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vanchlo · 4 years

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Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes / Green Eyes 4

Read all 3 previous parts here!

Blurb Synopsis: With final exams approaching, you find yourself coming to rely on Harry more, whether for help with teaching, emotional support, help packing your apartment, or to complain about your students wanting to set the two of you up together. The saying goes that ‘stress makes you stronger,’ and that will be the true test during this season in your lives, and relationship.

Genre: Teacher Harry, soooooo much fluff, some angst, a little sad, and lots of romance.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 10k words, whoops

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Music Inspo: Changes by David Bowie & Butterfly Boucher (click to listen; yes the Shrek version, YES FROM THIS VERY PART)

I also wanted to thank my pals @sunflwrnarry and @bfharry who’ve helped me with this story with their support, ideas, and love for it. I love freaking out with you two over this story ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

As you bring your fist to the blue door, you suddenly pause. Thoughts dance inside of your head and tie themselves to your heart. Happiness comes over you in another wave as Harry’s voice interrupts the thoughts, his voice telling you that he loves you from earlier. A content sigh meets the air in front of you in a white cloud. You had forgotten how cold you were, but the playful barking coming from the other side of the door brings you back to reality.

“C’min!” Harry replies once you knock.

Slowly opening the door, the warmth of Harry’s house greets you, along with the musky cinnamon smell that accompanies it. What surprises you is the little bundle of golden fur barking at you, but with the cutest bark, you’ve ever heard.

“Ya, you get ‘er, Gatsby! Go get mummy, go say hullo t’ her!” Harry giggles, and soon you are too as you fall to a crouch as he approaches you. With that tail dancing in the air, you only laugh harder as he slips and falls in front of you. “My goodness, yer a clutz li’l boy. ‘Bout third time ya’ve fallen down and we’ve only been home fer a few minutes, jus’ beat mummy by a tick.”

“Hi, bud. How was your ride home with daddy? What do you think of your new home?” you coo to the puppy, rubbing the top of his furry head. He continues to yip at you for a few seconds until his sniffer takes over.

“I see how good o’ guard dog, you are, pup. Ya smell any food on ‘em and they’re yer friend,” Harry sighs with a titter, carding a hand through his hair when you glance over to him.

“No, you’re a good guard dog, Gatsby. You just have to get used to mummy and daddy, don’t you?” you croon, rubbing both hands along his chubby face as he sniffs the air. “Come on, let’s go sit by daddy,” you suggest, unable to hide your laugh as you observe him struggling to walk on the hardwood floor.

“Looks like I might need t’ get su’more rugs or else he’s gonna be fallin’ e’rywhere.”

“Yeah, it’ll be easier to clean up his accidents on the wood flooring, though,” you note aloud, sliding off your slushy winter boots onto the mat by the door. After hanging up your coat on one of the hooks, you turn right into Harry’s living room to take a seat by him on the long red rug. “Did you take him potty yet?”

“Ya, I did befo’ we went in tha school and afta, and a few minutes ‘go. He went befo’ we went in but not since. ‘m not too worried tho’, I knew when I got him that he’d be peein’ on e’rythin’,” Harry notes, his eyes stuck to the waddling furball. Quickly, they dart to you and his strong arms come around your middle, pulling you into him. “C’mere, love, and have a cuddle wit’ me.”

Gatsby turns and begins to bark at the both of you as Harry pulls you over to sit in his lap, the both of you laughing loudly. He tottles over and proceeds to sniff the both of you.

“How does she smell, Gats’? Does mummy pass yer sniffer check?” he mumbles, against your cheek where his words tickle your skin. You contribute to the conversation with a laugh at the both of them, sinking into Harry’s arms. Contentment washes over you when your back meets his chest and you feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“Come here, Gatsby!” you say, patting your lap excitedly.

“Nah, he’s too busy sniffin’. I swear ‘s all he did when he was in me car, even tho’ I was holdin’ him tha whole time.”

“It sounds like you should’ve named him Scooby-Doo instead,” you remark, earning a soft laugh from Harry. You squirm when you feel his breath tickle your neck. Sighing, you relax against him, his arms resting on your soft tummy and sometimes rubbing his knuckles against it.

“Perhaps,” he comments, the feeling of his smooth cheek against yours an absence now, his stubble already prickling your skin. “Fit right into me arms, tha both o’ you,” he continues, swaying the both of you back and forth in his arms now clad in a long-sleeved Rolling Stones crewneck.

You hope he can see the smile adorning your face and being all the reply he needs. You’re uncertain the last time you felt this content and happy all rolled into one, but it’s hard to pinpoint because Harry always seems to have that effect on you.

“Hope ‘s okay I named him, jus’ thought it was perfect when I saw him tha otha day,” he whispers against your temple, the cinnamon from his gum tiptoeing over your face.

“Yeah of course, it is. I couldn’t imagine him being named anything else. I don’t know how you kept him a secret for a whole week, I would’ve squealed,” you say with a grin, backing up when the puppy gets brave and stands up, his front paws on Harry’s knee. You titter at the feeling of his feathery whiskers on your skin, the sound of his adamant sniffing, and the cold wetness of his nose on your chin.

“Yeah, I dunno how I didn’t. There were so many times I almost told ya, but I jus’ wanted t’ surprise ya, bird.”

“I’m glad you did. Okay, Gatsby, you go and smell daddy now,” you relent, your hands coming around the chunky puppy. His tummy is warm against your palms and his whine fills your ears as you lift him up to set in your lap.

“I dunno, I think he likes how ya smell betta. What, did ya eat sumthin’ on tha way here, a Twix or Bit-O-Honey, or sumthin’?” Harry murmurs, his smile felt on your temple. “We’re gonna hafta watch it, he’ll wanna get into e’rythin’.”

“Yeah, he must smell that Twix I found in my car,” you reply, squealing when you feel the puppy’s warm wet tongue on your cheek.

“Sumbody already loves their mummy, I see,” Harry comments. “Ya, Gats’, le’ss give mummy all tha kisses!” he exclaims before pressing loud smooches all over your face too.

“Oh no, attacked by kisses, whatever will I do?!” you shout, feeling the energetic puppy in your lap as you close your eyes, chuckling. You wouldn’t change this for the world, no siree.

“Thanks for dinner, it was delicious,” you tell Harry as you set your dishes in the dishwasher.

“Welcome, love. Would ya like some wine? I should finish off dis bottle already, ‘s gettin’ all flat,” Harry asks, the soft click of the fridge door opening following his words.

“I don’t know, it’s getting kind of late and I have to drive home . . ,” you answer, conflict showing through in your words.

Your eyes follow Harry’s tall figure as he reaches an arm to a shelf in the cabinet, grabbing two long-stemmed wine glasses. A smile tickles at your lips when his shirt rides up a tad, and his fern tattoos adorning his hips say hi to you, as well as his happy trail you love so much. It amazes you the amount of restraint it takes to not reach over and touch his tummy. Ugh.

“You could have as much wine as ya’d like and ya wouldn’t hafta drive home if ya stay tha night. Gatsby had wanted me t’ ask ya, anyways. I told him we could make it work - we’ll all pile togetha in me bed, and ya can borrow sum jammies o’ mine,” he hums, turning to face you as he sets down the two empty glasses. The bubbles rising within your chest only worsen when you see the smug look pulling his lips into a smile. “I mean, that’s if ya want t’ sleep ova.”

The gurgling of the white wine filling a glass occupies the silence between the two of you. Words fleet you as you watch him fill one glass three-quarters of the way full, and when his eyes lift to you they brim with uncertainty and anxiety.

“Bird?” he inquires softly, raising an eyebrow. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he bites on his lip. “Sorry, nevamind, maybe ‘s a bit early fer that still. Yer not movin’ in fer anotha’ month, so ‘s okay,” he finishes, trying to diffuse the situation with a soft laugh.

You deliver your answer by grabbing the full wine glass and bringing it to your lips that part with a smile, “I’d love to stay over and steal your ‘jammies’,” you reply softly, the wine surprising your lips with its sweetness and chill. His face collapses into a blushing laugh as he shakes his head.

“Birdy, you li’l shit,” he remarks, clucking his tongue as he pours the rest of the bottle into the second glass for himself. “Ya can’t scare me like that, thought I jus’ made a proper fool o’ meself.”

“No, you could never make a fool of yourself in my eyes, Harry,” you mumble, setting down the wine glass on your short walk over to him. Your fingers soon find him, first on his backside where you cup his ass, earning another head shake from him.

“Ya really fancy me bum, dontcha, love?” he snickers, setting down the bottle with a clud, twirling the metal cap back on quickly. He turns around to face you, but you leave your hand on his bum.

“Mmmhmm, it’s quite nice,” you try to say seriously, but it comes out accompanied with a laugh.

“So ‘s yers, y’know,” he winks, slapping your butt as he dips to plant a kiss on your lips. “We betta go find out what that li’l boy ‘s doin’ in there, prolly gettin’ into trouble.”

“In a second,” you whisper, placing your hand on the back of his neck slowly.

“Jus’ a second?”

“Maybe more,” you shrug, feeling the wispy hairs on the back of his neck as the golden glints in his eyes come into focus.

His rose lips spread into a smile, showing his straight teeth, and disappearing when your lips meet his in a kiss. The remnants of the chocolatey brownies you had for dessert linger on his lips. Wafts of dark smoke from when he started the fire in the fireplace titillate your senses, coming to be a favorite smell you associate with him.

“You taste and smell so fucking good, like brownies at a bonfire,” you breathe against his lips, your eyes wandering to his that stare at you so adoringly you feel like you’ve already had five glasses of wine.

“Look at tha potty mouth on you, can’t believe it sumtimes,” he smirks from above you, the smell of cocoa hitting your face.

“Yeah well, you sure like to kiss it a lot.”

“I do, don’t I?” Harry coos, brushing the pad of his thumb along your lip, adding another theoretical glass of wine to the overflow of your senses. “I’d kiss it bloody all day long, if I could.”

Your head fills with wishes similar to those as his lips caress yours, but you’re broken apart when you hear a whine from nearby. Parting, you both peer into the other room, finding Gatsby waiting in the doorway. You swear that he stares at the both of you while he lifts a leg and pees onto the dark wooden floor.

“Well, so much fer that,” Harry giggles, stealing a kiss from your cheek before he lets go of you. “Where’d ya leave those baby wipes we were usin’, love?”

Although Harry’s pajama bottoms swallow your entire bottom, legs, feet, and all, you can’t help but smile at them. The gentle smell of his laundry detergent reminds you of marshmallows for some reason, and you couldn’t be happier as it envelopes you. His Beatles shirt falls over your head and comes down to your thighs, but you’re not complaining. I think these are tha smallest ‘ve got, they should fit, he had murmured a mere minute before as he handed you the folded pile of clothes. Okay, Harry, if you insist, you think silently as you inspect your appearance with a dumbfounded smile.

With a nervous grin, you set your outfit from today on a shelf in the cabinet and turn off the light. You can hear Harry talking to Gatsby as your socked feet pad down the hallway, easing your nerves quickly. Low and behold, once you push the door open, you find him sitting on Harry’s chest, looking like he’s getting a talking to. Sure enough he is, you find.

“‘s time t’ go t’ bed now, so we’re all gonna sleep in dis bed. Please try not t’ pee on daddy’s sheets. Ya have a pillow t’ lay on down at tha end o’ tha bed, and yer bed’s on tha floor in tha corner. There’s one o’ those blue plastic sheets down fer ya t’ go pee too, alright? Understood?” he tells the puppy with a toothy smile, wagging a finger at him and twirling one of his floppy ears around another

“Uh oh, somebody’s in trouble,” you joke, leaning against the doorframe. When Harry’s eyes carry over to you, you self consciously cross your arms over your chest not contained by a bra. “What?” you mumble, narrowing your eyes at him as he stares at you, that toothy grin only growing wider.

“Nothing,” he confesses, looking back to Gatsby with reddening cheeks, stealing glances at you every now and then.

“Harry,” you continue with emphasis, dashing around the bed to slide under the cream covers on the right side. “Hi, Gatsby,” you coo excitedly when his tail begins to wag frantically, pulling a giggle from your lips when he turns towards you, hitting Harry in the face.

“Gosh, kid,” he manages, lifting the puppy up to pass him to you. You’re almost drowned in puppy kisses to the face, sending giggles from your lips. The puppy’s name flies into the air as you try to fight him off. “Guess he likes that taste o’ tha toothpaste.”

“I guess so,” you agree aloud, finally his attack of kisses ending. Soon, he forgets you and wanders around the bed sniffing. He finally lies down and curls up against Harry’s leg towards the end of the bed.

“I sacrifice one o’ my pillows fer ya t’ lie on, and that’s where ya lay?” Harry huffs, but soon an adoring whine sounds behind his lips as he admires the puppy. “I guess we tired him out runnin’ laps downstairs.”

“Yeah, it’s about time. He has so much energy, I can’t believe it,” you murmur in agreement. When you look over to see the look on his face for the puppy, instead you find his eyes waiting on you. “What? Do I have toothpaste on my face?”

“No, but if ya did Gats’ woulda gott’it,” Harry hums, nevertheless brushing a thumb across your cheek with the sappiest smile you’ve seen him wear in a long time. “Ya jus’ look . . cuter than I thought ya’d look in me clothes, bird.”

“I’m swimming in them, how is that cute?” you ask, pulling on the front of the shirt as proof, eliciting a loud laugh from Harry.

“‘m sorry, I thought they’d fit betta. But they look great on you, they really do. E’rythin’ does, and sumhow I love me jammies on ya best,” he remarks, his hand coming to cup your cheek. “Yer so beautiful, birdy. ‘m gonna go get ready fer bed too, befo’ I keep blabberin’.”

The smirk painted on his face looks much like the one you’re sure is consuming yours at his words. He folds back the covers and Gatsby moves over as Harry leaves the bed, but you grab hold of his hand at the last second. He turns to you with a questioning look, saying he has to go and brush his teeth.

“I like it when you blabber, especially to me,” you share, pulling on his arm until he returns to lean over the bed, steadying himself with a hand on the mattress.

“There’s n’body else ‘d ratha blab t’ than you, love, and ‘m guessin’ we’re in fer a long night with this li’l one,” he smiles, pecking you fast before his hand slips from yours and he leaves the room.

Yawning, you slide back under the covers and pull them over your shoulders, savoring Harry’s smell they hold. Your head falls onto the satiny pillowcase as the top plush blanket a shade of sage caresses your cheek. A huff tickles at your ears and you find Gatsby’s made his way over to you and settles his head to fall on your calf, his large ears splaying out on the splash of green. Emails and texts on your phone occupy your time as you wait for Harry, listening to Gatsby’s adorable little sounds where he’s curled up beside you. Your sleepy hand finds his furry body, keeping you warm, and you tickle his fur as you turn your phone off to set on the table at your bedside.

“Look at you two, snug as a bug in a rug, ‘d say,” Harry murmurs out of nowhere, appearing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. For a second, you think you need to do the same because you’re sure the image in front of you is a mirage of some sort. Harry scratches at his bare chest, a yawn leaving his lips while stretching his bare arms into the air. “Oh sorry, I neva sleep with a shirt on, I hope that’s okay. It doesn’t make ya feel weird, does it?” he questions, closing the bedroom door so Gatsby won’t wander around the house, as he said earlier.

“N-No, it’s okay,” you mumble, trying not to stare as he pads across the room. The closer he gets, the more your heart freaks out in your chest, you’re sure of it. “I like it,” you confess, suddenly wishing you weren’t so good at this blurting out secrets thing.

“Oh, d’ya now?” he smirks, shutting off the overhead light, leaving his lamp on to carry soft light on his side of the bed. You suffice a response with a shrug of your shoulders, cozying into the bed as he slips under the top sheet, pillowy comforter and blanket.

“Yer sumthin’, aren’t ya, birdy?” he quips, flicking off his lamp, leaving the soft glow of a few night lights he installed about ten minutes ago for you and Gatsby, his guests.

“Something special,” you tease with a snicker, hearing his breathy one in return, and soon finding his face lit by the glow.

“That, ya are, love. My sumthin’ special,” he acknowledges, the squeak of the mattress following his words as he arrives at your side. “If ya need anythin’ tonight, ya can wake me, alright? Figure we might be up a few times with him, anyways.”

“Thank you, Harry.��

“Welcome, bird, I hope ya have sweet dreams. ‘m glad ya stayed fer a sleepova, thank you,” he hums, a dimple falling into his cheek with his words, leading you to think if you had any they’d already be there in your cheeks. Sometimes you can’t believe your luck.

“Of course,” you answer, leaning forward to place your lips atop his. He giggles into the kiss as your lips move together, the spearmint in his toothpaste forgotten as it tickles your own tongue too after he gave you a spare toothbrush. His hand comes to rest on your side and it feels peculiar with the absence of his rings, but you savor it and it’s warmth.

His bottom lip remains between yours, pillowy soft and warm until you begin to hear Gatsby’s snores and your fingers have found the bravery to roam his chest. The cheekiness comes out in you when one wanders to his bum, giving it a good squeeze through the checkered fabric of his ‘jammies’ as he so adorably calls them. A muffled snicker slides into his mouth when the hand on your side drifts to your bottom with a soft slap. You’re grateful for his absence of a shirt, letting your fingers admire the slope of his back warm against your fingers that are cold from washing up. The little hairs all over his body are satiny smooth beneath your fingertips, just like his top lip that you take between yours, your hurried breaths filling the air.

“‘Kay, bird, time t’ get sum sleep. We can snog in tha mornin’, ‘m beat afta t’day with school and runnin’ after this li’l boy,” Harry sighs after ending the kiss, mirroring your frown but much more dramatically. “Get sum sleep, ‘ll see ya in tha mornin’. We’ll all three go t’ tha shops t’ buy tha rest o’ his stuff and ingredients fer pizza t’morrow,” he yawns, leaving a kiss on your nose afterward. You nod in response and hastily lay a kiss on his cheek. Nervously, you pull away, afraid you’re pushing his buttons, but he just smiles and kisses you on the lips one last time.

“Goodnight, Harry,” you whisper, arms diving back under the warm covers as you try to get comfortable without moving Gatsby.

“Night, bird . . and Gatsby.”

“Goodnight, Gatsby,” you murmur, patting his small head softly, his snores continuing against your leg.

“Oh, I see how it ‘s, yer already becomin’ a mumma’s boy,” Harry tuts, clucking his tongue as he squirms in the bed, finding his sweet spot. You drift off soon next to your two boys, counting down the days until you get to fall asleep with them by your side every night.

Browsing YouTube, you scroll through the videos that appeared from your search request for haikus. Yawning, you rub at your eye as you pause your scrolling and inspect a video before playing it. It doesn’t get a chance to play very far when you’re interrupted by a voice.

“Thanks fer tha lunch again, bird. Ya really do spoil me, I always forget t’ make one,” Harry hums, waltzing into your classroom holding the Rolling Stones lunchbox you had bought for him for Christmas last month. He sets it down on a clean corner of your desk, leaning across it to peck you on the cheek.

“You’re welcome. Did you eat everything?” you ask, dragging it over and undoing the zippers.

“Ya. I loved tha bagel sandwich you packed tha fixings fer, and tha soup was lovely,” he hums, leaning against your desk, crossing his arms over the soft yellow button-up covered in black flower designs.

“No, you didn’t,” you disagree smiling, opening one of the small pockets to take out a box.

“What, how’d I miss those? You musta hid ‘em from me!” Harry exclaims, taking the box of Chocolate Banana Pocky from your grasp. A cocky giggle of his fills the air as he opens the box and rips open the white bag.

“Harry, you better not eat those all in one sitting!” you warn. He looks you in the eyes as he sticks four of them into his mouth and takes a bite, a smirk playing along his lips. “Harry Styles!” you proclaim, sitting forward and threatening to rip the box from his hand. He only giggles harder and takes another bite, the four pocky gone in a flash as he crunches on the rest of them loudly.

Shaking your head, you watch him walk away, sticking three more between his rose lips. You sigh with a smile, unsure of just how many times you’ve seen him devour a box of them within an hour, or less.

“What’s your full name?” you wonder aloud, looking away from the computer screen and to him where he stops in your doorway, turning around.

“Well ‘m not gonna delight ya with that info afta ya jus’ yelled at me, now am I? ‘m sure ya jus’ wanna use it t’ yell at me su’more,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders as he shoves the rest of the half-eaten pocky into his mouth, winking. You can hear his chewing all the way from here. “And no, yer not gettin’ any o’ me pocky.”

The deep breaths just don’t stick, and soon you find yourself out of your chair and pacing your classroom. You busy yourself picking up forgotten pencils and papers on the floor, tidying the messy containers of books, and the disaster that is your desk.

“Ya ready t’ go?” somebody sings from your doorway where a shuffling sound comes from as well. “Birdy?”

You don’t respond, unfreezing your hands from the sound of his voice. Instead, you flip over a copy of The Tempest and replace it in the bin right side up, because Harry would not allow that to be done to a Shakespeare. His shuffling of feet comes next, tapping along the floor and getting closer. A swallow is met with the lump in your throat, and you brush the back of your hand over your cheek, hoping they’re gone.

“Hey, anybody home?” Harry laughs, arriving at your side and slinging an arm around your waist. “‘m ready t’ go, if you are, love. ‘m sure Gatsby ‘s waitin’ fer us at my place, all excited. He’s missed you, y’know,” he coos, pecking your cheek.

“Yeah, sorry I-.”

“Hey, yer phone’s ringin’. Here, ‘ll grab it fer ya,” he volunteers, soon feeling his absence as his footsteps are drowned out by the loud ringtone. “It says ‘s yer mum.” Closing your eyes, you groan quietly or at least try to. Soon, he’s at your side again and places it in your hands where you hit decline.

“What, why didn’t ya answer?” he questions, probably eyebrows knitted together in the cutest way possible, like he does. You don’t look though, so you’re not sure as you shove it into your pocket, busying your hands with the mess of books before you. Removing a copy of The Christmas Carol that was shoved into the front of another bin backward, you replace it to face forward now. “Birdy, what’s goin’ on?” he continues, a hand settling on your arm, but when you reach to grab another book his hand grabs it. It leaves your fingers to grace your chin, turning your head to look at him.

“I just don’t want to talk to her right now,” you reply softly, hoping he won’t detect the spent tears that aren’t so invisible on your cheeks.

“Oh,” he breathes, a dimple falling into his cheek when his mouth quirks into a confused expression under his layer of five-day-old stubble. “Y’know, ya’ve neva talked much ‘bout yer parents, ‘d like t’ meet ‘em. I mean we’re movin’ in togetha soon and ‘m sure they’d like t’ meet Gatsby. Ya met me sista fer tha first time tha otha day.”

This time you’re positive he doesn’t see the tear streaks or how they still cling to your eyelashes coated in mascara. Boys can sometimes be so ugh, you mutter to yourself amongst your thoughts. You knew this was coming the second she called, and well, months ago, but you had hoped you could’ve gotten by longer without it.

“You don’t want to meet them,” is all you say as you turn away, his hand dropping from your chin now cold from the drought of his touch. You soon arrive back at your desk where you pick up a stack of worksheets from this week’s vocabulary words, looking for a paperclip to fasten them.

“You can’t decide what I want and don’t want, bird. I don’t like that,” Harry responds, and you can see him looking at you from the corner of your eye. “I mean, ya met my parents already, why can’t I meet yours? I don’t undastand.”

“I don’t want you to meet them,” you reply, setting the now fastened stack on one of the wire shelves of the little stackable organizer on your desk. You continue to avoid his gaze by gathering together another stack of today’s green root words quizzes.

“I thought we weren’t keepin’ secrets, bird, but ya can come ova when yer ready t’ tell me. ‘m goin’ home, so take howeva much time ya need,” he grumbles with a loud exhale, almost slamming the door to your classroom on his way out.

Sinking into your chair, your hands rake through your hair as a defeated sigh joins the air. Another one falls after the next when you spot the neon blue Post-It note stuck to the underside of your desk, just at the edge where you would’ve spotted it, just like you have. The crack along your heart only grows deeper when you begin to read his messy chicken scratch, and all of the love that leaks from its words.

Birdy,

Gatsby wanted me to tell you that you are such a greatttttttt mummy already, and that he loves you soooooo much! His daddy loves you too ;) I’m looking forward to making homemade pasta together tonight, you always have the greatest ideas. My students asked me today when I’m going to ask you out on a date, soooo would you like to go out on a date with me this weekend, toooooo pack up your apartment to come and live with me? ;) I’m so excited to wake up to you every morning and fall asleep next to you every night, bird. Only two more weeks! Fourteen more sleeps, it’s not like I’m counting or anything.

I love you, so much

Harry xoxo

“C’min!” a voice drawls when you rap your fist against the door. The warm inviting scent of cinnamon greets you when you walk into Harry’s house an hour later, along with the growing puppy who scurries over to you.

“Hi, bud,” you murmur with a smile, giving him a good petting as his tail sweeps along the floor. “Is daddy still crabby?” you ask him, closing the door behind you with your foot.

After toeing off your boots and hanging up your coat, you peek into the kitchen where the smell of onion, garlic, and broccoli waft from. Harry stands at the stove in a shirt and sweatpants, rolling his bottom lip between his fingers. You don’t get much of a chance to figure out what mood he’s in, because Gatsby jumps up onto your lap, licking all over your face.

You play with the puppy in the living room as Harry cooks in the kitchen until he announces the food is ready, homemade pasta night forgotten apparently. You eat together silently while watching TV, Gatsby begging at your feet. You thought that things were better now when compared to earlier, but for the rest of the night something was off between the two of you. You focused your attention on Gatsby who you swear has grown since the last time you saw him, if only a few days ago. Now, he fills your lap comfortably, and you’re sad to say goodbye to him when you leave early. You just couldn’t take the awkwardness floating in the air anymore, and left after a short peck from Harry.

The next day, a Saturday, Harry showed up with Gatsby and a bunch of cardboard boxes to pack close to the last of your stuff. You tried to make it up to him by cooking him breakfast, which he loved, but you still felt it sticking to every moment that passed. You weren’t sure if you should bring it up or not, and at the same time you were waiting for him to bring it up, readying your defenses. Something was clearly bothering him or on his mind, and as you bubble wrapped things and packed them away, you were curious about why he kept looking at his phone. Then around one in the afternoon, after a few hours of packing, he stepped out to take a call.

“What’s going on with daddy, Gats’?” you posed to the puppy who ignored you, albeit stealing a look at you, returning to the rawhide he’s been intent on destroying. You swallow nervously, glancing over to the hallway outside your bedroom where you can just make out his voice. Tearing your gaze from it, you try to busy yourself by gently placing the wrapped picture frame in the box, and picking up the next one.

“Everything okay?” you ask softly when Harry returns, shoving his phone into the back pocket of his blue jeans.

“Ya, e’rythin’s fine,” he replies casually, pulling at the collar of his charcoal-colored henley shirt.

“Okay,” you mumble quietly, wishing you could forget about packing and admire the way that shirt hugs him in all of the right places. That will have to wait for another day when he wears it, you agree silently, seeing that he’s not in the mood today for his buttons to be pushed. You don’t want to find out what happens when you push them when he’s in a bad mood. You try to forget about it as he helps you pack up some of the less necessary items in your bedroom, like summer clothes, novels, photo albums, CDs, DVDs, and more.

As you stare at the barren shelves of your fridge, you make a mental note to go grocery shopping soon, something you’ve forgotten recently with finals approaching at school and packing.

“Do you want to get takeaway or go out for lunch?” you call out to Harry, leaving the kitchen to find him sitting on the sofa in your living room. He’s staring at something intently on his phone, but when he hears your footsteps behind him, he quickly hides his phone in his pocket.

“Takeaway’s fine,” he answers, clearing his throat, his nervous tic.

“Harry, is something going on? You’ve been acting weird, like you’re hiding something,” you assert, walking around to face him. You’re unsure of what he’ll say as you’re unable to read his face, and you know that’s when it’s bad.

“What, so yer tha only one who can keep secrets?” he retorts, his face screwed up in crude disbelief. You’re sure the same emotion painting yours is even worse as you feel the sting of his words. He sighs as you shake your head, beginning to walk away. “Bird, stop, ‘m sorry.”

��What, Harry?” you ask, stopping your feet, but not turning around to face him. You hear him breathe in deeply among the squeaking of Gatsby’s toy he plays with on the couch beside Harry.

“I was offa’d a teachin’ job t’day, a few hours north at that Wright Arts Academy, that’s who called me,” he announces solemnly. The only thing you’re grateful for in the moment is the fact that he can’t see the look on your face as you’re positive every breath just left your body. “They’re so focused on enrichin’ tha students in arts, ‘s great. ‘d be teachin’ classes like Mythology, a whole class on Shakespeare, Improv, Rhetoric, Intro to Sci-fi and Fantasy, and jus’ so many great English courses. Tha classes are smaller and so ya get t’ know yer students betta. ‘d get t’ teach ‘bout my favourite, Shakespeare, fer an entire semesta, bird! They’re offerin’ me more money, too . . ,” he continues, and you’re unsure of when you want him to stop, or if you wish he had never begun. Suddenly, you do a three-sixty when your thoughts are consumed by the happiness and excitement in his voice.

“You should take it,” you say, spinning around to look at him. His eyes are stuck on a random part of the wall, but then he looks to you.

“But ‘s three hours away, bird? ‘d hafta move away and we’re s’posed t’ move in togetha,” he counters, eyebrows falling and quickly you’re more confused than you were a moment ago.

“You’ve always wanted to teach those kinds of classes, Harry, you’ve told me so yourself.”

“But, birdy-.”

“Take the job, Harry, if it’s what you want,” you insist, trying to smile at him, but it doesn’t stay long when you see the look on his face.

“I dunno if ‘s what I want, yet. I don’ wanna move away from you, I don’ wanna do long distance. Wait, do you? ‘s tha movin’ in with me too soon, are ya gettin’ cold feet?”

“What are you talking about? Harry, no of course not. Where are you getting this from?” you reply, dumbfounded at the words coming out of his mouth. Apparently, you can only grow more confused.

“Maybe it has sumthin’ t’ do with not wantin’ me t’ meet yer parents, I dunno, you tell me, bird. D’ya not wanna commit? Why would ya want me t’ take a job that would make us do long distance?”

“I don’t know, Harry, maybe because I want you to be happy!” you exclaim, feeling telltale signs of incoming tears, and they fly faster than you thought they could have. “You’ve told me that you’ve always wanted to teach classes like those, because you enjoy those topics so much - myths in literature, science fiction and fantasy novels, and even though I don’t understand it, you love Shakespeare! You almost named Gatsby after Romeo or Duncan instead, you love his work so much. Of course, I don’t want you to move away, because things are so perfect right now having a job that means I get to work across the hall from my boyfriend. I can’t believe you think I’d want you to move away and do long distance. I would never- but I want you to be happy, and I’m not going to stop you from taking this job if it brought you that. I’m not going to be selfish and make you stay for my own happiness. A-and my parents are another story, I haven’t spoken to them in years. They’re just not good people. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I didn’t know how,” you finish, feeling grateful for that blurting talent of yours because sometimes you need it. Harry’s jaw almost hangs off its hinges as you stare back at him through blurry eyes, wishing the last few minutes hadn’t happened. Well, the last day. Quickly, the tears triple and you can’t stand him seeing you cry anymore because of the thoughts bashing against the walls of your head.

“I’m going to go pick up lunch,” you say softly, defeat evident in your tone as you turn around. After grabbing your keys and coat, you stomp out to your car and start it. You wait for it to warm up as the cold air from the vents slowly turns warm, but really you only waste the time so you can spill your tears in silence.

It takes all of your strength and willpower to not go back into your apartment and tell him not to leave, because you’re pretty sure it would break you. You can’t imagine a stranger teaching in Harry’s classroom, no shared kisses in the copier room and staff lounge, crossing the hall to ask him a question as soon as it pops into your head, and the fun you both have with your students trying to set the two of you up together albeit it being futile. The doubt of getting a job for yourself at this stupid Academy of Arts to join Harry only makes you feel worse, especially because of the memories your school holds for the both of you.

Wiping your tears away, you try to take a deep breath that won’t come, and you pull the car away to leave him and hope that he won’t do the same to you. The tears left as you drove to go and pick up fast food, but they returned when Harry texted you while in the drive-thru to not get him anything because he was going home to think. Once you returned to the empty apartment, that’s all you could do was think, and it tore you apart.

You had left Harry be for the rest of the weekend, although it was one of the hardest things you had done. You’d liken the effort to running a triathlon, although you’ve never done one of those, but you feel like you have the strength of a triathlete after giving him space. You relented and texted him once though, but just once. It was to ask for a picture of Gatsby who you missed, and he followed through, sending you a couple of pictures. They made you the happiest you’d been all weekend, even despite the tears that crept up when you saw Harry’s reflection in the mirror in one. Then his ringed hand holding Gatsby in another, a selfie of sorts with your favorite shirt of his on his torso. It all made you doubt your words the more, not wanting to have to suffice for only seeing him and Gatsby through pictures if he took the job. You were reminded of your reasoning for it all - wanting him to be happy, but it still gnawed away at you what that would mean if he moved. You tried not to let yourself get too carried away and at times you almost called him, but you weren’t sure who was the bad guy after your argument. You were the one who exploded on him, and you both kept secrets from the other, something you had recently agreed not to do. A promise that the both of you broke so soon.

You had yet to see Harry the following Monday at school, even though you could hear the Cat Stevens album trickling from his classroom at seven-twenty in the morning. Somehow you avoided a run in on your way to the early morning staff meeting, and you didn’t mean to, but you were roped in to sit by a colleague. You found your first seconds of joy of the day when she showed you pictures of her growing baby, one Harry doted on and hogged during most of the staff Christmas party last month. You tried not to think of that while looking at the baby’s chunky thighs and rolls on her arms, and how much you wanted to tell him about it. The joy didn’t stay long when you spotted him taking a seat next to Julie, the visual arts teacher who has had a thing for him as long as you can remember. The pit in your stomach hardens at the sight of him, messy-haired and unshaven, and yet handsome as ever. Confliction carries your features when you spot him wearing the multi-colored Peter Max inspired pop-art button up you had bought him for Christmas. It all only gets worse when he senses your stare and meets your eyes, showing you the sadness hidden in them before you look back to the pictures of the baby.

“Hey, teach! I have a question!” a tall brunette girl in your classroom whispers to you, glancing over to the librarian nervously.

“Yes, Sabrina?” you reply, trying to ignore how some of the students call you that, but then again it’s some that you’re the closest to.

“Um, Mr. Styles is just right over there, aren’t you going to go and talk to him?” she grins, playing with her ponytail, ignoring the computer in front of her.

“Yeah, he’s looking extra cute today,” the girl beside her comments and you have to hold back your laughter. “But he was all glum when I had Creative Writing with him earlier, I don’t know what his deal is today.”

“Maybe he’d be happier if he had a girlfriend,” Sabrina comments wryly, raising her eyebrows at you.

“Maybe I’d be happier if you two were doing your review for the final exam, and not trying to set me up with your teacher, when I can manage just fine on my own,” you comment firmly, trying to avert their attention back to their computer screens and review packet.

“Hey, Mr. Styles, um Ms. Y/N needs some help with something about Shakespeare!” Sabrina calls to Harry two rows of computers to your right.

“I don’t need help!” is all you say with a sigh, loud enough for him to hear, turning around the second you see his head of tousled curls lift where he’s leaning next to a student he helps.

“He ignored you!” Sabrina’s friend exclaims in a whisper, inhaling dramatically along with Sabrina. “You’re not just going to let him ignore you, are you, Ms. Y/N?”

“God, what you’d do to him, he’s usually all over you?” Sabrina sighs.

“Girls, please return to your work. I’m sure Mr. Styles is busy helping a student with their final review, which you’re supposed to be doing right now too. Finals are at the end of the week, we all need as much studying as we can get,” you calmly say although rather curtly, walking away when you see a student with their hand in the air.

“I wish they’d just confess their love for each other already, they’re perfect for each other,” Sabrina grumbles, clicking her pen annoyingly.

“Me too, then maybe they’d both stop being so crabby during finals week,” her friend notes aloud with an exasperated sigh.

Usually you can take the teasing of your students wanting to set you up with Harry, but today you’re not in the mood for entertaining them or carrying a conversation about it. Today, it just hits a little too close to home, you realize silently as you lean against a wall to observe your class, the student no longer needing help. You steal a glance at Harry who stands up straight after helping a student, patting their shoulder with a smile. His attentiveness shines through when he moves on to another student, falling to his knees to get to eye level with him, giving them all of his attention. The way the shirt hugs his torso in every way only makes it all the worse, clinging to his biceps, the slope of his back, and his love handles you love so much before it disappears into the waist of his black slacks.

“Ms. Y/N, are you okay?” Sabrina asks, her eyes on you when you look over to her.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just got something in my eye,” you answer with a hard swallow, picking up your clipboard and checking your watch. You do anything to try and not think about Harry leaving, and how not only you would suffer, but his students. Also, just how much you’re dying to tell your students, hopefully one day soon, that you’ve been dating all along. Hopefully.

Finals had been wreaking havoc on you and only causing more hell for the day you were having. Luckily, Harry had helped you with the majority of it in the recent weeks and even had given you some of his old tests. The anxiety still overwhelmed you at times wondering if you’re preparing your students enough, if the final review packet was too much or not enough, and if your students would be ready. Finals were going to be the death of you, you were sure, if Harry’s revelation about the job offer wouldn’t kill you before then. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking, if he had sought it out and applied, or how it even came about. It drove you even more crazy as the tests neared, knowing that you’d be spending the rest of the week in your classroom from seven-thirty most likely until five pm every day, with him just across the hall.

You craved his voice and his touch, his hugs, and that laugh that could fix anything in seconds. That Monday and Tuesday you didn’t mean to ignore him, but when he walked into the staff room while you were in there, your feet found their way to the door quickly. You’re sure you could have left the bone you bought for Gatsby on his desk or bring it over to his house, but instead you left it in his mailbox with a note.

Give this to Gatsby, please. Tell him it’s from Mummy xx

It stung when you found it in your mailbox later that day with a note from him.

You can give it to him yourself the next time you come over :) xo

It was even automatic when you agreed to get lunch with Lola on Tuesday, even though that was the day you and Harry always went and got pizza together. During your prep hour that morning, you lingered in the staff room after he made his appearance. But when Julie the art teacher started to compliment how good he looked wearing the tie you bought for him with Fleetwood Mac song titles covering the fabric, it drove you up the wall. She didn’t stop there, and continued on about how nice he looked and how much she liked his returning beard, making you want to throw up onto your doughnut you had just warmed up. You dropped it into a trash bin in the hallway after deserting the scene, unable to endure her flirting with him and not being able to do anything about it. It pained you to not be able to tell her to stop because he’s your boyfriend, but you and Harry had agreed early on to not share your relationship with colleagues unless necessary.

It was all becoming too much for you to handle, finals week and kind of fighting with Harry and thinking about him moving away. Too much too quickly.

The hard copy of Creative Writing’s final exam sat in front of you that Tuesday afternoon. The sun already hides beyond the horizon outside the windows hugging the wall to the left of you. This has to be the second or third time you’ve printed a copy to look over, always finding something wrong with it, but this time you think maybe you’ve found a winner. The clicking of your pen meets your ears when you think you find a problem, but it’s whisked away when there’s another click. Your classroom door opens and in walks Harry, playing with the black-tie dotted with song titles of all different colors.

“Hi,” he rasps, gently closing the door behind him.

“Hi,” you return, eyes straying to the test in front of you. Your attempt to continue checking it is futile as goosebumps cover your skin and your heart hammers away.

“Gatsby misses you.”

“I miss him too,” you reply, feeling the tears press at the back of your eyes with warmth, trying not to think about not seeing him for months at a time if Harry moved.

“I declined tha job yestaday,” he announces gently, but the whiplash you feel from looking to him quickly almost hurts. His bubblegum lips sit in a taut and nervous line, hands bunched into fists in the pockets of his red slacks. They leave your view when the printed words on the test return in your eyes, growing hazy quickly. “Can ya say sumthin’, please, bird?”

“I hope you didn’t do it for me,” is all you say, hoping the true meaning comes out in your honest tone muddled by your waterworks.

“‘Course I did it fer you. I did it fer us, and Gatsby. I did it coz ‘m ashamed it took me longa than ten minutes t’ figure out that no matta tha luxuries, that’s not my dream job. I already have my dream job, ‘s here teaching across tha hall from you, gettin’ t’ have ya botha me durin’ my prep hour, combine our classrooms t’ play Jeopardy, have our students harass us t’ go onn’a date already, and gettin’ t’ have a snog with you wheneva I want. I don’ care if I don’ get t’ teach all those bloody fancy classes and get paid mo’, coz I lose all o’ that here that already makes me so happy. ‘m sorry I didn’t realize it earlier,” Harry confesses, emotions wavering in his voice that he clears a few times, taking slow steps over to where you sit.

“You know . . . ,” you begin, listening to the silence that takes your words and probably how much they’re killing him right now, especially when you leave you chair. “I think we’re going to have to tell our students sooner or later, because they’re driving me nuts. So are these tight outfits you keep wearing, they make it really hard not to attack you with kisses whenever I see you.”

A smile explodes on Harry’s lips, the first you’ve seen him wear in days, as you approach him. Your hands sing when they touch his chest, feeling the necklace under the fabric before they wrap around the buttery smooth fabric of his tie.

“Y’know,” he begins sarcastically, a hand coming to his chin where he strokes his new beard, although not quite as majestic as it’s been before. What a little shit. “I think ya might be right on that one, but I like t’ watch ‘em squirm. ‘s been fun t’ hear ‘em get all frustrated ‘bout us not datin’ yet,” he giggles, his rings finding their home on your back once again.

“Little do they know, huh?”

“Oh yes, very li’l,” he chuckles, the dimples falling into his cheeks under his patchy facial hair that you love so much. Quickly, they disappear and his cheeks flatten from their prior roundness. “‘m sorry y’know, so sorry, birdy. I was a proper asshole t’ ya, I feel terrible ‘bout it.”

The tears signal their return when his head falls and you spot one escape and fall down his cheek. You catch it with your thumb before it can get very far and lift his chin up to have him look at you. You thought your heart couldn’t hurt after everything he had said moments ago, but it wrenches inside of your chest at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, tears falling from them.

“Harry, please don’t cry. It’s okay, we all make mistakes. I just want you to know that I am committed to you, so much so that I can’t wait to move in with you . . and Gatsby.”

“I know, ‘m sorry I ever doubted it, I dunno why I did. ‘m committed too, coz I love ya so much, birdy. I love you,” he weeps, shaky words hitting the air that you pass when you pull him into your arms. “I didn’t know I could miss ya so much ova jus’ four days,” he continues, his hot tears meeting your neck as his beard leaves tickles after brushing it. Your heart breaks even further at the feeling of his chest trembling with a sob against yours.

“I know, Harry, me too,” you coo, raking your fingers through his hair as he holds onto you, his face hiding in your neck.

“Plus, I couldn’t take tha job coz ‘m not gonna be one o’ those shit parents who makes Gatsby spend a different weekend at each parent’s house. Also I miss you makin’ me lunches, I neva rememba,” he cries against your skin, his subsequent giggle gracing your ears. He’s the first to pull away and your heart aches a little harder at the tears painting his face, ones you try to make quick work of.

“Good, I don’t think I’d have the heart to tell him, so it’d have to be you.”

“‘Fair is foul and foul is fair’,” he pouts dramatically, quoting a certain William, the pad of your thumb swiping below his left eye, feeling his feathery eyelashes against your skin. “Guess we’ll hafta stay togetha then,” he sighs sarcastically, pursing his lips that soon sing out a bubbly laugh still adorned with the remnants of tears.

“Oh, I’m sure our students would harass us to get back together if that were ever to happen,” you giggle, adoring his wispy dark eyelashes that clump together with wet tears, his murky green eyes peeking up at you beneath them.

“Ya, they’re gettin’ ratha rowdy ‘bout that, aren’t they?” he notes aloud, clucking his tongue as if disappointed then sniffling. Your thumb wanders to his forehead to smooth out the crease that’s formed between his eyebrows, pulling his eyes to yours. “‘d love t’ tell ‘em but ‘s fun t’ watch ‘em go crazy right now, but sumday, ya.”

“Yeah, we have to make it fun first,” you agree, catching the last tear with your finger, hands wandering to his tie the same dark color of his button-up.

“Right, you are,” he hums, eyes darting to your lips as you slowly yank on the tie, bringing him closer. “I knew I hadd’a smart birdy.”

His smile dissolves against your lips that surround his in the sweetest kiss containing the unsaid words and forgotten kisses from the last few days. Sorry’s pass between your lips as his warm rings press into the small of your back, the tie caught between your hands until you let go, certain he’s not going anywhere anymore. His lips sputter a laugh against yours when both of your hands come to caress his lovely bum that you squeeze greedily.

“Watch those naughty finga’s o’ yers now,” he warns through hooded eyes, the bitter smell of black coffee dancing across your face.

“Or what?” you reply with a shrug, the both of you feeling your fingers slowly dive underneath the tight fabric of his pants.

“Or yer gonna catch me without any briefs on one o’ these times,” he replies, trying to keep a straight face until the words leave his mouth that soon pecks yours.

“Oooo, I’d like to see that happen,” you tease, wiggling your eyebrows at him until he collapses into laughter above you.

“I dunno what ‘ll do with ya, bird, with a potty mouth like that.”

“Well, you can’t dump me now, we have a son together,” you shrug dramatically, mouth pressed into a fake line as you watch his eyes roll into the back of his head.

“Very true, altho’ a crappy joke there. I guess I might hafta kiss that potty mouth outta ya.”

“I’d like to see you try, Mr. Styles,” you counter, happy to see the tears have abated from the both of you, hoping you don’t find them again for months and months.

“Oh, would you, Ms. Y/N? ‘ll take that bet, and if I win it, ya hafta come ova and make Gatsby and I dinna t’night. And have wine with me and stay tha night, gotta get su’more practice befo’ ya move in with me soon,” Harry continues, a smug expression donning his features.

“Deal,” you say, squealing when his hands come under your bottom and lift you up to sit you on a nearby desk. The words on your lips disappear when he plants his lips on yours hastily, hands drifting along your waist. “You better get it all out before our field trip next week.”

“‘The lady doth protest too much, me thinks,’” Harry replies, quoting Shakespeare with a funny look on his face, replacing his lips on top of yours. Your tongue scoops up and into his mouth that he parts for you, tasting the Bit-O-Honey he just had that you’re sure his pockets are full of if you checked. You giggle into his mouth when your hands brush against his thighs, sure enough feeling the hard candies in his pockets on your way to explore his bum again.

“‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep,’” you recite as your nose draws a line across his cheek moments later, leaving him silent. A smile curls upon his cheeks at the sound, astonishment playing with his features.

“Our students are right, we really should be t’getha, birdy. I love me a Shakespeare girl. ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ but I think ours ‘s doin’ pretty well, if I do say so meself.”

79 notes · View notes

malewifegradyruewen · 4 years

Text

Easy Pickin’s Guaranteed

so this started out as a headcanon about why Race sold in Brooklyn if he was a Manhattan newsie, but it turned into a story. if this gets some good feedback, i’ll continue the story!

November 24, 1894

Racetrack shivered as he walked up to the circulation gate, but it wasn’t just from the cold. He watched the boys on the other side of the gate pushing each other around, making fun of the man behind the window. I can do this, he thought to himself. They say that it ain’t all bad, right? He had no idea who ‘they’ were or what they said about it, but the imaginary advice from imaginary strangers gave him the confidence to cross the street and through the gates to The World.

As he passed through the gates, he tried to find the line up to the window, but it seemed to just be a mass of people except for maybe three or four in the front. Anthony reluctantly joined the mass and let himself be pushed along by the crowd. He tried to be invisible amongst the rowdy boys, but some of them became a bit too wild and bumped into Race, knocking him to the ground.

“Hey, looky here! A new kid!” said one of the boys who’d knocked him over.

“Nah, youse lyin’, Bear. That’s just Mush, ain’t it?” chimed in another.

“Nah, it ain’t. I’s standing right here,” said yet another.

As the boys began to argue, Race stayed on the ground, unsure of what to do next. All of a sudden, he felt someone lifting him up from behind. Race turned to see who helped him up. He couldn’t have been much older than Race, but he seemed calm and powerful.

“Settle down! Why don’t we just ask ‘im?” said the boy who’d lifted him up. He turned to Race and said, “Hey, kid, what’s ya name?”

Reluctant to share his nickname with this boy, he hesitated before saying, “Anthony.”

“How old are ya, Anthony?” asked the same boy.

“I jus’ turned eleven.”

“An’ you wanna sell papes?”

“Yeah.”

“Well Anthony, it’s a pleasure. My name’s Jack, and you wanna sell with me,” the boy introduced himself. By this point, most of the other boys were satisfied by Race’s answers and were back to ignoring him as they had before, but Jack wasn’t done with him.

“So kid, whaddya know ‘bout selling papes?” Jack asked him as they grew nearer to the window.

“I know ‘bout selling papes, I jus’ don’ know Manhattan too good,” Race told him. “I’s from Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn? Then whatcha doin’ over here?” Jack asked, surprised.

“I’s got folks that I’s running from. I usta’ sell down at Sheepshead, n’ they called me Racetrack, but then I had ta leave Brooklyn,” he admitted. “Knockout n’ Trap said they’d send some birds when I could go back. I’s only gonna be in Manhattan until summer time, not longer.”

Jack looked at the young boy. He seemed to push away the fact that he was running and was quick to remind himself that this was temporary, and that he’d be going back to Brooklyn soon. “Well then,” he sighed, “you’s gotta get a new sellin’ spot. Ya wanna come with me, or ya could go with-” Jack stopped himself and turned back to the crowd. “Mush! Henry! Finch! Get ova’ here!” he called, before turning back to Race, “-one a’ these fellas.”

The three boys Jack had called over were all around Race’s age, but it seemed like they’d been selling with the Manhattan boys for some time already.

“This here, this is Nick, but no one calls ‘im that. We’s all call ‘im Mush,” said Jack, introducing the boy that Race had been mistaken for. “You could go with ‘im-” Jack stopped himself. “Never mind. Ya don’t wanna go with ‘im.”

Mush smirked at Jack. “I’s just goin’ to see my girl. He can come with me!”

Jack nudged him away. “Get outta here. This here is Henry, n’ he always sells over near Jacobi’s.”

“One of the best delis in Lower Manhattan!” Henry interrupted. “But it’s kinda far, ‘specially for his first day. Send ‘im with Finch. He always hangs around the square anyway.”

“You’s right. Alright, go buy ya papes n’ get outta here,” Jack said. Turning to the final boy, he asked, “Finch, ya good with havin’ another kid around?”

Race looked at the last of the boys Jack had called over, and the one that appeared to be the youngest. He had a large slingshot tucked in the waistband of his pants, and he had a bruise on his left cheek just underneath his eye. “Yeah, Jack. I’s good with it. C’mon!” Finch grabbed Race’s hand and pulled him up to the window.

“Mornin’, Weasel. Fifty papes,” he said to the man behind the window, putting two dimes and a nickel into the box on the counter.

Wiesel sighed. “Fifty papes for Finch. And, is this a new kid? How many?”

“This is...hey, what’s your name?” Finch asked.

Race hesitated for a moment. “Racetrack. And I’ll take fifty papes.” He fished three nickels and a dime out of his pocket and dropped them in the box. Wiesel shoved fifty papers at him before calling to the next boy in line.

“So, Racetrack? Where ya from? How old a’ ya?” asked Finch as they walked out of the gates.

“Hey, jus’ say Race. Faster. Born in Jersey, but I’s from Brooklyn. I’s been sellin’ there for two n’ a half years. An’ I’s jus’ turned eleven.”

“Brooklyn?” Finch asked, intrigued. “What’s it like? I’s only been there once.”

“Well, they’s tough. An’ they start trainin’ a new leader when he’s only ten or eleven. An’ a lotta the guys’ve been to the Refuge. Say, how old’ya, Finch?” Race answered.

“I’s ten.”

“There’s one Brooklyn kid, Spot Conlon, he’s already been there twice an’ he’s ten. Ya heard of Spot Conlon? Knockout n’ Trap's gonna train him n’ me and we’s gonna be the leaders of Brooklyn one day. Soon as I go back.”

Finch soaked up everything Race said, but one thing bothered him. “If you’s gonna be leader of Brooklyn, then whaddya doin’ here?”

Race paused a moment, unsure how to answer. “‘Cause I’s runnin’ from some folks,” he said quickly. “Where we goin’, anyways?” he asked, hoping to take the attention off of him.

“First we’s goin’ to Church Street, then down towards the Battery. But I think we oughta hurry. Bit of a slow start this mornin’, n’ I’s gettin’ antsy.” Finch stopped at a street corner and sold four papes to passersby while Race watched. “Wait, ain’t ya gonna sell some?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll go a block that way-” Race pointed towards the Battery “-and sell on that corner there. Then you’ll pass me when you’s done here an’ we’ll go to Battery Park together.”

“Okay. Don’t go too far though, if ya don’ know Manhattan,” Finch said as Race turned and walked down the block. As he walked, he pulled out his cigar. Trap had told him that he shouldn’t take it out until he was by himself, because there were some newsies that would steal it from him. Trap had told him a lot of things. Don’t bet against Boss, no matter how good you are, ‘cause he’ll take your money if you win. Steer clear of Snyder and the Refuge, you’re far more likely to get locked up in Manhattan. Don’t flirt too much. Don’t tell them about Knockout’s girl. Don’t tell them that you’ve got a father, even if he’s the one you're running from. Especially because he’s the one you’re running from. Race had tried to brush the last one off, but Trap had made him swear he wouldn’t tell anyone until Brooklyn sent a bird. He finally approached the corner and started shouting the headline. “Extra! Extra!”

tagging some people who i think would enjoy this: @moondust-and-fairywings @midnight-reader-morning-sleeper @luv-ya-hun @thatsrichhhh @brooklyn-is-here @piper-koko-barnes-rogers @your-lover-crutchie @veel556 @kings-of-newyork

#fanfic #newsies

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somedayonbroadway · 4 years

Text

Good Job, Fancy Home

Boy Meets World Masterlist

TW: MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE

Albert kicked at the door of his best friend’s trailer, balancing quite a few bags in his arms. “Race! It’s me! Open up!”

The door swung open and Race leaned out wearing an oversized t-shirt and some sweatpants. Race squinted at him. “Al? What’re ya doin’ here?”

“My best friend is sick! Your ma and pa are out of town after finally gettin’ back t’gether. I just thought I’d drop by and check in on ya,” the redhead rambled as he stepped up into the small home. Race sighed as he watched him set all that supplied on his table.

He loved his best friend.

“I just wanted to bring ova’ a few little sundries ta tide ya through!” Race smiled, shoving his hands in the pockets of his sweats and following the other boy over toward the kitchen. “I got cough syrup, aspirin—“

“Vaporub?” Race asked, reaching into one of the big bags. He laughed. “What? You didn’t bring me any flowers?” he teased.

Albert reached into another back and handed his friend a small vase filled with bright yellow flowers. And Race laughed, taking them gratefully. “Well… I gotta get some sleep, Albie—“ he cut himself off with a cough. “I’m pretty contagious…”

Albert nodded. “Alright, say no more, just let me plug in the humidifier n’ I’ll be on my way,” he promised, heading over to an outlet across the room.

That’s when another door opened. And Race’s heart dropped. “Tony—“

The young girl paused when she saw Albert. Her long black hair was tied up in a messy bun and she wore some of Race’s, previously Mr. Kelly’s, other sweats. She seemed stunned. Albert squinted, going a bit pale. “Ana?” He turned back to his friend who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Tony?”

The boy didn’t answer him. So Albert put down the humidifier and tried to make a quick escape.

But the two followed him out. “Albert! C’mon, wait a second!”

The redhead looked back at his friend. “Okay, like I ain’t embarrassed enough!” Race looked a little bit sad. “Tony, if ya had plans like this, you didn’t have ta fake a cold. Ya coulda just told me,” he stated with confidence.

But Race shook his head. “Trust me, man, no I couldn’t have,” he insisted.

The other boy’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why not?”

“Look, you’re just gonna have ta trust me on this one, okay?” Race practically begged, just as Ana, or as she was more affectionately known, Sniper, rushed out towards them, her glasses now perched on her nose.

“Albert… you won’t tell no one I was here, right?” she asked.

Still, Albert didn’t understand why it was such a huge secret. But he looked from the girl back to his best friend. “Well… normally I would tell Race… but he already knows. Unless he’s just a complete idiot,” he thought aloud, making Sniper laugh a little bit.

Race nodded at him. And Albert offered him a wink before turning and walking away.

So the blond boy turned to the girl. “You can trust him,” he promised, before leading her back inside.

—

Albert’s bedroom window sliding open never frightened him anymore. He always knew who it would be. “Ya know, Tony… we got a front door,” he stated.

But Race just laughed. “What’s the fun in that?”

It was late. Tony shouldn’t even be here right now. He should be at home. “Racer—“

“Al, my parents are back in town. Can I bring Sniper here t’night?”

That wasn’t what Albert had been expecting. He knew that Race hated bringing dates here. It’s why he’d snuck into Kelly’s apartment when Jack was out of town or broken into Kloppman’s car. He liked to be alone with his dates. “Why? So you can throw in my face that you n’ your girlfriend are already doin’ things when I’ve been with JoJo since we were born n’ she won’t even—“

“Albert, it ain’t like that!” Race insisted.

At that, Albert paused, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then what is it, Tony?”

“Hey, don’t you think that if I could’ve told you somethin’, I would have?” Race asked, avoiding eye contact and moving to walk further into his best friend’s room, shutting his bedroom door.

The redhead followed him. “Racer, I think you know that you can always trust me with anythin’,” he insisted, standing right in front of the other boy.

For the first time in a very long time, Race was very serious. It was rare. The boy’s defense was jokes and sarcasm. But that was all gone right now. “You swear you won’t tell no one?” he asked.

“I swear…”

That seemed to be enough. “Sniper n’ I ain’t doin’ nothin’... we never have been…” Race whispered. “She stays at my place… ‘cause her dad hits her…”

Albert froze for a moment. “What?”

“At night… he yells n’ he beats her up,” the blond boy clarified, looking very sad at the explanation.

“Sniper’s dad… he’s the Vice President of the bank…” Albert noted, shaking his head, almost not believing it. But he believed his best friend.

The other boy nodded. “Yeah… good job, fancy home, lowlife creep…” It wasn’t apparently all that rare. The kid felt sick when he recalled once again why the story sounded so familiar. “Look… I need help. I can’t hide her at my place anymore…”

“Race, we should go to the police—“

“No, Al!” Race shot down immediately. “I’m a kid from a trailer park n’ her dad’s Vice President of the bank! Who do you think they’re gonna believe?”

“Well, Tony, we gotta do somethin’. We can tell my parents—“

“Albert, you just swore you wouldn’t tell anyone!” Tony hissed, taking a step closer to him. “Please… can Sniper stay here or not?”

Still, Albert was skeptical. There had to be someone they could go to. Someone they could trust. “What about her dad? Won’t he be upset if she ain’t there? What about her mom?”

“Her mom don’t do a damn thing about it! She’s scared n’ she’s pretending it’s not happenin’...” It wasn’t hard to note the anger and fear rising up in Race’s voice. Something about it made Albert’s heart ache. Like he’d missed something. “Look… she’s really good at sneakin’ out… she just needs a place to go…”

Albert looked at his friend for a long moment before he finally sighed. “Yeah… okay… I’ll call you when my folks go ta bed…”

The next part should be up tomorrow!

#newsies #newsies musical #newsies live #newsies au #newsies fanfiction #source: boy meets world #boy meets world #jack kelly #racetrack higgins #albert dasilva #sniper newsies #angst #tw child abuse #tw abuse #trailer park

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aka-indulgence · 5 years

Note

In AMitS sans caching reader escaping. Happy late birthday.

Of fuck (also, thank you for that! ^^)

So… I made a little scene for you to read…

(Warning: Heavy Possessiveness)

You were so close.

You had tried everything in the basement- the books, the bathroom supplies, everything you could think off. You were just hitting and hitting the handle over and over again now with your shoe- already your hand was getting red and a hint of blood had broken out- but you were almost done.

You could see the the handle breaking, slowly yet surely getting loser with every hit you gave it- You were so close-!

“doll.”

… You dropped what you were doing, your shoe clacking onto the floor, the sound making you flinch and feel all the more helpless all of a sudden- your hand on the handle, still red and burning. You couldn’t move- frozen stiff.

Sans had appeared in the living room, out of a puff of red smoke, the crimson smog drifting down from the towering skeleton himself like a lazy waterfall. You didn’t even have to look back at him to know the pure anger that was just radiating off of him- His sockets were devoid of light, his smile wide and sharp- and he stood there, stiff- like if he moved just an inch, he’d break.

You could hear him breathing.

You couldn’t move.

Slowly… You heard his heavy footsteps approach you, tapping against the floor, like the ticking of a clock to the wrath that was about to be unleashed on you. You stared at the handle, already starting to come off, you could see inside- And you just stood there, not daring to look back at your captor, slowly closing in on you.

The closer he got, the stronger the scent of his magic, smoke, and something else… Curled up into your nose, making you squeak a cough out- eliciting a deep rumbling chuckle out of the murderer, who was now standing directly behind you.

You were shaking, when he placed two of his hands right next to you- one on the wall and one on the door- keeping it shut.

“what’re we doin’ ova here, dollface?” He purred, his head above yours and making you feel small.

Sans. Felt. Angry.

He came home worried if you were going to be ok, if you were hungry, if you were panicking- and this is what you give to him?! Trying to run away from him?!

You were starting to shake, and he couldn’t help but feel pity for you. poor little thing has always been scared fer her life, ain’t she? He thought- but she knew what was coming for her, trying to run away from him like that…

“now now now, that ain’t a good thing is it?” He put his skull next to your head, squeezing you between it and his shoulder, making you squeak- he could feel the heat of your plump, smooth cheek heating up from his contact- despite the terrified chill you must have running through… Your sweet little body… From being caught by him.

He rubbed his face on your cheeks as you tried to stay quiet- smart girl you were, you know you were in… trouble…

The hand on the side of the wall snaked around your waist, another adorable little pipe coming out of you as he squeezed you to his side, still pressing his nasal cavity to your cheek, wanting to just… take a bite out of you, as his other hand started to glow red- the door handle glowing too, as he did his best to repair the damage you put on it- which is impressive, he had to admit, coming from such a small little human. He didn’t do too bad himself, the handle quickly put in place, and his magic causing a jam in it that honestly wasn’t the best way to ‘fix’ the door- but he didn’t need to use it anyways. The most important thing is that you couldn’t leave him… ‘Was a good thing he came when he did… He could’ve… lost you…

Too goddamn close for his taste.

“wouldn’t want… anyone hurtin’ themselves, do we…?” He whispered into your ear, seeing you squeeze your eyes shut and your breath shake.

aw… poor thing…

shouldn’t have done that, baby girl…

You were so close…

He gave your neck, slow, warm little kisses, making you squirm in his hold as he carried you like a toy in his arms, kicking and trying to get out of his hold- like a cute little kitten.

You screamed when he threw you on the bed, scrambling to get over you and pinning you by your shoulders, still struggling and… writhing underneath him…

“so doll… since ya seemed ta forget why you’re down here… why don’t i remind you who owns ya?” His voice sounded as venomous as a snake, smacking his teeth and his red lights eyeing the space between your shoulder and your neck, fully prepared to make sure you belong to him- you’ll never run away from him again.

#ask #AMitS #AMitS ask #snippet #possessive sans #yer not goin' anywhere dollface...

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xmxisxforxmaybe · 5 years

Text

Melbourne, An Interlude

Summary: Merriell “Snafu” Shelton is on leave in Australia and meets a girl who, in quite a twist for Merriell, ends up charming the pants off of him. I was inspired by @rami-hoe and their story, The Soldier and the Nurse, because it was written in Snaf’s first person POV.

I am experimenting with this whole first person POV thing, so I keep Snaf’s thoughts in a slight version of his accent—this might be annoying af and not work at all :/ Feedback welcome! This is also my first piece on here with an OFC instead of a reader insert. I still tried to keep her vague-ish, but I wanted to do something different : )

This story will be two parts because I no longer seem to be able to write a one-shot to save my life.

Permanent Taglist: @rami-malek-trash @sherlollydramoine

Warnings: language, racial slur against the Japanese in accordance with the time period, and lots of sex stuff, so no under 18s, please!

If Guadalcanal was anythin’ to indicate what else was comin,’ I was gonna make the most of my time here in Melbourne. I was one of the lucky ones without malaria, but I was skinnier than I’d eva been and it was provin’ to be difficult to keep food in me long enough to actually fix my malnourishment.

What I can tell ya was takin’ a shower without a gun within arm’s length, without the fear of havin’ a shell dropped on ya naked ass, was next to feelin’ like god himself was wrappin’ ya up in a hug made out of warm rainwater.

It took a few days of eatin’ a little here and there and a whole lotta sleep for my nerves to relax. After a few meals dat finally settled well and sleepin’ for damn near 36 hours, I was ready to go out and find a drink, and I more than hoped not to spend anotha night alone on a fuckin’ cot in dat stadium.

First night out, I drank five glasses of whiskey and ended up stumblin’ around, gettin’ lost—I used to be able to drink a hell of a lot more than dat. I ended up runnin’ smack inta a gaggle of girls, gigglin’ and chatterin’ as dey were headin’ into the bar I just left.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t care which one said yes—so I took my shot, hopin’ I’d come across as charmin’ to at least one of em. I smiled a lot because I knew girls liked it when I did, and I ran a hand through my hair, short because it had just been cut, tryin’ to look just a little innocent and tryin’ to not sound as drunk as I was.

Her name was somethin’ like Stella or Bella, and I’m pretty sure she was a decent lookin’ girl. She took me back to the place she shared with her sister, and while she was shy at first, she opened up once the lights were out. I tried my best to get her to leave a little light on because I spent enough time in the black of night, not able to even see my own dick in my hand when takin’ a piss. But she was too shy for dat.

I took my time, drunk as I was, and made sure she was ready for me. I wasn’t ‘bout to do somethin’ stupid to start off my leave and maybe she’d be the only girl I’d end up gettin’. I wanted her to remember a good enough time.

The sex was . . . sex. She was a little quiet, a little soft. She kept her hands at her sides, clutchin’ at the sheets on occasion as she laid under me. I eventually gave up on askin’ her what she liked, how she wanted to be touched, because she just giggled and shook her head. I liked it betta when a girl let loose, when she let me know it felt good, too.

I came, pullin’ out even though I was wearin’ a rubber. Unlike a lot of my buddies, I paid damn close attention to those fuckin’ VD movies dey showed us. Right before we shipped out, a kid I knew from trainin’ camp got the clap. Sometimes, when I think ‘bout just slippin’ in to a woman, I remember what his fuckin’ dick looked like and I spend the thirty seconds lubin’ and wrappin’ up with one of the rubber kits the officers give out like candy. I wasn’t gonna spend half my leave vistin’ a Pro Station, or worse, laid up in the hospital with my cock on fire.

Once somethin’-ella was asleep, I tried to leave, quiet as possible. The damn MPs were still up everyone’s assholes, and I didn’t wanna be put in a cage. But on my way out, I ran into her sister and her name sounded somethin’ like Stella or Bella, too. She wasn’t quite as good lookin’ as her sister, but at least she wasn’t shy.

Honestly, I was just engagin’ in small talk, tryin’ to leave, but before I knew it, I found myself, naked and sprawled out on Stella/Bella #2’s bed with her bouncin’ on my cock like she’d been born to do it. Unlike her sis, she really didn’t need my help to come, and I actually was a little taken aback when ‘bout two minutes in she started screamin’ like a banshee, shakin’ and comin’ undone on top of me. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the feeling of her warmth, the sweet smell of sex mixin’ with whateva clean soap she had used, until I found myself comin’ for her, just like I did for her sister.

This one was more difficult to get away from, her limbs all tangled with mine and I wasn’t ready for dat—for feelin’ like I couldn’t move. It was way too much like sittin’ in a foxhole up to ya asshole in mud, tangled with ya weapon and ya gear and leanin’ against a buddy.

I relied on instinct and stayed real still, laborin’ my breathin’ like I was asleep and sure enough, she drifted off, snorin’ her head off.

I detangled myself and got outta there. I’d come enough to be a little more sober, so I snuck a glass of water before headin’ out, hopin’ I’d be able to find my way back to base unnoticed.

* * * * *

The next few weeks proceeded in much the same fashion. Drinkin’, smokin’, a little gamblin’, and closin’ out the night by finding some sweet thing to bed down. I was the happiest I’d been in a long time and even though the threat of drills and trainin’ was kept loomin’ ova our heads, I didn’t mind. Nothin’ here would eva be as bad as what was ova there.

Like I said, I was content with my days and nights and believed it would be how’d I’d spend my time in Melbourne until I saw her.

I was playin’ a game of cards with a few of my buddies, a cigarette danglin’ from my lips, the smoke waftin’ up in a thick stream when I glanced up at a loud guffaw of laughter comin’ from a few tables ova. I reached up to lower my cigarette, and when I found the source of the laughter, I saw the sexiest woman I had eva laid my damn eyes on.

She was surrounded by a group of marines I didn’t know, probably from the 7th Division. Her laughter had them captivated, and her glass of beer was—goddamn, she was drinkin’ beer like she’d been doin’ it her whole life. Her lips fit sensuously ova the thick rim of the mug, and the way she licked the little bit of liquid from her upper lip after a long draught, not just a sip, but a real drink, made me shift in my chair.

I had to know her—fuck sleepin’ with her; I just needed to be near her.

I bowed out of the game, the guys givin’ me major shit as I walked toward her table, all of them turnin’ to see if I’d make an asshole of myself.

When I stopped in front of the table, the conversation barely paused, even though she noticed me immediately and shot me a smirk, her pink lips glistenin’.

“Hi ya,” I said loud enough to turn all their attention. “Name’s Merriell Shelton, 1st Marines Division, and I’d love to buy ya a drink.”

The woman raised her eyebrow, her smirk still planted on her lips. The marines around her laughed and told me to fuck off, albeit with more polite words since dey were in front of the lady.

“As you can see Merriell Shelton, I don’t have a shortage of marines to buy me a drink. What makes your offer so special?”

American. I wasn’t expectin’ dat. Her response made it clear she was bein’ coquettish. Her tone was teasin’ and her eyes were shinin’ with a wickedness I had never seen in a woman’s eye before. It only made her more appealin’ and only made me more determined to shut the other guys up who had started laughin’ at her response, tellin’ me to keep movin.’

“Well, my offer is different, Miss, because dat’s all I want,” I said.

The marines shifted in their seats, clearly annoyed, until one of em I hadn’t seen earlier, guffawed. It was a guy in my company named James Haneson, but everyone called him Hollywood because he had movie-star good looks and wore sunglasses every chance he got. In fact, even though it was night, he had ‘em on now.

“Sure, Snafu. You’ve been with a different girl every night since we got here. Remember those sisters? Or were you just full of shit?” Hollywood said, his white teeth glitterin’ as he laughed while the othas joined in. Because I knew him, I caught the edge in his tone. He was sendin’ a clear signal, but I wasn’t ‘bout to let him win without a fight.

Still wearin’ a grin I considered to be charmin, I retorted, “I neva’ said I been a saint. All I want is to buy a drink for the most beautiful woman I eva seen who also happens to be able to drink betta than about half the men in my company.”

The woman laughed at dat, a throaty, deep laugh I felt run straight through body, like I got a good jolt from a bad wire.

“Well, gents,” she said lookin’ all ‘round her circle of admirers and fixin’ em with a sad little downturn of her mouth, which was surely negated by the wicked look in her eyes. “How can a gal refuse such a reasonable request?”

The guys all protested, Hollywood even reached out to take hold of her elbow, but she slid out of her chair and her linked her arm in mine.

“I’ll see you boys soon,” she said as she reached across the table to drink down the last of her beer.

“Wait, Kathryn! Are you gonna come back to this bar or will you be at the one ‘cross the street?”

“Or the club down on Main?”

“Or—”

Kathryn cut them off with a wink, statin’, “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see!”

Then, she turned to me and whispered, “Let’s get out of here before they stop being so amiable.”

“Kathryn! Where ya goin’? You promised to have a drink with me tonight,” an Aussie marine who was at least three times my size and looked to be more mountain than man said as we whirred by him, Kathryn callin’ out her response ova her shoulder.

“Now, I know that isn’t true because I never make promises to soldiers, Roger! Catch ya around!”

As we exited the bar, Kathryn leaned into me to make way for a group of people headin’ in and she whispered right in my ear, “I took him home night before last and he came on my thighs before he even got my panties off.”

I laughed, goddamn did I laugh! She was sexy and had a mouth on her dat woulda made most men blush.

She continued to lean into me, and when I turned to look at her, her eyes were on my face and she was grinnin’.

“That was a good reaction. You see, I was testing you, Mr. Shelton, and you passed. Shall we have that drink now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said returnin’ her dazzlin’ smile.

“I know a place that isn’t quite so inundated with, well, your lot.”

I let her lead me through the streets, happy she kept her arm linked with mine. She smelled like perfume, a familiar scent dat reminded me of the little purple sweet violets my granmama grew. Perfume was a luxury now, so I figured with the way she spoke and dressed she was from money. Girls with the kinda confidence Kathryn had were used to havin’ things at their disposal.

As we walked, she pointed out various places and named them, tellin’ me whether dey was worth vistin’ or if dey’d charge ya double.

“How do ya know so much if ya American?” I asked, no longer able to keep my curiosity from climbin’ out the bag.

“Well, my father is Australian. He met my mother while he was at University in the States. We always spend Christmas here with my grandparents, but since the war, I haven’t felt much like going back to my studies. I work in the shipyard now as a welder.”

I actually stopped in my tracks. I was expectin’ maybe a Red Cross volunteer or a nurse, but a welder, huh.

Kathryn let go of my arm and pulled off her glove, holdin’ up her hand and tellin’ me to feel it.

I reached out and ran my own calloused fingers ova her’s and across her calloused palm.

“You really are somethin’, ma’am,” I said, not botherin’ to hide the awe in my voice.

“I guess we haven’t been properly introduced—I’m Kathryn Taylor,” she said as she held out her ungloved hand to me.

“Merriell Shelton. Pleasure to officially meet ya,” I said as I enveloped her hand in mine, admirin’ the strength in her grip.

“Come on, Merriell. We’re almost to Smithy’s.”

We turned a corner and after walkin’ a few more feet, Kathryn took my hand in her once-more gloved hand and lead me down what seemed like a never-endin’, near pitch-black alley. She made a sharp turn left and then a right before we were brought to a buildin’ dat looked just like any otha bar in Melbourne, except the accents from the patrons out on the patio were all Aussie.

“Kathryn! Good to see you, luv,” the man at the door said. “And who’s this?”

“My friend, Merriell Shelton. He passed my test, Joe,” Kathryn said with a wink.

The man called Joe chuckled and clapped me on the back, however, his next words were anythin’ but friendly.

“Start any shit in there, mate, and your MPs will be the least of your concern, clear?”

“Clear,” I said with an affirmative nod.

I followed Kathryn in and got a fair share of stares, but no one seemed to pay us much mind once we slid into a little booth in the very back.

“Drinks are on me,” Kathryn said as she fished around in her little bag.

“Oh, no ma’am. I invited you—”

“Merriell. You fought. You lived. You’ll be off to fight again. I’m not the one risking my life on those godforsaken islands. The absolute least I can do is buy you a drink,” Kathryn said with finality as she slid from the booth and strode away—at least before stopping on her heel and doing a rather impressive about-face.

“I forgot to ask what you wanted,” she said with a quizzical look on her face as she stood in front of me.

I had to laugh. I didn’t think I’d eva met a woman who made me laugh as much as I had in such a short while.

“I like whiskey,” I said.

“You’ll get the finest in the house,” she said, smiling again before she turned and took off for the crowded bar.

I took a lot of pleasure in watchin’ her walk away. Her blue dress clung to her backside like it was made for the sole purpose of drivin’ a man wild.

When Kathryn returned, she had two large glasses of beer and two glasses of whiskey.

“Figured it’d be awhile before they’d make room for me at the bar again,” she said as she scooted a beer and a whiskey to my side of the table.

I thanked her and took a sip of the whiskey. It was damn smooth, so smooth I was sure I’d never tasted anythin’ like it before.

Kathryn also took a sip and thought for a moment before sayin’, “I think it has a nutty taste. Definitely not floral, not woody.”

I shrugged my shoulders at her, not sure what else to say.

“It’s my dad’s and my granddad’s favorite. I’ve been sneaking sips since I was a little girl,” Kathryn said as she slid her glass toward me. “However, I really don’t like it at all.”

I laughed again, a quiet chuckle of surprise because I wasn’t eva sure what was gonna come out of her mouth next.

“Where are you from, Merriell? Your accent is . . . sexy,” she said, pausin’ to either add emphasis or because she might’ve finally felt a little shy.

“I’m from New Orleans, Louisiana.”

“New—Naw Orlens. No. New Or-lins. How’d I do?”

“Not too bad,” I said with a chuckle. “Just don’t eva go full yank on me and say New Orleeens,” I said, draggin’ my e’s out to create dat sound I absolutely hated.

Kathryn giggled and said, “Point taken. I never want to hear you make that terrible noise again.”

We both smiled at each other, and even though the night was still young, I wished it would neva end.

Talkin’ to Kathryn was the easiest thing I’d eva done. She didn’t ask about the war, so I got to enjoy not talkin’ about it. After a few more hours and several more drinks, I learned about her childhood, her schoolin’, and her life here with her grandparents. In turn, I opened up to her about home, growin’ up and not always havin’ money but how my granmama made sure us kids neva went hungry.

I could tell I was feelin’ the effects of the whiskey and Kathryn could, too. Like everyone who wasn’t Cajun, she said my accent was takin’ up ‘more space in my mouth’ as she put it.

“But it’s still so sexy,” she said, this time bold as brass.

“I’m convinced dat nut’in on dis earth is sexy as you, darlin’,” I said, shooting her what I hoped was one of my best grins.

“You know, I’ve never met anyone with eyes more beautiful than yours. They can’t lie, Merriell. Did you know that? I’ve been testing you all night,” Kathryn said with seriousness, except I couldn’t help grinnin’ at her slurred speech.

I was a little taken aback at the compliment, though, and told her so.

“Nobody’s eva told me dat ‘bout ma eyes. Usually, dey just call me . . . unnervin’ or some shit,” I said with a nervous laugh. I had never confessed dat it bothered me to anyone.

Kathryn narrowed her eyes, takin’ her time to formulate her response.

“Prolly because you can see right the fuck through people—just like you did with, oh, what’s his name back at the bar . . . Hollywood! People want to feel like they’re special, like they’re some kinda enigma that can’t be solved. But you, Mer, you just cut right through their bullshit.”

“I’ve neva wanted ta kiss someone more dan I wanna kiss ya right now,” I said, leanin’ on the table, my fingers dancin’ ‘round the glass dat was between em.

Kathryn sat straight up and looked like I’d dumped a gallon of ice-water ova her head. I was confused enough to start to apologize for bein’ forward, but she cut me off.

She locked her eyes on mine and said, “No. When we kiss, it’ll be something that you remember for the rest of your life, not a stolen press of the lips or dart of the tongue in a back-alley bar. You deserve something more than that, Merriell.”

No woman like Kathryn had eva said anythin’ like dat to me. In fact, no woman had eva said anythin’ like dat to me. I was a lotta things, a whole lotta things, but this girl seemed to deem me worthy of far more than I eva imagined for myself.

We were both disappointed when the bartender announced last call. It was near 3 am, but I neva felt more awake; it felt like the fuckin’ Japs were a million miles away on their own stinkhole of an island, mindin’ their own goddamn business and dey had decided to keep it dat way.

“Guess I outta let you get back before they send the MPs after you,” Kathryn said, her eyes a little glassy as she smiled at me.

“Nah—da officers quit checkin’ up dat closely on us. All it takes is a few favors and ya safe from dem assholes.”

Like I was discoverin’ she was prone to do, Kathryn grew serious and changed the topic on me.

“I’m looking for something, Mer. I’m just not sure what it is yet, but I do know that I’ve never found it.”

I smiled at her, puzziln’ a little ova what she said.

“I dunno if I’ve got anythin’ dat interstin’ for ya, but I would sure would like to see ya again.”

“Done,” she said, pullin’ a little notepad and a pen from her purse. She scribbled an address on it and reached ova to tuck it snug into my shirt pocket.

She had put her gloves back on and reached up to cup the side of my face. I leaned inta her touch and closed my eyes, savorin’ her gentleness. She slid her gloved thumb ova my lips, pressin’ just a little on the bottom one. I opened my eyes and we just stood there for what felt like a lifetime, lookin’ at each other.

She shook her head, and pulled away, sayin’, “I’ll make sure you get on the right tram. Come on.”

Kathryn took off down the dark alley, and I followed her, thinkin’ there was a good chance I’d follow her anywhere.

#snafu #Snafu Shelton #snafu imagine #snafu fanfic #snafu x ofc #rami malek #rami malek character #the pacific #Merriell Shelton #merriell shelton imagine #merriell shelton x ofc #female reader

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askdawnandvern · 4 years

Photo

Audrey: Well, as much as I'd wanna smother 'em to death and promise to never let 'em be hurt again, I know that might just scare the poor pup even more...when ya'll are carin' fer a kit who's been through that kinda trauma, ya'll gotta let them open up to you slowly. Y'all gotta make sure they feel welcomed and loved without bein' overwhelmin' them.

Dorian: Based on experience, at least on the job anyway, I'd say the same. More over, I'd say it's best not to probe the pup too deeply on the scars themselves. Ya'll need to let 'em open up on their own time. When they are comfortable enough, they'll open up about it to ya in most cases.

Vanna: I can't help but agree. Back in Zootopia I've seen quite a few of these sort of cases come and go, and listened to the case-workers and psychiatrists who were often advisers regarding our cases involving abused kittens. Most had the same take as Mister and Misses Hunter.

Ada: Well I don't tink it takes a genius to figura dat out, and I should knows, I am one.

Yuri: While I'll admit ya'll are purty smart, that's more in terms of dealin' with dead mammals rather than pups.

Ada: Pft...I have foist paw experience remembas? Granted my parents was more voibally abusive den physically, but even as an adult it doesn't help to have someone tryin' to force dat information outta yas. Ya gotta build trust and care to shares sometin' dat deep and intimate. Of course, if any mammal should knows more den me, it's probably ol' Plush.

Yuri: Dawn? Heh, way to break yer own rule puttin' her on the spot like that!

Ada: Ooh! OooooOOOooo....*Winces* Plush I'm so sorry....I didn't mean tas...

Dawn: I-it's okay Ada...I mean, everyone knows at this point. I-I did write a book after all...And...it's all there.

Trenton: Those chapters were...painful to read...my stomach was doin' backflips with how badly I wanted to wretch over what that ram did to ya'll...

Vanna: I couldn't stop weeping...

Trenton: I remember, ya'll called Dawn right after readin' it and spent a good hour sharin' a cry over the phone...

Ada: *Growling* Made me wish we could bring dat fella back to life ova and ova again just so we could all have a goes at him...

Dawn: I'll admit it was hard. It was hard to even discuss with my therapist...the beatings, the broken bones...*shudders* And it never gets any easier. Even putting it to paper was agony in a way...But Vernon, my Puppy...bless him, he just made sure his paw was out for me. He made sure I knew that he was there to talk to, to be my shoulder to cry on. He let me open up on my own terms.

Vernon: I tried...I know sometimes I wasn't perfect...I mean...yer scars...

Vanna: You...? Have actual scars?

Dawn: *Nods weakly* A few...they are thankfully very light now, but you can still see them in the light on my back and a few stray ones on my arms...

Vernon: I hadn't really noticed them until I could see 'em in the mornin' light after our...first time together...I just...I remember tracin' my paws over 'em tryin' not to whine too loudly... I didn't want to wake her...to bring attention to 'em....but...it made my heart ache...

Dawn: I did feel it though...and it made me talk to Vernon later that day about them.

Wade: Teeth to Tails...I'm so sorry Sis...

Xavier: No mammal deserves that kind of abuse, let alone a little lamb...

#Zootopia #askdawnandvern #ask blog #Assistant Mayor Bellwether #dawn bellwether #Vernon Hunter #fan character #zoosona #wastedtimeee

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cuddlywritesthings · 4 years

Text

Doctor Visit

Genre: World of Warcraft

Characters: Lisi’mya, Brevaar, Taviast Duskwither, Guntharius Plaguespitter, Anchorite Neleri, Shokhi Ebondraft (not my character)

Characters mentioned: Raustul Shadeshifter, Father Lanstarth Mourningsworn, Clayton Whatley

Timeline: The same night Declivity into Holy Fire takes place.

Trigger warnings: Heavy themes, severe injury, ideas of torture

- - - - - - - - - -

Brevaar paced back and forth outside the door of the medical ward, his thick tail swishing occasionally. The clip-clop of his hooves on the stone flooring had a sort of rhythmic pattern that grounded him, like a warm and familiar mantra for prayer. He had lost count of his cycle of steps, but as he looped around once more on the trained path, he had a feeling he had surpassed a thousand steps already.

“You be wearin’ a hole in de floor,” Lisi’mya softly murmured, hoping to elicit some sort of chuckle from the Monk. Seeing that her efforts had been in vain, and the usually jovial Draenei had barely taken notice of her, the Sandfury sighed.

It was early into the morning. The night had slipped from them, and what seemed like days had passed since the unit had arrived back from the catastrophe of a mission. The night had worn on and no one could find solace in the form of sleep. Sleep had not come for anyone that night, and it would further elude them for the entire morning. And, quite possibly, for a few days to come.

Members of The Circle could be seen sitting about the castle, tense and waiting, wondering what would happen next. Raustul had been caught trying to leave the castle, presumably to seek revenge on the rest of the cult. He was gently coaxed back to his room for a bit of proper rest and healing. Ever since then, the Demon Hunter hadn’t made a peep, which was quite odd for the amicable, energetic and quite talkative elf. There had been accounts, though, that he had been seen slipping out of his room, making his way towards the towers. But it was hard to tell, and no one wanted to knock on his door and disturb the poor, distraught elf.

Raustul, after all, had taken it exceptionally hard. He had been the one to hold Guntharius as the light left his eyes, and the moment haunted him, his mind replaying the memory over, and over.

And then there was Father Mourningsworn. The Death Knight had kept to himself after the incident, his face set in an uncharacteristically tense frown. Several of his comrades tried to engage him in a bit of conversation-- to try and glean from him any scrap of information involving the event-- but he had remained stagnant in his silence. Not at all unheard of for him, but his usually serene and pious aura had hardened, becoming chilly and reclusive.

No one had ever seen the calm Death Knight in such a dark, brooding mood.

Another looped cycle. Brevaar kept his nervous vigil up, wearing that figurative hole into the floor. The clip-clop, clip-clop of his hooves became the only thing he could hear, and even that had become background noise.

The spirit speaker sighed once more, shifting her sitting position in the mostly uncomfortable chair, hoping to somehow find a better way to rest her sore bones. The straight backed chair had been taken from one of the many studies littering the castle, and the wood was harsh on her back.

“Ay, mista monk...”

Another turn. Another cycle completed and began. The monk murmured to himself as he ran his thumb over his prayer beads. He couldn’t focus on any of the lessons, taught by the four Pandaren Gods themselves, so he mumbled out a jumbled up wall of miscellaneous quotations.

Tilting her head to the side, the Sandfury’s earrings and tusk ornamentation jingled. She was perplexed by the Draenei’s sudden disassociation from the world. Of course, as a spirit speaker and devoted follower to the great Mueh'zala, she was no stranger to death. Her life and its purpose revolved around the very concept. She could sense the spirits all around her, and even go far as commune with them and send them on their merry way. It was one reason why the Circle employed her. After all, someone had to make sure all those spirits passed on and didn’t linger as vengeful apparitions.

It did concern her that she could barely feel the Forsaken’s spirit. She was having a hard time feeling its presence just beyond that door. At times, she could. But at times, she couldn’t. Fleeting, like a dancing, flickering flame. She didn’t want to worry anyone just yet about the potential meanings.

Still, all this mourning and stressing… it was so strange to her. Sure, she had mourned the death of her twin at the hands of the corrupt Kor’kron, back during the days of Garrosh’s madness. But her mourning had been brief and short, for she knew what she knew. And she understood that spirits didn’t truly leave them, even after they had passed on.

But this Draenei was another story. He wasn’t a Sandfury, and so didn’t understand death quite like she could. And he wasn’t a spirit speaker. He was a monk. Religious in his own way, but not religious in hers.

Another cycle complete. And yet another began. The hooves and the murmuring of prayers was driving Lisi’mya to her breaking point.

“Mmmmnnnn--NAH!”

The cry startled the monk, and the Draenei stumbled to a halt. Weary eyes widening in shock, he clutched his prayer beads and stared at her, like a deer caught in the clutches of some gator: perpetually frozen, and too afraid to bolt and save himself.

Running her hands through her short crop of yellow hair, the Sandfury pinned the Draenei with a stern stare. “Why ya be doin’ dat, mon? All de pacing, and de mumbling, and de hoofies going ‘clop-clop’ all ova de place! Been at dis for hours, mon! Ya tink you could sit down for one minute a’fore I go tying ya up wit my string’a bones?”

For a long moment, the Draenei gawked at her, not really knowing what to say. But then, gradually, his posture changed. His hands shook as he clutched tightly his prayer beads, as if he were clinging, valiantly, to the only lifeline he had left. His body began to tremble, overburdened by grief and extreme fatigue. Big, fat tears began to slip down his cheeks, and he hastily took off his halfmoon glasses in order to wipe at his eyes.

Lisi’mya saw this, and her previously frustrated expression melted away. “Ay, noh, noh. I didn’t want’cha ta go and cry. Noh cryin’. Noh cryin’ in front of ol’ Lisi. Come ‘ere.”

The Sandfury rose from her seat and, although she wasn’t as tall as the Draenei, she threw out her arms to him. The monk, with a mournful wail, bolted over and gave her a desperate hug. Gently she patted his back, rubbing it reassuringly in hopes that she could somehow quell the storm in his heart.

“I--I… I…”

“There, there. Ya let it out ta ol’ Lisi now. Ya let it out. Don’t ya keep it in. Ya jus’ keep breathin’, now. Keep breathin’ and keep countin’ ta a hundred. Focus on dat, and let ya mind relax.”

Lisi’mya guided the distraught Draenei to a chair and gently lowered him into it. He was a bit heftier than most Draenei she had dealt with. As a monk, he didn’t have the abs that she had seen most paladins flash about. He had built up core fat and muscles through intense training. This, of course, only made moving him about a bit more awkward, what with her being shorter and skinnier. Somehow she managed.

“There. Now, what ya say your name be again?” Scratching the back of her head, her bangles jingling softly with the motion, she watched him weep. “I… I be sorry, not really knowin’ ya all dat well. We hardly go on missions togetha.”

“Brevaar,” the monk replied, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. He bent forward like a snapping weeping willow, his hands resting upon his knees. “I… I’m his adoptive brother.”

“Who’s?” After a moment, the Sandfury blinked her golden eyes in shock. She looked towards the closed door, then at the Draenei. Another double take, and she ventured out with an unsure, “ya mean…? Plaguespittah?”

“...Ravensbourne.”

“I thought his name be--”

“His name,” the Draenei whispered softly, his voice threatening to fail him, “is Aldris Ravensbourne.”

There was an uncomfortable moment where the Sandfury could tell that the Draenei was already experiencing the full spectrum of grief, only to, like his pacing, cycle back to the very beginning.

“Ahhh, that be his name before death took him. I see, I see…”

“He chose that name for him b--because he didn’t want to mar the family name.” Brevaar sucked in his breath, allowing his lungs access to oxygen once more. He took his sleeve and rubbed it back and forth against his eyes, hoping to sop up all of his tears. “I d--didn’t know he had been resurrected, as a Forsaken, until many, many years later. W--When he finally approached me.”

“He prob’ly--”

“He had wanted to keep me safe,” Brevaar interrupted. He looked up at the Sandfury, his expression tortured. “I’m sure of it. I’m of the Alliance, and he’s now a part of the Horde. Selflessly, he protected me by keeping away. T--The only reason he finally… approached me is because I was in trouble, and he couldn’t let me…”

Brevaar hiccuped and whimpered, and Lisi’mya couldn’t help but wonder if that was actually true. Had Guntharius-- no, Aldris-- cared that much that he had kept away from his own adopted brother? Or was there another motive behind it? The Sandfury would always be the first to admit that she didn’t quite trust what lay on the surface of things. Dealing with the dead did that to you.

“He is brash,” Brevaar said, “and often harsh and cold. But he’s kind. He’s kind, and loving, and has such a … a sense of depth to him.” Sitting up straighter, he sniffled. “He… bore the faces of humanity well. Better than most humans I know.”

Lisi’mya opened her mouth to say something when she heard footsteps approaching them. Brevaar must have heard it too, for he quickly rose from his chair, placing his glasses hastily back into place.

“Mista Tahvee!”

“Mr. Duskwither, S--Sir…”

“At ease. Please.”

The Archmage looked exhausted and aged by several centuries. Darkness already rung his eyes out of stress, and it gave him a haunted look. He had presented himself rather well, despite it all, and he had even gotten dressed in his typical magically attuned attire. After all, he had to fit the role he represented. Especially during this crisis.

Bowing his head before the monk, the Archmage genuflected with a sorrowful kneel before him. “I am sorry, Brevaar, for this turn of events. Please know… I did not want this to happen to anyone of my order. Especially not to your brother.”

“P--Please,” Brevaar croaked, tears threatening to flow anew. “D--Don’t kneel.” He started to tremble again as the elf stood back up. “It… this isn’t your fault. Ald--- Guntharius, he… is stubborn. But he chose what he did on purpose. I, I… know this because I know him.”

“I’m sure he did,” Taviast agreed, his voice soft and emotional. “My sincerest apologies on this tragic turn of events, but I can’t stay long to chat. I would like to speak more with you, in length, but at a later time.” Seeing the Monk nod numbly, he added, “I promise. I’ll make us some tea, and we can chat. For now, I’m afraid I need to attend some…”

He stopped himself from saying ‘business’. By the dead look in the Draenei’s eyes, Brevaar knew what this ‘business’ was. It wasn’t the typical sort of business they dealt with from day to day.

This business was very much a body viewing, more or less.

“That… would be nice,” the monk agreed absentmindedly as he sat back down. He blankly had begun looking up towards the ceiling, his heart and mind unable to take much more.

Grief was a terrible beast.

Taviast headed towards the door to the medical ward, but a strong hand stopped him halfway. He looked at the proud face of the Sandfury he had come to know as one of his most loyal of friends. They had conducted and overseen many different happenings together, and Lisi’mya was always the first to offer up her services when it involved making sure the dead passed on peacefully.

“Miss Lisi,” Taviast said, the flatness of his own tone making him visibly wince. “What can I do for you?”

“De deader inside,” Lisi’mya began, “he not be dere.”

Taviast felt his heart erratically skip a beat out of dread. “I--I’m afraid I must have misheard you, my dear. Could you please--”

“Gunthah ain’t really dere.”

Hushing her quickly, Taviast cast a quick look the monk’s way. Brevaar hadn’t moved, and his tear stained focus was directed primarily at a crack in the ceiling. He had gone into emotional shock and, though they should be helping him at the moment, they also knew it as best to leave him be.

At least he hadn’t heard what she had said.

“I don’t know what you are insinuating,” Taviast began, carefully, “but it doesn’t sound good.”

“It ain’t,” Lisi’mya said. “Ya know me, Mista Tahvee. Ya be knowin’ me many, many years. I be sensing de dead. And de dead know me. By now, I should’a had a good connection wit de spirit if he be gone from us.”

“And… you’re meaning to tell me that you don’t?”

“I feel noting.”

Taviast let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, that’s wonderful n--”

“But,” Lisi’mya interjected, letting go of his hand, “I also feel someting.”

“But you just said--”

“I feel noting,” the Sandfury intoned, “and, yet, I feel someting. His spirit be dere, but it be detached. It is severed, Mista Tahvee. And it be hanging barely on.” Gesturing towards the door with her head, she snorted. “Go on now. Ya go in dere, ya speak wit de balance healah. Ya talk ta Neleri, and ya hear what she be sayin’. And you’ll hearin' what I be sayin’, soon enough.”

The Archmage felt what could only be described as someone walking on his future graveside. The chill he felt was bone deep. And even as he watched Lisi’mya return to the suffering, grief stricken Draenei, he couldn’t help but dwell on her ominous warning.

Swallowing his fear, he turned towards the door, and slowly opened it.

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

“Do you ever sleep, Duskwither?”

“Not this again…”

Guntharius had found the Archmage by himself, as usual, pouring over books, maps and notes, and anything else that could help them with figuring out who to target next. The warlock had admitted in the past that he admired Taviast’s resolve, loyalty and tenacity when it had come to serving the order and its purpose. Even if it were maddeningly frustrating to deal with.

This time the elf hadn’t been found in a study of some sort. He had taken up a place in the dining hall, with a cold cup of tea next to him and an unfinished plate of fruit left to rot.

Picking up a strawberry slice, the warlock had shot the elf a withering look, who could only groan in response. “You’re not eating properly.”

“I understand you’re a doctor, but I don’t have time for a check up right now.”

“This isn’t a check up, Duskwither. This is me, being your second in command, telling you to eat some feldammed food before you pass out on us.”

“I eat.”

“Your own words.”

The lightning fast retort had caused the Achmage to sputter and laugh. He had laughed so hard that his lungs had screamed for air, and tears had stung his eyes. It had surprised him that the warlock still had humor to him. But, then again, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Guntharius had always been a strange fellow.

“Y--You,” he had wheezed out, “have been spending too much time around Raustul. Did he teach you that sort of retort?”

“He’s the best at shitty retorts.” He had given the elf a mischievous grin. “Don’t tell him I gave him a compliment. It'll go to his head.”

“I won’t,” the Archmage had lied.

Shaking the tiny strawberry slice between his fingers, Guntharius had offhandedly said, “if you won’t eat properly, I’ll make use of your food.”

Taviast had looked at Guntharius as he had popped the strawberry into his mouth. There had been a nauseating moment where he had watched the Forsaken chew, bearing witness to the acid-worn skin on his one cheek reacting to the jaw movement. Busying himself with his tea, he had tried to ignore the flash of red between the skin.

“It amazes me that Forsaken can still eat," he had absentmindedly stated, hoping to forget the mental image of the doctor eating the slice of fruit.

Swallowing, Guntharius had testily replied with a sharp, “we don’t need to. I, however, do. It gives me back a sense of mortality. It tells me that I am still a human. The routine of eating food reminds me of a time when I needed to eat basic food in order to sustain myself.”

A thought had come to the Archmage’s mind. Gingerly closing the tome he had been pouring over, Taviast had looked up at the warlock (who had taken perch on the edge of the table, sitting on it like some uncouth hooligan would have), and had voiced his curiosity with a tentative, “do you get check ups?”

The Forsaken had shot him a quizzical look, which had only further prompted the Archmage’s prodding.

“You know… a doctor visit. Come, now! Don't give me that look! Just because you’re a Forsaken, you, of all people, have to take exceptional care of your--”

“Husk.”

“Body,” Taviast had resolutely finished, trying to instill a bit of confidence in the Forsaken. Pointing at Plaguespitter, the Archmage had pinned him down with a definitive topic. He had been bitten by the bug of curiosity, and now he had wanted answers. “Forsaken need to keep preserving their bodies, correct?”

“Correct.”

“With lack of blood flow, and moisture being an issue for your skin…”

“Where the fuck are you going with this, Duskwither?”

“I’ve seen you take the time to take care of yourself. You use oils to moisturize your skin, and you bathe in order to keep clean. You also make sure you take care of any injuries you get, keeping them from festering and becoming infected with gangrene.” Picking a grape out from the Forsaken’s grasp, Taviast had let it fly with a flick of his fingers. “No avoiding the topic with the mimicry of eating, my friend. You’ve brought it up, and now I want to know. Do Forsaken go to see the doctor?”

“....What?”

“Is there a doctor for Forsaken?”

The warlock had scoffed at such a notion. Sliding off the table, he brushed by the Archmage as he made his way out of the dining hall. “A doctor for Forsaken. How fucking hilarious.”

“You could be the first one, you know.”

“Feh.”

“I mean it!” Taviast had stood up from the table, nearly knocking his cup of tea all over a few pieces of parchment. “You could be a doctor for the Forsaken! Give them some bloody hope! Bring back a sense of ‘mortality’ and all that. Let them feel normal again. Perhaps let them feel human, I daresay!”

The warlock had stopped in his tracks.

“...letting a Forsaken lay on a cold slab while I examine them… does that sound like a good thing for them to experience?"

"Well--"

"What, you think that would let them feel normal? Like the experimental rats and mindless thralls that the Banshee Bitch intended them to be, all along?”

“I didn't mean--”

“The Forsaken have always been experimental rats for that bitch,” the Forsaken had snarled. “No one has ever paid them any mind. They have been her personal playthings, doing her bidding, for as long as they have existed. Puppets on fraying strings. And she’s brainwashed most of them so that they slave and toil under her ruling, doing her bidding, not realizing they’re being treated like trash. The last thing any proper Forsaken would want is to lie on an operating table, with someone coldly inspecting them.”

Taviast had found that his voice had died away.

“... I thought so.”

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

And there Guntharius Plaguespitter remained. Lying on a cold operating table. With Neleri inspecting him, detached and emotionless.

There was something so profoundly wrong about this. Taviast felt the distinct sensation of intruding upon some forbidden sacred ground, and his presence was further perverting a place that shouldn’t be tread upon. Seeing the Forsaken’s prone form upon that operating table cast a sickening shadow of dread over his resolve.

Guntharius, while naked, was respectfully covered from the hips down by a sheet. His eyes were heavily lidded, but Taviast could see that, true to Raustul’s words, the glow had left the Forsaken’s lone good eye. It was dark now, milky, and veiled. Dead, like his one blind eye had been all this time. His face was drawn and gaunt, more than usual. The Forsaken had always had a sharply defined face. It was what made his stares all the more intimidating.

Beside the Forsaken, on a medical tray used for operations, sat a demonic skull. Normally this thing could be seen around Guntharius as he worked, hovering in the air, and moving on its own. It often glowed with an essence that bespoke of a spiritual source. Clearly something was still attached to that skull, and the warlock often held conversations with it.

The Archmage knew who that skull belonged to, but he tried to keep that a secret among the rest of The Circle.

With the horned, demonic skull inactive and the warlock so still and so silent, Taviast reluctantly approached the table, burdened with a considerable amount of creeping dread. This seemed so wrong, so vile. Jagged knives of guilt ripped through his heart, leaving it nothing more than an eviscerated lump of bloodied meat.

“Anchorite Neleri?”

The Draenei looked up at the elf with a calm sense of waiting. The curtain of dark hair failed to hide her amused expression. She had been expecting him, and as such didn’t quite find his sudden arrival to be all that out of the ordinary. After all, where the sick, infirm and dying lay, a loved one is usually not far behind.

“Mr. Duskwither,” she breathed out in her airy, wispy sort of way; like the fae with her movements and manner of speech. From every flick of her wrist to a shift in her stance, she had a dancer’s grace to her mannerisms, as slow and smooth as a countryside stream. “I was expecting you to arrive sooner than this…”

“I--I---” Taviast shuddered. He felt the same ominous sort of gloom that he had felt upon hearing Lisi’mya’s warning. Neleri had that sort of effect, too. No wonder she was a close friend to the Sandfury. They got along quite well. “I don’t recall,” he said, finally calming his nerves enough to become presentable, “ever announcing my arrival-to-be…”

“You didn’t,” the Anchorite’s peaceful words sighed out. “It is only natural for loved ones to visit those who have fallen.”

The Archmage watched as the Priestess of Balance moved around the table. She had taken up the Forsaken’s left arm and was turning it this way and that, examining the flesh and the odd burn pattern splotched over his skin. It reminded Taviast of an acid burn.

“That… does make sense,” he conceded.

“That,” the Priestess continued, lowering the unresponsive body’s arm down to the table, “and you are our lead commander and overseer. And you are incredibly guilt ridden.”

Despite himself, the elf gave her a funny sort of halfhearted smile. “My dear, am I that easy to read?”

“Perhaps.”

The Draenei turned to face him, her dusky skin even darker in the light of the medical ward. It was as if she took in all the darkness around her and held it within her body. And then her eyes! It was a common fact most Draenei had blue eyes that glowed. Hers burned an intense white: like twin flames of an ethereal soul up against the backdrop of twilight.

She moved over to him, an odd, spectral like walk without the grim charades. The burning candles littered about the room cast a timeworn glow upon her beautiful face. Her hooves made naught a sound as she seemed to glide across the wooden flooring. She approached until she was an arm’s length away. Reaching out, she cupped his cheek with her warm hand. The soothing scent of incense drifted from her robes, alleviating all cares and worries for a moment’s breath.

“That,” she murmured softly, her blank, white eyes searching his golden ones, “and it is clear you have been crying.”

She left him as he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. Returning to their comrade, she spread her arms out before her in a gesture of welcoming.

“He has been waiting for you, Mr. Duskwither.”

“Wh--What?” Panic stricken, the Sin’dorei looked towards the Draenei with an expression of denial. “How do you-- how can you--” Halting his mind from spilling out anything else, he collected his thoughts and took a deep breath before continuing. “Anchorite Neleri. Please, I mean no offense in what I am to say, but... I do not understand. Permit me this, and let me inquire as to what you are telling me. Articulate, I am afraid, for I am very much as lost as I appear to be. I don’t understand what you mean by ‘he has been waiting for me’. And, please, for the last time, call me Taviast.”

A soft, tinkling laugh escaped the Anchorite. Looking over her shoulder at him, she beckoned him, closer, with the dreamlike wave of her hand. “Come. Look.”

Taviast didn’t want to. He wanted to be the coward he knew he had always been, deep down, and run. He wanted to flee from the room, so wrapped up in his consuming denial that he could forget about what had happened. If he could go mad and fall back into a memory where his friend was well and able bodied once more, he would have gladly given himself to the essence of the maddening void.

But something pulled him closer. Morbid curiosity, perhaps. Or perhaps it was his guilt, or sense of duty, that drew him towards his fallen friend’s side.

“He… has been waiting for you, all this time. He will be very happy you visited."

Doubtful that the warlock would be happy about any of this, he tried to focus on connecting the puzzle pieces to this mystery.

Up close, Taviast could see the network of burns spanning his flesh. Like spiderwebs, but in blotches instead of strands. Normally his skin would have been chilly to the touch, but as the Archmage brushed his fingers against his slack hand, he realized that the Forsaken was warm. Unnatural and alarming, it went against all that was known for the undead race.

Along with the burned patches of Light-eaten skin, the tips of his fingers were blackened, and stained slightly green.

Catching the elf’s gaze, Neleri followed it. “Ah, yes,” she breathed out. Taking up the Forsaken’s hand, she spread his fingers. “According to the Demon Hunter--”

“Raustul.”

“--Doctor Plaguespitter tried to construct a shield against the holy attack. Something that would have hardened his defenses against it. According to the Demon Hunter’s--”

“Raustul.”

“--account of how it had smelled, the shield was made of felfire and shadow.”

Taviast had seen Guntharius use a similar tactic in tight situations. It was something the warlock tried to avoid, for it took a lot of his energy. He had to concentrate hard on it, and keep it up, often distracting him, or even disabling him, from concentrating on any other spells.

But it also meant one other thing.

“Guntharius thought there was a chance he could have endured it," he voiced aloud, struck by awe at the conclusion he had arrived at. He glanced over at the demonic skull on the tray, but it didn’t move, nor did its eyes glow in confirmation of his theory.

“Precisely.” Moving around to the Forsaken’s head, she let her fingers trail along his exposed collarbone. “He thought there was a chance in surviving the attack. He did not do what he did with the idea of sacrificing himself entirely. I have heard the others. Many thought his actions to have been doomed from the start. These members of our order think he had wanted to die."

"What with his past conversations about attempting to find a cure for 'undeath', I can see where they could have gotten that idea."

"An idea, it is. But it is wrong."

“I... understand.”

“And here.” Neleri pointed to the burn marks trailing up his neck. “There is a strange thing with these burns.”

Taviast leaned in close, taking in the droplet shaped form of a particularly nasty burn right below his ear. “They are burned into his skin sporadically,” he spoke up. “It is not in equal coverage. If he were engulfed in holy flames--"

"That is not it."

Confused, he gave her a questioning look.

“I healed that burn two hours ago.”

Sputtering, he gasped out, “I beg your pardon?”

Neleri cocked her head innocently to the side, watching the Archmage’s reaction, her expression quite feline in nature. “I healed the burn. The burn went away. And yet it returned. Do you understand?"

The heat of the Forsaken’s body. Burns, returning. By typical standards, such a thing shouldn’t happen. Fire did not continuously burn a person, long after breaking from the source of the exposure. But at the same time these burns had been obtained by a magical source. Not of a mage, but of a paladin. A paladin who had been tainted, of course, but a paladin nonetheless.

A horrible idea came to his mind.

“Neleri," he began, his tone incredulous. "Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

Wispily, the Draenei walked over to a chair. She lowered herself into it, looking weary. “Tell me… what you are thinking.”

He didn’t want to voice it. His tongue was heavy, his mouth cotton dry. The Circle had come to the unanimous conclusion that Guntharius had fallen into a coma. It was the only logical explanation. It put a word to his current condition, making it easier, more palpable to conceive. A coma gave one the idea of the infirm resting quietly in a suspended sense of sleep.

What he couldn’t comprehend was that the warlock-- their friend and commander-- was still feeling pain. There was a chance that he was still burning… from the inside out.

“I can’t--”

“It is like his body is responding to the healing,” she spoke up for him, “and not responding, all at the same time. He is stagnant, unable to get better or worse. He is resting between both worlds, his spirit unable to decide what it wishes to do."

Lisi'mya's words came floating back to Taviast, and he felt sickened to his core.

"Almost as if his soul is severed from…"

Hearing the elf muttering to himself, she made a placating gesture towards him. "I am afraid," Neleri breathily spoke, "that his visitation is finished… for now. I have used what energy I had left. If I am to attempt to heal him more, I must rest. I am not a strong shadow healer, and I am exhausted, Mr. Duskwither.”

“O--Oh, yes.” All too aware that the Anchorite had been going at it for hours, attempting to stave off the Forsaken’s eternal plight by using healing shadow magic, the Archmage bowed deeply before her. “I thank you for your services,” he began, his throat tight with tears. “You have... been an asset to this order, and I can’t possibly begin to show you the depth of my appreciation.”

Gently waving aside his compliment, the willowy Priestess merely smiled a placid, serene smile. “I do not take forms of appreciation, verbal or otherwise. I am an Anchorite, Mr. Duskwither.”

“Just Taviast, my dear.”

“I serve the dying," she continued on, as if not realizing she was cut off. "I tend to the broken bones, the burned flesh, and to all those suffering souls toiling away on this planet you call Azeroth.”

“We,” he undecidedly spoke up. He wasn’t sure if he should even attempt to correct her. “We call this planet--”

No. On secound thought it wasn’t worth arguing.

Taviast wished Guntharius would wake up. He mentally begged and prayed to the Gods above to whisk away the curtain of agony, rid him of his current plight and allow him to rouse. He wanted to apologize to his friend, to tell him that he understood, now. Understood everything. A great welling of anger was festering in the pit of his stomach, great plumes of noxious clouds suffocating his lungs. An insatiable need for vengeance rooted him to the floorboards, festooning him with his mentally constricting bindings.

As his gaze fell back upon his friend’s pallid face, he swore he saw a flicker of life in his deadened eye. He felt his breath for a moment, searching for that warm, amber glow to appear once more…

No. What a fool he was.

What a fool that cult made his order out to be.

Again the flash of rage. Again the sensation of his blood becoming a torrent of hot molten lead, pushing through his capillaries and arteries. His heart had erupted into a whirling inferno-- a victim of a vitriolic conflagration-- and he swore that only ash would remain in the end.

Squeezing Guntharius’s hand, Taviast whispered a promise in his friend’s ear, his voice hitching with emotion.

As Taviast left the room, so consumed in his thoughts, he didn't pause to consider what it was he had just promised his friend. His vengeful vow, he had told himself, had fallen on deaf ears. He had hoped, somehow, that his words could have reached Guntharius but, then again, perhaps it would be for the best. He knew that the Forsaken had wanted him to embrace his inner darkness, as much as he had his inner light, for no balance could ever be achieved with one side of his scales being too heavy. Despite that, for a mere second, as his resolute footfalls echoed against the floorboards, he wondered what the warlock would have thought of him, had he heard and had he known.

If only the elf had turned around.

As the door was shut behind the Archmage, the prone, lost soul’s eye dimmed once more, losing the brief flicker of amber flame that once indicated life.

He had listened.

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

Shokhi Ebondraft hurried up the curving stairway. She had just left the main prison area. It was a location deep within the very bowels of that castle, in an area known as Plaguespitter’s laboratory. There the warlock concocted many of the potions they used during their various missions. It’s also where he tested his more sinister brews on those captured. Guntharius had always been the order’s jailer and warden, but he was also their inquisitor. It was a well known fact that he often tortured those that they brought back.

It was a thankless job, but somebody had to do it.

In the absence of Guntharius, Shokhi had taken up the role and tried her hand (or, rather, paw) at it. She had just finished with the Circle’s prisoner and High Seer of the Gaze of N’zoth, Clayton Whatley, and had gotten all the information she could possibly glean from the stubborn, and insane, cultist. She had a strong inkling that most of the information that she clutched tightly in her paw was false. The cultist had babbled out mostly nonsense at first. Quite possibly in an attempt to confuse her with some well placed red herrings. But she had preserved over the inane babbling and had found a way to get him to talk.

Thankfully Guntharius kept some vials of various poisons, acids and other such dark instruments of torture on hand.

Her footfalls were soft and nearly inaudible against the stonework of the worn, cold stairway. She had been so good at keeping quiet that it was only natural that she took notice of the approaching footsteps coming her way, descending from the top.

She looked up, half expecting some intruder to have somehow found their way into the castle. It was creepy enough that she had to deal Taviast’s Eye of Arcanum had watched her throughout the interrogation of subsequent torture of Whatley. It had unnerved her how the thing gazed on, unblinking, as the cultist screamed.

It had wandered off a few minutes before she was done, disappearing beyond sight by simply blinking through the door. She had expected to run into it at some point on her journey upwards towards the base level of the castle, but she hadn’t

What she hadn’t expected was to run into Taviast himself.

“Oh-- hey, there!”

The Pandaren flashed a toothy grin, her tone bouncy and her body language cheerful. It was an unsettling juxtaposed version reality: the few stains flecking her outfit, clearly of blood, painted another picture.

She stopped on the step she was, watching Taviast approach and stop before her. There was something dark about him. Something she couldn’t quite place. The was an intense heat to his eyes and a subtle tenseness to his body. There was an aura about him: hot, crackling and intense.

“Hey, while you’re here…” She handed over the rolled up sheets of parchment. The Archmage did not meet her eye as he took it from her. “Our friend down there spilled a lot of in-ter-esting stuff. But I’ve got the feeling that he was holding back on a lot of it. And it sounds like it’s been a trap all along.” Tapping the parchment as the elf unfurled it to read, she added, “I put down everything I could get out of him. The guy really didn’t want to talk. So I had to convince him that it was best he did.” She flashed her toothy grin once more, her emerald eyes glowing ominously. “You know, just a little friendly chat between frenemies.”

Taviast Duskwither had remained silent during her little explanation, keeping his eyes fixated on the pieces of parchment he had been handed. He extensively scoured the notes produced from the interrogation of Whatley, and something about his whole demeanor began to darken.

“...soooo,” Shokhi began, drawing out the word in order to fill the awkward silent space between them. “What do you--”

“Move. Now.”

Startled, Shokhi looked up, once more, at the Archmage’s face. And it was then that she came to the conclusion as to what it was she hadn’t recognized at first.

Flattening herself against the wall of the stairway, she allowed the elf to pass. She watched him descend down the staircase, the two sheets of paper crumpled into a tight fist. Unable to stop the chill from scattering down her spine, she shuddered.

Never before had she seen such a malevolent expression on his face.

#Cuddly writes some things

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