#But then it just gradually shifts like it's going down the drain but like subtly. I want that to be shown and not tell | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-apocryphal-one · 3 years

Text

Ebb and Flow

Summary: She has always been watching him, hasn’t she? From the moment she met him. Maybe it was inevitable she would start seeing other things. Astarion x Isaniel

Also check it out on AO3 here and ff.net here!

A/N: whelp, here I am. writing fic with my OCs. that never happens. but this cheeky little bastard left me no choice. I fell in love with him so quickly, I had to write how my character did (or is starting to...getting there...feeling feelings...look we're still in EA and I love slow-burn enemies to lovers).

Minor spoilers ahead!

A mix of old paranoia and carefully-honed insight tell Isaniel, from the moment she meets him, that Astarion is suspicious. The only reason she even approaches the grass is because the risk of leaving an intellect devourer on the loose is far greater than the risk of exposing her back to a stranger. One is a dangerous beast that could quickly kill her or innocents if left unchecked; the other, she believes, is just an elf she knows to be wary around. He cannot do anything she is not braced for.

She is wrong. He is far stealthier than she’d expected.

After she diffuses the situation and they agree to work together, Isaniel subtly flexes her left hand. His dagger had cut into her palm as she’d struggled to pull it away from her throat. It was deep enough to merit healing, and she knows it’ll scar. A lesson.

It’s not an easy thing, to watch your surroundings and look for other survivors and keep someone in your peripheral vision, but she manages.

That night, everyone at camp is wary, watching each other, gauging their trustworthiness. They’re all newly acquainted, a collection of cast-off captives with bombs in their heads. It’s simultaneously the most ironclad and the thinnest of bonds. But gradually, one by one, they drift off.

Isaniel tries not to. Decades of learning to embrace Eilistraee and lower her guard around others have vanished tonight. She sits, staring at Astarion across the fire, and he stares back. His eyes are somehow both jeering and flirtatious, the planes and shadows of his face even more beautiful in the firelight. They sit for hours, just watching each other, her quiet declaration that she wouldn’t turn her back on a stranger heavy between them.

But eventually, exhaustion creeps up on her and slips the trance over her head, and then it is morning.

His smugness is unbearable.

Isaniel considers herself a practical woman. You can’t not be and survive the Underdark. She will refuse to give up on a cure until her body physically starts to change, but she knows that the second it does, she wants the others to cut her down—the same way she’d cut them down if they began to transform.

So when Astarion asks how she wants him to kill her should she sprout tentacles, she’s not affronted. She sees it as professional courtesy.

After some thought, she decides on a knife. Poison is not gentle, nor quick. Neither is strangulation. A good, clean thrust to the heart or head, though, will be fast and painless. The best result for her and those around her.

His eyes light up with enthusiasm as he discusses her choice, and Isaniel remembers how quietly he’d snuck up on her. This is not just professional courtesy, she realizes. This is a man who intimately knows the art of death, and loves it. And at that realization, the walls that had started to cautiously lower, just a tad, jerk back into place.

When he finishes, she crosses her arms, cocks her head, smiles coolly. “And you? How shall I kill you?”

His teeth flash an almost unnatural white when he grins. “Oh darling, I’d love to see you try.”

The night they gain some leads, she finds him stargazing while doing the rounds of the camp. When she pauses to speak with him, it is surprisingly nice. His quip about “taking or leaving” her chin makes her lips twitch, despite herself. And she can’t help but approve of someone who can also appreciate the beauty of the night sky.

Her eyes seek out the moon instinctively. Her hand closes around her sword pendant for a brief moment. Eilistraee, watch over me.

For a brief heartbeat, an echo of a song floats through her mind. It’s the same music that stopped her dead in a marketplace in the Underdark, so beautiful and ethereal and divine it almost brought tears to her eyes. Isaniel would later learn that Eilistraee was always seeking to touch the hearts of the drow, and had been beyond grateful she’d listened. But at the moment, all she had known was that she could not rest until she’d found that music again. Hearing it again now is a promise.

The notes fade, but she doesn’t feel empty like she did that day in the Underdark. Her goddess is with her and loves her, and there is nothing more comforting in the world than that. Even Astarion seems not so bad in that moment, and they bask together in the companionable silence.

But then he wonders aloud what will happen in the future, and the illusion of safety breaks. She briefly mourns its departure; then, she straightens her shoulders and looks back at reality. And reality includes him.

She gives him a taste of his own medicine: “What? Would you miss me?” He laughs, rises, and compliments her. She accepts it, and in doing so deflects. He flirts, invades her personal space. Out of sheer stubbornness, she refuses to step back. To do so would be to admit that he has unnerved her. It’s not just his proximity; it’s this undercurrent of something.

The dance ends; he leaves. The tension drains out of her body.

When she emerges from a restless, unsuccessful trance and finds Astarion leaning over her, Isaniel lashes out. Her elbow catches him square in the jaw; he curses and stumbles back, and she almost attacks while he’s off-balance. But she’s a follower of Eilistraee, and somehow, she’s become the leader of their group. Both of those factors give her a responsibility to hear him out. So, she stomps down on those old, false instincts and lets him talk.

It’s almost a relief to find out he’s a vampire. The secret is out, and now she can deal with it. Really, Isaniel feels like a fool for not putting the pieces together. The sun doesn’t burn her eyes anymore, thanks to the tadpole—why shouldn’t a vampire be able to walk in it as well? But she’d just assumed that his red eyes were indicative of drow blood somewhere in his family, the fangs some form of genetic defect.

Astarion asks her to trust him. Incredulously, she counters that he tried to bite her. He retorts that they need each other. And then he begs for a sip of her blood.

Isaniel takes a deep breath. Looking around, she realizes that their brief scuffle woke the others up. She decides to give them the benefit of the doubt and assumes that they only watch because they’re too surprised to actually do anything. But that’s irrelevant right now. She turns her focus inwards and analyzes exactly how much they need Astarion.

He’s the best among them at picking a lock. His speed is blinding. He’s deadly with his daggers. And he moves so silently…

Losing him would be bad, she has to admit. So: keeping him means feeding him. And logically, it makes sense that a vampire would not find animal blood as nourishing. Oh, she knows he’s manipulative, she doubts he’s telling the whole truth with his “I’ve never fed on humans!” spiel—but she does believe him in that, at least.

She certainly can’t half-starve him, but she will not let him eat innocents. So…what other options are there? Letting him feed off their enemies? Plausible; but that is a question for the morning. Because Astarion is ultimately right: it really comes down to whether she can trust him.

Isaniel doesn’t know what surprises her more: that she does trust him, or that the events of this night haven’t cost him all of it.

Well, she trusts him to an extent. She gives him his share of night shifts, she relies on him in battle, and he has easy access to their food. But that’s trusting him not to kill them; keeping him, knowing what he is, requires trusting him to not lose control. It means trusting that if an emergency happens and he needs their blood, he won’t go into a frenzy and drain them dry.

A test, then. If he reverts to a creature of base instinct, if he cannot be reasoned with, if he tries to kill her, she will kill him. Better to discover the extent of his self-restraint now, while she’s alert and prepared to stop him, than later, when circumstances might not be so fortuitous.

So she sends up a quick prayer to Eilistraee, bares her neck, and lies down.

He gets caught up in the moment, but her command to stop brings him out of it easily enough. He lets her go, breathless and smiling, thanks her, and stalks off.

Isaniel can’t be angry at him; after all—and this is very hard to admit, even to herself—she almost got caught up in the moment too.

Sometimes she would catch him gazing at the sky, during the day, open wonder on his face. Now she knows why.

Isaniel can understand that. With her eyes no longer burning, she can drink in the tableau around her in a new way. There are shades of color she couldn’t quite discern before, and everything seems so much richer in the sun. How many drow have been able to do this? Very few, most likely.

It’s not enough to make her want to keep the parasite—it could never be enough—but it is something she can’t help but appreciate.

The day the sickness strikes, Isaniel gives the order to make camp where they stand, long before night falls. They’re all just too exhausted to keep traveling, even to search for a suitable place to rest.

That’s not the only thing they’re too exhausted for, as it turns out. Not one of them can muster the energy to scout for nearby threats, or camouflage, or stand guard. Even Lae’zel’s attempt at a “mercy kill” is sloppy. They’re all so pathetic a kobold could walk into their midst and kill them.

Between talking Lae’zel down and doing her customary rounds of their parody of a camp, Isaniel’s low energy reserves are completely barren. As she crawls into her bedroll, for some reason, her mind turns back to Astarion’s panic.

He’s usually so self-assured. Smiling in the face of anything. Ready with his rapier wit. The complete unraveling of his composure is…alarming.

But before she can think much more on that, a fresh wave of tremors hits her. She squeezes her eyes shut, curls into a ball, and prays.

The next morning, Isaniel wakes up with heartache—and fury.

How dare it? How dare that parasite approach her in the guise of her dead husband? How dare it speak with his voice, ignite her skin with his touch, dishonor his memory by wearing his face? The sickness of the previous night is completely forgotten; instead, she shakes with rage as she brushes her hair, checks her equipment, gears up. Her fingers itch to play her lute and vent it all out in jagged, discordant music—but no. Astarion’s pale form is up and about, but the others are still sleeping.

She pauses and subtly studies him. He looks much better now; his movements are fluid again, his step springy. Even his hair somehow seems extra fluffy.

He turns, catches her staring, and winks. She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch, damn them. Definitely back to normal.

At that, the memory of the dream rears its head. Her anger, which had started to simmer down, flares up anew. Isaniel scowls as she struggles with her sword belt, her normally dexterous fingers made clumsy by emotion. Curse that tadpole to the Hells—

“Well hello! Feeling better, are we?”

Astarions voice rings from right next to her, and she jumps. Eilistraee’s sword, how did she not realize he was a vampire sooner? No one can move that silently and swiftly and still be mortal.

“I certainly am,” he continues, without waiting for her answer. “This morning I find myself free of pain and with a new trick. A new power. Last night, the risk of transformation—it all feels like some terrible dream now.”

A dream…

Isaniel doesn’t know why she opens up to him. Maybe it’s because he’s around and she needs to get it off her chest. Maybe it’s because his witty tongue actually does make her chuckle, despite herself. Maybe it’s because he draws her eyes like the moon draws the tide.

Regardless, she ends up spilling the contents of her dream, anger and pain leaking into her voice. Astarion doesn’t really say anything; he just listens, eyes bright with curiosity and intrigue. But just listening is enough; she can feel an invisible weight lifting off her with every word out of her mouth.

When she finishes speaking—with an exhale of relief—he asks if she enjoyed it. Her fists clench at the memory of that intruder’s touch on her skin. “No, it felt invasive. Uncomfortable.”

“We had the same dream, then. The worm’s trying to be…enticing.”

Had he also seen someone he’d loved? But that blank look, the flat voice…there’s more to it than that, she’s sure. Isaniel hesitates, then pushes him to share. He lent her an ear, in his typical flippant fashion, but an ear nonetheless. It’s only fair to return the favor.

The truth of what he really dreamed about surprises her. She finds herself blurting out, “Your old master? That doesn’t sound ‘enticing’.”

“It was not,” he says, voice raw and low. “I—we don’t need to talk about it.”

And—oh.

That flash in his eyes. That pain.

Her throat closes.

It was brief, but she saw it. She would never mistake it.

It’s the pain of someone who has been trapped in darkness for so long they don’t even know light exists. The pain of someone who lived with cruelty every minute of every hour of every day. The pain of someone who does not let themselves feel pain, does not even acknowledge they are in pain, because that would be weakness and wolves would descend on them if they admitted to that.

It was her pain, before Eilistraee.

Isaniel is not good at comforting people. She knows how to talk people into doing what she wants and how to keep their group more or less from killing each other. But put her in a room with a crying woman or a scared child, and she’s just lost. Emotions are messy and difficult to deal with.

But at this moment, she wants, more than anything, to brave them. To let him know he’s not alone.

She can’t think of anything to say, can’t figure out how to put this epiphany into words, so hesitantly, she reaches out a hand—

And he recoils like a snake. Then, he strikes like one, eyes and fangs flashing, venom flying from his mouth as he renounces her pity.

It’s not pity, she wants to say. It’s not pity, because I know how hard it is to survive an environment that wants more than anything to break you. To pity you would belittle your strength. It’s empathy and support.

But she’s so stunned that by the time she’s able to begin, “It’s not pity,” it’s too late; his retreating back is the only thing that hears her.

One of Isaniel’s first memories is of her mother killing her pet bat, then slapping her until she stopped crying.

It was as a lesson, of course: that love was something that would only be exploited. The sort of lesson that every drow child learned young. Other lessons included how to think creatively, hurt others, scheme, and be paranoid—Isaniel still remembers carefully pouring poisons and potions into large, hollow glass beads and stringing them into her jewelry.

The lessons that had really struck a chord with her, though, had been how to create. Her family had been artisans, and had held a relatively secure position as employees to a well-off merchant clan. The plotting hadn’t been as intense as among the nobles, but it was still dangerous. After all, there were rival artisans and rival merchant clans to watch out for or destroy, and Isaniel had done her share of participating in that.

But oh, she had truly loved art, beauty, music. Eilistraee used that to reach her, and through it Isaniel came to love Eilistraee in turn. But it took a long time. Secretly seeking information about that music, a flight from the Underdark, and decades of studying the teachings of Eilistraee, testing them, putting them in practice, before the scars the Underdark left on her had begun to heal. Decades in which she found companionship with others of her faith, met her husband, became a mother…lost her husband to the ravages of time…

And now, after such a long time away from the toxic mindset she grew up with, she has come face to face with someone who embraces it. And she is torn.

There is a part of her, one that Eilistraee has grown and nourished, that is appalled in the face of Astarion’s casual cruelty towards others.

There is a part of her, one that Eilistraee has also grown and nourished, that begs her be compassionate and forgiving.

There is a part of her, one that she has abandoned but clings to her like a ghost nonetheless, that screams at her to end the threat before he ends her.

There is a part of her, one that has been with her as long as she can recall, that sees his trauma, and remembers, and empathizes.

Their experiences are not the same. But the darkness is the same.

She does not know what to make of him. She does not know what she should believe or do about him. So she watches, and speaks with him, and tries to understand.

Their travels eventually take them to a swamp, and there, they find a Gur. A monster-hunter. That in itself wouldn’t necessarily mean anything, but it’s foolish not to gauge his intentions, considering her company. So, in-between Astarion’s light insults, she inquires.

He says he’s hunting Astarion. Not to kill him, but to capture him.

Ice settles in Isaniel’s belly.

Capture him. And bring him to his “associates” in Baldur’s Gate. Back to Cazador. Back to the bastard who scarred him down to his very marrow. Back to chains and torment.

That’s not going to happen, she thinks vehemently.

Astarion is practically vibrating in place, his red eyes hard and uncompromising, his hands hovering close to his daggers. And yet, he still waits for her order. Out of genuine respect for her authority? Trust that she’ll neutralize the hunter? She’s not sure, but something about it is…a little touching.

She gives the word, and he lunges.

The battle with Auntie Ethel is tough, but manageably so. They all stay away from the cliff edges and destroy her illusionary copies as soon as they appear, they put out the fires near Mayrina and keep her out of harms’ way, and while the hag’s spells are powerful, they all somehow manage to avoid the worst of the damage.

But Auntie Ethel is one of those types. The type that likes to taunt and mock with a loud, clear voice that rings across the battlefield. And through some hag witchery, she knows how to hit where it hurts.

“Is there still rat stuck in your teeth, slave?”

She’s not near him, but Isaniel can see Astarion’s flinch—then his strikes resume, much faster and more furious than before. Her own teeth grind with outrage and sympathy, and she redoubles her efforts, and soon the hag is brought down.

She is not feeling quite as sympathetic when, after bidding a crestfallen Mayrina farewell, Astarion blithely remarks that it was a pity the young mother-to-be couldn’t see the funny side in her husband being resurrected as a zombie.

And yet, he voiced his approval back when they helped Karlach.

It’s not like that outweighs it. Life isn’t a set of scales. Helping one woman doesn’t balance out being amused at another’s pain. The people Isaniel hurt back in the Underdark wouldn’t care or forget just because she helped someone else now. Words and actions have permanent, tangible impacts.

It’s not like she wants to “fix” Astarion, either. People can’t be “fixed”. They can be broken or damaged by others—but never returned to who they once were. They carry the scars and lesions on their heart, like Isaniel does. With time and support, they hopefully heal, but that’s only if they want to.

It’s more like—and she might be projecting a bit, or biased because of her past—remembering Karlach gives her hope that Cazador didn’t destroy Astarion’s humanity.

Maybe it was inevitable.

Isaniel weaves throughout the party, smiles freely, even dances and sings. It’s impossible not to—the tiefling’s joy is infectious, the gentle warmth of the wine is infusing her body, and the moon is full and smiling overhead. All of her problems will still be there tomorrow, but tonight is a night for forgetting, and celebrating, and living.

The back of her neck prickles, again. This time she doesn’t ignore it. This time, she turns, somehow already knowing what she’ll see.

Sure enough, there’s Astarion, lurking on the fringes of the party, a glass of wine in hand, eyes fixed on her. Under the moonlight, his hair is practically glowing, his skin silver-tinted. He looks like some ethereal king of night and winter, standing there silhouetted against the darkness. It’s striking.

Striking. Oh.

She has always been watching him, hasn’t she? From the moment she met him. Maybe it was inevitable she would start seeing other things.

A jostle jars her out of her thoughts; she’d stopped moving right in the midst of the dancers. She mutters an apology to the tiefling couple and hastily clears the floor. Glances up again.

Astarion is still watching her.

Before she consciously decides to do it, her feet take her towards him. She falters when her mind catches up to her body, almost turns and runs. There’s something in his eyes, something in the air, something between them that crackles with intensity and promise.

But it’s too late to run—he’s coming towards her, too. Her heart lodges itself in her throat. Stay strong, she tells herself.

Whether she wants that strength to resist the shifting currents in their relationship or to swim towards them, she does not know.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion baldur's gate #astarion bg #astarion x charname

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johns-prince · 4 years

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Make a Whole Fanfic of Fem!Paul Being Pregnant please?

Paula stared intensely in the full body mirror, stark naked, towel discarded at her feet. Had just finished her bath, water all drained from the tub for some time-- and as she'd been drying herself off, she had caught herself in the mirror.

In front of the mirror now, probably longer than five minutes, turning herself this way and that. She could only really see it, when she turned to the side and looked at herself that way; her stomach, with a noticeable bump.

She couldn't stop staring. There hadn't been any real, visible changes to her, physically, since she'd gotten pregnant. Cor they'd barely found out about nine, ten? weeks ago, and besides the occasional morning-evening-midnight sickness, and the slow start of cravings. She had noticed tenderness in her breasts, though that was easy enough to shrug off.

But there it was, a much more blatant sign that, Paula, was in fact pregnant. A little baby bump.

So enthralled with this newly discovered change, she hadn't even noticed someone hovering over at the doorway, watching, or when they entered.

"Paulie?"

A sharp intake of air, startled by not just the voice, but of familiar arms wrapping about, under her arms, and around her midsection. Looking up, staring back at her through the mirror, was John. Resting his chin on her shoulder, not at all bothered by the wet, damp pieces of her hair, tickling the side of his face. He had his glasses on-- seemed to be much more comfortable wearing them, after coming back from his filming in Spain.

She couldn't be more pleased.

She smiled, subtle at first, "Can't a girl get any privacy around here?" Her smile then grew alongside his. His arms tightened around her, and not entirely surprising, but certainly not appreciative, a large, warm hand craned up to cup her left breast. "You're the one who left the door open," he replied, lowly, almost whispered into her ear. He gave a squeeze, and Paula squeaked, followed by an unamused huff as she wiggled and squirmed her way out of his arms.

This time, he let her go, smiling in a way that made her want to sock him in the arm. How old were they, again?

"Don't be such a prude, Paulie," he prodded, getting a snort from the woman as she picked her towel back up, ignoring stubbornly how his eyes watched her like a hawk. Wrapping herself back up, she said, "I just washed, John, not even out of the bathroom yet." Towel tied, pulling her hair over one shoulder and leaning over as she proceeded to wring out her long, dark hair, she finally met his gaze; playful and provocative, mock-serious and annoyed. A bit of edge to her voice now, "If I'm such a prude you're more then welcomed to go kip it out on the couch." John's eyebrows lifted at that, smile gradually shifting to one of his smirks.

A standoff. Paula busying herself in twisting her hair to try and wring out as much water from it. John, moving to have his arms crossed over his chest, hip cocked out to the side.

She won the moment she flipped her hair back, and moved as if to walk past him, cool.

"Don't be like that," calloused hands, on her biceps, pulling her back to be standing before him, and stay there, in case she tried fleeing again. Doe eyes gazed up, her head having to tilt back some just so she could meet him, eye for eye. She didn't balk in her performative irritation at his childish treatment. He sighed.

"I came in here to check up on ya," he said, lightly, "Not just to cop a feel." She twitched at that, one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows subtly arching up. Hands caressing up, one stopping at her shoulder, the other moving against the side of her neck, and cradling the side of her face, she couldn't help the thrill that went through her. He continued, carefully, almost...shyly, "Everything had gone all quiet, so, got a bit worried, is all."

For a moment, neither really moved, but then Paula is pressing her cheek against his touch, gaze softening. "Say about anything t'not go sleep out on the couch, hmm?" She lets out an amused huff of air from her nose as John's gaze narrowed, mouth quirking. "Paula, I was worried," he reaffirms, giving a harmless little pinch to Paula's soft, round cheek.

"What were you doing, anyway? Staring at yourself?" He asks, catching as those hazel eyes glance sidelong at the mirror. Paula might be meticulous in her appearance but, that wasn't what John saw.

She sucks in her bottom lip, bites at it, only for it to slip loose as she responds, still looking over at the mirror. "I've a bump."

When there's no response right away, she glances back up at John, who, now has a bemused little expression. "Pardon?" A bump?

She repeats herself, softer, "My stomach... I've a, a baby bump." Felt funny, saying it. Left this, warmth, blooming in her chest. Could even feel her cheeks flush, leaving a lovely pink hue across her face.

And at first, it was like that little tidbit had to process for John, but even when it seemed like it did, his expression was... Unreadable. Taking a step back, amber eyes darting down from behind his specs, as if trying to look through her towel...

Then his hands are tugging free the towel from around Paula's body, her letting out a small sound of protest, though when she caught it, held it steadfast to her body, John grabbed at her hands. Looking up at him, an impatient glint in those eyes of his, "Let me, I want t'see."

Biting at the inside of her lip, she gives in with a soft sigh. Let's the towel drop, a light weight landing on the tiled floor.

There were only a few times in their relationship, that Paula had ever felt truly self conscious around John. The first might've been when they met at the Fete, which at times felt like only yesterday-- or a million, million years away. Most notable was their first time together, when they undressed each other in John's childhood bedroom.

And now, she found herself once again, feeling hot and uncertain, with John's serious attention, intense and precise. All of it on her stomach.

At first, he couldn't really see it (adjusted his glasses, even)-- not until he carefully, physically directed Paula to turn to the side-- which she did, with no protest.

And then he noticed. He noticed the subtle curve of her stomach. A little bump. When had this happened?

Paula turns herself back to face him, John goes down on one knee, and pulls her closer by his grip on her hips.

"John--" She tries, thinking perhaps he's going in for something filthy, only to have her words catch in her throat as she feels warm lips being pressed to her stomach, just below the naval. Has her sucking in briefly in a soft laugh, snorting, hand coming down to the top of his head, long, slender fingers lightly burying themselves in the auburn locks. "Tickles," she'd comment under her breath, though John doesn't seem to pay her much mind.

Once she settles, he's back to pressing lips to that little bump, making her shift and squirm bit as he presses his cheek to it, his whiskers a rough contrast to the soft, pale skin, covered in the lightest peach fuzz.

Quietly, she watches this, the hand in his hair gently petting, carefully curling strands around her fingers. John could be absolutely ridiculous.

And she loved him for it.

So she let him, for at least a couple minutes.

"Getting cold, Johnny." The slender hand, buried in his hair giving a playful little tug. His affections stopping, tilting his head back to gaze up at her through those long eyelashes.

With a grunt, John stood. The fondness in his eyes threatening to overpower her. Wondered if she looked just as hopelessly, foolishly besotted, too.

Completely discarding the towel, and in impulsive fashion, John would scoop his sweet darlin' up into his arms, laughing as she squirmed and snapped at him to put me down John Lennon!

But he didn't, course he didn't, and only put her down once at their bed. That night, John would fall asleep with his arm over Paula's side, hand pressed snuggly against her growing stomach.

#mclennon #au: genderbend #fem!paul #mclennon au #mclennon fic idea #does this count as a whole ass fanfic? idk #im sorry this is terrible

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sadoeuphemist · 4 years

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The first time Sisyphus moved the boulder, it loomed above him. Sisyphus was cunning, and crafty, but the boulder was a giant rock and was unmoved by craftiness; could be moved by nothing but brute force. Sisyphus put his back into it, sweated and strained until all at once he felt the boulder shift like the world moving underneath him, and panicked; and then the boulder shifted back and rolled over his toe.

Sisyphus screamed and shrieked and wept. His bloody toenail was hanging off by a scrap of skin. All his muscles hurt, and the boulder loomed above him impassively. Sisyphus curled up in its shadow, clutching his poor foot, and wept.

Eventually, he got to his feet, still sniffling, and tried again.

The sun neither rose nor fell in Tartarus. There was no way to keep track of the days. Sisyphus marked the passage of time only by his improvement. He learned grip, and leverage, how and where to push. He learned the boulder well, and the hill, found fingerholds and footholds. His toenail grew back. He moved the boulder inch by inch, and found himself in strained exertions inching up the hill. He learned to brace his shoulder against the boulder, take a moment to breathe, wipe the sweat from his eyes. He could look down, and see the stretch of hillside below him.

And then the boulder slipped, and it and Sisyphus rolled all the way together back down to the bottom of the hill.

Sisyphus wept and screamed and cried as if he was new to this. He had to wait for his bones to heal. He walked with a limp, when he began to try again. He worked with his heart beating in his chest, hyper-vigilant, inching his way back up the hill, and when he was nearly to the top the boulder slipped again. Sisyphus leapt out of the way this time, and it only crushed his ankle. He lay on the hillside, cursing the heavens, beating his fists against the rocky soil. Eventually, he got to his feet and hobbled back down to the boulder.

Time passed.

Sisyphus built failure upon failure. He grew expert at his task, learned to move the boulder as an extension of his own weight. When he had his arms around it, it was as if he had been born with a conjoined twin, a great tumor, and had waltzed with it through life from childhood, as naturally as some men put one foot in front of the other. Every time, when he reached that point nearly at the crest of the hill, the boulder inevitably slipped and rolled back down. One day Sisyphus let it roll down beyond his reach, having expertly leaped aside at the fatal point, and knew in his heart the truth. There was no more point in trying, nothing more to learn.

The task was impossible.

In a way, this was a relief. He had suspected it for a long, long time, noted with cynical eye the inevitable slip-up, no matter how carefully or gradually he had gone, every time right before he was about to crest the peak. But in the learning his mood had shifted subtly to a cheerful resignation. As punishments went, there were worse. He had learned the challenge, every inch of it, taken it to its limits. Was that not, in its own way, success?

Sisyphus’ ordeal took on a holiday atmosphere. He would wake, stretch himself, begin his communion with the boulder once more. His muscles bulged. His traps stood out like the slopes of pyramids. He invented new exercises with boulder, strained new muscles to their limits, perfected his form. He could roll the boulder up the hill briskly now, ride it back down when it slipped. He built himself a body to match his cunning and prided himself on it, that it could lever aside any obstacle in his path.

And then one day, he was pushing the boulder back up the hill again, idly finding his footing. Here was the step, and then the next, and then beyond that the boulder would not go. Except, this time, it did.

Sisyphus simply took another step, finding no resistance. The boulder was still braced against him, compliant, having suffered no impossible twist of physics that inevitably would send it tumbling back down. He took yet another step, felt the boulder keep moving. He was at the crest of the hill. He was higher now than he had ever been.

Sisyphus froze, felt a trembling running through his limbs that might have been excitement or might have been his curse, twisting the boulder in his grip. He was embracing the boulder, its rounded cheek blotting out his world, and yet even beyond its edges he could see sunlight diffusing through, like the first rosy hint of dawn. He gave the final push, to send it over the edge and complete his great task.

The boulder slipped, and rolled back down the hill.

In those last moments, right before he broke all his bones again, Sisyphus could see over the top of the hill, and he witnessed in all its glory the green fields of Elysium, everything that he had been denied. And then the boulder rode him back down, and all was pain and sweeping skies of black.

Having grown used to activity, the recovery this time was interminable. Sisyphus cursed himself, grew self-recriminating in his inactivity. The body he had so studiously sculpted now seemed useless, a monument to vanity. He had allowed himself to grow complacent in his imprisonment, to amuse himself by pacing within the bars! What was he striving for? All this effort, to what end? He had forgotten the purpose of his struggles, the fulfillment that awaited him! And if he failed, so what? Was it not better to strive for a higher purpose, no matter how unsuccessfully, than immerse oneself in idle vanities?

As soon as he was able he began his work, in earnest this time. This time, he felt every agony of failure, gritted his teeth every time he neared the top. Each time he felt the boulder falling away with his whole heart, as if he was watching what was dearest slip away from him. Ever in his mind he kept the memory of the Elysian Fields and longed to make it just one inch higher, one inch higher, just to get a view of that paradise once again, just to bask for a moment in its radiant light! The boulder became his life’s work, his everything. It roused him from sleep, urged him, thrilled him, made his muscles ache with satisfaction, loved him, nurtured him, broke his heart.

Aeons passed.

Sisyphus found himself lying at the bottom of the hill more often, propped against his stone, unable to even muster the will to begin another attempt. The hill and the boulder were endless, and had worn away even his desirings. He knew, as solidly as the stone itself, that he could push this boulder up the hill a thousand times a thousand times, as many times as drops of water in the sea, roll this boulder up the hill for all eternity! - and yet it would not wear away, not by one gram be lightened, not even if he forgot himself and conceived of nothing but the endless turning of the stone. And the hill! He could tear it apart, pebble by pebble, wear his fingernails bloody scraping against its rocks - as he had, in his darkest points - and after an infinite time it would not be by one inch of it even worn away!

And he would be here, and the boulder, and the hill too, so was this not the utmost truth, to outlast all insubstantial things? Was this not, here and now, the true meaning of immortality?

Sisyphus gave himself up to a life of contemplation. For a while, everything seemed divine. He dug his fingers, toes into the soil; saw every grain of dirt as a person, building, city, star fixed in the heavens. He beheld his boulder and thought it a world, and then the celestial sphere that contained all worlds. He learned every imperfection in its surface and from there derived a divine geometry. He studied the wrinkles in his hands, the hairs on his skin, marveled at the endless complexity of himself. What was the purpose of striving for the Elysian Fields, when Elysium itself, and all of creation, could be contained in the whorl of a fingertip, in the mind that perceived that whorl?

An eternity passed, and the worlds drained into darkness. Sisyphus shifted, and woke.

Sisyphus staggered to his feet, wiped the drool from his chin. He was unsteady on his feet; it had been a while since he had stood, and now the muscles quivered and complained mightily. The boulder, as ever, awaited him. He had almost forgotten the motions, but he laid his palms against the curved stone, and an old instinct awakened in him. He began to push, steadily, carefully, instinctively.

Of course, he was in the Elysian Fields. He knew now, his burden had never been the boulder - which moved for him now lovingly, patiently, responded gratefully to his instructions - nor the hill, which was the ground beneath him, the upward slope, the promise of more, more, ever more, no matter how far up he surmounted it, no matter how much he had achieved. He had ascended! And entered paradise, and triumphed over death!

And now there was no final act to his story, no way that it could ever end.

Sisyphus kept walking, the boulder moving ahead of him, as if leading him, step by patient step. He wept, and let his tears dampen its stone surface. How ungrateful he had been! How deluded! They were almost to the top now, moving together, and Sisyphus felt the ground begin to level out beneath him, felt the boulder lighten, felt themselves nearly at its peak.

And then the boulder slipped, and rolled back down the hill.

#fiction #greek mythology

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noblechaton · 4 years

Text

Eternal Moments

Summary: A slip of Adrien’s tongue changes a routine save into something much more for both himself, and Ladybug.

Ladrien June idea I didn’t think all the way through until recently lol

AO3

_______________________

Adrien put his hands on his knees and caught his breath. Falling through the air from very high up at dangerous speeds had become something of a habit for him. Luckily, so too did him being saved by a certain red and black spotted bug.

“Are you okay, Adrien?” Ladybug asked with a smile, putting a hand to his back in an effort to calm him.

“Yeah, I’m alright, just like last time.” He replied with a bit of a laugh as he stood up straight. Unbeknownst to her, he’d been calm since he first saw her yo-yoing his way.

She was always there to catch him, after all.

“Good, that’s,” She stuttered for a second, her fingers sliding along his body as a result of him turning to face her. It ended up on his arm, causing her brief hesitation. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

Adrien stood with a beaming smirk on his face, quiet for a moment. Carefully, he placed a hand of his own on one of her shoulders. He blinked softly at her, then spoke.

Unfortunately for him though, be it due to adrenaline or being awestruck by Ladybug herself, his brain was currently on autopilot.

“Thank you, my la-”

Adrien’s eyes widened, realizing the words coming out of his mouth just seconds too late. He couldn’t take them back now no matter how hard he chomped his teeth down. He also knew the longer he took to finish his now drawn out sentence, the weirder he’d look in front of Ladybug.

So he tried to think fast to shift the direction of his sentence towards something a little less secret-identity-threatening. This quickly proved to be only marginally better than not thinking at all.

“-dybug.” He swallowed and cleared his throat to at least try and make it sound like a coherent thought. “My...Ladybug?”

Adrien subtly winced at himself and felt a few circuits frying inside his brain.

The professionalism had drained from Ladybug’s face as she stood, mostly motionless and silent, staring up into his eyes. Her hand had tensed up and clung to a patch of his shirt out of sheer instinct, and her face had quickly turned a shade of red.

She wasn’t batting her eyes, not intentionally at least. It was just taking her a moment and way too much effort to really process the last few minutes of her life, is all. So focused on what he said, in fact, that she didn’t even find it weird that he seemed to phrase it like a question.

“Your, um...” Ladybug replied, her tone quiet. She just wanted to make sure she’d heard him correctly, really, though she failed to finish her thought.

Something in his subconscious must have liked digging a hole because he had the overwhelming urge to try it again in response. Initially, he resisted, but rationality was quickly fleeting and so he repeated himself. With feeling.

“Thank you, my Ladybug.” He managed to speak in one solid string of words. An accomplishment for both of them, all things considered. Even if it might have sounded a bit more direct and loving than he intended, he found he didn’t mind.

Even with her cheeks glowing a shade not too far off from that of her mask, the subtly growing smirk on Ladybug’s face indicated that she didn’t seem to mind much either.

Emboldened by how forward he was, she gently slid a hand to his jaw after getting his surprisingly well contained nod of approval. Her thumb stayed behind and brushed at his chin briefly, stopping as he leaned in closer mostly out of impulse. Not close enough for her liking, she tugged his shirt in until they were all but face to face.

“Of course.” Ladybug finally replied, her tone quiet and soft. Standing up on the tips of her toes, she moved in and placed a gentle peck on his cheek. “Anytime...my Prince.”

She slowly sank back to her heels, a few scattered chuckles escaping from the butterfly that had long since made residence in her stomach. It was only starting to set in what exactly she’d done, her expression changing gradually from a confident grin to a more worried and anxious look.

The time it took either of them to otherwise react only made her feel worse, her mind going from warmly blank to a breakneck speed of uncertainty. Everything flashed up at once, wondering if she’d done something wrong or if maybe the reason he wasn’t saying anything and just staring at her was because she scared him or if he was leaning in closer to chide her.

Or maybe-

Suddenly, the warm silence returned. Calm washed over Ladybug’s mind once more and she was able to breathe again. Not only could she breathe, she was breathing through her nose. Why was she breathing strictly through her nose?

Adrien had kissed her.

No. Adrien was kissing her.

Her eyes went wide for a few seconds before she relaxed again, adjusting herself so that her arms were comfortably around his neck. Her leg had lifted up from the ground at some point, and she’d been on her tippy toes again for however long. It didn’t matter, not while she was in his arms like this.

Adrien draped his hands along her sides and kept her close. He figured, from her expression to his own internal reactions, that she’d been going through the same thing he did as soon as she’d finished her thought. So, he did the only reasonable thing and acted purely out of instinct again. Said instinct had him in a warm, deep kiss with Ladybug as they hugged in a barely secluded alleyway.

Maybe instincts weren’t so bad after all.

“Okay,” Ladybug exhaled as she slowly, almost regretfully pulled away his kiss after way too long yet somehow not long enough. “We should...talk, later. If you want I mean, if that’d be okay. I, um, thank you?”

“We can.” Adrien stifled a subtle laugh. His hands hadn’t left her body yet and he wasn’t sure they ever were. “After you beat the bad guy, and stuff. Yeah.”

“Oh, right.” Ladybug had been so caught up in the walking bliss named Adrien Agreste that she almost forgot that she’d kicked some Akuma however many miles into the distance a few minutes ago. “You’re, ahem, you’re good to get home on your own?”

“I am,” Adrien smiled, speaking confidently after clearing his throat. “My Ladybug.”

“Right, of course.” Ladybug giggled. She stepped up again to place a peck on the cheek she’d missed earlier, completing the set with a loving grin. “Stay safe...my Prince.”

With a shared and downright loving nod, she finally managed to pry her hands from his shoulders. Dusting herself off with her hands to cover for the few moments it took to regain her more professional composure, she pulled out her yo-yo and spun it around with a determined, heroic look on her face. A toss of her arm, and she zipped herself away and towards the nearest crashing sound.

Adrien, meanwhile, finally caught his breath for the first time in what felt like hours. It felt like he’d only just landed on his feet.

He leaned against the nearest wall and thanked his knees for not turning to jelly for however long he’d been upright for. Then, hearing a fight start to break out a few blocks away, he lifted his arm up and prepared to join her once more.

It dawned on him a bit too late that he didn’t stop to ask Plagg if the transformation would cover up the evidence of their meeting, however. Instead of worrying about it though, he simply shrugged once he was encased in leather and opted to instead hope she wouldn’t ask about the lipstick on his cheeks.

#Miraculous Ladybug #Ladrien #Adrien Agreste #Ladybug #Noblefic #it's been a while..................kept u waiting huh

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diceyfall · 4 years

Text

[fic; siren song]

short scene for a supernatural creature fic I’m working on, inspired by wonderful art such as these amazing pinups by the amazing @envyfelled and finished just in time for halloween!

m!de sardet x kurt x vasco, kurt and de sardet find a merman in an unexpected place, 1687 words 🌹

Kurt never enjoyed skulking around in the dark, always plagued by that feeling of shadows nipping at his heels. His armor doesn’t lend itself to stealth, either; metal clicking against metal, shifting against the fabric beneath in a distinct noise as he cautiously leads Tristan further into the corridor.

His eyes are pinned on the eerie green light glowing from underneath the only door at the very end of the stone walls, but even with his keen sense of hearing he can’t pick up on any sounds.

At least, not ones of chatter.

Strangely, he does hear a large amount of water sloshing around, as if being stirred in a very large pot or something similar.

Kurt edges closer to the wooden door, back pressed to the wall beside it, ear aimed to the room as he closes his eyes and listens. Aside from the peculiar and irregular movements of water, he can’t hear anyone inside. Opening his eyes, he places a hand on the hilt of his sword and looks at Tristan.

Tristan mimics his motions, grabbing hold of the handle of his own blade, and nods once.

Inhaling a steady breath, Kurt turns and pushes the door open in one fluid motion, stepping boldly into the room, but that’s where he freezes. Tristan lets out a sharp gasp behind him, Kurt’s sense of hearing still keenly attuned to his surroundings out of habit, but his vision is fixated on the sight right in front of him.

It’s a giant glass tank filled to the brim with water, the excess flooding over the edges at the agitated movements of its sole occupant, who also happens to be the source of the green light spilling out of the room.

Tristan steps forward, eyes wide and brows furrowed in a combination of astonishment and horror.

“Vasco?”

The man is unmistakably the captain of the ship that brought them to this island a few days ago, except he looks a little different from the last time they saw him. Namely, the gigantic tail replacing his legs, green tattoos glowing brightly on this skin and brown scales, clawed hands braced against the glass as their shock is mirrored on his own face while he stares down at them.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Kurt says slowly, staring up at the merman in wonder. “The sirens aren’t just some folk tale peddled by the Nauts, it’s them. They’re the sirens.”

Vasco appears unable to speak underwater, so he settles for scowling at Kurt instead as his tail swishes in an agitated motion.

“We need to get him out,” Tristan says, jumping into action as he paces along the width of the glass tank. He finds a ladder that goes up to the top of the tank—it’s probably how they keep him fed, Kurt thinks darkly—and is about to climb it when Kurt stops him.

“No offense, but I think I’m better suited for hauling him out of there,” he points out and Tristan blinks, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that his human strength was ill-suited to dragging a merman out of a tank. “Why don’t you keep watch?”

“Right.” Tristan doubles back and heads for the doorway, peering out to the corridor to make sure no one is coming while Kurt climbs the ladder in his stead.

Vasco follows him in the water, or as much as he can; he only has the room to twist himself around as Kurt angles himself above the tank, one foot on the edge. How long has he been sitting here like this, waiting in the dark until his captors decided what to do with him?

“Come on, siren,” Kurt says, reaching out his hands. “Time to leave this fish bowl.”

With a single powerful stroke of his tail, Vasco launches himself out of the water, high enough to grab onto Kurt’s forearms. Kurt nearly buckles at the weight, grunting with effort as he tenses and he yanks Vasco upward, Vasco’s grip shifting to Kurt’s shoulders instead.

Kurt feels his human strength straining, the telltale tingling in his chest spreading to his limbs as his otherworldly power trickles in through his human features. He feels his fangs extend in his mouth and his nails grow sharp as he manages to gather Vasco into his arms, one hand on his back while the other hooks underneath his tail and lifts it out of the water.

Bracing himself, he jumps off the top of the ladder, muscles grown larger and thicker beneath his shirt to handle the weight, the fabric stretching slightly from the sudden increase.

Tristan turns around when he heard the landing, a look of relief crossing his face as he closes the door behind him and approaches them.

Meanwhile Vasco, very wet and cold in Kurt’s arms, stares at him. It’s hard to ignore when Vasco’s face and chest tattoos are like a lamp shining directly into Kurt’s face in the darkness, and looking at him for too long makes Kurt’s eyes hurt a little, so he leaves it at a questioning glance.

Vasco’s gaze trails over Kurt with consideration before he finally says, “You have my thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Kurt replies, then decides to carry Vasco over to a nearby table, sitting him down on the wooden surface as Vasco stretches his tail out over the stone floor. The brown scales are contrasted sharply by his bright green fins with its semi-translucent skin. It’s longer than Kurt anticipated, though he supposes it would have to be to support the human upper body it carries around.

Kurt glances toward the door; they shouldn’t linger for much longer if they want to make a clean escape. “Can you get your legs back?”

“I can now,” Vasco replies wryly, and Kurt assumes he means he couldn’t transform in the water before. Interesting. “Although, if you could fetch me something to cover up with, that would be appreciated.”

When he looks over at his charge, he already finds Tristan—always the gentleman—shrugging his coat off and offering it to Vasco who takes it almost hesitantly, before pulling it on and wrapping it around himself. It’s long enough to cover him up, reaching down to where Kurt assumes his knees would be.

“Thank you,” he mutters to Tristan, who smiles.

“I could hardly let you walk around naked, could I?”

Vasco snorts, shaking his head. “You may want to cover your eyes before I transform.”

Kurt and Tristan both exchange a look, but decide to follow Vasco’s suggestion. As Kurt holds his palm over his eyes, moments later he understands why; the green light from Vasco’s tattoos slowly increases, glowing so brightly Kurt can see it through his fingers and his eyelids.

Once the light fades away, Kurt lowers his hand again, but can’t see anything now that there isn’t any source of light in the room. It’s a momentary absence, however; a ball of flame soon sparks to life, hovering over Tristan’s palm as he illuminates the darkness, and he and Kurt find Vasco in his human form, bare and wet legs where his tail was a moment ago.

His tattoos aren’t glowing anymore, back to plain black lines on his skin. He’s keeping Tristan’s coat wrapped tight around him as he slides off the table, then wobbles unsteadily on his legs.

Tristan quickly moves forward, grabbing Vasco by the arm and steadying him. “Everything alright?”

“Tired.” Vasco glances at the fire held in Tristan’s other hand. “Transforming requires a lot of energy.”

“Can you walk?” Tristan inquires with concern, but then Kurt steps forward.

“Don’t bother,” he says before he unceremoniously scoops Vasco up into his arms again, met with a look of surprise as his arm settles beneath Vasco’s bare knees. He’s certainly a lot lighter in his human form. “You’ll slow us down, otherwise.”

Perhaps it’s the warm glow of Tristan’s flames, but Vasco’s face appears redder than it usually is as he averts his eyes, fingers awkwardly clinging to the fabric of Kurt’s doublet. His other hand is holding his coat closed.

“So long as we get out of here,” he says, then start to shiver.

Little wonder, considering he’s still soaked and completely naked underneath Tristan’s coat.

Kurt looks at Tristan. “Can you warm him up?”

Tristan nods, standing in front of him and Vasco who eyes him up warily. “I’m not going to set you on fire, I promise. This is going to sound odd, but do you mind if I touch your chest?”

“My chest?” Vasco repeats dubiously, glancing at Kurt.

“It’s one of his spells,” Kurt reassures him. “It’ll keep you warm.”

Vasco considers Tristan for a moment longer, before he nods.

Carefully, almost as if not to spook Vasco, Tristan slips his hand beneath the fabric of the coat covering Vasco’s chest, and Kurt feels Vasco stiffening in his arms, fingers curling more tightly into Kurt’s doublet while Kurt holds him steady.

Tristan’s hand begins to glow a soft golden light, and after a moment, all the tension drains right out of Vasco who breathes out a deep sigh, all but melting in Kurt’s arms as his eyes flutter shut. Seeming only faintly aware of what he’s doing, Vasco places his hand over Tristan’s resting on his chest, and Tristan’s eyes widen slightly in surprise before his expression softens with a tender smile.

Just as Kurt wonders if the spell could really feel that good, having never experienced it himself, he suddenly feels a strange warmth seeping in through his own chest.

It’s like molten sunlight, spreading through his whole body and warming him from the inside out, flowing through Vasco into him. Kurt almost starts to sway when Tristan pulls his hand back and the soothing heat gradually fades, concentrated solely in Vasco whose skin already feels much warmer against Kurt’s.

“Better?” Tristan asks Vasco, who leans his head against Kurt’s shoulder, eyes still shut.

“Mmm.”

Kurt jostles him a little. “Hey, don’t fall asleep.”

“I haven’t slept in three days,” Vasco mumbles. “You’ll have to forgive me if I nod off.”

Tristan shares a troubled look with Kurt, who subtly tightens his arms around Vasco.

“Alright, siren,” Kurt says quietly. “Sleep as much as you want. We’ll get you out of here.”

#greedfall #captain vasco #greedfall kurt #de sardet x kurt #de sardet x vasco #greedfall fanfiction

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littlewhitetie · 5 years

Text

Make Believe: Part Five

(Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4)

Keith woke slowly, comfortably, with a warm body pressed against him. An arm snug around his waist kept him close. Slow, even exhales ghosted over his neck, deep breaths bordering a light snore. Fast asleep, Shiro looked so serene.

Keith shifted a bit, but Shiro didn’t stir. He shifted a little more; still no response. Eyes flitting to the corner of the room, he caught a glimpse of their ever present chaperone. He had a role to play, right? So he could justify it when he brought his hand to Shiro’s face and ran his fingers down his jaw, touch feather light.

He let the back of his hand graze the curve of his cheekbone, and for just a moment, he let himself pretend this wasn’t all a big lie. For just a moment, this was his.

“I love you,” he mouthed, not daring to let air past his lips. The syllables were foreign to his teeth, his tongue, but they felt right when it was Shiro on the other end. The words rolled over his tongue again as he brushed pale bangs aside and out of dark lashes. I love you.

He lingered in quiet reverie a few moments more before disentangling himself to greet the day.

Or evening, more like.

“It is near time for dinner at the palace,” Visran said. “Your partner will not wake until the morning. There are laboratory technicians in the building at all times. They will keep an eye on your partner until we return.”

The idea of leaving Shiro alone here—in this dimly lit lab facility—left a sour taste in Keith’s mouth. “I don’t want to leave him.”

“Understandable,” Visran said. “I can arrange for provisions to be brought here. You may stay with him in this facility overnight, if you wish.”

“Yeah. I do wish,” Keith said.

“Very well.”

Keith laid back down next to Shiro. His eyes traced the curves and creases of his face, strong yet graced with delicate features. I can’t even eat dinner without you. How am I gonna go back to being on my own when this is all over?

The ensuing vargas passed slowly.

Along with food, Visran brought Keith his holo pad, which he used to look over a pile of low priority reports. It was boring work, though, and soon, he found himself dozing. He napped, woke, worked, and napped again.

The night was almost through when Keith woke to metal smashing into his skull.

CRACK.

Pain exploded behind his eyes. Stars danced in his vision when he opened them; everything was hazy. His ears rang. He couldn’t focus. What—

He raised his arms just in time to shield his face from swinging metal. Though softened by his forearms, the force still slammed into his damaged skull. He gagged.

The mattress creaked and shifted with jerky, erratic movements from beside him. “Shiro,” Keith gasped. He was caught in the throes of a nightmare. “Shiro!”

Keith looked to the corner of the room. His eyes wouldn’t focus, but it didn’t seem like Visran was there. They were alone.

Shiro’s arm slammed into Keith’s ribs, shattering them with a crunch.

“Sh-Shiro,” Keith choked out.

He grabbed Shiro’s forearm and hugged it against his chest in an attempt to stop him from thrashing further.

It was a mistake.

Blinding pain raked across Keith’s torso as Shiro’s arm twisted and activated, searing skin and tissue as it pulled out of his grasp. Keith couldn’t help but cry out. The scent of burnt flesh filled the air.

Shiro’s eyes flew open. “Keith?”

Keith’s vision focused just enough to see the blood drain from Shiro’s face.

“I-it’s okay,” Keith gasped. “Not… not your fault.”

“Keith, I— I…”

“It’s okay,” Keith repeated. He did his best to give Shiro a smile before everything went black.

…

When Keith woke again, it was to gravity’s pull as he fell forward. A warm hand steadied him, but it withdrew as soon as he was steady on his feet.

“Keith,” Shiro said from a couple paces away, his voice choked.

“Hey.” Keith stepped forward, but Shiro took a step back, keeping distance between them.

Shiro didn’t meet his eyes. “How… how are you feeling?”

Keith brought a hand to his skull, where he’d been hit. His hair was wet and stiff, but there was no pain. He looked down at his chest. Beneath rivulets of sticky pink liquid, the skin was unbroken. There was no burn—not even a scar left behind. He touched his ribs, and those were fine too. “Good as new. Those tank things really work.”

“Of course they do,” a different, smarmier voice said. Ah. Visran was back.

Visran passed Shiro a towel. Immediately, Shiro thrust it into Keith’s hands. Visran eyed Shiro warily—it was Graxari custom to dry your partner after a bath. Shiro made no further move, though, so Keith took the towel and began drying himself, rubbing the towel through his tangle of wet hair.

“How ‘bout you?” Keith asked Shiro. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Shiro said, tersely.

Keith let his gaze wander over Shiro. He looked okay—save for the heavy tension gripping every inch of his body.

“I hope you’re not blaming yourself for what happened,” Keith said.

“I was the one who did that to you. It was my arm, my hand.”

“So? It wasn’t your fault. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s—” Keith cut himself off. Maybe blaming the Graxari for putting them in this creepy lab in the first place wasn’t the best idea if they wanted to stay on their good side. “I should’ve moved out of the way.”

Shiro scoffed.

“Either way, it’s in the past now,” Keith said. “Clothes?”

Visran handed Shiro a set of folded garments. Shiro held the pile out for Keith to take.

A deep crease formed in Visran’s brow. Even if Keith had been hurt, it was unthinkable that Shiro wouldn’t even try to help him get dressed. Keith arched an eyebrow at Shiro, then tossed the towel aside and waited.

Reluctantly, touching Keith as little as possible, Shiro dressed him in new undershorts, loose pants, and a lightweight tunic that clung to his damp skin.

Keith leaned in to kiss his cheek in thanks, but Shiro flinched away. Play the part! Keith wanted to scream. Reigning it in, he asked Visran, “So what’s on for today?”

“Tonight is Gladnos Eve,” Visran said. “There will be a ball at the palace, preceded by a feast. If you are ready, we will bring you back to the baths, where you can wash up before tonight’s festivities.”

“Sounds good,” Keith said, rubbing the stiff, sticky ends of his hair between his fingertips. “A bath is probably a good idea. And a feast sounds good, I’m starving. You hungry, Shiro?”

“Sure,” Shiro said, voice clipped.

Keith sighed and breathed through his nose. Shiro was making it blatantly obvious he’d rather be anywhere but at Keith’s side. It made maintaining their act difficult—not to mention it stung.

Shiro maintained his distance as they followed Visran out of the facility and back to the carriage. Shiro tried to make space between them on the seat, but Keith scooted over and grabbed his arm.

“Shiro!” he hissed in his ear. “We’re in a relationship, remember? Stop pulling away!”

Shiro stayed put, though his entire body was rigid. Reluctantly, he allowed Keith to pry his left fist open and slot their fingers together.

Shiro remained tense for the duration of the carriage ride. He stayed as far away from Keith as their linked hands would allow as they made their way to the baths.

Thankfully, Visran maintained a respectable distance when they were bathing, and when they finally got in the pool, they were out of hearing range.

“He’s suspicious,” Keith said without preamble. “I know you don’t want to touch me. I get it. But we need this alliance.”

“I don’t… not want to touch you,” Shiro said.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Keith…”

Keith pressed the bin of soaps and shampoos into Shiro’s hands. “You’re not going to hurt me, you know,” he said, softly.

“I did.”

Keith shook his head. “Not intentionally. Never intentionally.”

“I almost killed you,” Shiro said, the word catching in his throat.

“It’s okay,” Keith insisted. “I’m okay. And you’re awake now. So stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking right now and start touching me.”

Shiro let out a shaky exhale. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t apologize.” Keith took Shiro’s right hand. Carefully, he brought it to his lips and kissed his metal knuckles, cool and smooth against his lips. He nodded subtly in Visran’s direction and murmured, “Convince him.”

Keith took a seat in the pool, and Shiro followed suit, settling down behind him. With a pump of soap that smelled vaguely of cinnamon, Shiro worked up a lather. Slowly, he brought his hands to Keith’s hair. His touch was near imperceptible, cautious as anything.

Keith placed his hands over Shiro’s. He pressed down, urging them to rest more firmly against his skull. “I trust you, Shiro. Now trust yourself.”

Shiro spread his fingers wider. “I’ll try.”

As he began to massage Keith’s scalp, Keith let out a contented sigh.

“You really like that, huh,” Shiro said, with a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Mhmm. Keep going,” Keith urged. So Shiro did.

Keith remained calm and relaxed as Shiro washed him, and gradually, Shiro became more comfortable with his hands again. The tension in his grip dissipated. Wariness turned to gentleness.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Keith murmured when they were done.

Shiro pressed a kiss to Keith’s temple. “Not so bad,” he agreed.

…

Gladnos Eve was, apparently, a big deal on Graxarion. The great hall glimmered, with more surfaces covered in gold than not. Ice sculptures were scattered throughout, interspersed with tiered fountains that spouted an assortment of sparkling drinks. The dining hall opened up to a ballroom, which featured a stage with live musicians. The sounds from their stringed instruments were unusual, but the music was undoubtedly sophisticated.

Graxari guests filled the other tables, done up and dressed to the nines. Not one of them, though, could hold a candle to Shiro.

He was unfairly beautiful, draped in ebony and fine gold. Keith’s breath caught every single time his eyes wandered back to him. The light fabric clung to edges and curved planes in all the right places. Strands of gold rested against bare skin, where the neckline of his robe dipped low on his chest.

“A bit much, right?” Shiro said, when he caught Keith staring.

“No!” Keith stammered, averting his gaze. A violent blush crept up to his hairline. “I-I mean— yes. Yes. The clothes. Are a lot. I, uh…”

A smile tugged at Shiro’s lips. “It’s a little different from what we usually wear. But you look good, Keith.”

Keith’s mouth hung open. “You… you think?”

“Of course,” Shiro said. “Everyone looks great tonight.”

“Oh.” Keith tried not to look too crestfallen. “Yeah.”

“But you especially. White’s a good colour on you.”

Keith’s heart kicked back into high gear. This man was going to be the death of him.

“You look good too,” Keith managed.

Six servers arrived at their table with golden trays. They laid out an array of exquisite dishes before them, each artfully plated.

“Wow,” Shiro said, taking in the spread. He picked up a delicate lavender square between his fingertips. “Hungry?”

Keith nodded. Yes. So hungry. He opened his mouth and let Shiro feed him.

The meal was bursting with all sorts of unusual flavours and textures. The dishes were delicious, and not just by Graxari standards.

“It’s too bad Hunk isn’t here,” Shiro said. “He’d love this.”

“He would,” Keith said. He’d love it for all the wrong reasons, too. He inwardly cringed at the thought of Hunk watching as Shiro licked his fingers, and the un-subtle winks and eyebrow waggles he’d toss his way.

“It’s kind of nice, though, having some time to ourselves,” Shiro said.

“Yeah,” Keith murmured. “Just the two of us.”

They made their way through the courses, all the way through third dessert. After wiping the crumbs from each other’s lips, they looked around, eyeing all the other couples getting up from their seats and making their way over to the dance floor.

“Guess we should head over,” Shiro said.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Keith said.

“Me neither,” Shiro shrugged. “We’ll just have to make it up as we go.”

Shiro looped his arm around Keith’s, and they followed the other couples to the ballroom.

“Those must be the Queens,” Shiro said, nodding at the two statuesque Graxari under a spotlight at the centre of the open floor. They dazzled in silver and snow white, their hair piled high beneath matching crowns.

“I’m guessing we can’t just go up and meet with them now,” Keith said, taking note of all the security around them.

“We’ll see them soon enough. We just need to get through tomorrow,” Shiro said.

One more day, and this would all be over. Keith bit his lip. “Yeah.”

The ambient lighting softened and a hush fell over the crowd. Keith and Shiro took up their positions on the dance floor, standing close to emulate the couples around them.

“We just have to blend in. We can do this,” Shiro said.

“Right,” Keith nodded.

But it was easier said than done, and when the music started, they were quickly left behind.

The couples around them twirled and leapt, each movement choreographed and well rehearsed. “Uh, yeah, no,” Keith said. “Can’t make that up.”

“Agreed,” Shiro grimaced.

“This isn’t good.” The whole point of their act was to fit in with the Graxari, but here they stood out like a sore thumb, unmoving amidst a coordinated sea of dancers.

“No,” Shiro said. “But I think we’ll be alright. Come on.” He tugged on Keith’s hand and led him away from the crowd toward the wall. “We should be okay as long as we have an excuse for not dancing.”

“Should I pretend to break my leg or something?” Keith asked.

Shiro laughed softly. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

“What are you thinking?”

The playfulness in Shiro’s face melted away, leaving something intense in its wake. “I’m thinking it’s high time we did this.”

Shiro pulled Keith in close, metal palm pressing into the small of his back as his flesh hand worked its way up his spine, one vertebra at a time. His touch was steady and intentional. Patient; focused. His fingers raked through Keith’s hair, cradling his skull as he brought him in closer, closer, closer.

Bare inches apart, Shiro paused to capture Keith’s gaze. His dark eyes were filled with warmth, brimming with a tenderness that stole away all reason. Long lashes fluttered and fell shut, and with the gentlest of gestures, Shiro closed the space between them.

Keith’s world imploded, nervous system set alight. His lungs forgot oxygen; his heart forgot gravity. There was nothing in Keith’s universe but Shiro’s mouth pressed to his.

It was just an act, it was just an act, but Keith had dreamed of this for so long, and he couldn’t help but smile against Shiro’s lips. The corners of Shiro’s mouth pulled upward, mirroring the motion.

Shiro kissed him, and kissed him again. His mouth was soft, his movements sure. Smooth, like poetry. The kisses built, a steady crescendo: hotter, faster, bolder, more.

Keith let out a needy whine as Shiro’s tongue teased his mouth open. Shiro led and Keith followed, matching him move for move. Pushing and pulling, giving and taking, more and more and more and more.

When they finally broke apart, Keith was left panting for air. Shiro kept him in close, breaths hot against his skin.

“Was that your first kiss?” Shiro asked, lowly.

“That bad, huh?”

Shiro laughed. “Not at all. But I’m sorry your first kiss had to be like this.”

“I’m not,” Keith murmured. His head was still spinning, heart still soaring, and it was a moment before his brain caught up and realized what he’d just admitted. He froze.

“I-I mean, it’s just, there’s no one else I’d have wanted it to be with,” Keith stammered. As if that were any better. “I, um— You’re—”

“I know what you mean,” Shiro said. His smile was soft, kind. “I’m someone you can practice with, before it counts.”

Keith swallowed, hard. “I…”

“I’m glad,” Shiro said. “I’m glad you feel you can trust me with that.”

“I trust you with everything I have,” Keith said. “Always.”

“Thank you, Keith,” Shiro whispered, and—for the sake of the alliance—kissed him again.

#voltron #voltron legendary defender #vld #sheith #takashi shirogane #keith kogane #shiro #keith #fanfic #fake dating #pining keith #pining shiro #nightmare #hurt/comfort #angst #fluff #it's here!!#littlewhitetie writes #make believe fic

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halyconskies-blog · 5 years

Text

september 17th 2019

alarm goes off at 5:30am, time for j to start his day. my eyes fall back underneath heavy lids. between minutes of tossing and turning, he brings me my morning kiss on the forehead and goodbyes. today was a little more sentimental than normal.

last night my friend a and i went out for drinks and we shed some tears on my most recent revelation that i do, indeed, love my boyfriend and as it would seem we were meant for each other in bigger ways than just everyday happiness. we were brought together to also feel pain, sorrow, and growth through it all, as well as love, loyalty, jealousy, excitement, trust, comfort, passion, caressing, kissing, joking, bullying, goofing, mentoring, embarrassing, button pushing, and other such things, the sweet things of youthful romance. a and i shed tears like we had discovered something subtly divine, and of course, as i do, i shared with him the incoherent details of that conversation via messy text messages.

finally at 6:38, i rolled out of bed and shushed the snooze button. i began day 2 of my new self care regimen, using mario badescu’s best recommended for sensitive skin. chamomile cleansing wash, vitamin c hydration. say yes to cucumber green priming stick! so cute.

listened to a new podcast hosted by a friend and her highschool buddy. very interesting listening to people talk on podcasts, it makes you feel like you’re apart of the group, while heavily glancing at your feet on the bus, or ignoring common area chatter in your local starbucks. it’s even more interesting and enjoyable and even a little more chilling, to listen to your friend’s podcast, whom you used to see just about everyday of your life at school, and sometimes on weekends. the topics they share are right up my alley too, anxiety, depression, post-bachelor degree guilt, wavering faith in personal abilities, and current events such as movies.

on my way down the urbanization-construction riddles streets, torn up and gutted, passed a sliced open raccoon the other morning. taking the h line bus to just a few miles up the street to my gentrified oasis-- the circle! old memories of me walking down the streets after classes still make their way though, although now i’m part of the working class, working too many hours for my taste, while also not making enough to pay my bills! yes love that for us.

i like to arrive at work, hopefully, with an hour to spare so i can have my little egg bite breakfast and cold nitro brew coffee. while enjoying this small time alone, i occasionally draw portraits of my coworkers, flowers, and sometimes geometric language obviously sent to me through light transmissions. this ritual often and usually satisfies my anxiety for a while so it can rest.

i like to think of my job as a broadway show. i have to step onto the stage, and be camera-ready and smile and lay on the charm. i’m in the business of retail/food sales, and so being; consumers, are KEY and always right and whatever that crap is they want us to believe in and spew to our peers. but, i being the self-aware neurotic, moody, little brash bitch that i am, i just can’t seem to keep up the fake charade together throughout my 8.5 hour shift, for only just under 36 hours a week.

i’ve been feeling drained and empty, i started to think “what i’m doing here and why hasn’t any of my hard work paid off yet, i went to college, i learned how to use these programs the people want us to, i’m creative and i create. i’m an artist, and it’s 2019, creative jobs are thriving and rising! why can’t i find my way into any of this.”

i’ve decided to start putting more of my willpower and determination into my artistic endeavors, not like i haven’t tried before, many millions of times, but i’m going to put the hard work i do to good use by sticking to something for once in my life. i’m going to start writing the story of my life and if nothing else it proves to me that i can be consistent and achieve goals in a diligent and gradual way, in which nothing else yet to be catalogued other than just simply “surviving”. (even in school i wasn’t consistently and gradually proving to myself the skills of being a diligent and determined worker.

so i begin with these informal pages, to my informal life.

#writers on tumblr #personal journal #skye

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lichlover · 6 years

Note

Here’s a prompt. Post-story and song, everyone is sitting around talking about birthdays, and angus says he never really had a good one. So taako, being the best dad ever, throws angus a huge party and he loves it and loves his giant weird family even more

please consider donating to my ko-fi!

“Y’know what must’ve sucked?” says Taako. “Being born on Story and Song.”

He’s nestled comfortably in Kravitz’s lap, one arm slung over the back of the couch and the other balancing a half-empty cocktail. His glass isn’t the only one that looks like it’s about to be in need of refilling. Lup is about to reach the bottom of hers, and sitting against her, Barry holds a drink that glows eerily whenever he so much as shifts his grip. Magnus is the only one who’s drinking something Angus actually recognizes. His tabard of ale borders on the stereotypical, threatening to overflow with foam and making him red in the face, despite his insistence that he’s completely sober because “C’mon, you guys, I’d never get drunk in front of a kid!”

As if the man could convince anyone his tabard is brimming with a Shirley Temple.

But tonight isn’t about calling Magnus out on his bullshit. It’s about coming down from the aftermath and escaping from the world. They’re all sitting in the Bureau’s Reclaimer suite, because reporters haven’t quite figured out a way to get to the moon just yet, and it serves as their sanctuary away from the glitz and bright lights of fame. Angus, who has reached adolescence in theory but not in practice, appreciates the opportunity for a breather. The most recognition he’d received for his detective work had been a medal from the odd mayor or two; the rare commendation from a police commissioner. Garnering a worldwide fanbase—well, it should go without saying, but that’s another thing altogether.

As much as the Birds make a show of revelling in stardom (particularly Taako, who insists it’s his birthright), Angus can tell they’re feeling as relieved as he is. Why else would they be drinking like their lives depend on it?

Speaking of which. His mentor takes another gulp, effectively draining the cocktail, and goes on. “What the hell are you s’posed to do when your birthday is the fuckin’—fuckin’, when-the-world-got-saved day? You think anybody’s gonna pay attention to you then? Nah, they’re too—too busy gettin’ smashed and partying in the streets to worry about little Timmy or whatever, over there with—with a pair of commemorative socks, or whatever. Lame.”

“I thought you didn’t like birthdays,” Magnus points out.

“I don’t. They’re a big fuckin’ inconvenience. I’m makin’ conver—conversa—” Taako rolls his eyes and nudges Kravitz’s shoulder. “What’s the—?”

“Conversation,” his boyfriend provides, patiently. It had, admittedly, taken Angus some time to get over the man’s Grim Reaper status, because there is no amount of logic and common sense that keeps a child from feeling uneasy in the presence of death. But Kravitz, for all his awkward, outdated mannerisms and omnipresent exasperation, is a good man. He loves Taako, Angus knows; even if the L-word is something both of them insist on dancing around like they’re doing a quickstep on hot coals. And he’s kind to Taako’s family and everyone he cares about. Angus approves.

Taako reaches out to set his glass on the side table, misses, and lets it drop harmlessly to the carpet. “Yeah. That. Who even celebrates birthdays anymore?”

A murmur of consensus ripples over the room, and Angus readjusts his hold on the hot chocolate nestled in his hands. “Right!” he says, breaking into the conversation with a tentative smile. “They’re not a big deal, right?”

Fourteen pairs of eyes settle on him instantaneously. Despite the fact that he’s never known such a thing, Angus imagines it’s to the effect of fourteen parents staring him down. He isn’t a huge fan of it. “What?” he says, and takes a nervous sip of his hot chocolate because there’s nothing else to fill the silence. “What is it?”

“Ango,” says Magnus, in the tone of voice he uses when one of the Hammer and Tails’ dogs has wandered off. “Tell me you’ve had a birthday party.”

“Even a weird kid like you’s gotta have at least one of ’em under his belt,” Merle interjects. “Right?”

The discomfort in Angus’s expression is reaching Kravitz levels of obvious. “Uh… no? I mean, I got presents from my grandpa when he could afford it, but most of the time we just—”

“Okay,” Taako interrupts. “This is ridiculous.”

He gets up from Kravitz’s lap, which looks a bit like a spider unfolding its tangled limbs, and sways precariously on his feet before he regains his balance. “You dipshits know what we gotta do now.”

Magnus is already perked up. “Oh, yeah.”

“Sorry,” says Angus, “what are we doing?”

Taako levels a finger at him. He’s actually pointing at something just over Angus’s shoulder, but the sentiment is there nonetheless.

“We’re givin’ you the fuckin’ birthday party of a lifetime,” he says. “And you’re—you’ll never see it coming.”

Angus does see it coming.

For one, he catches Magnus creeping toward the residential dome with a crate full of fireworks. To his credit, Magnus stays mostly poker-faced as he explains that he’s gathering explosives for one of Lup’s post-regenerative experiments. He’s so taciturn that Angus doesn’t have the heart to say anything about it.

For another, the Reclaimer suite’s availability evaporates into thin air. The Birds hem and haw and claim it’s an administrative decision, and Angus nods and politely agrees because he really is touched by the amount of effort that’s going into keeping him out of the loop. They even put up caution tape—RENOVATIONS IN PROGRESS! it says. He assumes it’s a clever means of explaining away the occasional drilling, grating, and scraping sounds he can make out behind the door.

They do the best they can to keep him away from it. Lup and Barry invite Angus to their lab for a day, which granted is a privilege Angus can’t bear to pass up, so he goes and learns an inordinate amount about something that is definitely not necromancy, especially if Kravitz asks. Davenport takes him sailing, and Angus learns how to steer a ship with confidence, even if he can’t quite keep up with the captain’s rapid fire nautical-speak. He leads his first seminar at Taako��s Amazing School of Magic. The students snicker until Angus politely but ruthlessly shoots down their proposals for new spells, and suddenly their young professor is deserving of significantly more respect.

He’s out on the lawn one day, practicing some spells of his own, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. Angus jumps and almost loses his footing on the artificial grass, and the Director—Lucretia—winces and jerks back. “Sh—sorry,” she stammers. “I knew sneaking up on you was a bad idea, and… well, funny thing, I just did it anyway.”

She looks different, he thinks, especially now that he knows how young she used to be. The bags under her eyes are more pronounced—she’s been working day and night to kickstart the newly established Bureau of Benevolence and, Angus suspects, to avoid confrontation with the Birds. Even Magnus, who’s forgiven her unconditionally, seems a little touchy when Lucretia’s name is mentioned. Angus doesn’t blame her for wanting to stay away.

“Hello, ma’am!” he says, because he hasn’t quite figured out how he feels about Lucretia’s decision, but he knows she’s a good person, and there’s no reason why he can’t spare her some common courtesy. “Can I, uh… can I help you with something?”

Lucretia balks a little at that, and her hand tightens almost imperceptibly around her new staff. It’s considerably simpler than the Bulwark Staff; made out of smooth, elegantly polished red wood with a subtle gloss. The tiny outline of a duck sits at its base—a Burnsides Original. “Oh. Um—mind if I sit?”

Angus doesn’t. She lowers herself to the grass, and he sits cross-legged beside her and looks through the transparent dome overhead as she situates herself. The sky is pale and bright, starting to fade with the gradual advance of evening, and the shadows around them grow longer as the sun sinks toward the horizon.

It’s a lonely hour of the day, he thinks.

Lucretia looks over and smiles faintly. “You know about the birthday party, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Angus, truthfully.

Her shoulders slump as she breathes out a small sigh of relief. “Thank the gods. I realized as soon as I said it that if you didn’t know, I’d be spoiling the surprise, and… well.” She shakes her head. “I should have known, anyway. You’re too smart to be caught off guard like that.”

“Well, ma’am, I am the World’s Greatest Detective!”

“That you are.” Lucretia’s smile returns, softer; lacking the weariness he’s so accustomed to seeing. “Anyway, I, uh… I’m not going to be there, because—”

It isn’t polite to interrupt, but Angus wants to spare her the agony of explaining. “I know,” he says.

Something like gratitude shimmers briefly in Lucretia’s eyes before she continues. “I just wanted to give you this.”

She reaches into the folds of her robe and produces a parcel, neatly wrapped in holographic paper and topped with a tiny bow. Angus takes it, and she nods encouragingly at him. “Open it.”

He does. It’s a journal—the cover is a deep, vibrant blue inlaid with white thread, which glimmers subtly when he tips it from side to side. Angus thumbs over the creamy paper and cradles the cover in his palms, and as he does so, it falls open to the first page. There, in Lucretia’s delicate calligraphy, is a message.

For your observations.Happy birthday to the smartest, bravest young man I know.

Madam Director

He looks up at her, struck dumb. “This is…”

“It’s just a little something,” says Lucretia, who looks suddenly but unmistakably shy. “I saw that little notepad of yours and I just thought you could use something a little nice—”

She breaks off when Angus hugs her. His arms, he notices, can now fit comfortably around her midriff, and the ridges of tiny ribs poke into his chest.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he whispers.

He can feel her nod against him, and slowly, hesitantly, she returns the embrace. “Of course.”

Taako rouses him bright and early with a shower of sparks over his bed. “Up and at ’em, Agnes!” he says. “Early morning magic lesson! We’ve got work to do!”

Angus is still bleary-eyed when his mentor drags him from his dormitory on the Bureau. He stops to tap one shoe against the pavement, fitting it completely over his foot, and then he’s off again, struggling to keep pace with Taako’s long strides.

“Sir,” he says, around an inadvertent yawn. “Where are we going?”

“I just said it was a magic lesson. Keep up.”

“But,” says Angus, peering under the brim of Taako’s enormous hat, “we usually practice on the quad, and we just passed the quad.”

Taako thrusts a hand at him and practically bats his inquiry away. “Less questions, more—more walking, let’s go!”

And that’s how Angus knows.

They arrive at the Reclaimer suite not five minutes later, and sure enough, the caution tape is gone. “Just need to pick up some shit,” Taako mumbles, digging around for his keys. “Won’t take a minute, and then we’ll—we’ll be off to the races, yeah?”

Something shuffles behind the door, followed by a bit of muffled whispering. Taako looks a little bit like he wants to die, but credit where credit is due—he soldiers on, undaunted. “C’mon, kid.”

The key slides into the lock, the door swings open, and an explosion of light and sound nearly knocks Angus off his feet.

“Happy birthday, Angus!” several voices shout in unison, and then the roof explodes.

A flurry of fireworks swirl around them, and Lup’s scream of delight almost drowns out the chorus of popping and fizzing. “Look at that!” she yells. “Perfect execution! Boom! Hope you were filming that, babe, ’cuz that’s never happening again!”

Barry holds up a Lucas Miller official patented Fantasy Camcorder™. “Got it!”

Angus blinks the stars out of his eyes and looks around the room. Apart from Barry, Lup, and Taako, he spots Magnus, Davenport, Carey and Killian arm-in-arm, Ren, Avi, and Merle, with a suspiciously plant-shaped gift sitting next to him. The room is draped with fantasy fairy lights and streamers, but what catches Angus’s eye isn’t the decor, or the mountain of presents in the corner of the room. It’s a cake—mounted at the center of the room, taller than he is, with a fondant rendition of a very familiar-looking hat and magnifying glass at the top.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE WORLD’S GREATEST DETECTIVE! it says.

“Oh, wow,” says Angus. “This is a complete surprise. I never expected—”

“We know you knew,” says Taako.

“Oh, thank gods.” Angus drops the facade of shock, but his smile stays put—it’s wider and brighter than the plane of magic itself.

“Thank you,” he says, and can’t quite swallow back the emotional break in his voice. “Thank you guys so much.”

“Anytime, little man,” says Lup. Her hair is slightly singed, but her grin is almost as large as his. “It was our pleasure.”

“Speaking of which,” says Merle. “It is your birthday, right?”

The room goes silent.

“Shit.”

“Fuck—”

“Watch your fucking language!”

“How could nobody check, how did we miss that—”

A late firework shoots into the air, the Birds devolve into squabbling, and Angus McDonald laughs.

#bircjosta #ask #the adventure zone #taz balance #angus mcdonald #ipre #kravitz #fic #mine #I FINALLY FINISHED A PROMPT ARE YALL PROUD OF ME

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pallases · 6 years

Text

Keith and Krolia Headcanons

•After it registers that Krolia is his mother, Keith’s first reaction is a brief moment of shock, followed by anger

•The thing is that it’s not actually anger though (or rather, not only anger, but that’s what it comes off as)

•It’s just the way it comes out. In truth he feels unbelievably confused and disoriented.

•Why did she come back for me? Why is she accepting me now? Why was she gone all this time? Why?

•It’s a whole lot of hurt that he thought he managed to bury after all these years of being alone, but now that he’s face to face with her everyone comes surfacing back up and he doesn’t have time to deal with so many feelings and it all manifests itself as extreme aggression

•”You vanish entirely from my life at a random point and then suddenly come strutting back in to drop a bomb like that? Where were you all this time? What were you doing? What was so important that you abandoned—“

•He catches the voice crack and storms out of the room before the tears can come

•Krolia is left there standing for a moment in complete confusion because ??? the mission??? come back??? but then it catches up to her just how he must feel and she feels the blood drain from her face and now she’s physically calling out to him to wait

•Once they get back to the Blades after the mission he heads straight to his room, leaves the rest to Krolia alone, stares at the wall for a bit before it comes rushing back to him and he breaks down

•Krolia finds out where his room is from another Blade and is about to go in there to explain everything to him but she hears his sobs

•She knows it’s not her place to be comforting him when she came in out of nowhere, so ignoring the splintering of her own heart she turns away

•He tells the other Paladins about her right away, hating to procrastinate, but it’s clear to everybody how abrupt he’s being on the topic and why

•His voice sounds flat and emotionless to his own ears but he doubts at least one person watching can’t see the tightness of his jaw, the tensing of his shoulders, the faint puffiness lingering around his eyes. He wishes they couldn’t though

•Everybody reacts appropriately, aka “wait but this is so sudden what” but Keith doesn’t have the energy to go through the whole story, not to mention he doesn’t even have it yet considering he’s still hiding in his room and hasn’t spoken to Krolia since

•He just tells them he’ll be fine and then clicks off, the last expression he sees being Lance’s worried wide eyes because he knows Keith can be brusque but not usually to this extent

•After that it takes Keith quite a while to warm up to Krolia

•The first week is filled with cold glances, flinches, shifting gazes, and narrowed eyes

•The second week is filled with slightly more welcoming body language, but still very little conversation; Keith throws himself into every mission he can, trying to drown out his problems with his work

•On the third week he cracks, and Krolia finally gets the chance to explain her absence and tell him about everything that happened

•Fourth week, Keith accepts what she says and they manage to bond a bit over their similarities and what they like to do, and Keith tells her about his friends

Keith: “you’ll like them all except maybe Lance sometimes he annoys me to the point that I wish I could shove him up against a wall” Krolia, internally: “hmm in what way do you mean ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)”

•Fifth week, he lives up to his earlier statement and brings Krolia to meet the Paladins, Coran, Matt, etc

•Everyone’s really wary of her at first but she ends up visiting a lot and soon becomes an aunt of sorts to them all

•I mean it gets to the point where Keith comes up to the Paladins and Pidge accidentally says “is Aunt Krolia coming?” and Keith blinks because he doesn’t even call Krolia “Mom” yet and here are his friends referring to her as their aunt lmao

•Coran gets super offended over this nickname for her because he’s Uncle Coran and this lady comes waltzing in and adopts such a similar title so much quicker than he did

•He complains constantly about it to Allura at first

Coran: “I simply don’t understand Princess“ Allura: “understand what” Coran: “how they could betray me like this” Allura: “they’re not betra—“ Coran: “how could they betray me like this”

•He also interrogates Krolia at every chance he gets on any possible intentions she has for this group

Coran, shooting eye daggers at her and leaning forward: “so what makes you think you’re qualified to be an aunt” Krolia, folding her arms shooting daggers right back: “what makes you think I’m not”

•Eventually though he warms up to her and they become an absolutely iconic duo

•They’re practically inseparable, always talking on the sidelines while the Paladins discuss strategy or joining in themselves

•They tease the Paladins about their crushes all the time and discuss it together to no end

Coran, sipping tea from who knows where: “did you know my favorite Paladin has a crush on your favorite Paladin” Krolia, raising her eyebrows over her cup: “what do you take me for it’s so obvious that I knew before I even saw them interacting”

Coran, in a failed attempt to subtly let Krolia know about Hunay: “so Hunk how’s Shay been have you two been up to any fun lately have you gone out lately how’s Shay been” Krolia, swooping in through the doorway from where she was eavesdropping: “who’s Shay”

•Sorry I just had to explore this wonderful concept of Coran and Krolia‘s relationship I should probably stop now

•She also loves teasing them about their jobs and hobbies

Krolia, leaning over Hunk’s work and smirking: “shouldn’t those be double-modulated” Hunk, closing his eyes and giving a heavy sigh: “I thought you were my friend”

Krolia, watching Lance train and cupping her hands over her mouth: “YOUR STANCE IS OFF” Lance, dropping his sword: “and how would you know Miss Kogun” Krolia: “my last name isn’t even Kogane that pun is invalid”

•Wow this post strayed so far from its original purpose um let’s go back to Keith and Krolia

•Once he sees that his friends like Krolia, Keith finds it a lot easier to act more welcoming toward her

•They were already establishing a closer bond but Keith always seemed pretty closed off anyway, not rude or anything but y’know just Keith

•At some point Krolia asks if he remembers her at all from before she left and he says no

Krolia: “but I cradled you in my arms” Keith, giving an involuntary snort and coughing to cover it: “sorry yeah go on”

•Keith gradually becomes more comfortable around Krolia and starts to see her as a mother figure, although he still calls her Krolia for a long time

•When he calls her mom for the first time, it’s because she refuses to let him go on a mission that she thinks it’s too dangerous for him

Krolia: “no Keith you’re not going off just to get yourself killed that’s ridiculous” Keith: “BUT MOM“ Krolia, after staring at him for half a minute in pure shock and silence: “if you think that finally addressing me as ‘mom’ is going to make me budge you’re wrONG” Coran, popping his head in: “was that a voice crack I heard my dear Krolia”

•But after that Keith can see how happy being called Mom makes Krolia so he tries to let it stick

•He still slips up a lot but doesn’t only pull out the Mom card for blackmail I mean he’s not evil

•They’re a broken family, but each day is a day of mending

#i’m sorry #i couldn’t resist the klance #this went from angst to shitposting in 0.02 seconds #voltron #vld #voltron legendary defender #s6 voltron #voltron spoilers #voltron headcanons #vld headcanons #krolia #keith #coran #this turned out a lot longer than planned #klance #mine #my text

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mattyrambles · 6 years

Text

9:02

Chirping, an insolent racket - is what wakes Penelope up, slowly. Birds. A distant flushing toilet. And then a rush of cold hands, the mattress dipping along with the duvet being tugged from her, and curls tickling under her chin and shoulder, is what wakes her up fully. Matty.

She keeps her eyes closed, an impending headache, hangover. Already being able to tell that it’s quite bright, the skylights. The blinds hadn’t been pulled down, long forgotten about in the haze of last night. Records and cheap wine, and when Matty had fallen back after heated kisses, and innocent matched with not so innocent touches, he told her to look at the moon, while she painted his nails.

The reason Penelope had moved her bed directly under the skylight, when she was younger she had had trouble sleeping, partially insomniac, she found comfort in the moon, stars. And didn’t have to worry how the brightness of a sunrise would affect her head when the light hit the next morning. When the idea of a hangover was a foreign concept. She never got around to moving her bed. She didn’t spend enough nights in her own bedroom for it to be a problem. Either the garage, or Matty, or her boyfriend.

It wasn’t so foreign now, in full glaring colour. She groans.

“You better have washed your hands.”

She gets a grunt in reply, and his hand rubbing over her face, mouth - despite sounds of protest.

“Matty, stop! Gross.”

But there’s scents of the soap her mum puts in the bathrooms, lavender. And whiffs of toothpaste when he speaks. She doesn’t need or want to ask whose toothbrush he used.

“So my hand that’s touched my cock in your mouth is gross, but when it’s my actual cock in your mouth it’s -”

He’s cut off with a breathless sound, her elbow landing somewhere against his stomach, mumbled curses met with a reiteration of ‘gross’.

“Okay, love. Go back to sleep.” A sigh, a sleepy defeated sigh. Hot breaths and lingering kiss, beneath her ear, fingers lazily tracing skin. Penelope knows she won’t be able to go back to sleep, but listens to his breathing slow down, gradually gaining a disjointed rhythm, it’s kind of soothing.

Until it grows more claustrophobic than peaceful. Matty’s skin is too hot against hers, too close, and his breaths too loud. Her bed was a double, but the they still slept as if it were a twinsize. Habits. Her sheets smell like lavender and rosemary. She always hated that, it reminds her of awkward early adolescence, like trying and failing with makeup experimentation, of homework and trying to impress people who didn’t give a shit, like early rainy mornings and London. She didn’t find comfort in faded memories, things had changed.

Morning light drifts through dream catchers lining the ceiling, and creeps over posters - faded and pale, Damon Albarn, Robert Smith, a floor length Karate Kid poster in between, something she had stolen from her brother when they moved here. She realizes the hangover isn’t that bad, when the light doesn’t hurt. Only adding to the warmth, heating skin and draining colour - the posters. There’s glow in the dark stars scattered along where the ceiling slants, Matty’s work - prior years. It’s a rarity that she sleeps in her bedroom without him.

She sits up abruptly - easily shrugging him off, quiet sounds of discontent but he doesn’t wake up. Stretching, a yawn, and reaching over to turn off the fairy lights, draped around her bed post. Picking up a t-shirt from yesterday off the floor - Matty’s, actually hers, one she had either given him or he had stolen, she doesn’t remember but there’s a wine stain patching the front. American Football - oversized, a Christmas gift from her older brother, something that she thinks was actually just an old t-shirt he didn’t want, of a band he was never into.

Collecting - scattered CD cases from the floor, more hand me down presents he had given her over the years. It was her mum’s birthday yesterday, her brother had ventured back from uni for the first birthday in three years, towing along his new girlfriend who was very pretty, and very French. Conscious eyes following her around the room for the most part of the night - Matty. He told her about his band, she said she wasn’t into musicians.

“Too narcissistic.”

Penelope - a smile at the thought of how his face had dropped, even more so when she had turned to Penelope and told her that she could do better. She had teased him about it later, when he had finished the end of the wine without sharing, and was pulling CD’s from her shelves, saying they were all rubbish. Telling him the Alice was right, she could do better, and he didn’t look up from the back of a Nickelback case, only scoffing;

“Alice is a prick. You wouldn’t dream of it darlin’, you love me.”

Fingers - tracing over skin, features. On her knees - beside the bed, after stacking back up the CD cases, chin pressed to the mattress. She always liked watching him sleep, finding comfort in witnessing him more peaceful, more vulnerable and less bouncing off the walls. Watching - sunlight break through clouds, filtering over his face, causing features to shift. On his front - his brow furrows, nose twitching, lips parting with muted sounds of discomfort.

Fingers - trailing across his jaw, light stubble but the beard was finally gone. After much prompting from her, slagging from everyone else. She's tracing ink - his upper arm, when fingers grip her wrist, muffled mumbles of, 'what're you doing?'.

A tired smile - "Just like watching you sleep."

"Why? Do I look fit?."

Voice - thick with sleep, and a lazy type of grin. Weak attempts to pull her back towards him, back into bed - without opening his eyes, something she protests against, insisting she’s thirsty and needs water while he insists that she needs to get back into bed. Shifting to the edge of the mattress, face inches from hers, when she presses her lips to his nose - giggling when he swats her away with a scowl. But - her fingers are drawn back to him, ruffling through his hair, somewhat of a commonplace.

“C’mere,” he tries again, through a sigh. Shaking her head, pulling away - his hand finds the nape of her neck, fingers threading through tangled curls, bringing her face, and lips back to his. She doesn’t resist, or even attempt to. Slow kisses - messy and uncoordinated at the awkward angle. Evoking half smiles and soft sounds.

“At least bring me some breakfast then.”

In the kitchen there’s an assortment of fruit juices, pastries, fruit and jambons placed on the counter, island. She raises brows at that. Her mum, brother - sat on either side, idle conversation. Her brows raise further. A foreign concept. Instead of letting them see her disbelief, she sits down - beginning to pile a plate with a bit of everything.

“Very continental.” Muffled through a bite of croissant, she had grown up with cereal and toast, and in the latter years breakfast was often eaten alone, if she was bothered with it. Her mum liked to make first impressions count, but Alice was no where in sight. Her brother explains that she likes to shower first thing in the morning, he targets it at Penelope. She rolls her eyes. Tangled curls, smudged eye makeup she hadn’t washed off last night, a wine stained t-shirt, which she’s half sure probably matches the hues of wine left at the corner of her lips.

“Did Matty stay last night?” Her mum asks, and Penelope has a slight suspicion that she’s sick of hearing about Alice, subtly trying to change the topic of conversation. Penelope - a nod, pouring yogurt over fruit, Alex scoffs at that, and Penelope’s eyes dart up, narrowing.

“So her boyfriend is allowed to sleep in her room, but you tried to get me and Alice to sleep in separate rooms? Really, Mum?”

Both Penelope and her mum enunciate at the same time - Matty was not her boyfriend. Her mum in lighthearted comical way, Penelope in a more defensive manner.

“It’s all innocent between them, known each other since they were babies.” she says, fondly. Tone tinted with nostalgia. Spain.

“Besides, she has a boyfriend, what’s his name, Penny? Nick?”

“Nicholas.” Correcting, her gaze flickering between them.

“Oh, really?” He hums.

“He’s in a band too, isn’t he? Like Matty?”

“Film student.” She corrects, although she doesn’t know why she did, her mum wasn’t wrong he is in a band, dropped out of uni. Maybe it was to seperate him from Matty. He wasn’t like Matty, at all.

Penelope doesn’t miss the glint in her brother’s eye, the sly smirk. The look she knows means he’s about to drop a bombshell, the taunting look she had grown up with - one he always gave her when he was about to grass her up. His eyes, like hers, were inherited from their mum, although his weren’t as deep a shade of blue, more aqua. But they could look just as cold, menacing. She only cocks her head, challenging. Flashes of last night - the hallway, her lips harsh against Matty’s when Alex had walked out of the bathroom. Although he hadn’t said much at the time, only muttering for them to get a room before walking off. However, now he had new information that she knew he would enjoy tormenting her with way too much during his stay. They always had more of a love/hate relationship more so than a wholesome sibling bond.

“Still, looks like Nellie got more action than me last night.”

Nellie had been his nickname for her since they were kids - she had always hated it, her mum habitually called her Penny - she hated that too, her friends P, Matty and the boys Pen. Her dad was the only one who ever used her proper name on a regular basis. Penelope.

Narrowing her eyes at him - he takes a bite of toast and taps at his neck, not so discreetly. She flips her hair around her shoulder, silently cursing Matty.

“Behave.”

Their mum mutters, pretending to not know what the two of them are talking about, ignoring the notion that her and Matty were anything more than platonic, attention shifting to the Scrabble tile she had picked up from the floor. It’s an M. Last night they had all tried and failed to play a game, her mum never had much interest in board games it became apparent that it was something she learned from her dad, neither had Alex but Penelope argued that’s just because he was rubbish at them, and Alice kept confusing verbs and nouns, consonants and vowels. Matty got bored and began to repeatedly spell different variations of his name.

Then everyone went to bed, and she had meant to only walk Matty out to his van, but he mentioned that he had some of George’s weed in the back. They got high on her garage roof, ate the rest of her mum’s birthday cake, and snatched a bottle of wine from the kitchen rack before ending up in her bedroom, wine and heated kisses - because despite Matty’s usual salacious remarks, sex was still sort of off the cards, with Nickelback drowning on quietly in the background, and fairy lights flickering against black nail polish.

Her brother wasn’t finished just yet though, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his toast, glancing between them both and Penelope expects it’s going to be a snide comment about Matty, before;

“So Mum, how does it feel to have a slag for a daughter?”

The strawberry Penelope had been balancing on a spoon - falls, splattering yogurt, her mum shrieks ‘Alexander’, in a scolding sort of tone, newspaper smacking the back of his head, he only falls into a fit of chuckles. Penelope knows him enough to know that he didn’t mean it in a malicious or spiteful way, he just had and odd sense of humor, always had. He didn’t inherit the curls like Penelope - jet black and straight.

She’s about to quip back - when there’s a small yet threatening ‘what was that?’, sounding from behind her. Matty. She hadn’t heard him approaching, glancing back to meet stormy eyes, focused on Alex. The glint in his - intensifying, the mere thought of riling Matty up. They had never gotten along. A few years back Matty and George used to slag him off over his mild obsession with parkour, something she thinks they ended up putting in one of their songs. The time when he attempted to jump off the garage roof and onto the trampoline, missing by miles and breaking his leg.

Matty’s eyes are red - she wonders if he smoked whatever was left over from last night or found something else. Either way her fingers tug against his shirt to make him sit down, mumbling for him to relax - that Alex was only joking. Sort of. Maybe not. Who knew. But he buys it anyway - taking the croissant and tea that her mum pushed in front of him with a chirpy greeting of good morning that didn’t really fit the mood anymore. Uneasy.

Penelope draws shapes in the yogurt with her spoon, while Matty chews on pastry, and Alex’s lips part to make more implications about their relationship - her mum’s phone goes off, and she immediately ducks out of the room to answer it. Alex’s disproving sounds, and shouts of how he thought today was supposed to be a no getting called into work day following her. Something she ignores, leaving the three of them in silence. Until he regains his composure, turning his attention back to Matty, lips curving when he calls him Matt - purposely, Penelope rolls her eyes.

“How do you feel about Nicholas?”

“Who, Pen’s boyfriend? Yeah - he’s lovely, dead nice bloke.” Matty says, deadpans. His hand finding her thigh, warmth. She can’t help but smirk in triumph at her brother’s reaction, obviously not expecting that kind of reply, looking to provoke more frustration. Only muttering ‘fucking mental’ more so to himself, and beginning to read the paper their mum had left on the counter. Matty winks - Penelope.

Morning air - warm, scents of freshly cut grass, spring. Matty’s van - he had to head back to town, a gig later. Hann was still out for blood since Matty missed their last practice - distractions in form of Penelope. Trying to persuade her to come back with him now, but she protests - needing a shower, promised lunch with one of her mates. This is all half hardheartedly explained between kisses - in quick succession. Sun - warm against skin, metal of the van.

“Are you gonna wear this tonight, then?”

Fingers tug on the hem of the shirt he’s wearing, My Bloody Valentine - one of hers, one she had cropped, halting just above his belly button. A lazily grin, sunlight flickering in emerald, shrugging. She tells him he should, that it’s hot, and he rolls his eyes, getting into the van - telling her it’s her last chance, shaking her head, heading back up the driveway, towards Alex, smoking.

“You coming tonight too, Lex?” He shouts up, beginning to drive - knowing that her brother hates being called Lex just as much as he hates being called Matt. He scoffs, nose scrunching in disdain.

“I’d rather break my leg again - both my legs, thanks mate.” Alex calls after him, Penelope hearing dry chuckles meshing with spring air, the horn beeping in form of goodbye. It’s only when the van is out of sight that her brother turns to her, offering her a cigarette before asking what all this was about. She asks what he means, smoke curling. He gives her a dumbfounded look.

“I mean - why are you shagging Matt fucking Healy of all people?”

“I’m not.”

He gives her another look, it’s a look she knows from her mum. The don’t bullshit me look. But it wasn’t a lie - really, her and Matty hadn’t been like that in a while, not since Ross. Not something her brother needs to know.

“Oh really? This wasn’t here yesterday but just magically appears after he spends the night?” It’s a patronizing tone, fingers pressing to the bruise - her neck, something she squeals at, pushing his arm away and only barely misses singeing him with the end of her cigarette.

“Fuck off, I’m not talking to you about my sex life - that’s fucking weird.”

His lips, curve around smoke - a taunting gaze. “What’s dead nice Nicholas going to think about that? Wait, if Matty knows about him, does he know that you’re shagging Matty? Holy shit is it some kind of polyamorous threesome-”

“Fucking hell, Alex!” She cuts him off, flicking the end of her smoke into grass and glaring. “No it’s not, shut up. Jesus.”

“I still think he’s gay. Trust me, stick with this new bloke.”

Penelope - an eyeroll turning back to the house, Alex only follows behind, gleefully - knowing he’s increasingly pissing her off. Nostalgia.

#im writing like 3 different things and this is the first one i finished so here's some trash #the 1975 fanfiction #matty healy fanfic #matty healy

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redrobinfection · 6 years

Text

“Mi cama es su cama”

JayTim Week 2018 | Day 5 - “Bed Sharing” (Day 6), Pt 5 of 6

AN: Okay, so, March is definitely one of the worst times of year for me, surpassed only by April, so, originally, I hadn’t planned on participating in this JayTim Week. But I couldn’t stay away from the “bed sharing” prompt, and thus this massive oneshot was born. Since I don’t like posting long works to tumblr, and the fic naturally split into six, roughly-even parts, I’ve decided to release one part each day up until day six, at which point I’ll also share a link to the entire work on Ao3. I particularly enjoyed writing this spur-of-the-moment monster, so I hope you enjoy reading just as much!

Tags: enemies to friends to lovers, pre-N52, slow burn, blood and injury, tw: blood

<< Part 4

---

Tim blew out a breath and sagged down onto the bed, running both hands through his hair. At this point it was a waiting game, nothing to do but wait until the man tucked into his bed woke up again. He carefully smoothed out the blankets he had draped over Jason's still form, mindful to keep his touch light so as not to aggravate the wounds stitched and bandaged underneath, and mused over the events of the past two hours.

The ordeal had begun with a bewildering alert from one of the safehouses at which he and Jay would often meet up to discuss cases or catch a nap if one or both of them were running on fumes. The napping part of it had started out as a joke between them after the time Tim had crashed at Jason's place right after the invasion had ended. Since then, every other week or so, one of them would show up at whichever safehouse the other was currently occupying just to beg a nap, hang out, and eat the other's food. These days, they were hanging out together at least twice a week, and Tim was actually starting to depend on those extra naps to keep him going throughout the week.

So when he had gotten the alert, he had wondered if maybe Jay had thought that he was there for some reason and just hadn't thought to disable and reset the security? It was that or someone had legitimately broken into the place; all of the Bats knew to either call him or disable the security themselves upon entering, so it wouldn't have been one of them. He had been particularly bewildered after he had pulled the security feed and saw that it was indeed Jason who had entered. Uncertain and a little concerned, Tim had peeled off from his patrol route and circled back to check, just in case.

Maybe Jason had info for him but had lost his comm? Or maybe he'd been hit with fear toxin or something similarly nasty and just homed in on the closest place to crash, just as Tim had months ago when he'd been hit by Freeze? Or maybe he had just really needed a nap?

Those possibilities had circled like impatient vultures in his head as he had cautiously entered the safehouse through the false wall Jason had carelessly left ajar. Upon seeing nothing immediately out of place, he had turned off the silent alarms and reset the system. He had then walked from room to room, seeking Jason out, until he had found him in the only bedroom.

At first glance it had appeared that Jason had snuck in for a quick nap, stretched out on his stomach across the bed, hood nowhere to be seen, head buried in a pillow. The second thing Tim had noticed was that Jay hadn't bothered to remove his boots before flopping across the bed. It was at the point that Tim had opened his mouth rouse his guest and gleefully rib him for his oversight that he had noticed the third thing, the spreading pool of blood just seeping out from under Jason.

Tim had instantly cried out and jumped forward, gingerly rolling the man onto his back. The stain hadn't spread too far, but thinking back to when he'd first gotten the alert and by looking at the deep color and wet glisten of blood that could no longer be absorbed by the saturated material, Jason had clearly been bleeding profusely for a while.

Heart in his throat, Tim had jumped right into crisis mode, quickly stripping out of his gauntlets, pulling on the nitrile gloves he kept in one of his bandolier compartments, shaking Jason to gauge level of consciousness - completely non-responsive - and feeling for a pulse as he gauged Jason's color and breathing. He had clearly lost a lot of blood, as confirmed by the paleness of his skin, his rapid, shallow breaths, his rapid, thready pulse, and the total loss of consciousness, but at least Tim had made it back while he had still had a pulse.

Tim had wasted no time in running into the gear room for his vigilante first aid kit, IV fluids and oxygen. He then quickly identified two gunshot wounds to the torso, in the lower right quadrant, and one superficial wound to the left shoulder. He had staunched the bleeding temporarily with sterile gauze and pressure bandages, then set Jay up on fluids and oxygen while he had made some calls out to Oracle and the Bats to call in some favors.

He had then cleaned and stitched the wounds in record time - Jay had been lucky the bullets hadn't gone deep enough to rupture viscera or nick any major arteries, otherwise he would have been taking a trip to his least favorite cave in the world, if he had survived long enough for Tim to call in the cavalry - and then he had gingerly shifted Jason over on the bed so he could strip the blankets and sheets from under him. The blood had soaked all the way through, as he'd thought - the mattress was a total loss - but it was the only bed Tim had, so he had done his best to soak up as much liquid as he could, then laid down a layer of towels before stretching clean sheets over the bed.

He had only just then finished tucking Jason back into the bed, setting him up on a unit of blood, cleaning up the bloodied sheets and towels, and putting away the first aid supplies. It had been two hours since he had first gotten the alert from his security app, but it had felt like two of the longest hours of his life.

He hadn't realized until he'd seen the pool of blood and seen Jason's pale, slack face how much he actually cared for the man. It scared him, just how much he cared. It frightened him, just how much it had frightened him to find Jason bleeding out and unresponsive in his bed.

He shifted his attention back to the man lying in his bed in the present moment. He threaded his fingers into Jason's and squeezed, his fingers mimicking the fear he felt squeeze his chest in that moment as he thought back on how close to total disaster they had come tonight. If he had been a few minutes slower or if the bullets had gone a little bit deeper or if they'd hit just a little higher. So many 'what-ifs' and it terrified him that the mere act of considering those possibilities terrified him so much.

He'd felt fear for the safety of those he'd worked with before - for Bruce, for Dick, for Steph, for Bart, Kon, Cassie and the Titans, even for Damian, once - but he'd never felt fear like this before. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Now that he was waiting for Jason to wake up, he wasn't sure whether he was more nervous about what would happen when Jason woke up again - what he would say, what Jay might say, what would happen next - or at the possibility that Jason might never wake up again.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a soft sound from the bed. The significance of that sound pulled a relieved smile from him in spite of the churning feeling he felt in his stomach as he watched Jason begin to stir. He subtly shifted his grip around Jason's hand, lightly feeling for a pulse and feeling a greater measure of relief from the strong, steady beat he felt gradually quicken under his fingertips. After a minute or so, Jason's eyes blinked open once, twice, then stayed open, at which point his face immediately twisted in pain.

"Wha' happ'n?" Jason groaned.

"I was hoping you could tell me that," Tim responded smoothly. It took Jason a few tries to focus his gaze on him.

"I was… trackin' down a weap'ns deal an'… turned bad… got caught in th' crossfire as I tried t' break it up… an' then… I dunno," Jason recalled woozily, frowning slightly. He pulled his hand from Tim's and pressed it lightly to the wounds on his abdomen, hissing slightly.

"And then you somehow made it out here, broke into my apartment, took a little nap in my bed, and bled all over my sheets. Not to mention you forgot to take your boots off first," Tim finished, keeping his tone light and teasing.

Jason huffed a laugh, then grimaced and pressed his hand harder against the wounds. "Shit, man… don' make me laugh. Hurts." Tim rose smoothly and retrieved two syringes from the dresser and rounded the other side of the bed to fiddle with the IVs. "Sorry about the sheets, though. And the boots, of course," Jason finished, shooting him a wink that was nearly indistinguishable from a wince.

"Don't worry about it," Tim assured him, patting the hand just below the IV sites patronizingly, "I mean, you forgave me that one time with Freeze, so I'm sure I can give you this one."

"H-how generous of you," Jason choked out, clearly trying his best not to laugh.

"I've got some painkillers and antibiotics here for you, if you want them. No allergies, right?" Tim asked, waving the syringes. Jason nodded vigorously to each, so Tim carefully uncapped and injected them into the port he'd placed with one IV catheter for this express purpose. "I would have given you the painkiller sooner, but I wanted to make sure you'd wake up first."

The tension visibly drained from Jason's face and body within seconds of the painkiller going in. He let out a pleased sigh as he relaxed back onto the pillows Tim had propped him up upon. "No problem, man. I'm just really grateful you got me the good stuff. Oh, yeahhhh… that's the stuffffffffff." He practically melted into the pillows, a happy little puddle of high-as-a-kite Jason.

Tim snorted. "Yeah, I had to call in a few favors to get my hands on it, so you're welcome." He capped the empty syringes and set them aside. "Had to call in one for the blood too. You're lucky I had the rest of this stuff on hand here or we would have been shit out of luck and you would have had to take a ride in your least favorite automobile in the city."

"Hey, nah, I love the Batmobile - awesome wheels on the thing - I just can't stand the jerk who drives it," Jason explained drowsily, eyes slipping closed in spite of himself. "But thanks for not calling in big B or Dickie and the Demon Brat."

"Well, it was Damian who brought us the morphine and blood, so…"

Jason's eyes snapped open and he stared. "Wait, Damian did you a favor? Wait. He owed you a favor? How even…? What did you do for the demon for him to owe you a favor?"

Tim laughed, slowly rounded the bed, and sat down beside Jason once more. "Yeah, he owed me a favor, and part of the favor I did him involved not telling anyone why he owed me that favor, so, you know, I really like not getting stabbed and thrown from high places, and rather dislike having my grapple lines cut, so I'm gonna keep that one to myself."

"That's fair. But jeez…" Jason whistled. "To use a favor from the Demon Brat on me. Wow. I'm honored."

Tim grinned. "No problem, man." He was just about to stand and go in search of extra blankets when Jason's hand unexpectedly shifted from his wounds down to where Tim's hand rested on the bed, his chilled fingers wrapping around Tim's slightly sweaty ones with a firm grip.

"But really, Tim, thank you," Jason murmured seriously. "Thanks for catching the alarms I must have set off coming in here and a special thank you for not taking your time coming back and checking on them - coming back and checking on me. Thanks for patching me up." He paused, then smiled and squeezed Tim's hand, instantly rekindling the heavy churning feeling in his stomach that had fallen to the wayside during their easy banter. "Thanks for sharing your beds, particularly this one, tonight, with me. Means a lot to me."

Tim nodded and swallowed. "Y-yeah, no problem." He shot up from the bed, yanking his hand from Jason's abruptly. He fluttered for a moment before rambling out some words that might have conveyed a desire to find more blankets and get Jay some water, but probably came out too quickly to be understood, and then he fled the room. He took his time pulling the spare blankets from the main closet and filling a lidded cup - complete with straw - with water before he made his way back to the bedroom. He steeled himself outside the door, running what he planned to say over and over in his head.

"Here are more blankets and some water," he began as he walked in. Jason accepted the water silently, taking a few small sips before setting it aside. Tim draped several of the blankets over him carefully, then stood back from the bed. He sucked in a deep breath.

"Jay, I-"

"So where're you gonna sleep, Timbo? You got a couch in this place?"

"I uhhh… hadn't thought about it actually," he admitted. "No, I don't. I'll probably just make myself a pallet on the floor, to be honest. Plenty of blankets left."

Jason shook his head. "No, don't sleep on the floor, man. There's plenty of room on the bed."

Tim immediately began to protest, but Jason raised his voice to over him. "I'm serious, get yourself outta that suit and climb in. I can use all the extra warmth I can get right now; blood loss fucking sucks."

Tim wavered. "I don't want to accidentally elbow you in the middle of the night, or worse, kick you or something."

Jason scoffed, then fiddled with his nasal cannula with a grimace. "Like that ever happens. You're not a kicker, anyway. If anything you might snuggle me until my stitches pop, but believe me, I'll wake you up loooong before it gets to that, so stop stalling and get in. After all," Jason explained with a loopy grin, "we're not really sharing a bed if you're not in here too."

Tim rolled his eyes and sighed, but didn't argue it further. He had wanted to keep a close eye on Jay tonight, anyway. He quickly shucked off the remaining pieces of his suit and carefully climbed into the right side of the bed - ideally he would have liked to have avoided Jason's sore side, but with the IVs on the other side he didn't really have a choice - purposefully giving the injured man wide clearance. Jason huffed and dragged him closer, pulling him nearly flush against his side.

Eventually they settled in together, the sound of Jason's breaths growing slower and softer while the drip-drip of the IVs filled the silences in between. Before Jason could drop off completely and before Tim lost his nerve entirely, he sucked in another long breath and went for it.

"Jay?"

"Yeah?"

"You really scared me tonight."

A long pause. "I know. I'm sorry."

"I… I don't know… I can't…" Tim struggled and he felt Jason shift beside him in confusion. "I'm not sure what I'd do if you had…"

"Died. Again," Jason finished, his words reminiscent of the many jokes he often made about his death. There was no humor in his voice this time, only understanding.

"Yeah. I'd… It scares me, Jason. It scares me how much it scares me. I'd really hate it if something happened to you."

"I'd really hate it if something happened to you, too," Jason admitted softly.

Tim let the silence stretch, weighing his next words carefully on his tongue and in his heart before he whispered them to the ceiling. He wasn't even sure Jason was awake anymore.

"Jay, I think I like you."

The admission floated into the space above and around them and Tim felt an overwhelming sense of peace at having finally gotten the words past his lips, words that he felt were true down to the depths of his soul, a truth that had grown between them for months without him ever realizing it.

Jason wasn't asleep. The response he gave without pause echoed in Tim's head until sleep finally took him and then all the way through the night and on into the morning.

"I like you too, Babybird."

---

Part 6 >>

#jaytimweek #jaytimweek2018 #jaytim #long text post #christmasriverswrites #my writing #tw blood #trigger warning: BLOOD #seriously if graphic depictions of blood bother you do not read this #I did it again; I wrote more compound-tense flashbacks #if I have to write another ''had'' I might scream #(*starts editing* *starts screaming*)#tbf it's really hard to time-jump a story without flashbacks so...#lesson learned: write the story in present tense next time #the slow burn has finally revealed some smoke ;3 And where there is smoke there are surely flames ;333?

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peachyhyvck · 7 years

Text

when things go bump in the night

summary: in which you have a late night run in with a seemingly vicious vampire, only to find out he’s not as intimidating as you first made him out to be.

characters: shin hoseok x female!reader

genre: vampire au, suggestive shit

warnings: very faint mentions of blood, choking, suggestive shit

author’s note: this is my first paranormal au scenario!!! if i’m being honest, i love love love reading these.... so expect more in the future, maybe?? idk, depending on how this one goes, I guess,,,

You step out of the little bakery and into the frigid fall air, immediately grabbing your bare arms while simultaneously cursing at yourself for not thinking to bring any sort of protection from the bone-chilling, autumn nights. You cautiously survey the area; taking in your surroundings before turning back toward the door. You manage to lock it, despite your trembling hands, and turn around, making your way down the sidewalk. You take an exceptionally deep breath before exhaling, examining the visible puff of air in front of you, not looking forward to the mile long hike back to your house.

The minuscule town you called home was already vacant during the day time, but at night it was like that of a ghost town; not a soul in sight. Hardly anything in sight for that matter, due to the thick pool of fog that resides throughout the barren streets. It was like something straight out of a horror movie. That in itself was just one of the many, many reasons you hated being out at that time of night.

You’ve told your boss time and time again that you really don’t like the night shift, but does that stop him from assigning you to said shifts? Of course not. Because the grumpy asshole loves to torment people in any way possible! And it’s not like you voiced your concern with no backing... He just doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care that you don't have a car, and that the buses don’t run that late, leaving you with no choice but to walk home. He doesn’t care that you’re extremely uncomfortable, and absolutely terrified, to make that journey home by yourself. For all he cares, you could be kidnapped, assaulted, or even brutally murdered, and the old man wouldn't even bat an eye.

About a quarter of the way into your walk, something akin to uneasiness began to overwhelm you. The only way to describe it was a mixture of both fear and the feeling that you’re not alone wrapped into one, and it made your skin crawl. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath as you reassure yourself that its nothing, in hopes to ease your jittery conscience.

As if right on cue, you’re startled by the faint sound of footsteps coming from behind you. At first, you thought it was the sound of your own feet bouncing off the pavement. But as you pay closer attention, and really focus in on the suspicious noise, you come to realize that the sound you’re hearing isn’t quite in sync with your footsteps...

Stop, calm down! It’s just another random person making their way home after a late night at work - just like you! You’re blowing this way out of proportion, Y/N. YOU’RE. FINE.

In an attempt to validate your thoughts, you stop dead in your tracks, patiently waiting for said stranger to leisurely stroll past you; putting an end to your mental suffering. Unfortunately for you, the other set of footsteps come to a halt, prompting your breath to hitch in your throat. All reassuring thoughts are ceased as hyperawareness and panic are quick to take its place. You let out a shaky sigh as you muster up all the minimal courage you have left. Glacially slow, you peak over your right shoulder, aiming to shed light on the unknown.

Your body goes numb as you spot the silhouette of a man about a block behind you. It wouldn't have been as startling, had the man not been standing as still as a statue in the middle of the sidewalk, just staring at you. You shake your head, convinced that what you’re seeing isn’t really there, and it’s just your mind playing cruel tricks on you. That is, until he slowly cocks his head to the side, sending a rush of fear and trepidation coursing through your veins.

You turn back around and continue walking, trying your best to act like nothings wrong, and you aren’t shaking in absolute terror. But to your immense displeasure, you can't for the life of you steady your breathing, and your heart is beating so hard you think for sure its about to burst right through your chest.

And just when you think you can’t possibly get any more scared than you already are, the pace of the stranger’s footsteps picks up at an alarming speed. His footsteps are so fast, it sounds like he broke into a dead sprint, but they’re still much too light to compare to the heavy thuds of those made while running. And then, they stop altogether.

No decelerating.

No skidding.

Nothing at all.

How can you go from full on sprinting to nothing that quickly?

You whip your head around in sheer bemusement, only to find nothing. He’s nowhere to be seen. Your eyebrows unintentionally knit in utter confusion as you try to sort through all the rational possibilities, ultimately coming up with none.

You gradually resume walking forward, still looking behind you for any sign of the mystery man. You shake your head in bewilderment as you turn to face forward again. As soon as your head swings back around, you’re met face-to-face - well, more like face-to-chest - with who you assume to be the man following you not two minutes ago.

An unexpected shriek crawls its way up your throat as you jump back, falling on the cold, hard concrete beneath you; not having expected him to be right in front of you. You bite your tongue, forcing yourself not to ask him how the hell he managed to do that, reckoning that that’s probably the least of your worries, given the sly smirk etched on his face.

He steadily kneels down in front of you, reaching his arm out for you to take hold of. His current position allows the nearby streetlight to shine directly on him, giving you the perfect opportunity to thoroughly examine the man before you.

His bleach blond hair was styled in such a way that revealed his milky-white, porcelain skin. His plump, rosy lips held a very sly smirk, almost as if he knows something you don’t. His brown beady eyes stared right through you with such a harsh intensity, it left you wanting the ground to swallow you whole.

Finally making eye contact with him, he raises an eyebrow and shakes his extended arm. Realizing he has been offering to help you up, and probably watched you stare at him in grave concentration for god knows how long causes the blood to rush to your cheeks in absolute humiliation.

You acquiesce at the kind gesture, but quickly retract your hand as soon as you’re able to stand on your own. Now that the two of you are standing upright, you’re able to take in the rest of his appearance.

He dons a silky, navy blue button up shirt that accentuated his toned arms in a mouthwatering way. Not to mention his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, blessing the world with his veiny forearms on full display. His shirt is neatly tucked into a pair of ripped, black skinny jeans that hug his thick thighs deliciously. And finally, he sports a pair of black boots, a black choker, and a few silver rings on various fingers to finish off the jaw-dropping look.

Looking back up, you find this alluring stranger staring at you in an ever so daunting way. Still desperately trying to play it cool, you fake a giggle before nervously muttering, “M-my goodness, you s-scared me!” with a forced smile, and a hand on your pounding heart.

“Oh, I know, sweetheart,” he retorts with a small chuckle and another heart fluttering grin, “I like to frighten my prey; play with them a little, ya know?” he shrugs casually, as if he hadn't just called you his “prey.”

You feel as though all the life has just been drained from your body. Your stomach drops as soon as his words sink in, and you grip your purse closer to your body as you slowly take a half step back before repeating the word, “p-prey...?” more to yourself, rather than him; almost as if you were trying, and failing, to fully comprehend what he had just told you.

He lets out another chuckle, almost as if he finds your petrified reaction to be somewhat amusing. Suddenly, his previous chocolate brown orbs fade away, only to be replaced with a potent, saturated shade of crimson red. The new level of intensity in his piercing gaze made for an even more drastic change in mood, compared to the already tense situation.

Your breath catches in your throat as you maintain eye contact with him, almost like no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t force yourself to look away. He shoots you another breathtaking grin as he cocks his head to the side once more, just as he had done earlier. Only this time, it was even more intimidating.

Being in such a close proximity with him, whatever he is, made it clear to see the way he talked, the way he looked, even the way he carried himself, oozed with pure menace; and it was absolutely horrifying. Though your eyes are currently stuck in a very much unwanted stare down, your hand subtly rummages through your purse, until your fingers brush against the tiny keychain bottle of pepper spray your father had given you “in case of an emergency.” With a vast sense of foreboding, you slide the safety lock off; opening the spray. Your finger trembles as it rests on top of the nozzle, ready to fire if need be.

“Yes, baby. Prey. Although I must admit, I've never come across someone as stunningly beautiful as yourself. I mean its kind of a shame, isn’t it?” he asks in quite possibly the most condescending tone you’d ever heard.

He continued to torment you as he begins to leisurely walk around you in a calculating manner, like a predator circling in on its kill. By this point your entire body was visibly shaking, and every little move he made had you ready to jump right out of your shoes.

“I would love to spare you, I truly would...” he pauses, turning to face you as he seductively licks his bottom lip. “But I can hear the blood gushing through your veins and, if I'm being quite honest, princess, I don't think I can control myself.”

With those last few words he rolls his head back, silently moaning in the process, before turning to look at you once more; only this time, a pair of extremely sharp fangs protruded from his mouth. Before he got the chance to so much as try anything on you, you mercilessly sprayed him in the face with your pepper spray, booking it in the opposite direction.

Through the sound of your heart thumping in your ears, you could hear him emit a disgruntled growl in what you assume to be rage. You knew the pepper spray wouldn’t hurt him; you just needed to buy some time to come up with a plan.

Before you can even go over the limited options you have, an arm wraps around your torso with such a tight grip you were sure one of your ribs was bound to snap. The other presses itself against your mouth, muffling your desperate cries for help.

Within the blink of an eye, your back is slammed against a coarse brick wall, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut and wince in pain. It’s only when you feel heavy puffs of air fan across your face that you open your eyes. Your body goes numb for the nth time that night as you’re standing face to face with, what you presume to be, your cause of death.

Enraged red orbs stare back at you with a vengeance as one of his hands wraps itself around your throat, the other taking hold of both of your hands as he pins them above your head. His face is so close to yours that his nose is faintly brushing against your cheek.

“The wasn't very nice of you, now was it, babygirl?” he hisses at you through gritted teeth, the calmness of tone in his voice throwing you for a loop.

“You didn’t really leave me much of an option, now, did you?” you spit back the snide remark, hoping a sense of confidence and uncooperative behavior will dissatisfy him enough to let you go.

Before you know it, his hand is squeezing down on your trachea, quickly limiting your air supply. The powerful exertion causing your vision to blur, your head to spin, and a tingling sensation to ricochet through every crevice of your body.

“Ya know, you're awfully cocky for someone who’s in your position, babe,” he hums as he gleefully watches you struggle to breathe.

“It’d be all too easy for me to just push a little, bit, harder,” he emphasizes the last three words as he constricts your fragile throat a little bit more. “and render you unconscious,” he blithely remarks, managing to blacken your vision completely. You let out one last pitiful cough, shuddering as the feeling of unconsciousness slowly takes over your weakened body.

“So if I were you,” you barely decipher through the ringing in your ears, as he completely lets go of your neck; prompting a gigantic gasp of air from you in order to replenish your burning lungs with some much needed oxygen. “I’d watch that little mouth of yours, sweetheart,” he croons with a scowl.

You slowly drop your head in defeat, gulping, only to wince at the tenderness of your throat. Placing a hand under your chin, he lifts your head up to look at him before tauntingly leaning in, ghosting his breath over the smooth skin of your neck.

“What happened to all that arrogance you feigned earlier, babe?” he questions in a low tone, sending a chill down your spine.

“You damn near choked me to death, that’s what happened,” you interject, rolling your eyes at the stupidly obvious question.

He leans back to look at you, flashing you his trademark smirk, before letting out a low chuckle and shaking his head. “You just don't learn, do you, princess?” he questions in a chilling voice.

Before you get the chance to ask him what it is he means by that, his hand is tilting your head to the side, exposing your delicate neck. Both of his razor sharp fangs graze the skin, cutting it just enough to draw blood. You let out an ear piercing shriek as you felt the blood trickle down your neck from the tear in your skin. Placing his fangs directly over the fresh wound, he grazes your skin again, this time with a little more force, deepening the already painful slash. To make matters worse, he did so in a maddeningly slow manner, prolonging the already unbearable torture. The excruciatingly sharp sting radiates all over your body as your adrenaline kicks into overdrive.

You flail your body as harshly as you can, given his steel tight grip on you, as you try to pull your neck away from the monster before he can get a chance to actually sink his fangs into you. The mere thought prompting you to fight back even harder than you had been.

Much to your dismay, the man attacking you shoves two of his fingers down your throat, preventing you from crying out for help. You feel him lick a long stripe before attaching his lips onto your neck and sucking harshly.

There would’ve been an, albeit odd, but satisfying aspect to it, had you not been able to literally feel the blood being sucked out of you. You begin to feel lightheaded as you hear the sick bastard moan in delight. If you’re gonna die tonight, might as well die fighting, right?

With that in mind, you bite down on his fingers. HARD. As he leans back from your neck, hissing in pain, you bring your knee up, aiming directly between his legs. All would have gone wonderfully, had he not grabbed hold of your leg before you got the chance to carryout your attack.

He grunted as he repositioned your body. Taking your hands in each of his hands, he pins them above you like before, but this time, his body is pressed flush against yours; trapping you between him and the cold, hard, brick wall, that’s already left a plethora of scratches across your back.

But the jagged bricks against your back wasn't the only thing you could feel.

“Mmm damn, princess. You put up one hell of a fight, I'll give you that. And I must say, it’s really turning me on,” he moans while grinding against you, giving you a better feel of the little problem in his pants.

[Correction: big problem; not little. Definitely not little...]

You gasp at the precise movements of his hips, rubbing right over your throbbing core. Wait, throbbing? When the hell did you get aroused? This is the same man that nearly killed you not 5 minutes ago! The lack of oxygen to your brain must really be getting to you because last time you checked, “fear for your life” wasn't considered to be a turn on for you...

“Glad to know the feeling is mutual,” he stated, grinding into with more force.

You threw your head back against the wall and closed your eyes, suddenly not caring about the circumstances. Again, if you’re gonna die, why not get the most out of it, yeah?

The man, whose name you still weren’t sure of, dipped down into the crook of your neck. You tensed up and squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for the agonizing bite.

“Relax, baby. I’m not gonna hurt you,” he muttered into your neck, licking another stripe from your collarbone to your jaw. Yet, you remained skeptical of him, not allowing yourself to fully relax as flashbacks of being choked raced through your head.

It wasn't until he lightly bit down on your neck, sucking on the tender skin in the midst of forming a hickey that you realized his fangs were no longer out. You let out something that resembled both a sigh of relief and a moan, tilting your head to allow him more access. He laughed against your skin, coming back up to look at you, face-to-face.

“I told you, babygirl. See?” he reassures you as he flashes you his fang-free set of pearly whites, “I’m not going to hurt you,” he mumbles before clashing his lips against yours.

For the first time since the two of you entered that alleyway, he released you hands from above your head, allowing you to relax your aching muscles. Instead, one hand found purchase on your lower back, the other groping your ass, while you intertwined your finger through his blond locks. Your tongues battle for dominance, which you submissively let him have; remembering what happened when you had challenged him earlier, not risking it despite the extreme change of mood between the two of you.

Feeling bold, you reach down to palm his rock hard erection through his jeans, earning a sinful moan from his parted lips. You take that opportunity to bite down on his lower, lightly tugging before releasing it and biting your own lip.

“Jesus Christ, you’re driving me insane, princess,” he growls in your ear, but this one, unlike the rest, was a growl of sheer desire.

The hand on your back snakes it’s way down to your ass, joining his other hand as he gives your butt a rough squeeze, earning a gasp of pure delight from you. He gives your ass two pats before muttering, “jump.” Following his instructions, you jump up and wrap your legs around his waist, feet hooking onto each other to ensure you won't fall. He traps you against the wall once more, and begins to grind his erection onto your clothed core, eliciting a moan from your mouth, only to be swallowed by his.

His lips continue to dance against yours, tongues exploring each other’s mouths as you gently tug on his hair, desperate to hear another one of his heavenly moans. To your delight, he breaks the heated kiss to throw his back and groan in pleasure. He reconnects his lips to your jaw as he slowly kisses his way underneath your ear. He quickly finds your sweet spot, eliciting several whimpers from your parted lips as he bites down, sucking with more force. You can feel the hickey start to blossom as your skin grows more and more tender with every suck.

Pulling him back to up, you lean in to mold your lips onto his once more, but he sets you back down before you get the chance to. His arms remain wrapped around your small frame, yours still in his hair, as the both of you stare at each other panting; trying to catch your breath from the heated makeout session you just engaged in.

“As much as I would absolutely love to take this further, you’ve gotta get home sweetheart. Your family is gonna start to worry,” he retorts, petting down your disheveled tresses.

You nod, knowing he’s right. This strange sense of despair washes over you at the thought of leaving, and potentially never seeing again, the man you just met not even 30 minutes ago. The same man that planned to suck all the blood out of your body. The same man that nearly choked you to death. The same man that tried to kill you. It all sounded so crazy in your head, but feelings are feelings, right?

“I could walk you the rest of the way home, if you’d like?” he offered, breaking the silence that had fallen between the two of you.

“How did you...?” you question, shooting him a puzzled look.

He laughed, and for the first time since you met, you saw him genuinely smile. Not the signature smirk he’s worn all throughout the night, but an actual smile. It makes your heart flutter as you start to wonder how someone that cute could turn out to be so deadly? He looks like the most innocent of human beings when he flashes that enchanting, toothy smile.

“Out of everything that’s taken place tonight, you're wondering how I read your mind?” he asks in a teasing fashion, flashing you another one of his precious smiles.

“Touché...” you quipped, unable to hold back the smile that forces it’s way onto your face.

You grab your things as the two of you head for the street, continuing in the direction you were previously traveling before being so rudely interrupted.

“By the way, I'm not cute...” he winks at you as you throw your head back in laughter. Of course he heard you say that.

After half an hour of playful banter, and getting to know each other, you’re finally turning onto your street, finding yourself not wanting the journey to come to an end for the very first time.

Finally standing in front of your house, you turn to the man you now know as Wonho, and look up into his now chocolatey brown orbs. “Well, it was really nice getting to know you...” you trailed off, dreading the inevitable goodbye.

“Hey, why do you look so sad? This isn't the last time you’re gonna see me babydoll,” he consoles you while pushing a stray chunk of hair out of your face.

“REALLY?,” you rejoiced loudly, before hurriedly correcting yourself, “uhm, I mean, really?” you ask again in a happy, but less enthusiastic tone; trying to cover up your initial embarrassing reaction to his previous statement.

“Really. And that’s a promise,” he giggles at your adorable response.

The two of you gazed upon each others faces as a comfortable silence surrounds you. After a while, your face flushed with fervor as you broke eye contact, looking down while a rosy blush made it’s way onto your cheeks.

“Oh, uhm, I'm real sorry about your neck...” he awkwardly apologized while scratching the nape of his own, looking almost, ashamed? He lives to do this kind of thing, so why on earth would he feel guilty? “My saliva closes the wounds, so the cuts won't be too bad, but I can't really help you on the bruising...” he trails off as he looks down.

You weren't sure what he meant by that until you brought your hand up to your neck and lightly brushed your fingertips over the skin, immediately wincing. It dawned on you that the bruises were from when he nearly choked the life out of you earlier in the alleyway. Oddly enough, you weren’t that upset about it? Sure, it was gonna hurt for a little while, not to mention the inconvenience of having to cover the array of giant purple, green and yellow bruises, but that was before you and Wonho had shared a little moment of intimacy and gotten to know each other over the course of your 30 minute walk home.

“Hey,” you cooed, hooking your hand under his chin, just as he had done earlier, in order to get him to look at you, “It’s okay, I’m not mad. Let’s just call it payback for me spraying you in the face with pepper spray, nearly biting your fingers off, AND trying to kick you in the balls!” you joked, earning the melodious giggle you were hoping for from him.

After the laughter died down, he looked back into your eyes as a mischievous smirk registered itself on his face, “What?” you asked flashing him an equally playful smirk.

He took a few steps forward before sweeping you into his arms, hand residing on your ass as he whispered in your ear, “I hope you know I plan on finishing what you started in that alleyway,” a suggestive ring in his tone.

“What I started?” you asked, jokingly shocked at his accusations, “I think we both know that was you who got things goin’,” you deadpanned.

“Say what you want, but just know you’re really in for it when I get my hands on you,” he smirks, giving your ass a light slap.

Biting your lip, you look up at him with doe eyes, feigning innocence as you ask, “What ever did I do?” while placing a hand on your chest for dramatic effect.

“Maybe a bit of a punishment will help jog your memory, yeah?” he taunts, before pressing his lips against yours in one last heated kiss.

You moan into the kiss, causing him to pull back as he whispers, “I’ll take that as a yes,” against your lips.

With that, you lets go of you and turns around, heading back in the direction you two came. He then turns around, walking backward as he shouts his goodbye to you.

“Goodnight, princess. Get some rest, and maybe I'll stop by tomorrow,” he proclaims with a wink.

“Will do, handsome. Hey, thanks for not killing me tonight,” you shout back, returning the wink.

“Anytime, babygirl,” he chuckles before turning back around and disappearing into the foggy, autumn air.

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lovehaswonangelnumbers · 5 years

Photo

New Post has been published on https://lovehaswonangelnumbers.org/neptune-retrograde-illusion-truth/

Neptune Retrograde ~ Illusion & Truth

Posted by Gostica

Neptune travels through all 12 zodiac signs over the course of 165 years. Right now, it’s in the sign of Pisces where it rules and it will remain there until 2025.

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Since June 2019, Neptune has been retrograde. Like other planets, retrograde season happens for a specific period of time, and then it goes back to being direct either in or out of the sign it started in.

Neptune first entered the sign of Pisces in 2011. So, that means everyone born between 2011 until it enters Aries in 2026 will have their Neptune in the sign of Pisces!

Neptune will go retrograde during the summertime each year. Since it is such a slow moving planet it will not re-enter Aquarius or go into Aries and then re-enter Pisces.

All the energy remains centered on the elements associated with the Fish of the zodiac.

Neptune Retrograde in Pisces dates are as follows:

2019: June 21 – November 27, 2019, 159 days.

2020: June 23, 2020- Nov 29, 2020, 159 days.

2021: June 25, 2021 – Dec 1, 2021, 159 days.

2022: June 28, 2022 – Dec 4, 2022, 159 days.

2023: June 30, 2023 – Dec 6, 2023, 159 days.

2024: July 2, 2024 – Dec 7, 2024, 158 days.

2025: July 4, 2025 – Dec 10, 2025, for 159 days.

YOU MIGHT WONDER WHAT THE PLANET NEPTUNE REPRESENTS?

The planet Neptune rules over personality traits that pertain to the subconscious mind, such as dreams, delusions, psychic abilities, illusions, mystery, receptivity, spirituality, inspiration, and fantasies.

Neptune has a very active climate, so it is famous for creating drama, confusion, and disorientation in life.

WHICH ZODIAC SIGN DOES NEPTUNE RULE?

Every zodiac sign has Neptune as an outer planet. But for certain zodiac signs, this is their ruler and for that reason it is personal.

Neptune rules over Pisces and reigns between June 21st and November 27th.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN WHEN A PLANET IS IN RETROGRADE YOU ASK?

It is when a planet appears to move backward from Earth, but it’s only an illusion. But, what is real is the shift of energies that the retrograde cycle brings.

Neptune is a master of deceit and truths. It sometimes will bring light to some difficult situations and then turn around and make another part of your life confusing.

What are you supposed to be doing during retrograde season for the planet Neptune?

This planet encourages you to seek the truth, but it can also make it easy to see what you want to see, which is not the truth.

This can lead us to be vulnerable and open to deception and it can destroy any healthy boundaries you have.

You may feel differently if you were born during a Neptune rx cycle or if you were not.

You will probably feel emotionally exhausted during this time because you will always put other’s needs before your own.

You will feel drained, but you will always try to find the best in everyone, even though when you find out who they really are will knock you back.

HOW DOES RX OF NEPTUNE HELP?

When Neptune is in Rx, it means that the unknown and murky situations are going to clear. You are going to start seeing people and yourself for who they truly are.

But this also can feel like your feet have been knocked out from underneath you. You will see the truth behind people and situations and it can be scary to acknowledge these truths, but it’s necessary for your own personal growth.

You will find that these changes happen subtly and gradually over the course of Neptune’s retrograde. So, it’s not an immediate, knock you over the head, change.

During Neptune’s retrograde, it is encouraged that you meditate and do yoga frequently.

These methods will help reduce stress and relieve some of the negativity in your life. They will also help you balance out your emotions.

For you, during Neptune’s retrograde, it is important to look at your natal chart and see where your Neptune shows up so that you can see where you need to bring more logic into your decision making.

Look for your zodiac sign below to find out what’s in store for you, plus the astrology and effects on your horoscope from June 22nd to July 22nd, 2019 and for each year that this planet turns rx while in the sign of Pisces.

ARIES (MARCH 21 – APRIL 19)

Neptune is in your 12th house and that’s where you will find your hidden enemies, illusions and vices. Aries, when Neptune is in retrograde, you will see a lightening up of dark, murky times. Neptune in Pisces

You will find that you are reflecting inward and are trying to find some self-confidence and trying to help yourself, not hurt yourself.

TAURUS (APRIL 20 – MAY 20)

Neptune is in your 11th house and this is where you find your most inspiring friendships. Taurus, when you look at your natal chart while Neptune is in Retrograde, it means that you have recently or will find out truths about your friends.

You will realize that you have been deceived and you will have to decide whether or not to continue having a friendship with this person.

GEMINI (MAY 21 – JUNE 20)

Neptune is in your 10th house so you may have to work harder than ever. Gemini, when Neptune is in retrograde, you will find that you are worried about your career and your reputation. You may be questioning your career path and the future you have in said career.

You will find that your fantasies about your career, your aspirations, and over the top dreams for your career are only that, fantasies. Neptune in retrograde has the tendency to put an end to dreamy fantasies.

CANCER (JUNE 21 – JULY 22)

Neptune is in your 9th house and and this is a great time to study or travel and pursue your dreams. Cancer, during this time, you will notice that you are drawn to your spirituality. You are yearning to connect with your God. You will also find that this road to discovering your spirituality is not all that extravagant.

You need to open yourself up to the mysteries of the world. This will help you move away from trying to find one simple path, to finding the best path for you to take.

LEO (JULY 23 – AUGUST 22)

Neptune is in your 8th house so you have an opportunity to share things with others or find that you can follow your dreams but need someone to help you along.

Leo, you are going to find that your eyes will be open to how your partner may or may not have resources to share or the percentage of willingness to share that your partner possesses. Neptune in retrograde feeds off of your fear of loss, doubt, and insecurities.

VIRGO (AUGUST 23 – SEPTEMBER 22)

Neptune is in your 7th house, and so you will see the effects in your love life the most. Virgo, while Neptune is in retrograde, you may that that making decisions are not super clear. You most likely will be filled with distrust and skepticism.

LIBRA (SEPTEMBER 23 – OCTOBER 22)

Neptune is in your 6th house so there’s a chance to learn about spirituality to destress. Libra, during Neptune’s retrograde you will find that you will be facing some difficult challenges, an uphill battle regarding your health. You may have experienced some recent setbacks or you have not found a diagnosis or treatment in your quest to figuring out what’s wrong.

You may have noticed that you have a lot of inflammation throughout your body and that you have a lot of irritated areas.

During this time, you may or may not find some clarity regarding your health and what’s confusing you about your condition. All you have to do is actively pay attention to your own body.

SCORPIO (OCTOBER 23 – NOVEMBER 21)

Neptune is in your 5th house, romance is real important for you now. Scorpio, while Neptune is in retrograde, you are looking for satisfaction. This satisfaction comes through having children, finding love, and finding sexual pleasure.

You need to be careful that you don’t look at your partner like they are a god or above you. You may even find that it’s not really love you feel for this person, it was maybe just an illusion.

SAGITTARIUS (NOVEMBER 22 – DECEMBER 21)

Neptune is in your 4th house, so you may feel like you have to roam or that home isn’t always where your heart is. Sagittarius, you may be finding that you are desiring someplace to call home, which is an anomaly for someone like you because you prefer the idea of freedom over settling down.

But don’t let your dreams cloud your judgement. You may find that your new reality is stifling and that it makes you unhappy.

CAPRICORN (DECEMBER 22 – JANUARY 19)

Neptune is in your 3rd house, so writing, music, and talking about astrology can teach you about who you are as a person. Capricorn, Neptune’s retrograde will bring you productivity. You will find that your communication and writing skills are going to thrive.

Your creativity will be inspired and as long as you are aware that disillusion is possible during this time and you let go of your fantasies, you will find that you will heal yourself if you have fought against some tough times lately.

AQUARIUS (JANUARY 20 – FEBRUARY 18)

Neptune is in your 2nd house, and so matters in the home can change radically, maybe you’ll even move. Aquarius, you may have found that you have been very inventive and focused on your future during this time when Neptune is in retrograde.

You have found a purpose for the things you do and you will earn the income you deserve, even if there are some speed bumps along the way. During Neptune’s retrograde, you will find that you can make clearer, better decisions about your finances.

PISCES (FEBRUARY 19 – MARCH 20)

Neptune is in your 1st house, your life and you will never be the same. Pisces, during Neptune’s retrograde, as the first house, you may be feeling a bit exposed right now. You may feel like your personal goals are not going to happen and are too hard for you to grasp.

You may have attempted to make yourself a better version, but it is difficult for you to find who you truly are because you may be chasing unrealistic goals and standards. When you start to feel some clarity during Neptune’s retrograde, find out what has stuck to your personality, for that is what you want above all else.

This was originally published by YourTango.

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themindcubicle · 7 years

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Living with an Emotionally Abusive Parent: How it Became Clear to Me

Growing up, I’d always feel secure and sound being around my parents. They were affectionate, caring and thoughtful. They never fought with each other, always knew how to be great examples to their children. But around the time I was 12, things began to take a turn down south. I noticed that my father, being the patient and soft-spoken man he always was, started becoming irritable. Out of all, however, my mother’s change in behavior would always be the worst. She became very short-tempered and started to say hurtful things to us. She was never home, and when she was she’d always stay in her bedroom or be on her phone. My family gradually became a sinking ship.

It's important to note that this was around the time my family began experiencing financial issues, so even in my 12-year-old mind, I knew that it was a normal reaction coming from both my parents. In spite of all her erraticism, my mother was not always a bad person. She would occasionally get us to sit down and tell us that she knew she was problematic and she wanted to rediscover her true self and become a better mom. She would apologize to us while crying, making me believe every time that she genuinely tried to be a better person. But every time also, she would undo her pleas and repeat the vicious cycle. This went on for another 6 years until I, a 19 year-old in the present day, finally understand it: my mother is emotionally abusive.

Abusive may sound harsh, especially when used to describe your own mother. But I believe that familiarizing myself with the term really helps me to recognize the gravity of the circumstances. Abuse comes in many different forms. For starters, it goes beyond physical contact. It can either be starkly obvious or subtle, constant or fluctuating. Emotional abuse is particularly prone to be undetectable. It is tightly interconnected with verbal abuse and psychological manipulation which makes it very difficult to pinpoint.

Take, for instance, the story about my mother. Many times she would snap at her children for the most trivial reasons, more often than not it gets physical. But that’s not the most important part. What distinguishes her behavior from normal parents is how she can make us, her children, feel guilty for her actions. It’s an intricate process, one that I would not go into details here. The bottomline is that my mother is highly capable of manipulating our minds into thinking that we are responsible for her misconducts, or in simper words: guilt-tripping. It results in our inability to project our own feelings as we constantly try to protect her feelings at the expense of our well-being.

The deep-rooted social stigma about how you are obliged to respect your parents’ every word bars the adult child of emotionally abusive parents to speak about their personal experiences. In most cases, the child will trick themselves to think that there never was a problem and they are just overreacting. This usually departs from the unwillingness to damage the relationship they have with their parents. So this begs the question: how do we resolve the problem? How do we convince these people to escape their familial predicament?

My mother knows when she’s wrong, she just does not want to say it. When being confronted, her coping mechanism prompts her to shift the blame subtly to other people. She pressures people to agree with her views, passive-agressively so. She has a codependent mentality and she must be presumed to be right by default. If any of these traits rings a bell for you, maybe it’s time to deal with it.

The first thing that I’ve been training myself to do is to find my composure and be communicative, you let your parents speak but make sure that you balance the interaction by responding as much. The purpose is to know that you’re capable of standing your ground given a certain set of circumstances. Sometimes, though, this doesn’t really work. So what I would do next is to be candid. When you know that your parents start to take control of your emotions, you express your inconvenience and tell them that you do not think going in that direction would be agreeable. This will let them know that there are boundaries. If those two ways do not get you anywhere near a solution, then distancing yourself from them might be the best option you have. The thing is, you are not damaging the relationship by choosing to do so because you already are in a damaged relationship. Continuing to deny the issue will cause a destructive effect in the long run.

After managing to cope accordingly with your personal interests. Perhaps, it will be fair to see the scenario from the other end. This is when we talk about how parents can become emotionally draining. In my case, it started with my mother’s own family background. She was the youngest of 8, definitely falls under the stereotypical definition of the youngest child syndrome. That, combined with the fact that she opted to marry at an early age, made my mother struggle to deal with emotional independency. However, there are numerous other factors out there which become the cornerstone in a person’s mental development. Therefore, although it is tempting to unilaterally claim mistreatment, it is of utmost importance to also trace the problem from its root, starting from how and what makes your parents behave like so.

Another important note is to keep an open mind about emotional abuse and its chameleon-like nature. Try to be aware of anyone from your inner circle, co-workers, or even family members that might be having the same issue and keeps silent about it. Offering consolation is also an advised action, while maintaining their privacy respectfully. Who knows, maybe confiding in a trusted one could help ease the burden.

#parents #family #issues #emotional abuse

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