think the whole world is the US, Western Europe, and places to blow up, making explaining necessary, will tie it to Ichigo, or at least how I portray him.

I'm Post Dankai Juniors, growing up in Japan. So's Kubo, actually. The boundaries of this Japanese generation are roughly '75 to '85, Yutori, the following generation that's always translated and localised as Millennial, pretty solidly set as beginning at '86. These things are always fuzzy because you can't vivisect living brains and find the part that likes char siu buns and the part that likes jazz fusion. I *majored* in Social Science. You'll have teachers who say "it is absolute that we date people who are similar to us because we're all actually narcists." (It *might* be because they're like our beloved family or community. Narcistic Personality is not universal) But it really just is fuzzy, and that teacher/book author is an idiot. Anyway, Yutori is always translated as Millennial. I don't know the end boundary. Post Dankai Juniors covers almost totally a debated throe for Germanic nations (I know Britain, Germany, and Nederland use the same generations as America, and their languages are Germanic) because of how fuzzy it all is, though.

Anyway, so since coming to the US, my interactions with other Asians, again, how is this defined when China, Mongolia, Japan all border Russia and West Asia includes Jordan and Saudi Arabia, South Asia is India's area, Southeast Asia is Laos, Thailand's area, I mean, find the Arabic kanji. I don't think Thailand even uses soy sauce. What the heck IS Asia, really? (Or "Middle East" when half of that's Africa and the other half shares plate with Europe? )

Anyway, my experience with Asians that are Boomer ages tends to be people who immigrated as adults, who more identity with a generation like "Dankai" or "Sirake." My experiences with Latinos older than me... I've never actually asked if the generational labels are even the same.

The thing about that is that when the name is the same, it means enough cultural traits are shared.

My biggest experience with people who grew up under the term "Boomer" are Black and white.

I've noticed a unifying trait.

If they're something oppressed (Black, gay), their attitude tends to be"it is mandatory to stand up for *my* demograph...but kicking the person behind me on the ladder in the teeth is wholesome, pure, and fun."

Outing me to large groups and saying I "speak Asian" seem to be the most common two. Calling me "Chinese" long after I've cleared this up for them is a close third.

I mean, don't get me wrong--my experience with Italian Americans past GI generation has been that now acquiring the "white" label, just like biphobic/aphobic/transphobic cisgays, they're more often staunch priveledge defenders than cishet people of Anglo descent! And it's just as true for X and Y as it is for Boomer (for the latter, one need only look at NYC destroyer and trump defender Giuliani) I actually don't really identify with my Italian side at all because I was kinda locked out of making any meaningful connection.

But back to my point that even in so-leftist-it's-almost-not-America Bay Area, Boomers are still like this!

The kind of stuff that flows out a X/Y TERF's mouth, or the mouth of an X/Y person with a Confederate flag on his wall, American-raised Boomers say with ease regardless of their alignment! It's banananas.

(Please note that I also just have not met a whole lot of Native Americans, period, nor enough people significantly older than me from any one place in Africa, that was an omission of lacking data, not intended as erasure)

How I tie it to Ichigo--

So Kubo avoids specifying birth years for anyone.

When I see something like this, I generally assume date of publication, as do most people in most fandoms (which of course gets screwy when you have something endlessly rebooted like Superman or Batman or something eternally unchanging like Detective Conan)

Anyway, the first Bleach something published was the comic in '01.

I generally assume it was supposed to be the start of a new school year, as Ichigo doesn't know many of his classmates until at least the first test scores come out. So it's probably April or something.

If Ichigo was 15 then, he'd also be Post Dankai Juniors, just barely. If Ichigo TURNED 15 shortly after, during his adventure, he'd be undebatably Millennial.

Now, there is still something up with Dankai and Sirake. PM Abe is the latter, b. 1954. A lot of his age-peers are behind him. This is the guy who supports remilitarisation and was caught funding a private militarist/fascist high(?) school that teaches that people from countries Japan conquered during its brief phase of trying to beat colonial Europe are less than dogs.

Now, I left there as a teen. Clinton was US president. Scandals still got people kicked out of public office in Japan. I hadn't figured or come out yet. Sure, I got bullied for being mixed, but kids will pick if you like different singers than the "cool" ones. They'll pick based on what's in your lunch. That data is sausage.

I'm not 100% sure what Ichigo would face day-to-day sociopolitically as he grew up/aged. I haven't had living family since'95 there, and friendships don't get deep enough to ever last distance until at least high school. For me, adulthood.

But I've kept/caught up enough (you try keeping up in the South before the internet was more than ten University sites!) that I know he'd face fascists (c'mon, the guy takes on a martial law government to save a new friend--that's anarchist, he just doesn't seem anarchist in his own world. He only fights humans in defence) I'm not sure how he'd feel about the JSDF, but he only fought the sinigami's war out of feeling like it was his responsibility because the adults around him kinda made it so. I super don't see him being for *starting* wars. In a human war, I see him actually being like Sugihara Chiune, a historical figure who died when I was a kid who I majorly admire. He worked at a Japanese embassy in Nazi territory, and when the embassy was evacuated,he continued throwing passports to Jewish people to go to Japan from the train he was departing on,and is hidden from Americans in the same spirit that Martin Luther King is...pulled the teeth out of. (PS, speaking of,go Google Steven Kiyosi Kuromiya)

Also, Ichigo's whole schtick is defending those worse off than him. He's not someone I see defending Yamato Japanese priveledge. Heck, I could see him joining Uchinanchu efforts to get Parliament and the US base to leave them alone. I can easily see him sticking up for a Filipino domestic worker he met thirty seconds ago.

To this end, I think regardless of what he is, he'd have a large rub with Japan's equivalents of Boomers.

Not to mention that Abe supporters tend to be very sexist and queerphobic, which isn't even homegrown but imported from Américanisation. I mean, there were female warriors--assasins, which is what Yoruichi and Soi-Fon are styled after, and go look at some Ukiyoe, like Utagawa Kitamaro. Quite a few artists in the 200-ish years of the Edo period depicted life in the queer districts. I've also had people posit that Noh might've been a welcoming draw for trans people the same way drag was all over the US in the twentieth century and still is in rural areas, where there's less cisgay gatekeeping. But this isn't something I can reasonably research without access to plenty of older and not well known dusty documents, and lots of time, and I live in the US many years now. And do you know how much round trip airfare alone is!? Also, the language changed so much and I can't read anything before Meiji without dropping words. Rukia, Byakuya, Yoruichi all have made for TV old-sounding Japanese like period dramas. Actual 18th Century Japanese would be unintelligible to the unspecialised.

So this stuff isn't really native, but Abe and a lot of people his age support all these -isms.

I super don't see Ichigo being happy about this.

(I also feel like Issin's old enough to remember before these -isms, but that's my own thing. In my project, he was in those districts, but that's me)

At the same time, I'm still writing this through my own lens. Also, not still being there, I just don't have enough data on Yutori in adulthood, or the grown Yutori lens. Honestly, even most other immigrants I meet are older than that. Or older than that and their adorable three year old children. So I have no clue.

In the early 2000s, I got myself from the South to CA and began to reconnect, but began to is the key phrase. I can tell you right now that Abe is as much of a second phase of Nakasone as trump is of Nakasone's buddy Regean. But what shifted when, I can't say. I'm not entirely sure how Koizumi ran the ship, as it were. I know some things, but not enough to say.

But whenever things shifted however, and whichever year Ichigo was born, I just cannot imagine him being any more on board with current events than really anyone in my area not born between 1946-1964 and raised in America.

I feel like he'd probably be too tired or self-effacing to fight for himself, but he'd take on, loud and proud, any bigotry against *others.*

I...also can't really say I'm much different, except my joints are held together by the power of wishes, so I'm more like "get the victim to safety" than "give the attacker plenty of regret." So, I can only do anything in limited ways.

Ichigo is also entirely fuelled by the power of love. Lost his ability to protect and feels like his sinigami friends ditched him? Mondo depressed, however much he wants no one to notice--which most do a great job of ignoring! Everyone in his world turned against him for a guy who has attacked people close to him? Terrified, and murder can now be an answer. (Fullbring Arc)

I was going somewhere with that. I've forgotten, but I'll leave it.

But anyway, I feel like he really only comes close to fighting for himself when others are taken away from him in a way that's also wronging them.

So yeah, I super don't see him happy with current events or Sirake gen.

I'm not sure how much I see him fighting for himself as mixed panromantic grey-ace. I mean, we know he fights people who are about to punch his face in for his looks, but what else can you reasonably do at that point? Get your head bashed in? I'm not sure how much I see him fighting hateful words pointed at him versus resigning himself to "people are the worst." I mean, when he talks about being picked on, he kinda seems resigned, or at least like it's a fact, like shoes being for outside or something.

I guess I tied it to Ichigo a lot better than I thought!

But also, the struggle against people born just after the war is not just you, and not just America. It's a major problem.

And it's likely that Ichigo would agree.

[oswald-privileges]

Imperfect Specimen

(Written for @pilesofnonsense and the RQBB event! You can also read it here on ao3.

Also, it’s a companion piece to @throwaninkpot‘s podfic! You can listen to it here and here. They also put together a really nice moodboard which is just. So perfect.)

Statement of Llewellyn Morgan. Regarding the donation of an unusual specimen jar to the Magnus Institute, originally resident in the archival basement of Shropshire County Natural History Museum. Recording by Kat Vandemeer, Assistant Archivist to the Usher Foundation. Statement begins.

I am not here because I changed my mind about your offer.

I feel as though it’s important that you understand that. I like the job I’ve already got. It took a long time to get everything just how I like it, and I can work to my own schedule without oversight from people who think they know better. So, in spite of everything that’s happened to bring me here, I am not about to go abandoning that.

And maybe if I fill in one of your forms and give you something for your archives, you’ll stop trying to drag me out of mine.

For all that we call ourselves after the county, I don’t think the museum building is actually in Shropshire. The turning is just after the “Welcome to” sign, but the road doubles back over the border almost immediately, meaning most visitors end up here by accident. Anyone actively trying to find us doesn’t seem to have a hope. So it’s not unusual for me to find myself standing at the turning, looking to wave down a delivery I’m expecting. It saves a lot of arduous conversation over the phone.

Unfortunately, it also means that if a driver wants to just pull over, drop the donations on the pavement, and take off again, there’s very little I can do to stop them. And that’s pretty much exactly how that morning started. With me ankle deep in cardboard boxes, sheaves of string-bound papers, and bubble-wrapped display trays, shouting after a disappearing van.

Now, I wouldn’t say I’m a stereotype of my profession, but doing delicate work for long hours indoors has certain drawbacks. I had to call the front desk and ask the receptionist to give me a hand. It’s not like it was her responsibility to come and help me- after all, her job description is visitor check-ins and answering the phone, not lugging crates of dead insects around. But on my own, I would have been trekking back and forth along the road all morning.

Still, there were no complaints from her. Just rather a lot of professionally chirrupy chatter. The obligation to make conversation is not one I shoulder with enthusiasm, but happily for the both of us, she seemed not to need her conversation partner to really say anything, or even give much of an indication that they’d been listening. All I had to do was occasionally say things like “Right” and “Mmhm” and “Please, please be careful with that.”

She was the one to find the jar first.

“Were you leaving this for me to carry?” She asked. It was probably a joke. I told her no, just in case it wasn’t. I hadn’t even seen the thing before she’d called me over to take a look.

“How could you have missed this?” She said, “It’s huge!”

She was right. It was maybe two feet tall, and bulky with it. A sealed specimen jar, poorly made and poorly maintained. The solution was a dullish, near-opaque brown, obscuring the specimen itself almost completely.

The receptionist didn’t seem phased by this. She was crouched on her heels, turning the jar back and forth.

“What do you think’s inside it?” She asked.

Her fascination was beginning to irritate me. The jar wasn’t listed on my inventory, but then neither were half the items surrounding it. The other half that were listed were missing from the delivery entirely. Add to that the way that the specimen was floating and therefore clearly rotten, and it was like finding a dead mouse in your post. If the post was mostly addressed to someone else, and the mouse was starting to ooze.

I let the receptionist know all of this, and finished by telling her that it didn’t matter what it had been to begin with, as by this point it was just a hazard and disposing of it was just another thing taking up space on my to-do list.

I probably came off as rather terse. But I rather feel that bridge was never even built, let alone there to be burned.

Here is what happened next; I remember relocating most of the donations to my darkroom to reduce any further light damage. I remember getting in the car, the trip to the waste centre, and I remember talking to the front desk worker, explaining the problem. I handed over the butterfly trays I had in the boot. He gave me a bit of a look, but was very polite as he explained that he didn’t think that there was any alcohol or formaldehyde in there, and that they didn’t accept material over the counter anyway. Besides, didn’t the museum already have a collection contract with the company?

I already knew this, and told him so. Possibly less politely than he really deserved. Then I took the butterfly trays back, and drove away.

Something had gone wrong somewhere, and I couldn’t work out exactly what. I turned the past half hour over in my head as I drove. Darkroom, car, front desk, butterflies - no step in that process was missing. But something wasn’t there. Wasn’t right.

I missed the turning, as everyone does, and spent twenty minutes trying to find a place to turn around. By the time I got back, the mental itch was maddening.

To make matters worse, I found the receptionist was in my workroom, waiting for me. Actually in my workroom- not waylaying me at the front desk or hovering around the doorway, actually in there. I asked her what she thought she was doing.

“I wanted to watch while you changed the alcohol,” she said, bright as anything, “If that’s okay?”

Over her shoulder, the jar was squatting in the centre of my work bench.

I knew I had taken the thing to be destroyed. The jar wasn't listed-

No. No, I knew that I had gotten into the car, to go to the waste centre. That was not the same thing as knowing that I had taken the jar with me. I hadn’t, I obviously hadn’t. The proof was there, solid and filthy as ever.

But I had decided to destroy it. And then I had gotten into the car, with the butterfly trays. Somewhere between deciding and acting, something had gotten lost. Or, not lost. Cut. A taut thread of intent, or control, or direction, neatly split.

Somehow, that idea felt so much worse.

That realisation came coupled with another; I was still speaking. The receptionist was staring at me, attentive as a schoolchild, and I listened with her as my lungs and throat and tongue worked without my input. I was in the middle of promising her, or maybe asking for, or maybe ordering, “The other necessary things.”

If I had already said what those things were, I don’t remember. If I hadn’t, I didn’t want to allow it. My voice stumbled and died, and for a moment, my tongue was limp and alien in my mouth. I was intruding on myself.

The feeling passed almost instantly, and at once I told her to get out of my archive. Those were my exact words. I do remember that. I know it wasn’t professional, and I know for certain that I hurt her feelings, but I needed to be alone.

The receptionist retreated without a word, and I was left trying to work out what the hell had been happening to me all morning. Not for a minute did I think that I might be going mad, or that some form of early on-set dementia might be manifesting. I didn’t believe in the supernatural, but neither did I make a habit of doubting myself or my senses. Something had interfered, that much I couldn’t argue with.

I needed to take another look at that jar.

Trying to examine the thing was- strange. It was right there, in plain view, but- it’s difficult to explain. It wasn’t that I couldn’t see it, just that what I could see didn’t… prompt anything. No connections, no fear, no interest, nothing. And that wasn’t right, it’s very lack of wrongness was wrong, because everything you can see has a connection to something else.

I sat in front of it, hands at the sides of my head to tunnel my vision, and looked.

It was big, I could see that much. And it was sealed with rubber in a way that should have immediately called up the word “antique” or “old fashioned” or “obsolete”. But I can only add those words now, without it here in front of me. The seal also hid the central point of an expanding pattern of fractures. They spread outwards from the rim, and they didn’t look like anything other than the cracked glass of a jar.

The fluid inside was just as opaque, concealing the specimen it held. That, though, was something I could fix, with a bit of direct light.

I looked up, reaching for the overhead lamp.

I picked up a block of notecards from the shelf. The butterfly trays at the end of my work bench needed relabelling, but were otherwise in remarkably good condition. Perhaps they could form the centre point of a new exhibit. Not for too long, though, of course. Overexposure would ruin them completely.

It wasn’t until I was driving home that I realised vaguely that it had happened again. A cut. The connection between what I had meant to do and what I had done had been severed.

But by that time, well. Since the discrepancy didn’t cause any problems like it had at the waste centre, and my cassette player had just that moment decided to throw a fit, I was more concerned about the tape that was being chewed. After all, nowhere nearby sells the damn things any more.

After that - and this is going to sound stupid, but - I just sort of forgot. I don’t know how much of it was the quiet severing of mental threads, but for the next few days, when I came into work and saw the jar on my workbench, or the floor, or up on a shelf, I would think, I really must get around to throwing that horrible thing away, and then I would go on to do something else. And when it vanished entirely, I didn’t even think that.

It never sat quite right with me, but there were... other things to occupy my attention. At first it was just the usual work things - restoration, admin, trying to keep the photosensitives from fading too quickly. Then things started to go missing. First it was from the archives themselves; I would pick up a tray and find a handful of the pins no longer held their insects. Any inventory I tried to make would come up full of holes. Then the branch of mounted lorikeets that was the centrepiece of our exhibit on Non-Native Taxidermy vanished, and nothing was really done. We all just stood around, looking at the gap, and someone said something about phoning the police and then we all just… drifted away.

And then there was the receptionist. At some point, she stopped showing up to work. It was generally agreed that she had left, had better prospects elsewhere, and there was some vague mention of setting up a leaving do. But since she seemed to have already gone, the idea sort of fizzled out. A replacement was hired, a boy barely out of his teens who typed at the speed of someone trying to win a slow bicycle race against a glacier. I think his name was Adam, or something.

I didn’t even know what the previous receptionist’s name had been.

If anybody else felt the same unease as I did, they didn’t show it. I tried to talk to the general manager about the missing lorikeets, and then again when I first realised that I hadn’t seen the receptionist in a while, but she genuinely did not seem concerned.

“Don’t worry about it,” was all she’d say to me, “Don’t worry about a thing.”

I always worry about things.

It was kind of a clever trick, really, all those little disruptions in the workplace. They distracted me from that nagging half awareness, the feeling that something was wrong. But it wasn’t enough. The lack of knowledge bothered me. It shifted in my head, unmoored, the itching ache of a loose tooth.

Even so, a vague feeling wouldn’t have done me much good if I hadn’t spent so much time at work. It’s always been kind of habit of mine to stay longer than I really need to, to the point where in the winter months I doesn’t always get a chance to see the sunlight hours. It’s a point of much entertainment amongst my colleagues. I’m fairly sure they even make bets about it at times.

Still, the point remains that nobody knows the building better than I do, especially not its archives. They’re more of a home to me than the flat where I happen to sleep. I’m more comfortable surrounded by my papers and my specimens than I am anywhere else.

Except I wasn’t any longer. Coming into work, shutting the door behind me - instead of relief, I would begin to feel almost claustrophobic. Only imperceptibly at first, but getting worse as the days inched by. It was like putting on a pair of shoes you’ve owned for years, only to discover that for no discernible reason, they’ve begun to pinch and give you blisters.

When it got to the point where I found myself standing there, outside the door, wrist locked and physically willing myself to turn the handle, I decided that I’d had enough.

Instead of setting to work and giving anything the opportunity to distract me, I put the back of a chair against the door, sat down, and looked at the room in front of me. Now that I was paying attention - really paying attention - the feeling of something missing was stronger than ever. But nothing seemed to be actually out of place. Books on my desk, desk itself to my left. Specimens on the workbench and the lamp that hung overhead. Cabinets and cases to my right. The pattern of items didn’t change, no matter how many times I went over it.

Obviously I needed to try something else.

I allowed myself a moment to fetch a pen and paper, an errand that had me organising and reorganising the books on my desk for nearly half an hour before I was able to drag my focus back to what I had intended to do. Then, without looking up, I made a list of what I should be able to see. Desk on the left, a list of the titles I knew were there. Another list of specimens, workbench and lamp in front of me, door to the darkroom beyond that. Three filing cabinets on my right, only two of which locked. Then I scanned the room, slowly, marking off what I saw against my list.

I stayed in my archive for a long while that day, long after everyone else had gone home. The words I wrote on the page writhed in the corners of my vision, squirming from the grip of my memory the second I looked up. I would write things down twice, or not at all, and eventually have to start over again when the page became more crossing-out than word.

I sat. I wrote. I checked. Crumpled paper forming a small pile around my ankles.

And then - oh, then - I caught it.

“Got you now, you little bastard,” I told it. “You can’t hide from me here.”

The handle to the door of the darkroom was covered in a very fine layer of dust. I hadn’t opened it in weeks, even as the butterflies and ink on paper faded right in front of me. Why would I? There had been nothing in my head to connect the need to use a darkroom and the fact that I had one. Another thread cut.

I opened the door.

The smell hit me first. Thick, and chemical, and dead. The greasy stink of formaldehyde. No time even to choke, though, because I was pulled in, and the door shut behind me.

Whatever the jar had been doing to hide itself, hide this room, didn’t apply here. It distorted space like a huge weight, skewing the outline of everything towards it. The floor sloped upwards, the ceiling, down, the bench it rested on splintered under the pressure of it. I skidded towards it, impossibly, uphill.

I flailed to keep my balance, and ran into resistance immediately. Strands of- what, fishing wire? Hair?- webbed out from the jar, strung with things I couldn’t make out at first. Dead insects and butterfly wings, photographs of people I recognised from work. Bright feathers that must have come from the stolen lorikeets. The strands all thrummed with a horrible, living energy, squirming against my vision like an afterimage.

I could regain my footing, but not stop myself from stumbling towards the jar. The pressure of it’s pull, the weight of it, physically hurt to look at. The fluid inside wasn’t opaque any longer, but luminescent, like filthy amber, and I could finally see what was inside.

A bundle of chitinous legs, suspended under a flattish mass the size of my palm, stretching and bumping against the glass. Gently shifting mouthparts causing flakes of dead matter to swirl in tiny eddies. A studding of blank, bead-like eyes. A spider. Not of any genus or species I could have named. More like someone had taken all the worst possible ideas of a spider, observable or imaginary, and jammed them together into one horrible, twitching creature.

I am not afraid of spiders. But, confronted with the raw spider-likeness in that jar, somehow that didn’t matter in the slightest.

My impossible upwards fall was brought to a halt. The jar didn’t take up any more room in my line of sight than it ought to, but I could see every detail of the thing inside it. It’s pedipalps weren’t moving idly. They were latching onto flecks of something that was drifting downwards through the fluid. With an effort of will, I forced my gaze upwards.

The receptionist was standing over the jar’s unsealed mouth. She bent and twisted with the warped dimensions of the room, but either it didn’t hurt her, or she didn’t care. Her hair hung down in patchy sheets, her scalp scabbed.

She had a box cutter in one hand, and was carving slivers of flesh from her fingertips. They left a tiny ballooning trail of blood as they drifted down towards the waiting spider.

I tried to call out to her, but my voice was swallowed immediately by the dead air. And, of course, I didn’t even know her name. I didn’t know anything, not how to move, how to blink, how to breathe. All ties between my mind and my body were cut, and with no connection, no strings to pull them, my limbs just hung there, useless.

The receptionist kept carving away.

I am not afraid of spiders. I was very, very afraid of the thing in the jar. The fear kept me paralysed, a familiar paralysis, the feeling I have after a nightmare. I wake and the terror is still real, some animal instinct keeping me locked still.

I am not afraid of spiders.

Move, I thought, move.

If I could move, then the nightmare would have lost. It’s logic would collapse, the whole structure would break up into a hundred odd-shaped pieces that never fitted together to begin with. Strange, but not frightening, only ever faintly ridiculous. Get up, I told myself, Time to start the day. There is work to do. You don’t have time to be frightened.

I still couldn’t move. I was being pumped full of fear as though it were venom, and that, I realised, that was important, because it was not my fear. And spiders do not kill their prey with similes.

The thing in the jar was not a spider. It was inconsistent, contradictory mess. It didn’t matter whether it had eight eyes or six or four, so long as it had too many, whether it spun web or hunted, so long as it was a predator. If I were to take it from the jar and clean it and dry it and cut it open, I’d find no venom glands, no internal structure at all. It matched nothing, and it was not real.

And it was trying to frighten me with that.

It had invaded my archives, filled my memory and my inventory with holes, stolen a room from me to hide in, and then, as if that weren’t enough, it had the audacity to tell me that I should be scared of it? Why? Because it was a made-up spider hiding a receptionist in my back room?

I was moving again, reaching for the jar. The ties were not longer cut, because that is not how brain and nerves and muscle work, not in the real world, and, for just a moment, not in this nightmare-world either. Just for a moment. The flare of anger that powered me was drowning already, overwhelmed by fear that wasn’t mine.

The receptionist slammed into me, wrapping me in arms and wire and hair. My mouth was full of butterfly wings. But she must have been down here since she disappeared; her limbs were nothing but bone, and any strength she had came entirely from rage. I lunged forward and through the humming, living wire, and the jar shattered on the ground.

The receptionist screamed, hurling herself at the spider-thing as it slithered across the floor. I hung onto her, not thinking about why or what to do next. Her howls thrummed along the wires and bit into my skin and I could do nothing but tighten my grip and wait.

The air contorted, and slowly, far too slowly, it relaxed. The receptionist was slumped in my arms, unmoving. It wasn’t until I had dragged her out into the electric light of the main room that I saw how much damage she’d done to my arms and side with her box cutter. Of course, I wasn’t until after I’d noticed it that it started to hurt.

The next few hours were the cliche, post-trauma blur. Bandages from the first aid kit, helping her into the passenger seat, waiting at A&E. The receptionist barely moved the whole time, except when I directed her. Even if the cutting of ties wasn’t real for me, it seemed to have had a much worse effect on her.

I returned to the museum in the early hours of the morning. I didn’t feel like having to explain my bandages to any of my co-workers, and I was hardly going to waste my time with the police. They might try to poke through my archive, and I already had enough cleaning up to do.

The darkroom was as I’d left it - strung with wire, smelling of formaldehyde. But that’s all it was, a tangle of garbage and a bad smell. Whatever power had been channelled, whatever awful weight the thing in the jar had had was gone.

Almost gone. The spider-thing still pulsed weakly as I scooped it out of the pool of fluid and broken glass and into a plastic container. Looking at it, it seemed kind of shrunken and vulnerable out in the open.

I decided to take it to be incinerated with the rest of the rubbish.

I cleared out everything that the receptionist had brought into my darkroom. The decorated strings of wire and hair, containers of chemicals and empty plastic tubs that seemed to have once held mealworms, all of it. I bagged it up, and left it and the container with the spider-thing outside in the courtyard. Then I went back into the archive.

After a bit of digging, I found what I was looking for. A jar, one of the old glass ones with an antique seal, dusty from years spent sitting in the corner, repeatedly forgotten every time the recycling came around. With the spider thing inside it, and the alcohol in place, it might as well have never been broken. The solution was already starting to cloud.

I could have resisted. I’m certain of that. But honestly, the thing seemed to want to move on, and by that point I was more than happy to speed it on its way. I don’t need to explain why I thought to send it to you. Either you actually deal with things like this, and will know what to do with it, or you don’t, and I’ll have given you the first genuine piece of supernatural nastiness you’ve seen. Possibly the last, as well.

Either way, it’s your problem now.

So you can stop sending me emails.

Statement ends. It’s always such a pleasure to hear from our sister institute, even if this is the wrong place to file complaints. Their recruitment drive seems to be proceeding apace.

It’s always a pity when someone promising won’t share their talent. Selfish, some would say. And there’s always a risk that another side will poach them off us. But I don’t think there’s any need to worry about his turning into a spider freak, at least.

What does worry me is the fact that this statement turned up so far away from home, and without the jar it was supposedly attached to. The intake form lists both an artefact and a statement, but the statement was all I could find.

If she had succeeded in hatching the jar, we would have had another Amalgam on our hands, and that’s always a pain. Why dear old Mother keeps trying to make them, I’ll never know. They’re always unstable, they always collapse, and they always make a mess. Still. I suppose it’s nice to have a hobby.

[kaychawrites]

By The Light Of The Moon

Fairy Tail Fanfic AU

Characters: Natsu Dragneel, Lucy Heartfilia, Gray Fullbuster, Fuyumi Dragneel (OC), Jellal Fernandez, Erza Scarlet, etc

Genre: Supernatural, Romance

Rating: Mature

Tag List: @cobblepottantrum

Chapter 1

The forest is quiet as the moon filters through the trees. He can feel his blood pumping through his veins as he runs quietly along the forest floor, the moonlight turning his coat silver. Behind him he can hear her keeping up with his pace. The night air is fresh and he inhales, giving his body the oxygen it needs to run faster. Soon, the trees break along a ridge and he slows to take in the sight.  Magnolia… its beauty cast in the light of the moon.

She comes and sits next to him looking out at the town. “Natsu, we should head down now. I don’t smell any patrols in the area. We need to make use of this chance while we can.”

He looks down the path, breathing deep through his nose. She is right; he doesn’t smell any patrols either. He stands, shaking himself before taking off down the mountain with her hot on his heels.

%%%%%

In town, a young woman stands on the porch of a grand house, her blonde hair glowing in the moonlight. The house behind her is bustling with her father’s guests. She would much rather sit out on the porch and enjoy the full moon then be at her father’s side, being seen but not heard. Just a pretty little prize for him to show off.  

She hears the door open behind her. “Princess?” Her maid calls out into the night.

“I’m here Virgo,” she replies. The pink haired woman walks up beside her charge. “Your father wants you to come meet the heirs to the Shepherd clans.”

The young woman sighs. “I will be right there.” She turns toward the house, taking one last look at the large forest with longing. She heads inside, her face becoming a mask with a fake sweet smile for all the Shifters inside.

Shifters; beings or creatures with the ability to change their physical form or shape. Little did the humans know but there were many different kinds of shifters living all across Fiore. Magnolia just happened to be the base for the Retriever clan, a branch of the canine Shifters. All the clan heads had come for a meeting of leaders to discuss issues among them.

As she walks back into the dining hall, she spots her father talking with a couple of the other clan leaders.

“Come here Lucy,” he orders, beckoning her over. Her father is a tall man with graying sandy hair and a well-groomed mustache. He became clan leader after her mother died when she was young.

Her mother had been the true leader of the clan and her death was a huge loss for them all. Lucy was expected to step into the role when she finally found a mate worthy of ruling by her side, and thus why her father was introducing her to all the available, potential alphas.

She noticed the four men standing next to her father. “Hello, Lucy, my name is Siegrain,” said a tall man with dark blue hair as he held his hand out for her to shake. He then introduced his son, Jellal, who was a young replica of his father except for the flashy red tattoo that adorned his face around his right eye.

Next, was she was introduced to a man with dark hair and intimidating scar running down his forehead from his hairline. Silver was his name and he introduced his son, Gray, who looked board out of his mind.

Within the canine shifters there were different clans Retriever, Shepherd, Collie, Terrier and so forth and in those clans were different branches of families.

“Siegrain is the head of the German Shepherd family,” Lucy’s father Jude said. “And Silver heads the Australian Shepherd family.” Lucy nodded respectfully to each man.

“Well, we should let these youngsters get to know one another,” Silver said as he clapped his son on the back. “You don’t need a bunch of old dogs like us getting in your way.”

“Indeed, I need to speak with a few people I haven’t seen in a while before the meeting starts,” Siegrain told them while looking around the room.

“Lucy, show these young men to the refreshment table,” Jude told his daughter.

“Yes, Sir,” Lucy replied, as he turned back to the other leaders. “This way please,” she said and the two heirs followed after her.

It was obvious to her that their fathers were hoping that the youths would hit it off in more ways than one. As future clan leaders, they would be working together to insure the peace of the canine Shifters in their clans. Having leaders from different clans marry only helped solidify bonds and expand territories. It wasn’t unheard of for marriage to be arranged just for that purpose.

When they reached the drink table Lucy offered to pour them a drink. “Thank you, Lucy, but I think we can manage,” Jellal told her.

“Yeah, those old farts aren’t here breathing down our necks right now, so you don’t have to be so formal with us,” Gray said as he reached for a glass.

Lucy smiled, glad that the boys seemed to realize what their fathers were up to and felt the same as she did about it. She looked at her new companions, relieved that her dad at least had her interests in mind enough to not stick her with the runts of the litter.

Gray was a head taller than herself with a medium build. His hair was dark and Lucy suspected that in the sunlight it might even have a blue tint to it. His dark blue eyes shown with intelligence that betrayed his uninterested attitude and she could tell he was sizing her up just as she was him. Over all he was stunningly handsome and Lucy could see girls falling at his feet, if he would only smile. She would bet that his canine form would be some kind of blue merle but it was impolite to ask.

Jellal was taller but maybe more slight in his build. His dark blue hair contrasted well with his dark green eyes. He had a kind smile and was very polite. Lucy would bet that he was one that if you backed him into a corner, you would have your hands full. He was very handsome as well but easier to approach than expected being a German Shephard, his canine form was probably less friendly looking and more intimidating.

Lucy sat and talked to her guests as they waited for the meeting to start. As it turned out they both had a good sense of humor and were pretty smart too. Their clans both bordered the Retriever territory so they didn’t have far to travel. Gray was 21 years old, just a year older than Lucy herself, and Jellal was 23.

Jude walked into the dining hall announcing that the meeting would be starting and all should take their seats. All of the leaders, and their heirs that were old enough, filed into the conference room. Lucy took her seat next to her father and was pleased to find both Jellal and Gray not far to her right.

Jude cleared his throat starting the meeting. The leaders took turns informing the others of how things were going in their territory. After all the leaders had their say, Lucy’s dad stood up and addressed the room. “Now, it is time to discuss the biggest problem our clans are facing. Yes, I’m talking about the Lycans.”

%%%%%

Natsu slowed as they neared the edge of town. It was late, but many of the businesses were still open. It was risky but the pack needed medicine, and Magnolia was the closest town that had it. Magnolia was on the edge of their territory but the majority of it was within the Shifter territory and they weren’t what you would call Lycan friendly.

Checking to see if the coast was clear, he nodded to the female Lycan a few feet to his left. Seeing his signal they both started to phase. Natsu felt his skin tingle and his bones twist and reform as he took his human form, and stepped out of the trees. He turned again and nodded to his companion as they set off in different directions. Divide and conquer was their plan, to get in and get out as fast as they could before a patrol could pick up on their scent.

The feud between the Shifters and Lycans had been going on for centuries. Arguments over borders and territory were most of the problem, that and the fact that the two races seemed to hate one another. Shifters were originally humans that gained the power to change into animals and Lycans were wolves that transformed into humans. Lycans tended to rely more on instinct and their behavior was more like the wolves they phased into. Unfortunately, the real cause of the feud was lost in history.

Natsu walked into the corner store, finding the items on his list as quick as he could. They only had a half an hour before the regular patrols made their rounds. He paid for his purchases and stowed them in his bag.  

Heading into shifter territory was even worse for Natsu because he was a half breed, half Lycan and half Shifter, an outcast in both worlds. Shifters had killed both of his parents and almost killed him and his sister. Only sheer luck had spared them. However, one of the Alpha leaders of the Lycans found them and decided to adopt them into the pack. Most Lycans still look down on them but as long as they could contribute to the pack they were allowed to stay. That’s why he found himself on a mission into Shifter territory. Not that he minded it too much. It was exciting and he was always up for a challenge.

As he headed to the meeting spot he checked his watch, it was five minutes till next patrol. The one on this mission with him was in fact his sister and she was always early. Natsu couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Quietly, he melted into the shadows and headed to the store where his sister went to pick up the medicine.

As the store came in sight, the scent hit him. Shifters, three of them, and it smelled like they were in the very store his sister had to get the medicine from. Creeping up to the window, he peeked in. Sure enough, there were three Retrievers in the store and from the look of it they were off duty. Natsu could see his sister at the back of the store looking over the shelves. Shifters didn’t have a sharp sense of smell like the Lycans did. Natsu figured that that coupled with the smells in the shop and his sister’s mixed blood was what kept them from noticing her.

The three retrievers stood at the checkout desk, talking to the clerk. This kept his sister from being able to pay for the medicine and leave. After another five minutes, the three left. He watched her make her way over to check out. Unfortunately, one of the shifters came back, having left his wallet lying on the counter. As soon as he stepped through the door, he froze. At that distance, there was no way he would miss the scent of a Lycan.

His sister grabbed the medicine and threw the money down on the counter before bolting past the Shifter. Once outside, Natsu called out to her. “Fuyumi! Over here!” Seeing him, she quickly took off in his direction sprinting for the meeting place at the edge of the trees. As they turned around the next block, they ran straight into the patrol they had been trying to avoid.

“Shit, this way,” Fuyumi said to Natsu as they turned away from the Shifters. Even though it was late, the streets were still busy, and they couldn’t phase into their wolf forms without causing a panic. Not to mention they would have to ditch the supplies they just worked so hard to procure. Even with the extra weight the two half breeds were fast and kept ahead of the Shifters.

To the humans, it looked like the cops were chasing two young robbers. So naturally some of the bystanders tried to slow the pair down. The siblings dodged and jumped over people and obstacles trying to get to the forest but finding it just out of reach. They ran out of the shopping district and into the residential areas with the shifters still hot on their heels.

%%%%%

“These Lycans are a menace!” one of the leaders shouted. “We should just end them once and for all!”

“Their land would be a big increase for our own territory,” another added to the discussion.

“Now, all of you please listen,” Siegrain interjected. “War with the Lycans would be catastrophic to our numbers. I don’t believe it is worth the risk of losing more Shifters.”

Arguments broke out among the table both for and against war with the Lycans. Lucy sat quietly at her father’s side wondering why they have to be at war at all. If there was only someway they could live in peace with the Lycans that would be beneficial to all. She then noticed Virgo slipping into the room and hurrying to her father’s side. The maid whispered something about Lycans and Jude stood up. “Well here is our chance to do something now! Two Lycans have been spotted in town and are headed into the residential districts. Everyone is to fan out and search for the two intruders!” After that all the leaders started to organize, dividing up the blocks between the Shifters present.

Jude turned to his daughter. “Lucy, I want you to stay here in the house and don’t come out,” he ordered.

“Why, I want to help search too?” Lucy argued back.

“No, I won’t have you putting yourself in danger out there. You will stay in this house and not come out until the issue is resolved,” Jude ended the argument.

Lucy huffed as Jude and the other leaders walked out of the room. Gray stopped and put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lucy. Jellal and I are headed out to help with the search.”

“We have plenty of shifters. We will catch them,” Jellal nodded in agreement.

Lucy followed the boys outside to see them off. She then headed up to her room to change out of the stuffy dress her dad made her wear for the meeting. Not pleased at all about having to stay home.

%%%%%

Natsu ducked behind a hedge when he smelled another patrol of shifters headed his way. He and Fuyumi had gotten separated from each other a few blocks back and now he was completely lost. He took off running through yards and leaping over fences hoping to throw off his pursuers. He couldn’t help but notice that the houses were getting bigger and the yards more extravagant as he ran. Turning a corner, he was assaulted with the smell of many shifters headed down both sides of the street towards him.

Standing in front of a tall privacy fence, he did the only thing he could think of and jumped it. He wasn’t prepared for the rose bushes on the other side and yelped as the thorns tore at his skin on the way down. Holding his breath, he listened to see if he had attracted any unwanted attention. He could hear the Shifters coming down the street towards his hiding place until a shout drew the shifters away from him.

Natsu let out a sigh of relief and looked around him. The yard was huge and the house that it belonged to looked like someone important lived there. It also reeked of shifters. “Great,” he mumbled. “I had to go jump into a shifters yard.” As he continued to look around, he could see the forest on the other side of the back fence. “I have to find Fuyumi,” he said out loud. He definitely couldn’t risk going out to find her while carrying around his heavy bag. Looking around the yard once more he noticed a small garden shed along the back fence with its door already open. He decided to hide his bag in there so he could go find his sister.

He opened the door and stowed his bag in a corner where no one would notice it. With that done he decided to phase. He dropped to all fours, as his hands and feet turned into paws. Fur blossomed over his skin and his bones stretched as he took his wolf form. Shaking himself, he padded out of the shed.

When he emerged from the small building he breathed deep, scenting for anyone near. The smell of honey and vanilla came to him and he couldn’t help but breath even deeper. It was a comforting smell and he felt himself relax despite his situation. Until, he heard someone gasp.

Ch 1| Ch 2| Ch 3 | Ch 4| Ch 5|

[aconitemare]

Asylum: The Fixations of Ivan Braginski

Read on AO3 // Read on FFN

<<Previous Chapter 

Summary: “You were close to Alfred prior to the incident, weren’t you, Ivan?” his doctor asks. Ivan’s eyes slide lazily over to her if only to avoid rudeness. He tries to avoid rudeness with Héderváry. Out of everyone here, she probably wields the most power over him.

He suspects she is catching onto him, although that’s hardly relevant when he’s already sealed the deal: he is insane. This is where he belongs.

Ivan doesn’t like these circumstances, but Ivan hasn’t liked many of his circumstances in life. He’s learned to live nonetheless, if not thrive during some high points.

A/N: Cowritten with @writingandchocolatemilk

The sun is spilling over into the white-walled, white-floored, white-ceiling common room. Dr. Elizabeta Héderváry has pulled up two chairs for them in a secluded spot right by the glass wall overlooking the hospital gardens. His gaze is downcast; the light, while refreshing, is causing his eyes to ache.            He remembers his father telling him that the sunlight was always worse for those with fair eyes. He remembers asking his mom why that was and her answering, “Because they’re so pretty, the sun wants them for itself.”            Funny, Ivan reflects, how little things from childhood carry over like that. He wonders if it would make sense to his mother, this thing with Alfred. If her explanation would contain the same logic.            “You were close to Alfred prior to the incident, weren’t you, Ivan?” his doctor asks. Ivan’s eyes slide lazily over to her if only to avoid rudeness. He tries to avoid rudeness with Héderváry. Out of everyone here, she probably wields the most power over him.

Ivan cannot circumvent her power like he usually tries to with people, particularly the people in the ward. He finds most people easy to pin like butterflies. Upon their initial meeting, Ivan didn’t think of her as a potential exception. She’s an honest woman, or at least seems to be, and there’s an accidental bluntness to the way she speaks sometimes like she forgets she’s a therapist and not a peer. Yet every time Ivan thinks he might get somewhere with her, the professional boundary slams down between them like a firewall.

He suspects she is catching onto him, although that’s hardly relevant when he’s already sealed the deal: he is insane. This is where he belongs.            Ivan doesn’t like these circumstances, but Ivan hasn’t liked many of his circumstances in life. He’s learned to live nonetheless, if not thrive during some high points.

Ivan’s eyes catch on Ludwig, the guard in his pocket. One of many employees in his pocket. He is talking to Feliciano, the schizophrenic who’s always on the verge of tears, while Feliciano plays a one-man game of jenga on a plastic table in a fold-out chair. Ivan wants to tut at Ludwig for being so transparent, but he knows why he’s being bold as of late. Alfred has thrown the ward into a tizzy over his stunt and it may be awhile before anyone regains the energy to scrutinize interactions that don’t outright involve boxcutters.

“Ivan?” Dr. Héderváry prods. “Are you with me still?” It’s the subtle, unprofessional impatience that leaks into her tone that goads Ivan into cracking a smile.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” he assures, returning to their conversation. He considers outing Ludwig right now, but he tamps the anger down instead. Ludwig is not wholly useless yet. However much it feels that way with an empty, quiet bedroom.

Ivan tilts his head and feigns having to think about Dr. Héderváry’s question. “Yes, you could say we were close. I was closer to him than I was to, say, Lukas. Or yourself,” Ivan throws in for the sake of distancing himself from her in a conversation with such a slippery edge. Revealing his cards now may remove all possibility in the future of reuniting with Alfred. “But whether I was closer to Alfred than Feliciano was, well, that I cannot vouch for. Sharing a room with someone for six months doesn’t make for acquaintances, but neither does it make for best friends.” Here, Ivan smiles politely with the faintest hint of amusement, like the whole situation is silly to make sense of.

He watches Dr. Héderváry’s face. She does not have a poker face so he takes advantage of this by always tracking her expressions when he plays along. She’s visibly mulling over Ivan’s half-confession. Her lips quirk to the side; shrugging with her mouth. “I guess you’re right,” she decides.

Ivan feels some relief at successfully navigating his first session post-incident. Mostly, though, he wants to play jenga with Alfred.

Alfred talks an excruciating amount. Ivan does not welcome it at first. Natalya had sent him a box of his books from home, and although he’s read them all before, anything worth finishing the first time is worth starting again. Ivan is used to time with his thoughts and his books; he hasn’t had a roommate since his first partner requested to be away from him; a request that certainly would not have been granted had Feliciano not mentioned being uncomfortable in the dark alone.

Ivan learned quickly how things worked around here. He didn’t confront Ludwig right away because Ivan didn’t know what he wanted yet that wasn’t already provided, either through his eldest sister Katyusha who worked in security or his youngest Natalya who, since childhood, had a way of getting what she wanted that Ivan genuinely envied. Doors didn’t part for Ivan the way they did naturally to pretty, soft-spoken girls like his sisters. This is fine with him; he trusts them both to always work in his interest.

Nonetheless, there isn’t much else available in a psych ward beyond extra perks in the commissary and a camera that never notices when Ivan takes out items he probably shouldn’t have.

Until Alfred, that is, who is a migraine and a half to share space with. He bounces his knees and taps his feet constantly. He manages to pace the tiny floor of their room every day, which would be impressive if it wasn’t aggravating. It was like living with a puppy that didn’t want to be housebroken. This early on, Ivan has not yet learned how to handle Alfred.

It gets easier when he stops tuning him out. Alfred is not always coherent, but he is entertaining and his company becomes a reprieve from his one-sided relationship with books. Alfred regales him with daring accounts of his firefighting adventures, which soon become touching recounts of the lives he’s healed as a doctor, and occasionally James Bond-esque missions will decorate his memories from spyhood, which are top secret and only revealed to Ivan because the same agency must have deployed them here. Ivan appreciates the spy fantasies the most for their applicability to daily life in the hospital. The General would be Ivan’s favorite character, whose schemes compose much of Alfred’s struggles and quests.

It’s during his doctor phase that Ivan asks for a diagnosis from “Dr. Jones.”

Alfred sits in a chair in the common room, wholly transfixed on the text before him referencing medications and the DSM-5 in every sentence. It’s one of the books Ivan studied for his graduate degree. It’s not a light read by any means, nor an enjoyable one. “If you would allow me to pick your brain,” Ivan asks cordially, standing beside him.

Alfred does not look up from Ivan’s textbook. “Well, you’re a clearly a neurotic,” he says to Ivan’s surprise. “What with your lack of trust and your conspiracy theories.” Ivan has never seen such a direct example of projection. He feels a little pang of excitement, not like how one might feel on a rollercoaster, but — similar, he supposes, to when starting a long trip to a place he’s never been before. “Not to mention your general shiftiness,” adds Alfred.

Ivan quirks an eyebrow. “I’m shifty?”

Alfred looks up at him from the open book. His eyes are round with honesty and a bright blue more genuine than the sky. “Yeah, you didn’t want a roommate, right?” he points out. Ivan wouldn’t call that the case, but he knows by now Alfred is set to believe Ivan was the one with the problem their first night at 3am. “Distrustful of someone new,” Alfred explains, reasoning packed up nice and neat.

Ivan can’t fault him on that last part. Ivan has trusted people’s known longer less. But he thinks he enjoys Alfred nonetheless and, despite himself, finds him to be objectively trustworthy. Alfred can hardly remember anything that doesn’t have his name in it, let alone something he could use against Ivan. “Actually, I’m very pleased with the turn of events that led to my new roommate,” he confesses. Alfred is a novel experience and a reason to look forward to the otherwise redundancy of the hospital. “Thank you, Alfred, this has been enlightening.”

Alfred may have also added something that wasn’t present even in Ivan’s life before the court order. What it is, Ivan isn’t sure, but he thinks he’s getting warmer when he squeezes Alfred’s elbow on his way past.

Alfred is tucked into the arm of the floor’s only loveseat. He’s only reading a comic book, but Ivan has noticed him linger on pages longer than necessary and even flip back a few times. His focus is somewhere else, which is strange, because even before the medications kicked in Alfred was easily engrossed by his reading.

Ivan walks over to him. “May I sit?” he asks.

Alfred’s eyes flicker up briefly before returning to the page. “Free country.”

“For some,” Ivan agrees and takes a seat. The cushions are just a bit small for him, and the way Alfred is sitting with his feet up on the couch makes some touching inevitable. Ivan ignores how Alfred wiggles his toes inside his socks and how the tiny movements brush against Ivan’s thighs. He tries to ignore them anyways. He is not doing too well. “Your brother visits you often,” he comments. It’s not an accurate statement; Ivan actually receives far more visits than Alfred and Feliciano has a visitor every day. Mattie’s visits are irregular and spaced out over the course of weeks. Ivan is looking for a place to start, that’s all.

Alfred scoffs and turns a page too roughly. The thin paper tears in the middle. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stop,” he says stormily. Ivan is mildly surprised; he’s fairly sure Mattie is his only visitor.

“You would be alone without him,” informs Ivan. “Only Mattie ever comes, yes?”

Alfred bristles. “What of it?”

“Family is important, Alfred, you don’t want to risk isolating yourself. Mattie is your only connection to your family.”

“How do you know that?” Alfred eyes him suspiciously. Ivan is just pleased he is gaining Alfred’s full attention.

“Well,” says Ivan, spreading out his palms, “they’re not here, are they?”

Alfred glares at him before looking sulkily at the pages. “Shut up,” he says.

Ivan purses his lips so he doesn’t smile. It is hard not to smile around Alfred. “Where is your father, Alfred?” he pushes.

“Fathers,” Alfred says.

“Hm?”

“I have two. Dad and Pop,” Alfred elaborates. Ivan realizes he was being corrected. Before he can prod, Alfred continues, “Neither of them are my biggest fans.” The admission is an unhappy one that easily betrays the nonchalance he is trying to affect.

“I find that hard to believe,” Ivan lies.

Alfred snorts. “Believe it. Papa never trusted me and Dad is convinced I’m full of it and only here for, I don’t know, shits and giggles probably.”

Ivan leans his head back and considers Alfred. It looks like he’s trying to build a wall around himself. His shoulders are hunching and, to Ivan’s dismay, his feet have pulled in enough to allow space between their bodies. Ivan plucks a brick from the wall. “Do you want them to visit you?”

Alfred lets his issue fall to his lap. He rests his elbow on the arm of the couch and props his head up. He’s facing Ivan, but his eyes are closed. “Don’t know,” he finally says. “It’s been a long time since Dad’s been happy to see me. Seeing me here would make that worse.”

It’s the most sober Ivan has ever seen him. He wishes Alfred would open his eyes for it.

“And Papa?” Ivan says, ever so softly so as not to scare him off.

Alfred does his open his eyes for this. “We gave up on each other a while ago.” Alfred smiles, his feet pushing out.

Ivan lets Alfred return to pretending to read his comic and enjoys the nervous toes pressing into his thigh.

 Alfred is like one of Ivan’s old students. He’s young and mercurial, prone to passion that carries him halfway and then drops off before the finish line. There are glimpses of intelligence that are sparked by special interests, but anything short of exciting is not merely dismissed but rejected with a degree of indignation. Ivan finds himself slipping into lectures around him. At least, he suspects they are lectures because he tends to drone on with little response from his audience. Nonetheless, it is a habit Ivan is not particularly motivated to kick as it fills the silence and lends him an opportunity to explore his thoughts aloud.

           Ivan offers reading suggestions but Alfred shakes his head and says they’re too wordy. “Does every book you own try to use the biggest words possible?” he gripes.

Ivan knows it’s just an excuse of many, but he takes the bait anyway. “Precision in language is an advantage you shouldn’t take lightly. There are languages with far fewer means of expression as well languages with far more. One says ‘extraordinary’ rather than simply ‘great’ because ‘extraordinary’ better captures the breadth of its significance. How else would you say that something is so great that is beyond the ordinary?” Ivan poses.

           Alfred tosses Ivan’s copy of A Man Called Ove back in the box and shoves it under Ivan’s bed. “Just like that, I guess,” he mutters. “Nothing wrong with using full sentences.”

           “Ah, but even those sentences are restricted when we try to eschew words uncommon in colloquial speech. After all, how frequently do humans actually say what they feel in explicit detail?” asks Ivan. “We contain depths that are unknown to even ourselves until we put words to them. Did you know it is philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein who said, ‘The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.’ We conceptualize reality around the vocabulary available to us, and the vocabulary available to us is shaped by the perceptions shared by our unique society.”

           Ivan nearly jumps when Alfred settles his head onto his knee. Ivan pushes himself to continue talking without fully understanding what he’s saying. He doubts Alfred is listening anyway, which is a small comfort. Ivan doesn’t understand how they got into this position; Ivan sitting on his bed with Alfred nearly between his legs, cheek on his knee. Nothing leading up to this point had stood out to him. It was just Ivan and Alfred as they always are, talking at each other more than to each other, each seeking an escape in books that never changed and always let go eventually.

           Ivan looks at Alfred, this ever-changing man who varies by the hour and excites as much as allays him, and thinks he does not want to let go. Carefully, Ivan removes the crooked glasses from Alfred’s nose so they won’t get bent. Still talking, he folds the glasses and sets them to the side. As he waxes on about the expressive nature of language, about its ability to give life to latent thoughts, Ivan thinks that he may not have to let go.

           It was only a matter of time before Ludwig became useful. Ivan definitely did not expect this to be the favor he calls in, but it’s a worthy one all the same. The lights have been out for an hour and Ludwig still has two hours left to his shift. Ivan can be satisfied with three hours total. It is more than he would have with any other guard.

           On the bed opposite him, Alfred is for once blissfully asleep. It is the ideal night to do this. Ivan waits until he hears familiar footsteps nearing his room, then slips out the cover and pads softly into the hall. The lights are dimmed but still on and Ivan meets Ludwig halfway so he doesn’t wake Alfred. “Get in your room, Braginski,” Ludwig immediately orders. Ivan holds his ground and smiles.

          “Security is sparse at night, isn’t it?” he remarks, keeping his hands in front of him so as not to spook the man. It’s not just sparse on the floor, either; Ivan has a sister who works the cameras three in the morning. Most days, she’ll be the only one checking aside from Ludwig.

           Ludwig visibly appraises Ivan, narrowed eyes roaming from his feet to his scalp. He doesn’t reach for his taser, which is a good sign, although his pace has slowed significantly. Ivan hardly had a calming presence as a tenure-track professor with a fiancé and a good home, but it is entertaining to see how much people recoil from him now.

           “Get in your room,” Ludwig repeats.

“Just you in this hall,” Ivan continues.

Ludwig’s hand moves to his utility belt. The warning is not lost on Ivan. “I’m enough,” Ludwig assure. “Now get in your room and lie down.”            Ludwig is losing patience as Ivan’s aberrant behavior gets to him. Best to move things along. “You are enough for Vargas for sure. But sir, who is to watch the rest of us when you are watching our little Feliciano?”

Ivan fancies that Ludwig’s blanched face pair nicely with the bleach-white of the walls. “Excuse me?” Ludwig says, quiet and rough. Danger lies on his tongue like a serrated edge, but the growl is a tell in itself.

Ivan doubts he has to spell it out for him. There’s no confusion in Ludwig’s eyes. It is refreshing, being on the same page so quickly with someone. Ivan thinks he might have liked Ludwig outside the hospital as just two men hiding poor life decisions. “How about tonight — or tomorrow even, if you would prefer a day to think about your situation — you keep an eye on our friend Feliciano and I keep an eye on my roommate?” Ivan propositions. “Think of it as a buddy system.”

           Ludwig glances quickly between Ivan and his room where Alfred is fast asleep. “You think I’m like you,” he says.

           “I know you are,” Ivan replies.

           “I should’ve transferred you out of here the second I saw the signs,” Ludwig says angrily, stalking towards Ivan. “Relationships between patients are strictly prohibited — ”

           “Oh, indeed!” Ivan concurs. “Unfortunately, so are relationships between patients and staff. In fact, any case you could launch against me would soon be pushed to the side when I revealed just why you were so motivated to transfer one of us.”

           Ludwig freezes. He looks uneasily at Ivan’s room. “He knows too?”

           Ivan nods with a sympathetic smile. It’s a lie, of course; Alfred would play Ivan’s cards the second he opened his mouth. But Ludwig needs to fear both of them for this to work.

          Ludwig’s jaw clenches and he shakes his head, slow and pained. “We’re not like you two, just remember that. Feli isn’t like you. He’s fallen on a rough patch but he’s got family and a good head on his shoulders.”

           Ivan lets his amusement play on the cold upturn of his lips. “Oh, he’s special, is he?” he mocks.

           “He is,” Ludwig answers without hesitation. “He’s getting better and one day, he’s going to get out of here and we’re going to be together. The correct way. Whatever sick thing you’ve got going on with that headcase in there, it’s doomed. You can’t afford a lawyer good enough to reopen your case and Jones? He’s only going to get worse in here.”

           Ivan is grinning now with all his teeth. He locks his fists behind his back so Ludwig can’t see him clenching them. “Maybe one day,” he admits, thinking of Feliciano with a clean bill of health in the arms of a man no better than Ivan. “But that day does depend on how well we get along tonight, doesn’t it?”

“Why are you here, Ivan?”

He’s not prepared for the question. He thinks of how to answer without answering. He thinks of the evidence laid out before him, how pleading not guilty just wasn’t an option. He thinks of Katyusha and how relief overtook her in shaking shoulders and muffled sobs. He replays the faces of Tommy’s parents, how they contorted in disgust and grief when they knew Ivan would be okay. He remembers Tommy.

“Because I was ordered to be here,” says Ivan. Before Alfred can inquire further, he asks, “And why are you here, Alfred?”

Alfred is silent long enough that Ivan believes he’s dropped the conversation. Then a voice arrives from the silence, not small but still scared. “I’m not like Feli,” Alfred insists.

Ivan smiles fondly at Alfred even though he can’t even see it through the thick darkness. Ivan finds himself smiling for just himself more than he ever has before. “No,” he agrees. No, you are most certainly not like Feliciano. Which begs the question, doesn’t it?”

“I think Matthew put me here,” he speculates, but it’s no more an answer than Ivan’s. Alfred must not be in the mood to answer the million dollar question either. Instead he asks Ivan, “Do you think that medication works?”

Ivan searches his memory for what Alfred called it. He does his best to stay in Alfred’s world with him. “Flutix?” he recalls.

“No, the shit they give me,” Alfred snaps. “The same bullshit they give Feli. Do you think it works? Do you think it’s working? Do you — ”

Ivan interrupts before Alfred can work himself into a panic. “I certainly think it does something.” He doesn’t know if this is what Alfred wants to hear or doesn’t, but it is the truth. He’s more focused of late, sometimes for the better and sometimes, like now, for the worst. Alfred is in danger of thinking himself into a rabbit hole. No wonder his mind runs rampant with delusions, Ivan muses. All those thoughts had to go somewhere.

Alfred falls back onto his bed, head hitting the pillow with a heavy thump. He’s pressing his hands into his eyes, rubbing violently, and Ivan is up before he can think his next action through. Ivan gently, gently holds Alfred’s wrist and sets it on the pillow. Alfred jerks his eyes open when he does, but they slip shut in within seconds. Ivan squeezes Alfred’s wrist again, feels the pulse beating beneath his skin before quitting his side. He settles back onto his bed and counts Alfred’s breaths until Ivan falls asleep.

           “My kid knew you.”

           Ivan looks up from his tray to the cafeteria worker. Her auburn hair is tied into a neat bun but otherwise there’s no net. She has more crow’s feet than lines on her forehead, so she’s probably lived a relatively happy life. Ivan says nothing; waits for her to give him back his tray with his order. She doesn’t do that, just keeps looking at him with the order slip in her hand.

           “He says you were a good professor,” she adds. Ivan doesn’t know where she’s taking this but he finds himself slightly grateful that, if he had to find the one person in the hospital directly related to his past, it probably wasn’t the parent of one the students he failed. “I don’t watch the news too much,” she continues, “it’s chock full of sad things and I don’t have the energy for that. I asked Steve not to tell me or it will keep me up at night. Would it?”

           Ivan almost tells her yes. Instead, he says, “I don’t know how appropriate this conversation is.” He glances behind his shoulder at where Alfred is sitting. He always sits with Feliciano. Ivan still hasn’t received a proper invite to sit at his lunch table so he just sits at the table in front of his where he can watch his expressions and movements from a distance.

           The cafeteria worker shrugs and begins assembling his tray. “Not much appropriate left in the world, I’m afraid,” she observes. She fixes the Jell-O cup atop the tray as the finishing touch. “And what little there is, isn’t here.”

           Ivan takes the order when she hands it to him. Ivan hums in agreement, taking stock of the food today: chicken parmesan with a white bread slice, an apple, microwaved green beans, and of course, dessert in the form of Jell-O. Ivan can’t remember a time a balanced meal offered less real nutrition. He’s about to take his usual spot when he overhears Alfred’s voice raising. He stands in the middle of the cafeteria, his curiosity stilling him as Alfred waves something in front of Feliciano’s face. He’s standing on his knees at the table like a toddler, looming over the small schizo and his weepy brown eyes.

           “There’s other shit, too, you get more bathroom breaks at night, and I bet you there’s other shit I didn’t notice, either,” Alfred is ranting. Ivan is actually bordering on appreciative how Alfred’s body, still broad despite the lack of exercise softening his muscles, imposes itself over the frailer creature.

           Feliciano has to look up at Alfred as he tries to defend himself in a shaking voice on the verge of tears. Oh, Feliciano, Ivan thinks piteously, life is ever so trying for you. He has to wonder why no one on the clock has to jumped in with soothing words yet. He glances around but only one of the three nurses usually on the floor is in the room currently, and she’s reading a book at Ivan’s otherwise empty table. “I’m sure if I just tell — ”

           And Ivan steps in before Feliciano can follow that thought to a process and actually raise suspicion on himself. “Alfred,” Ivan beckons. He notices his fingers are clamped around his tray and consciously instructs his body to relax. Between two nervous wrecks and a guard afraid of his own desires, someone has to maintain a degree of poise. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he says this as neutrally as possible, trusting that if one elevated voice was to carry to the nurse it would be Ivan’s, although makes sure it still comes off as an order and not a request.

           Alfred roughly breaks away from the table and leaves his tray there. Ivan presses a light hand to the small of Alfred’s back, guiding him forward. As he does, he smiles courteously at Feliciano, the poor bastard’s eyes actually welling with tears, and sets his own tray beside Alfred’s abandoned order. The two of them head over to a comparably private corner of the cafeteria, Alfred fuming beside him.

           Before Ivan can open his mouth, Alfred is off like a pop. “Listen, I’m telling you, Feli,” Alfred jabs his thumb angrily in Feliciano’s direction, “is shifty as fuck. I’ve been noticing all kinds of shit but not saying nothing, but that brownie is the final straw. Something is off, okay, I don’t know what but Feli definitely has connections — a key to this place or something; maybe he’s feeding notes through the heating vents to the kitchen — ”

           “Alfred,” Ivan interrupts in a heavy sigh. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could will his mounting frustration away. He’s finally rearranging the hospital into some resemblance of a life and Alfred is going to topple that with his fat mouth. He counts to three in his head before fixing Alfred with a cool stare. “Do you really think Feliciano could pull all that off?”

           Alfred doesn’t respond, just watches as Feliciano opposite the room tries to control his breathing. Ivan is certain Ludwig will hear about this and Ivan is not thrilled for tonight. Ludwig doesn’t have much on him, but deals like theirs are best maintained with little communication and excess tension. And if either Alfred or Feliciano take this brownie garbage up with staff, Ludwig will be out and there go Ivan’s nights.

           Feliciano may still bring up the matter of his party favor with someone trusted, like a nurse or his doctor, but Ivan is confident Ludwig will nip that in the bud. All Ivan has to worry about his own pet psycho looking like he’s ready to snap off Feliciano’s trembling hands. “Right, see,” Ivan murmurs, hoping to bring Alfred back to him with composure, “it doesn’t make sense for Feliciano to be the one orchestrating any grand brownie heist, does it?”

           Alfred’s brows fold and Ivan can tell he’s hard at work, disentangling his suspicions and trying to make sense of his constructed world again. It was amazing how Alfred just built cities of incredibly history and infrastructure within seconds. Ivan wonders if he’ll ever be able to tear them as down quickly; or if he’d rather live inside them with Alfred.

           “No,” Alfred slowly concedes. “He’s still caught up in something, though,” he insists, and there it is, the cogs turning in his blue-sky eyes; another city being built. “Something he has no idea about that’s right over his head, a mile high.” Alfred’s finger taps his bottom lip thoughtfully and Ivan has to resist the urge to pull it down, replace Alfred’s fingers with his own.

“It’s just a matter of who,” mutters Alfred. “Of course, the obvious answer is whoever’s keeping Feli here and, by extension, the people keeping me here — but why?” Alfred’s eyes snap up to Ivan’s, earnest if not one-sided. He’s not so much asking Ivan as asking Alfred’s reflection. “And what does the brownie have to do with it?”

Ivan rests his head against the wall and decides to wait this out. “Well, it’s obviously a reward,” Alfred says so quickly the sentence may as well be one long word. “Even if poor-stupid-Feli has no idea it is,” he says, emphasizing every syllable of his insult. He’s too close to home now and Ivan is itching to seize Alfred’s shoulders and shake him until all those thoughts fall out of his loose head, but he keeps going. “If there’s one thing Feli is, it’s talkative. He never shuts up, you know? He talks about tile colors and — flowers, dumb shit, so he is a spy, he has to be,” and as he talks, his volume is increasing and the people in the cafeteria are beginning to look at them warily.

“Come on, Alfred, you can do better than that,” Ivan coaxes. He smiles reassuringly over Alfred’s shoulder at Feliciano who is looking at them panicked. “I do wonder the coincidence, though,” he mentions and hopes Alfred’s mind sticks on the key word. “Don’t you?” he prods.

Alfred pauses and actually bites his lip, and that’s a new quirk, isn’t it? Ivan almost bites his own lip in a mirror image. Alfred is so beautiful. Ivan can tell he’s getting closer to another revelation when he starts rocking on the balls of his feet. “Okay, okay. It has to do with me, I bet you. I’m the only guy in this place who’s going to notice something like that, the only one who can put this together. It was a message from…” here, Alfred trails off, clearly frustrated as he hits a wall.

All that matters is that Alfred’s train of thought is on a safer path. “Feliciano as a means of communication,” Ivan repeats in order to cement the belief. “Yes, Alfred, I like that,” he approves. And because he can’t help it, not when Alfred’s eyes are so earnest and his face is so excited, he reaches out to pet his soft hair, smoothing back the cowlick that pops right back up from under his thumb. “Good boy,” he compliments.

The hours following the brownie incident are a practice of patience. The afternoon passes pleasantly for Ivan but Alfred is a wreck of chaotic energy, head swiveling to track the source of every sound, feet tapping, skin-picking. He’s like a dog with a bone and it’s Ivan can do to avoid being bitten when he tries to put it away — “Just for tonight,” he assures. “You don’t want to alert the others that you’re onto the game.”

Alfred nods, albeit with the slightest petulance to the pout of his lip. He sees the value of waiting till there’s fewer eyes even if he doesn’t want to. And so Ivan enjoys his book during reading time, occasionally placing a hand for brief moments on Alfred’s knee whenever it begins to shake too hard, and he even encourages him to play Monopoly with a few others during game time while he meets with Dr. Héderváry. She asks him leading questions while he insists on playing Solitaire. All is well.

The calm even lasts well into Ludwig’s shift starting at 4pm. Predictably, Ludwig hovers over Feliciano more than strictly necessary and only pries himself away when the nurses seem to be paying attention. Ivan is tempted to roll his eyes but doesn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to Ludwig and Feliciano than Alfred already has.

Look at Ivan worrying about eyes on him. Clearly Alfred is rubbing off on him.

Equally predictably, it’s the second Ivan is alone that Ludwig pounces. He sees Ludwig waiting by the door on his way out the bathroom and this time Ivan does roll his eyes. He stops short so there is an appropriate amount of distance between them, folds his hands in front of him, and says, “I take it little Feliciano told you of his day?”

This, apparently, is all Ludwig needs to jump in. “You keep Jones away from him, do you hear me? Your boy is bad news for him and I will not have him risk Feliciano’s progress.” His voice is hushed but not soft. Ivan appraises his body language, how Ludwig is practically leaning forward while glued in place. He’s impressed; he thinks Ludwig may have actually had the nerve to accost him had they been but two men on the street.

           Ivan sighs lightly for show. “I’m afraid you are not in a position to be giving the demands, Ludwig,” he mourns. “But if you have problems with my boy,” Ivan quotes, and though he means it ironically, he ends up liking the taste of it on his tongue, “by all means, take it up with him.”

           Figuring the conversation finished, Ivan walks forward. He thinks he’ll join the knitting circle today for its last half hour, but he is stopped by Ludwig’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced down at the limb like a flea. “Is that such a good idea?” Ivan murmurs, his eyes tracing the tendon in Ludwig’s fist to his arm up to his enraged face.

           Ludwig doesn’t even bother checking behind his shoulder for onlookers. He gets right into Ivan’s space. Ivan immediately dislikes the invasion, is reviled by it, but stands his ground nonetheless. He gazes to one of the cameras meaningfully and hopes that sends Ludwig a message. The attempt is a failed one; Ludwig’s glare is so focused Ivan realizes quickly there’s no use in avoiding his next words:

           “I mean it, Braginski. If so much as a hair on his head is touched, if Alfred does absolutely anything to compromise Feliciano’s progress — I don’t give a damn what happens to me when they find out. I will come for you, and maybe you’ll be safe but you’ll have no one to cover for your sick ass when I’m gone.”

          Ivan stays stock still and simply stares Ludwig down for a while. To his surprise, there is not a hint of a bluff. And if Ivan is being honest with himself, Ludwig doesn’t seem the sort to lie about his pet. Eventually Ivan lets out a puff of air in a breathy chuckle. “Oh my,” he exclaims, “I do believe you’re serious, aren’t you? How touching,” he compliments, removing Ludwig’s hand from his shoulder with only a faint expression of disgust. Ludwig lets his hand drop to his side, still balled in an angry fist. “Alright, then, comrade,” Ivan agrees and winks.

He leans down close so his eyes are level with Ludwig’s. His voice is barely a whisper: “I’ll see what I can do about our boys, hm?”

           This time, Ludwig lets him leave. Ivan’s a tad irritated, he’ll admit, but he’s confident Alfred will do just fine with less one friend.

           Alfred paces their bedroom like a caged tiger. Back and forth, back and forth he goes in the sliver of space separating their beds. Natalya has sent Ivan a new book that was on his reading list, so he keeps his gaze on the pages and tries not to let Alfred’s nervous energy distract him. He is having little success.

           “I just can’t think,” Alfred says and digs his fingers into his scalp. “But I need to think, they want me to think, that’s why they’ve been doing all this, I just need to focus —because there is something up with that brownie —”            Ivan slams his book down on his lap. “For the love of God, Alfred, stop with the brownie,” he begs. He thought Alfred had moved past that, but apparently not. It’s getting difficult to decipher what goes on in Alfred’s head these days. The meds don’t stop his wheels from spinning; they just make the engine quieter. That much became clear during yesterday’s lunch with Feliciano.

           “I have a plan,” says Alfred, halting mid-step and looking Ivan dead in the eye.

           “A plan,” Ivan repeats, unimpressed. If it involves Feliciano whatsoever, Ivan doesn’t know how he’ll get Alfred to back off. He once again can’t help but envision Alfred a dog, this time chewing on a Feliciano-shaped squeaky toy.

           Alfred darts forward and leans over Ivan’s bed, tail practically wagging. “I have big tonsils,” he says like this right here is the key to the world.

           Ivan lifts his eyebrows and waits for Alfred’s usual elaboration. None is provided, but he doubts Alfred’s oral anatomy is going to directly involve his chew toy, so Ivan isn’t alarmed. He picks up his book and sifts through the paragraphs to find the sentence he left off on.

           Alfred squeezes the mattress impatiently. “Seriously, they’re big, Ivan. I used to look at them in the mirror when I was a kid and one time I made Matthew open his mouth and his were way, way smaller.”

Ivan has a brief moment wherein he tries to imagine what Alfred must have looked like as a young boy and not this broad-shoulder, muscular man before him whose world so easily bends to its knees. He can’t, which is a pity. “I hardly see what this has to do with the brownie,” Ivan says, “or more importantly, what this has to do with your special message.”

He wonders if Alfred has any pictures of himself as a kid online that Natalya or Katyusha could find him.

 The next morning comes and the nurses make their med rounds. Ivan takes his first, shifting his tongue this way and that and saying ‘ahh’ until the nurse is satisfied. They’re mood stabilizers and while they may have an effect on them, Ivan hasn’t noticed anything beyond general drowsiness — and even that could just be a symptom of the hospital itself and not the stabilizers. Alfred is summoned into the hall after him. ‘Miss Michelle,’ as she insists the patients call her, inquires into Alfred’s sleep last night as she hands him the pills in a cup. Alfred says he slept fine, thank you for asking, then he goes ‘ahh’ and is permitted to return to his bed.

Miss Michelle is already at the next room when Alfred walks back in and begins hacking into his hand. He holds out his palm and there, sticky and crumbling, are two little pills. Alfred is grinning proudly. “Tonsils,” he explains.

Ivan makes a mental note to guide Alfred towards a hand sanitizer dispenser later. “That was disgusting. But clever,” he acknowledges. He’s impressed by Alfred’s strange ingenuity. Alfred is at constant war with reality. For Ivan, a war like that would feel unwinnable. Around Alfred, though, the walls that build their world seem flimsy. They collapse, fall to the wayside, because what are walls to a man who can climb them?

Alfred puts Ivan’s efforts to shame.

Alfred brags about his cleverness while flicking the chalky remains into the heating vent. He strides over to Ivan, folding his arms over his chest and looking like a fallen king soon to reclaim his title. “Now I can think again,” he says, lifting his chin.

Ivan looks back at Alfred and admires the confidence in his brow, the strong jawline, the sheer way he holds himself as if he knows better and it’s the rest of the world that’s trapped. “And what a delight that will be,” murmurs Ivan.

“Wanna’ see ‘em?” Alfred asks. Ivan hums inquisitively. “My tonsils,” Alfred clarifies and opens his mouth wide.

Ivan places a finger under Alfred’s chin and gently elevates it. “They’re pretty big,” he agrees. He waits until Alfred is done demonstrating and then Ivan drags Alfred’s lips to his. Ivan means to keep it brief, but when he pulls away, Alfred follows in the same fluid motion. Ivan sucks on his bottom lip, reveling in how easy it is to take. He thinks of Alfred biting his lip that day in the cafeteria and nips at him, drags his bottom lip with his teeth. He’s about to go in for another kiss when he hears footsteps. Ivan’s hands come down on Alfred’s shoulders like cinder blocks and he thrusts Alfred off of him.

Nurse Erika, a petite blonde who wears ribbons in her hair like Natalya, pops her head in. “Are you two ready for breakfast?” she asks.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” answers Alfred. Ivan lets him lead the conversation as they follow Nurse Erika down the hall. Alfred’s abrasive voice strips away the moment they shared, giving none of them, least of all sweet Erika with ribbons in her hair, time to speculate where they were going and where they could’ve gone.

           It’s quiet time. Everyone is allowed to do whatever quiet activity they please except nap. That, Nurse Michell explains when she catches Ivan dozing off, would mess with their circadian rhythm. Although the hour has far more freedom than most of the day, the hospital has infected its patients with routine. Feliciano and Lukas rarely talk to each other, but every day during quiet time they sit side-by-side in the common room, Feliciano finger-painting and Lukas drawing with the bluntest pencil the nurses can find. Ivan used to read in the common room, listening to Alfred try to talk to others and getting shushed by nurses every five minutes. Now Ivan reads in their room and Alfred accompanies him.

Unlike the others, Alfred rarely spends quiet time in the same manner as yesterday. He’s tried reading, he’s tried writing, he’s tried drawing and finger-painting and crosswords puzzles and sudoku and every other imaginable way to shut Alfred up. Today, he sits on his bed and stares eerily at the ceiling, occasionally jotting something down in a notepad with frantic speed. It’s probably not the most comforting sight to whoever is watching the cameras today, but it is safe and quiet.

           Ivan hasn’t been a light sleeper since he came to the hospital. The strict routine and the drowsy meds have brought the one shining benefit of uninterrupted sleep. That’s why Ivan feels the need to investigate when he awakes for no apparent reason. Ludwig is on tonight, giving Ivan relatively free range of at least this hall. Alfred is fast asleep in his own bed, limbs awkwardly splayed and tangled in the sheets. Both his feet are out and one is missing a sock. Ivan has to hand it to Alfred — for all his chaotic energy during the day, he is a sound, albeit rough, sleeper.

           Ivan leans down to plant a kiss on his nose. Alfred’s face scrunches and he rubs his nose with a clumsy, flailing arm before rolling to his side.

           The hallway is deserted. Ivan looks at the ceiling for a flickering light or a leak — nothing. He quietly pads over to the rooms around him and peers into each one, expecting someone awake or at least a snore. Everyone is still. And where, oh where, could Ludwig be?

           What is Feliciano’s room number again? Ivan racks his brain. It’s some doors down, he knows that, because he and Feliciano rarely run into each other in the morning or the night. He also remembers hearing his old roommate say the number to a friend when he was transferred to Feliciano’s cell. Ivan keeps walking, knowing this isn’t a game to play and yet unable to deny his curiosity. Would he find them in the throes of passion right there? Would Feliciano’s roommate be asleep beside them as they made love like a silent movie, movements rushed, jerky, mouths open with no sound?

           Doubtful. There are cameras in every room even if night security is lax. Ivan doesn’t worry too much about his room’s camera, not with Katyusha working 7pm-3am, but he’s not sure Ludwig has the same connections.

           He might. But even then, Ivan can’t picture Ludwig being so bold. He imagines Ludwig sealing his hand over Feliciano’s mouth and driving into him, fast before they run out of time, before their luck runs out and Feliks wakes, and – Ivan almost laughs at the thought. No, as dirty as Ludwig is, it takes a different kind of man to commit a crime of that intimacy; to do it where his lover sleeps. Although Ludwig’s lover may be malleable enough for him to get away with it, Ivan muses.

           He does find Feliks in bed, jaw slack and a trail of drool dribbling down his chin. A long strand of hair sticks to the saliva there. Ivan is not surprised, however, to find Feliciano’s bed empty. Ivan is about to head to the bathrooms when he hears voices from the behind the double doors leading to the staircase. Ah, so this is what woke him.

           The doors open revealing Ludwig with a hand on Feliciano’s back. Feliciano is whispering something to him and Ludwig looks at him fondly. Oh, to be young and in love. Ludwig’s gaze is on Ivan in the next instant and all tenderness abandons his expression as his brows come crashing together and his teeth bared. Ludwig hurries Feliciano towards his room, inserting himself between Feliciano and Ivan who still stands by the doorway.

           Feliciano’s hair is well-mussed, lips swollen, and nightshirt crooked over his shoulders. Ivan nods politely to him and Feliciano is clearly about to speak when Ludwig orders him to get in bed with a fierce whisper. Feliciano obeys without a word, which has Ivan raising his eyebrows. “You’ve got him well-trained,” he compliments, already moving away from the door. Ludwig follows him. “I’m impressed, truly. If I tried that on Jones, he’d ignore me or sock me.”

           “Hey,” Ludwig practically spits. “We are not like you, okay? I’m not like you, so don’t start making comparisons as if we’re friends swapping tips.”

           “My mistake,” Ivan quips, “I thought we were both carrying illicit relationships inside a mental hospital with men who cannot separate life from delusion. But no, you are right, we have different concerns. Yours thinks the sky is falling and mine thinks he caused it.”

           “Shut your damn mouth,” growls Ludwig. “You can laugh all you want at Jones but I actually care about Feliciano. That’s what separates us. I love him. We have dreams together. He’s not going to rot in here like you two. He can tell what’s real and what’s not because he’s not content thinking everyone else is out to get him.

           “You can have all the fun you want with your partner – ” Ludwig’s tone catches mockingly on that word, “— but Feliciano and I want better. We’re going to get out of here and do this right.”

           Ivan stops walking a few feet short of his room. He locks his fists behind his back, hides the anger turning his knuckles white, and just stares at Ludwig for some time. He tilts his head at him. He’s learned something new about Ludwig, he thinks: Ludwig is quite good at compartmentalization to humanize Feliciano alone.

It’s frustrating and almost laughable how Ludwig sees Feliciano as special in a hospital full of people just like him; people labeled crazy and then neatly boxed up until they’re presentable enough to be unwrapped for society. As if Feliciano is the exception and not the rule.

“I have a question for you,” Ivan finally says. “You do not have to answer it, but I know you will think about it and I only hope you can be honest with yourself if not with me: what makes your actions so drastically different from mine?” he questions.

“Intent,” Ludwig answers automatically, but Ivan’s next words begin just as Ludwig’s end.

“You think I do not want the same?” Ivan asks. Whatever Ludwig wanted to say, it’s been stopped with a foot to the brakes at Ivan’s question. “You think Alfred and I are content to live in instability without privacy, without intimacy, until one or both of us are eaten alive by these walls?”

Ivan takes a step closer. “Do you think I don’t miss my family, or do you think I don’t have family? Or do you just not think of us at all?” He leans in so he can whisper almost into Ludwig’s ear. “Do not think yourself special for craving your own happiness,” Ivan advises.

Finished with this interaction, he goes into his room and waits for the sound of Ludwig’s departure. Sleep comes slow and bittersweet. He dreams of the house he once shared with his sisters, and of going to work and meeting a blue-eyed boy with a cowlick and wide tonsils.

          Ivan is sitting at his usual spot with Dr. Héderváry. Right now, she’s telling him how disinterested he has come off lately in their sessions. She worries he may be regressing in his treatment and wishes he would engage again. Ivan is vaguely aware of apologizing to her. He’s more focused on Alfred who, as of ten minutes ago, took a seat beside Feliciano. They are just far enough away so that Ivan cannot overhear them. He can only watch as Alfred grows increasingly animated, hands gesturing wildly and his voice becoming violently loud at some points before abruptly dropping to a whisper.

           Ivan is halfway to convincing himself it’s fine, that Feliciano may not even tell Ludwig about Alfred’s conspiracies today, when Alfred throws another emphatic hand into the air and accidentally nails Feliciano in the face. Ivan instinctively stands, but then so does Dr. Héderváry. Feliciano looks okay; the smack must have been light.

           He glances at his doctor and smiles playfully. “Going somewhere?” he asks lightly.

           Dr. Hédérvary’s expression if one of pure bafflement. “I should ask you, Ivan,” she counters.

           Ivan lowers himself back into his chair. “You are lucky I am not the skittish sort,” he teases. “I have seen patients here accuse their doctors of violent intent for less.” It’s an innocent comment, but Dr. Héderváry does not take it that way.

           “Do you believe I have violent intent, Ivan?” she asks, sitting back down as well. Again, with the leading questions, he thinks wearily.

“No,” he answers easily, “I am just pointing out how unconventional you are sometimes.”

Dr. Héderváry does not like how the conversation is unfolding if her checking her watch for the first time is any indication. He’s been keeping track of the time with the analog clock on the wall behind Alfred’s head. They have some time to go.

“Unconventional how?” Dr. Héderváry inquires.

Ivan considers his phrasing. He shrugs. “You are just very genuine, that’s all. Most psychologists prioritize composure above all else, always scrutinizing their patients for any sign of upset.” Ivan stretches his legs forward so they rest against Dr. Héderváry’s chair. “What would you have done had I,” Ivan flicks his fingers, “run off? Would you have chased me down?”

He hears Alfred groan in exasperation. Ivan can hear him exclaim, “No, he’s not… ” before Alfred’s voice drops to a whisper again.

“Would you like to end our session early, Ivan?” asks Dr. Héderváry.

Ivan tears his eyes away from Alfred’s table long enough to take advantage of the out. “You are always a delight, doctor,” he praises, “and we may have just found something in common; yes, I think an early end may be the best for today. Always next week,” he assures, already standing up.

“This isn’t about what I want,” Dr. Héderváry tries to clarify, but Ivan has a deal to make good on. He strides over to the table where Alfred and Feliciano are seated.

“Feliciano,” he greets, resting a hand on Alfred’s shoulder and smiling apologetically. “Would you mind giving Alfred and I some privacy?”

Feliciano’s eyes are wide. Ivan checks his face for the slightest injury, but Alfred’s clumsy enthusiasm has left no mark. Regardless, Feliciano plays the part of kicked puppy perfectly. Ivan wonders how his family manages to leave him here every day after visits with those shaking shoulders and tucked tail.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Feliciano says and attempts a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Ivan briefly worries that his smiles aren’t all the way there either. Ivan dismisses the thought for later as Feliciano scampers off.

Ivan takes his place with no complaint from Alfred. He doesn’t even bother starting over, just soldiers on in his theory that “the doctor” was keeping everyone here against their will. “Really?” Ivan asks if just to see where Alfred takes this. “Why would he want to keep people here?”

Alfred rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s simple, isn’t it? Doctors have egos, everyone knows that, and this is how they can flex. So when doctors like,” Alfred trails off, visibly floundering.

“Dr. Väinämöinen,” Ivan guesses. He knows him to be Alfred’s doctor. It’s doubtful Alfred would have had enough interaction with anyone else’s doctors here to appropriate them into his web.

“Right, yes!” Alfred pounces. “When Dr. V got some people who were misunderstood, it made him feel like he had a big dick to keep me here.” Alfred rests his arms on the table and crosses them angrily. “The fucker,” he spits, looking down to the side. “He’s not completely evil,” he mutters. Ivan watches, enraptured, as Alfred recreates this man he barely knows. “He just wants to see if you’re smarter than him,” he explains, opening his palms and staring at them hard. Ivan wonders what he sees.

“If you’re smarter than him and you can solve his puzzles, catch his clues,” Alfred reasons, “he’ll let you go.”

“You see a way out,” Ivan states. He brushes his fingertips over Alfred’s open, empty palms.

“Yeah,” Alfred says, either to Ivan or himself, and nods. “Shit like that. Shit like the brownie.”

Ivan leans back in his chair with a tired sigh. “You are obsessed with this brownie.”

Alfred slides his hands to the end of the table and grips the wood. For the first time in their conversation, Alfred is looking Ivan in the eyes. “It’s all a part of the puzzle, Ivan,” he says with utmost sobriety. Something tender makes itself known in Ivan’s chest as he stares at this beautiful young man who never learned self-doubt. And then he thinks of Ludwig’s prediction, of Alfred only getting worse as everyone who tries to help him is suspect, and something sad envelopes that something tender.

           Alfred has an appointment with his doctor today. It is schedule during small group activity time. Ivan has joined the modest crocheting circle which consists of Nurse Erika and one other patient besides Ivan. He’s working on a headband which he plans to give to Alfred as a sleep mask because he often complains about the bright lights of the hallway keeping him up at night. The colors are red, white, and blue.

Nurse Erika brightly asks, “Oh, like the Russian flag?”

Ivan frowns. Did he get the color order wrong? He tries to count the pattern but it’s a circle and maybe Erika just looked at the wrong color first —

His thoughts are interrupted by three guards barreling down the hall with one nurse in tow. Immediately the common room erupts in chatter as patients ask what’s happening and nurses tell them all is well, please remain seated and continue group activities.

Ivan watches the spot where the guards just were. Then he looks around, tries to remember all the patients and perform a head count. They’re all here. All of them except for Alfred.

“Don’t you want to finish your headband? It’s looking so good,” Nurse Erika patronizes. Ivan glances down at the sleep mask in his lap, tries to picture Alfred wearing it to bed. Feeling cold, Ivan picks up his hook and winds the red yarn around, around, around.

           Ivan waits two weeks for a word of Alfred. Not a word from — he doesn’t expect Alfred to reach out. Even sharing a room, Alfred struggled with the concept of the other. He spoke to whoever would listen and Ivan simply did his best to be the one listening. Now that Ivan isn’t physically around, he’ll likely fade as a character in Alfred’s universe. Object permanence doesn’t seem his strong suit and as upset as Ivan is, he can’t fault Alfred for being himself.

           Ivan does make inquiries. He hasn’t much to risk now that he’s lost. Unfortunately, hospital staff are tight-lipped. He asks Dr. Héderváry to find out, pleads with her even, and it’s his vulnerability that likely made her give in. By their next meeting on the second week, Dr. Héderváry can confirm he has been transferred to another hospital. He asks her where, but she claims confidentiality about the exact location. When that argument doesn’t work, she tells him the truth: it’s best that he move on.

           So, he asks Katyusha to keep her ear to the ground. She says the people she works with aren’t really the people who would know, but — “well, like I said, I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

           He asks Natalya who has his answer by Friday afternoon. Alfred is in the same state, just an hour north at St. Peter’s Hospital. Natalya sourced her information from a nurse whom the incident details had trickled down to. “His name is Toris. We had lunch earlier,” she tells Ivan, glancing sheepishly up at him from under silvery bangs. “He’s very manly,” she adds.

           Ivan spends the rest of that day thinking over Natalya’s information. Somehow, Alfred had obtained a weapon — a boxcutter with a half-inch blade — which he used against his psychiatrist, Tino Väinämöinen. The hallway outside Tino Väinämöinen’s adjunct office had been empty save for Ludwig Beilschmidt, a guard who had come in earlier than his shift to drop some papers off. He heard shouting while passing by and ran in to find the doctor backed into the wall with bloodied hands. The guard immediately tackled the patient to the ground, where his weapon was removed and he was chemically and physically restrained by three other guards.

           Ivan’s mind catches on Ludwig’s involvement, naturally. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. His presence, Natalya informs him, is regarded as a somewhat of a miracle by hospital staff. Ivan and Ludwig have not interacted since the night outside the room he once shared with Alfred. Any conversation would be pointless beyond giving Ludwig the chance to openly gloat, and he’s too busy basking in his victory to taint it with Ivan’s two cents.

           Ivan sits back in that one loveseat in the hospital. He sits back and watches Ludwig lingering near Feliciano. He watches Ludwig far more closely than he ever bothered before. He wonders if his face has always been this open around Feliciano, or if this has newly developed from his sense of hard-won freedom. Ideas unfurl across Ivan’s mind like invisible yet hard-to-shake spiderwebs. Once the thought flies into his brain it can’t break free. It spins itself tighter and deeper until Ivan is all but consumed by it.

           Ivan’s bed is perfectly made. The pillow case is smooth, the sheets turned down in a straight edge, blanket tucked in at the corners. It has not been touched since the morning following Alfred’s final appointment with Dr. Väinämöinen. Ivan has taken to sleeping in Alfred’s bed. He pretends to rest when the nurses come by and turn off the lights. He waits there, on Alfred’s mattress, although his warmth and his scent has long since left it, until he hears the familiar footfalls of Ludwig. Then Ivan pushes the blankets to the bottom of the bed, turns his legs over, and walks over to the doorframe.

           Ludwig pauses in his pacing at the sight of Ivan, but his paralysis is short-lived before he quickens his pace towards him. Ivan almost expects Ludwig to grind out an order of, “Go to bed, Braginski,” but Ludwig says nothing as he closes the distance.

           “I do wonder how he got the boxcutter,” Ivan remarks. Ludwig’s jaw flexes beneath his skin. “It’s a small room with not much ground to explore. I would have noticed something like that if it had been there even two days before Dr. Väinämöinen’s little surprise,” he assures Ludwig. “And I know Alfred’s family hasn’t visited him in, gosh, months. Who could have possibly given him a knife?” Ivan raises his eyebrows and stares at Ludwig almost imploringly. “Who could’ve benefited from such reckless endangerment?” he asks softly.

           Ludwig swallows something hard in his throat. “Go to bed, Braginski,” he commands.

           Ivan nods, not surprised. “Good night, Ludwig. I hope you have been enjoying you dreams lately. I know I will enjoy mine tonight.”

           Ivan returns to the room, getting to his knees to remove the box of books from beneath his old bed. He opens the box and retrieves his notebook along with a mechanical pencil courtesy of Ludwig some time ago. Curling beneath Alfred’s sheets, Ivan spends the night writing instead of sleeping. The hours shift from late to early, but Ivan pays no attention to the ache in his tired eyes and bones, only the unfurling of a web onto paper.