#Stray Gods is supper cool

[techtainia-makes-things]

Let it be known that I’m borderline obsessed with the Stray Gods character designs (and the music).

I want to hug both of them, but I can’t, so I will draw them.

#stray gods #stray gods persephone #stray gods aphrodite #Tech’s art #They make me feel so gay it’s not even funny. They’re just so pretty. #I’ve also never seen a non-pink Aphrodite design before #10/10 would wear Persephone’s outfit #Okay #thats enough nerding out over them for now #Stray Gods is supper cool #One of the only video games that I want to go out of my way to buy

[accio-slytherout]

Mischief Managed

Concept by @helliontherapscallion

Pairings: p!sbi x reader, p!dreamXD x reader, c!Philza x reader (could be taken as platonic/romantic)

characters: TommyInnit, Ph1lza Minecraft, Wilbur, Technoblade, Captain Puffy

mentioned characters: Fundy

Warnings: Fighting, blood, swearing, pranks, trickery (?), shouting (tell me if I missed anything!)

in game dsmp!au

summary: Reader is the god of mischief and trickery. After catching up with their old friend and his family, they got into a fight with the god of the server, dreamXD.

Not proofread

note: reader does not act like peeves! sorry in advance! i really liked this concept, i just had to write it. i put more effort into this than i did on my social studies essay. was fun to write :D straying from canon lore! I was not sure how to write dreamXD's text, so i wrote it in normal text! i am not very good and pranking, and not that creative or smart on those kind of things, so I will not really specify what is going on in the pranking.

flachbacks in italic

masterpost

------

(Y/N) was just skipping around the forest, looking for flowers to make some dye when they stumbled upon a boy that was picking some red flowers.

"WHAT THE F*CK" he shouted with a strong British accent. "Who the f*ck are you?" he continued. "Well who are you child?" they retorted.

"WHAT THE- IM NOT- THE FU- IM NOT A F*CKING CHILD IM A BIG MAN" the 'Big Man' as he called himself retorted, stumbling over his words. He heard a very mischievous laughter come out of the random person he stumbled upon, and he chose to put up the angriest face he could and crossed his arms.

"The name's (Y/N). How about you, big man?" they finally replied with a slight mocking tone. "Tommy. What are you doing here? I've never seen you around before." answered Tommy.

"I'm looking for some dye, so I can dye Fundy's fur" they replied, rather mischievously? Well, point is, Tommy's eyes lit up at the mention of pranking the fox. "Could I maybe help you?" he replied with an equally mischievous tone.

Thats how a friendhip started. They caused pure havoc around the server. Pranking the first person they thought of. They were laughing their butts off on the bench.

"TOMMYINNIT YOU STOP RIGHT THERE!"

Panic rose in their chests as they slowly swallowed and turned around. There stood Captain Puffy looking very angry... with bright pink covering her entire body. They tried their best to hold in their laughter, as she did not look very intimidating.

Yet, Tommy could not help but to start laughing loudly. That pushed (Y/N) over the edge and started laughing hysterically, and they swore they saw Puffy crack a smile at the sight.

"Im- sor- sorry-" he said inbetween his laughter. They both tried their best to stop laughing, and after a while, they did.

Puffy let out a sigh, and said "Tommy, I will get you back. I am warning you." with a glint of amusement in her eyes. Tommy seemed to have sobered up at the thought and looked scared. Puffy left with a wave and headed to her home to probably clean up.

"That was funny though." he said out of the blue. That started another round of laughter to go throught them.

"Say, (Y/N), how old are you?" Tommy asked after they have both calmed down. "I'm the god of mischief and trickery. I'm and immortal being. I am centuries old, kid." they answered.

"Really? That's quite pog! Did you know my father is also immortal? You might know him, name's Philza, Angel of Death. Does that ring a bell?" he rambled, ignoring the fact that they had just called him kid.

(Y/N) was ecstatic at the idea of being able to meet with their old friend again, but decided to say "HECK YEAH! I GET TO MESS WITH HIM AGAIN!" as to hide their feelings. They were the god of trickery after all. They had an image to uphold.

Tommy decided to go take them to Phil. Bad idea. As they reached the door of Phil's cottage, Tommy just burst into the house without knocking.

"Phil~ I'm baack~" Tommy called in a sing-song tone. Phil just said "Welcome back" in a monotone voice from the kitchen without looking.

As he was preparing supper, he heard Techno shout from the living room "TOMMY WHO ON EARTH IS THAT?!". Millions of thoughts start rushing through his head. Who could Tommy have brought with him? He ran out of the kitchen and went to see for himself who it was.

The scene in front of him just made him want to be buried 6 feet under the ground. There it was, His two oldest sons looking at the door from the bottom of the stairs and his youngest son, standing next to the person he hated the most. (Y/N).

They were walking through the forest. Phil felt something touch his shoulder. He turned around, raising his sword as he was startled. There they were, (Y/N), making the weirdest face possible.

"For f*ck's sake (Y/N)! stop it!". That only made them laugh more. "You should have seen your face!" they said inbetween laughter.

The man loathed them. He just wanted to leave them there, in the middle of nowhere, for this was not the only thing they have done in the past hour of adventuring. He, however decided to ignore them, for his heart could not bear the idea of leaving his companion alone.

"Long time no see, Philza." they said with a smirk. "Kill me already" he groaned. That was the only thing that came out of his mouth.

After Phil had supper with his family and the devil- sorry, unexpected guest, he went to clean up as his sons sat in the living room with (Y/N).

"So you're immortal?" said the oldest boy that they learnt was called Wilbur. They nodded as a reply, and he just said "Thats so cool!"

"I have read about you before, however, seeing you, I don't think the book described you correctly. Could you, possibly tell me more about your tricks and stuff?" Technoblade's monotone voice had a slight tone of curiosity and amusement while asking the question.

So they did. They told the boys about their stories. As they finished, they realised that Wilbur and Tommy had fallen asleep and Techno was half paying attention to them.

"You should go to sleep. Both of you. It's quite late already." A voice said behind her. "I'm a god, Phil. I don't need sleep." they retorted as they turned around, looking at the man.

"Suit yourself." he shrugged. He opened his mouth to tell his son to go to sleep, but he realised that his son, in fact was already asleep. He shook his head and got some blankets to lay above his sons. "I guess you can stay the night. It's late anyways" he spoke before (Y/N) could say anything and he left to go to his room. Huge mistake.

Philza minecraft was having a good sleep, when he heard a scream from the living room. He panicked, as his mind made up the worst scenarios possible. As he rushed downstairs, he saw Wilbur with bright pink hair, Tommy with a very bold red hair and hands, along with a half asleep Techno raising his sword.

Only then did he remember, that his least favourite person was at his house. Right as he thought about that, he heard giggling coming from the living room.

"(Y/N)!" he shouted along with Wilbur and Tommy. "Yes?" they batted their eyelashes innocently. Phil watched with amusement at the scene unfolding before him. Tommy and Wilbur shouting at (Y/N) and Techno lowering his sword and laying back down on the couch, sensing no danger.

"Boys, enough. (Y/N), will these dyes wash away?" he finally said in a stern tone that had a hint of amusedment in it. "Ofcourse father of minecraft. Run water through them and they will be gone" they said with such innocence that he would have believed it was not her had he not known it was their doing.

Wilbur and tommy quickly rushed to the bathroom to wash their hair out, and Phil swore the doors of the bathroom would fall off its hinges from the amount of force that was put into opening it.

"I must say, that was pretty funny, (N/N)." Phil said with amusement as he went to prepare some breakfast. (Y/N) smiled proudly from the compliment, as he was always telling her off after pranking.

Phil now remembers why he always asked them to accompany him on adventures. They were fun, and entertaining. Sometimes, they're even smart and helpful. The thought of his adventures with them brought a smile to his face.

A week in their visit, they heard a knock on the door. Phil, thinking it was just (Y/N), thought nothing of it. So he just calmly walks to the door and answers it. What he didn't expect however, was DreamXD at the door, floating in a menacing stance.

"You all give me your youngest son, or you all are dead. You have 24 hours. If you do not hive him by them, you are all dead." DreamXD said in a demonic sound.

As DreamXD turned around, Phil saw a cloud of something covering his sight, he felt... flour? he cleared the flour from his face and saw DreamXD covered in flour and (Y/N) on the roof looking rather sheepishly at DreamXD.

"Sorry, I thought you were Philza" they said sarcastically. "Not sorry, actually." they continued as they cracked an egg and poured it along with some sugar on to DreamXD's head.

DreamXD suddenly whips something out and slapped (Y/N) off the roof. As (Y/N) was used to falling from high places, they landed on the ground with nothing but a few scratches.

DreamXD stabs them with a sword, and blood splattered from their waist. (Y/N), being the god of mischief, had ofcourse had lots of experience on pranking, but wasnt strong. However, they are very witty, as they always find creative ways to prank people.

(Y/N) somehow found a way to make DreamXD retreat, but Phil could not see how. All he saw was smoke, DreamXD leaving and (Y/N) lying on the floor, with blood gushing out of their side making a puddle on the ground.

They let out a chuckle and turned to face Phil. "Your lives are safe, Phil. And what can I say? Mischief... managed." they trailed off as their eyes closed. Phil rushed to bandage them up and put them in a spare bedroom.

A week.

That was how long it was.

One singular week. Seven days. Yet it felt like seven years they had been unconscious. The house felt empty. No chaos. Everyone was worried about them.

Phil let out a sigh. He closed the door and sat down next to where (Y/N) was laying. He traced his index finger over the palm of their hand that he was holding, and whispered "I don't think you know this.. but you really are a great friend, (N/N). I love your personality.. Who am I kidding, I love you."

Phil then thought, they were unconcious. He let out a chuckle at the thought. "Look at me.. talking to someone unconscious." he said out loud, closing his eyes and resting his head on the palm of his hand that was propped up on the bed. Little did he know, they were fully awake, and pretending to be unconscious.

"Aww, thanks Phil. I love you too." he suddenly heard. He whipped his head around to their direction and saw that their head was turned to his direction. He hugged them, minding their injuries and whispered in their ear that he was thankful that they were fine over and over again.

Phil then felt their body shaking and heard gentle sobs coming out of them. He pulled away from the hug and cupped their face in his hands and wiped their tears away.

"What's wrong, (N/N)?" he calmly asked. They just cried more and gave him a hug. They told him that they have never felt accepted, and that the only person that has ever tolerated them was him. They told him that they were happy that he cared for them. They told him how much they cared for him and how great of a friend he was. They told him how much they loved him.

After their little heart to heart session, Phil went to go and prepare lunch for everyone in the house. He told the boys that (Y/N) was awake now. Everyone was glad and relieved that they were awake again. And (Y/N) was glad, that they now had a family that cared for them.

--------

end.

#platonic mcyt x reader #mcyt x reader #sbi x reader #platonic #dreamxd #sleepy bois inc #philza x reader #tommyinnit x reader #wilbur x reader #philza #tommyinnit #accio writes

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Five of Pentacles

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | one

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Still reeling from the attack on Jortho, you begin your journey to scower the systems for galactic aid. The Mandalorian takes you aboard his ship temporarily, agreeing to shuttle you to your next destination. You both figure your tenure on the Razor Crest will be short lived... But you've been wrong before.

Word count: 3.8k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings: blood/gore, minor character death (mentioning), mature themes/language, vomiting

Notes: Hi friends. Here we go. Chapter 2... The last paragraph is marked with ///|||///, denoting a change to Mando's POV— his pov will be cropping up now and again, and I have a tendency to play with the timeline/tenses when it does. Enjoy x

You have to think about it. Genuinely.

It takes longer than you’d like to admit, with the Mandalorian looking down at you expectantly, a gloved hand slotted against his belt—postured and waiting.

‘Do you have a way off this skug hole?’

You open your mouth, but no words come out. It snaps closed. You swallow, but the action provides no relief. Your tongue feels too big for the small space it’s trapped in; too swollen, too dust logged— like you could choke on it, if you really tried. Finally, a single syllable frees itself, the weight of it plummeting through your ribs, ricocheting off the bones until it lands in your stomach with a dull, sinking splash.

“No.”

He doesn’t move.

“Do you need to get anything?”

You shake your head, small at first, phantom movements, before stringing together a sentence. “N-No. It’s all gone. Everything I had- it all went up on the shuttle-“

Oh gods, the shuttles.

Your heart seizes, a cold hand like a vice, gripping the bloody organ. You feel green; sickly chartreuse slithering it’s way up your esophagus, poisoning your soft palate. There were pilots on board when the ships blew. Two on each one. That’s four— four people. You knew their names. Knew their home planets. Knew about their families. One had a kid. Fuck. That’s four dead, and you didn’t even think of them— Maker, how could you not have thought about them?— No, fuck, fuck fuck-

It didn’t before but it’s hitting you now, stabbing you right between the eyes, the image of their bodies disintegrating in the blast wave, charring up like coal and carbon. You breathed them in, you realize. Their corpses coat your lungs.

The thought is all it takes.

Your feet move on instinct, scrambling to the side of his gunship where you vomit, bracing yourself against the riveted siding as you hack and sputter, wretching bile and what little broth you’d had for supper to splatter onto the cracked earth. Mercifully you’re hidden enough around the corner that you don’t think the bounty hunter sees, and if he does, he has the curtesy not to say anything.

What a gentleman, you think dryly, wiping your mouth with your sleeve.

You pant, body beyond spent, chest heaving as you press your scratched palm into the durasteel, the cool metal soothing it’s sting. Moments stretch like this— you doubled over, catching your breath— before you stumble back into view, graceless and encumbered, as if you didn’t just casually throw up down the front of yourself. You stand below him at the bottom of the ramp. He’s still there, a fixed point. Steel boots welded into the steel ramp.

“Uhm, are you-“

You cough, and it’s an ugly, hoarse sound; your throat burns, roughened and raw around the edges, and your nerves are too strung out for polite colloquialisms. You don’t have the energy to play coy and tip toe around the question. You’re fucking tired.

You try again.

“Are you offering me a ride?”

And now it’s his turn to hesitate, almost like he didn’t fully think the proposition through— as if it’s all just dawning on him now.

The Mandalorian didn’t strike you as someone who familiarized himself with answering to anyone— or picking up hitchhikers, for that matter— even if the offer was his to begin with... That was what he was doing, wasn’t it? Those words in that order? He meant to give you transport off planet? He wasn’t just… making conversation? Did Mandalorians even do that? Maker, if you’ve read this whole situation wrong, no small thanks to a laser-brain full of mush, you reckon you’d die from embarrassment on the spot where you stood, splotched with soot and puke and blood.

You think he’s going to tell you to shove off— you see his hand balling into a fist at his side— and close the ramp right then and there. Be rid of you. Sluffed, like a flea from a dog.

But he doesn’t. He surprises you both.

“Yes.”

Oh. Oh. Kriff, okay. Think think think-

Your mind reels and you’re rambling now, words ending and beginning in the same breath— steamrolling over yourself.

“Okay, I-I need to go back in to town, just for a—I cant let them think I’m just leaving them like this... Is that okay? I’m sorry, I won’t take long, I promise, I just— they need to know I’m getting help. Is that- uhm, can you wait? Can you wait for me?”

There’s another unreadable pause that makes you want to bury your head in the cold, fallow soil.

The man is looking at you like you’ve grown another kriffing leg, but eventually he grumbles out a noise that sounds like an affirmative, turning on his heel, and disappears into the belly of the ship— leaving you there alone.

Alone.

Pin pricks needle at the nape of your neck and the hair down your arm stands on end.

Alone.

You’re alone for the first time since the attack and suddenly you feel half your size and shrinking smaller still, like atoms collapsing and folding in on themselves until they dematerialize completely—and you along with them. You tell yourself to breath. To fight the bubbles of panic as they burst and pop, dimpling you from the inside out. Breath. Focus, he said. Focus.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.

The Mandalorian never reemerges.

Well… you guess that was your cue.

///

Staggering back into Jortho is like sleepwalking through a nightmare.

The smoke from the bombing has completely engulfed the lower atmosphere, doming the town in a thick canopy; the sky is blackened, starless, and the moons hover noncommittally like mere suggestions in the dark canvas.

Half the town had been decimated to rubble, and the other half was covered in the shockwave of it’s explosion— caked in grime, windows knocked out, doors splintered open. You almost expected the pieces to have reversed themselves back up, like you’ve seen in holovid special effects—homes rebuilding, fires dousing themselves, air purifying itself from the smog… but they don’t. They remain in shambles.

Time has granted you the unforgiving gift of clarity, and it’s one you’d rather not have been given. You don’t want to see the aftermath without the saccharine filter of shock to cushion you. The town is just as you left it, but somehow worse— worse because you can hear the crying, now. The wailing. You didn’t before with the blood pumping in your ears, deafening you, but you do now. The woeful noises that reverberate over the crackling embers still smoldering, the muffled sobs being choked down behind fractured walls.

Tripping over stray debris, you find Hareem close to where you’d left her, her fuse short hair grey with ash. The blood you smeared from her cheek still clouds her skin there, staining it as it does your fingers that wiped it. She wobbles to her feet and meets you in the middle of the road.

Neither of you speak, not at first. You hold onto her shoulders, and like a pillar of salt, you quake.

You try explaining to her that the communication’s system on your transport freighter had been blown up alongside the town, that you’ve accepted a ride from the bounty hunter and that you’re getting off world to contact the RRM headquarters, that you’d stay if you could but you can’t and you need to call for assistance, for help. You try to tell her that you’d do anything— travel through dimensions, if you could, to undo all of this chaos— if the laws of time allowed it.

You want to go back and pretend today never happened. To unlearn the tremor in your hands as they grip her frame. To unlearn all of this. To unknow. But,

you can’t.

All you can do is move forward. Do the next right thing. Take the next right step.

You’ve explained yourself in circles but it still doesn’t feel like enough. The words feel shallow, like slapping some bacta on a severed limb, and guilt rips through you— your voice torn with it.

“But how can I leave now?” you ask helplessly, eyes skittering around you. “After all- all of this?”

Hareem finds your hands, her spindled fingers encasing your own. A crease engraves her forehead, little lines clustering around her eyes. “You’ve done enough, hm? You go now. Go with that Mandalorian. You can’t shoulder this alone.”

“Har-“

She doesn’t let you say it. The older woman soothes a thumb into the web between your knuckles.

“Make contact. Comm for aid. It will come, but it won’t if you stay here.”

Your shoulders release with a defeated sigh. You know the Balosar’s right— you’re the one who’s told her as much. That’s RRM protocol. In case of emergency, you were to comm in and reconvene with the closest branch to your system to send additional supplies and volunteers to the camp. You know this better than anyone here, and yet this woman, this refugee, was the one aping your mission back to you.

She’s firm. Kind. “You’re just one person.”

Briefly, you wonder if she’s a parent. You think her child would be lucky to have her as their mother-- all of her somber strength. You think you would have been lucky, too.

Maybe things would be different—maybe you’d be different.

You gather yourself, piece by piece, and give her knobby hand a squeeze. You bore into her, determined and unwavering. You need her to understand. “I’m not abandoning you—any of you. I need you to know that, okay? I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I know, my friend,” Hareem says plainly, a sad sort of resolve quieting her tone. She has no fight left, nothing left to give— as empty as her pockets, lint lined and turned out. Barren. “I know.”

///

You weave your way back to the ship, feet padding across the arid landscape. You don’t blink, not even once, eyes crusted open and gaping. You barely remember the trek but somehow you’ve managed it, treading up the ramp, the thuds sounding hollow and foreign to your ear.

“I’m not a taxi service.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

“Maker almighty,” you gasp, hand coming up to clutch your canary heart, beating fast and frantic. He’s just standing there, waiting, the dimmed lights of the hull glinting off his beskar. It’d only been a few hours, but you had already somehow forgotten how kriffing imposing he was, how ominous. A vacuum in space.

“O-Okay,” you stutter, a twitch in your brow.

“I’ll get you as far as you need to go, but on my terms. I’m not making a special trip— can’t promise you when.”

You nod. You’re not sure what to say. Lamed, all you can do is repeat yourself.

“… Okay.”

“What sector?”

“Bajic,” you start, fiddling with a loose thread poking from your sleeve. “We- uhm, the RRM, we have a branch there, but then—” your throat bobs as you swallow your words, and he gives you an exacting look, tilting his helm subtly. There was no getting around it.

You’re pinned.

“Coruscant. I’ll need to get to Coruscant,” you finish quietly.

Did you just hear him ‘tsk’ under that metal bucket?

“It’ll take a while to get to the Core. Longer than you’d like.”

And here you go, babbling again before you can stop yourself, throwing up defenses, excuses— back pedaling. You’re earnest, and it’s dripping from you. “Listen, if this is too much, I get it. You don’t owe me anything. Really— you don’t have to take me anywhere you don’t want. I-I, honestly, I’m just grateful you even considered it.”

Silence. An endless sea of silence.

No current, no breeze. It feels like you’re stranded in dead water, drowning in it. Again, you hang there on bated breath, just waiting for the man to chuck you from his ship. Not worth the effort. Not worth the fuel.

And again, he surprises you.

He tips his chin, gesturing to the side. “Fresher’s that way. We’ll be up in five.”

You exhale, visibly relieved, and mumble a thank you before shuffling off in the direction he motioned towards. You get one foot through the door before you hear him.

“Dala,”

Your attention snaps to the Mandalorian. There’s that word again—you think he’s called you that before—but there’s something different in his voice now, a lilt you’d not yet heard from him. What is that? Nerves?

“There is… one more thing.”

You cock your head just as a gargled coo comes from somewhere behind him.

///

You look like bantha shit.

Which, considering the events of your evening, should probably go without saying— and yet, the woman staring back at you in the small refresher mirror still manages to startle you.

You’re covered in dirt and cinders and contusions you hadn’t had the luxury to notice before. With the adrenaline retreated from your veins, you finally feel the full scope of your injuries and Maker do they hurt. Your tunic is torn at the collar and the fabric is discolored, pants and boots scuffed and ashen. Your bottom lip is swollen, a split running down the side of it, the seam of which is cracked with dry blood. Your palms are scratched— knuckles, too. There are narrow licks from shrapnel bites nicking your forearm. Twisting your body, you discover a dark bruise already blooming on your shoulder from the initial impact of the blast. You’re stiff and achy all over, and you can practically hear your bones creak and groan with each strained movement.

You turn on the faucet and begin to bend forward before you wince, a sharp pain gripping your skull. Ginger fingers come up to touch the back of your head, patting around tentatively until you find a raised bump and something viscous wetting the strands of your hair. You pull your hand back, inspecting it— more blood, glistening black under the low light.

Your eyes flit back up to your reflection.

You should be scared at this point, you guess. Worried, at the very least, by all of this—by the gore of it, the cuts and marks. But it’s your eyes that frighten you most— they’re hard. Devoid. You don’t recognize them. You’re a stranger.

You blink. She blinks back.

Rust red water eddies in the basin of the sink as you scrub yourself clean. You let out a hiss as the cold stream hits your skin. You count your breaths.

///

Being anywhere on board his ship without the Mandalorian feels wrong. Unnatural. Like you’re a tourist, out of place.

Unsure of where else to go, you find yourself in the cockpit with the bounty hunter, sitting in the seat beside him. Glancing over the knobs and dials and pulsing displays, your focus drifts in and out, posture slumping, lids growing heavy, darkening around the edges of your vision, blurring—

“Try to stay awake.”

With a sharp inhale, your eyes snap open, blinking wildly, and you scoot your hips up higher into the seat. You shoot the back of his helmet an inquisitive look you’re not sure he sees, but he responds to it all the same.

“Could have a concussion.”

“Didn’t know you were a doctor,” you reply, tone low and rolling. Maker above, apparently the final stage of shock was sarcasm. The fact that you thought it wise to damn near sass a Mandalorian on his own ship after he saved your kriffing life...

Stars, maybe it really was a concussion. Brain damage. Had to be.

He doesn’t acknowledge the quip, which you can’t readily blame him for. A quiet beat, red buttons flickering against the dark of the cockpit, and then—

“There’s bacta in the medpack. Might not be much left.”

You’re wide awake now.

Your rebuttal is immediate, bristled even, words escaping before you have a chance to even consider his suggestion. “No— no, thank you, but I’m not taking the last of your supplies. I’ll be fine, you’re- you’re doing enough for me already.” He graces you with another of his grunts, a hush following closely behind it.

Your gaze wanders—it wanders onto him, and you watch him.

Watch as the stars dance across his armor, incandescent and shimmering. Hypnotic, even. Something you hadn’t noticed before catches your eye, and you have to crane your neck to get a good look at it. It’s hard to make out, but you think there’s a symbol on the pauldron adorning his shoulder. You can’t imagine it’s completely cosmetic, seeing as the hem of his cape is frayed and worn (and the fact that being a lethal hunter didn’t really scream ‘needless decoration’), but maybe, if you work up the courage somewhere between here and Coruscant, you’ll ask him about it.

His posture is carved out of stone and he sits like a statue, spine rigid under all that beskar. Fleetingly, you wonder if it’s heavy, if it’s uncomfortable—to carry it with him wherever he goes. But you suppose he’s grown accustom to the weight, wearing it like a second skin.

He’s broad too, you note. Of course he is, you recognized that straight off, but inside the confines of the ship, without the towering Lothal sky as his backdrop, it truly strikes you just how large the Mandalorian is. He engulfs the space around him. Devours it.

You stay like this, entranced, studying the man properly for the first time, allowing the muscles behind your tired eyes to relax on him— until his visor notches up quickly and meets your line of sight in the mirrored pane of the window, catching you in the act.

Kriff.

You avert your eyes, an embarrassed warmth crawling up your neck, suddenly finding a particular panel soldered to the wall incredibly interesting— looking anywhere else but at the faceless stranger you’re saddled with.

The kid gurgles, interrupting the awkwardness, and you’ve never been more grateful for a three pronged toddler in your life.

He’s sitting in the copilot’s seat opposite you, as if the tiny thing is navigating for the Mandalorian, and he’s completely dwarfed by the massive chair. Everything about him juxtaposes the other man. He’s all brown robes and wispy peach fuzz, and he looks almost comically out of place against the interior of the gunship. He’s playing with a shiny metal ball in his lap, and with one small arm, he extends it to you like a gift.

Out of the two of them, the child was a one man welcoming party.

“Is this for me?”

He gives a soft patuu, and your heart nearly bursts. You take it from him gently, and the little guy coos through a babbling grin, cheeks round and impish. “Thank you,” you tell him, all serious-like, and you have to actively suppress the squeal that threatens to break free from you. He glances to the Mandalorian with such a look in those big eyes; its hard to make out, but you think its something close to pride or satisfaction, maybe: Look dad, I shared my toy.

Kriff, this kid is cute. Like, dangerously cute.

You both take each other in like this; your micro expressions, his pruned little forehead, your fleshy form, all soft lines and angles. You’re sure you look just as strange to him and he does to you, especially given the only other lifeform on board he has as reference is coated from head to toe in metal. The child’s gaze snags on a lock of your hair, little teeth peeking through his mouth, eyes glued to it like a metronome as it dangles. You give your head a little shake, strands waving, and he giggles. You skip the ball over the hills of your knuckles, dazzling him momentarily.

“Does he have a name?” You ask, his eyes like black saucers peering curiously at you, and you give him back his toy— an offer he eagerly accepts.

“No.”

“So what do you call him then?”

“Just ‘kid’.”

A beat. “... Do you have a name?”

“Mando.”

“Just ‘Mando’?”

“This is the Way.”

You nod, worrying your cheek absentmindedly as you stare out the transparisteel. This is the Way. You’re not entirely sure what the phrase meant, but you know respect when you hear it— how reverent it sits on his vocal chords— and by the manner of which the man, this Mando, spoke, you can tell there’s more to those words than you know.

And you can appreciate his desire for anonymity; it doesn’t bother you much—you figure you won't be around long enough for it to matter anyways. You don’t know a lot about the Mandalorian people, but you have heard rumors. Everyone had. That’s all they were anymore: rumors and stories. Legends. Just seeing one was rare, and talking to one even rarer. But flying with one and his adorable, green baby? It was… definitely unique, to say the least.

You share more dulled quiet. And although the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable now—you’re settling in to it— it’s not exactly desirable either, but it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t last.

Mando clears his throat, breaking the white noise that’s blanketed the three of them. He doesn’t turn his helmet. He keeps his focus straight ahead. You watch his reflection in the ship’s window and you can’t know for certain, but you think you feel your eyes brush against his, if only for a moment. A unintelligible noise filters through his modulator.

“Do you?”

You grin, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

“Last I checked.”

It’s the first smile he draws from you. The first of many.

///

Despite Mando’s warnings and better judgement, sleeping is exactly what you end up doing. You pass out, hard, stirring only once when an errant beep sounds through the cockpit. You’d fallen asleep right there in the chair, chin tucked into your chest, hair fanned across your cheek, arms wrapped around your waist in a measly attempt to trap your body heat to you. You’ve woken to find the cockpit empty— the ship must be on autopilot, you think— and by the illuminating glow of hyperspace, you spot his medkit, sitting open on the seat across from you and in it, nestled among old wrappings and gauze, a single patch of bacta.

///|||///

That smile.

Din remembers this moment, much later, holding it like a photo in a locket. Private. Secret. He keeps you there, gold plated on a chain, to loop around his memory.

Encircling him. Strangling him.

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x fem!reader #King of Cups #ngl i got kinda emotional writing some bits #idk why but the hareem scenes kill me #din djarin fic #mando x you #din djarin x you #no y/n #pedro pascal #mando x female oc #din djarin x female oc #ofc

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 V

Warnings: warnings to be added as we progress but this series may contain non-consent, violence, death, and other triggers (this chapter, slight oral, handjob/fingering, degradation)

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You leave the capital but you can’t break away from your keeper.

Note: Hopefully I can work on my masterlist updates today! So keep an eye out on @darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor​

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

The king hadn’t been gone long before your departure was set and the palace set to readying the horses and their riders. Loki presented you with a maid’s dress and apron and had you dress the part for the journey to his brother’s manor of Thunder Lodge.

“Keep your head down,” he bid as you changed, “If any should wonder why you are unfamiliar, you will explain that you have recently been re-allocated among the staff. When we do arrive, if any do question your duties, you will say you tend to one of the lords.” 

There were a dozen servants in the cart with you, packed in among chests and other luggage.  As you rocked with its motion, you could see him and hear his voice still.

“Do not mention me. Once all is settled, you will join me and remain in my chambers until we return to the road.” He fixed his hair in the glass as he spoke. He was agitated as he continued to find ways to keep his hands busy. “And at last, I might show you truly the extent of your sentence.”

You squeezed your thighs together as you pressed yourself to the side of the cart. You could remember so clearly the way his tongue felt and that joyous flame which had overtaken our core. It made you sweat to think on it and his promises of more only added to your unwanted fervour. Your spite was splintered by your sinful want.

The secrecy made it feel worse. It assured you that it was wrong. Certainly, a bed warmer was not unheard of, mistresses far more common, but Loki’s insistence upon deception made you anxious. Perhaps, it added to his amusement. Or perhaps he was ashamed to lay with a commoner. It truly didn’t matter so you pondered little on his whims.

Camp was made just after dark. The moon beamed down on the party and you slept among the staff and the horses. You didn’t expect Loki to call for you nor were you disappointed. Yet you thought of him. You couldn’t shake him. 

Even as you thought of sneaking away, he lingered in your mind. He warned you that you would not go unobserved and you hadn’t. You noticed the guard and how he stayed close to the servants’ cart. His grey eyes as they found you amid the bunch. He was one of esteemed warriors assigned to the king’s personal guard and yet he wore the mail of the common palace sentinel. You both wore disguises and both knew each other to be interlopers.

The party rose with the sun. It wasn’t long before you were in the cart again. You dozed for some minutes but woke as you were jostled roughly. You watched the winding path and the trees peter out to tall grasses and fields of yellow, blue, and red petals. 

Your vision streaked as your head spun; something about this trip made you anxious, not that you had felt anything but in the last days. There was a foreboding deep in your stomach and it had you fidgeting as sweat beaded under the collar of your dress.

You had never been far from the capital, you never had the reason or the means. You were further then than you had ever been. The great stone pillars of Hammers Bough rose around you and opened up to the city that marked the threshold of Thunder Lodge. 

The oldest of the royal houses, Thunder Lodge was an implacable fortress said to be built on the will of the gods. It had once been the capital until a great storm swept in from the sea and flooded out the city. It had since been rebuilt but the royals and their court had since moved to the current capital of Starseed.

The gates of the royal abode were open as the king’s retinue approached and within, silks hung from the walls bearing the crest of the major houses of the realm. The sky was dimming as the sun began its decline and the August afternoon began to cool. The progression had made good time on the road but still with little time to prepare for the next day’s events.

At the rear of the train, you peered past the horses and the nobles and their carriages as a booming voice broke over the din. The blonde prince greeted his dark-haired brother before he could dismount and nearly pulled him from his saddle with his gruff handshake. Loki righted himself and slid down to his feet. The two men were similar in height, though Thor was twice as broad.

As the lords and their wives, daughters, and sons, began to deploy, you lost sight of the sons of Odin. You were forced from your haze by the servant next to you and you hopped down from the cart as the others began to unload the chests. You joined them, straining beneath the great weight as your skirts bunched between your legs with each bend.

You wiped your dusty hands on your apron as you caught your breath and readied to care a heavy chest up through the servants’ doors with another girl in brown wool. You paused as you caught the eye of the covert guard. He fingered the pommel of his sword as he squinted at you. The dented armor of his disguise did little to disassemble his stature.

You grabbed the leather handle of the chest and heaved it from the dirt. You followed the other girl along the line of servants to the doors. Inside, the resident staff directed the visitors and instructed them according to their master. The servants who had no specific liege, were to remain in the kitchens.

You let the other girl, Hanna, take the lead and left the chest in Lady Ulna’s chambers. You returned to the lower floors and exited through the same doors. Slowly, the toil was thinning as the nobles were welcomed through the front doors.

As you neared the cart, you were caught by your arm and thrust behind it. The armored guard shoved you against the wood as his hand returned to his sword.

“Stay,” he snarled. “Can’t have you getting lost.”

You stared up at him. A dark haired man with broad shoulders and a thick beard beneath his helm. He was similar to Thor in build, perhaps bigger.

“He thinks I will run?”

“He knows you to be a trespasser,” the man shrugged, “It is not beyond you to stray.”

“And you think I could outpace you?” You scoffed. “I haven’t tried upon this journey.”

“There has been little opportunity to do thus and I assure you, you wouldn’t make it two steps beyond my grasp, girl,” he glanced around and watched the other servants. “The king has assigned you as my personal duty. It is not what I’d prefer but I have always served well and you would not stain my reputation.”

You said nothing and crossed your arms as you leaned against the cart. He felt around at his belt and dug out a strip of dried meat from a leather pouch. He chewed and grumbled as the din of voices faded beyond the tall door of the palace and the servants went about their labor.

“Alright, best have you away,” he made to grab you again and you drew away.

“I can follow,” you assured him, “You don’t need to drag me.”

His nostrils flared and he shook his head. “I should like to,” he muttered but didn’t try again as he waved you back down to the servants doors.

Within, he asked a scullery where the king would be lodged and nodded at her directions. He continued on, prodding you back into step and strayed away from the path of other servants.

“She said the other way,” you intoned.

“I know my way,” he growled, “Now, quiet, girl.”

He led you up a winding staircase wordlessly, trailing behind you in his armour. When you reached the top, he ducked through the low archway and led you through the maze like corridors until he happened upon the more lively passages. A pair of doors was open as the guard approached the boy Hal who stood by the frame.

“Magnus,” Hal’s voice cracked as he saw the guard and his eyes peeked at you.

“The king does not want any suspicion. Keep her hidden in the bedchamber as the luggage is unloaded. I will be close.” He nudged you forward. “Hurry, before she is noticed.”

Hal nodded and waved you within. The boy was terrified of the much larger guard and you couldn’t blame him. You stepped through the doors as the servant scurried to open the bedchamber doors. Magnus lingered by the entrance as his armor clinked against the stone.

“Please, miss, the king would be unhappy if you are discovered.” Hal warned. “You must remain and keep quiet.”

You wondered at why such caution was being taken but merely nodded. The boy was only doing his duty and he was surrounded by cruel men. You walked the perimeter of the bedchamber and turned back to him.

“We both know the king to be mean-hearted,” you said, “I will do as you say.”

“I must close the doors,” he said as he retreated. 

You tilted your head and spun back. You went to the window as the doors shut with a click. You gazed out from behind the silk drapes and that same stone set in your heart. A foreign prison was no less a trap.

🐍

When the servants finished their work, Hal knocked and asked after you. He was a kind boy, not very talkative, and nearly completely silent in the presence of the king. You affirmed that you were as well as you could be and he left to return with a plate for your supper. You sat at the small round table in the bedchamber as he set down the covered dish.

“What duties await you now?” you asked.

He blanched and blinked. He lowered his head as his muddy brown hair fell over his forehead. “I will wait for the king.”

“Will you sit with me?”

He raised his head and gaped at you. “I don’t-- I don’t know that it is permitted.”

“You are not allowed to speak with me?”

“The king has never said it but I do not… speak with many.” He confessed.

“Oh,” you lifted the lid of the plate, “Well, there is very much food here and I have a small stomach. I will need someone to share with and I must admit, I am lonely for company.”

“I don’t know,” he rubbed his hands together nervously.

“I will take the blame for it, if the king is displeased.” You offered, “What good does it do you sitting in the next room alone?”

His brows drew together and he looked around. Cautiously, he pulled out the other chair and sat. You pushed the plate to the middle of the table and took a chunk of cheese. He shyly took a slice of the thick bread and bit into it. You could see he was nervous. You caught his eyes on you several times and a blush upon his cheeks.

“I’m not a whore,” you said sharply. “The king might put me in the position but… I am just a woman.”

“I didn’t--”

“Well, we both know why I am here but I can’t bear you looking at me so.” You reproached. “I used to make pots and the like. I worked in a shop. I suspect I am little different than you.”

“The king says you are a criminal,” Hal nibbled between words.

“Well, in a sense, yes,” you tapped the table with your fingertips, “I ventured onto castle grounds without permission but it is no great crime.” You bent your arm on the wood and cupped your chin. “Does the king say anything else of me?”

“Not to me,” Hal took a carrot from the plate, “He commands me, that is all.”

“As he does me.” You sat up, “We are both bound to his will.”

The boy glanced away guiltily. “I don’t think you a whore. I’m sorry.”

“It is fine,” you assured him, “I am not offended. I would not share my plate if I was.”

He chewed for a time and took another morsel from the plate. Finally, he dared to look at you again.

“I’ve heard him… hurt you.” Hal said quietly, “You shouldn’t goad him so.”

You chuckled and took a deep breath. “It is not hard to do so.”

“But if you were more amenable--”

“You are young. You can’t understand,” you wiped your hands on your apron, “But my resistance is all I have. And there is nothing the king can offer me but pain, so I’d rather meet it with gull than grace.”

Hal frowned. He thought but only looked more confused. He sniffed and shifted in his seat.

“I should go prepare for the king,” he stood, “He is of little patience when his brother is near.”

“Alright,” you sat back, “I will not mention this to him.”

“Thank you,” Hal neared the door and paused as he looked back. He smiled before he ducked into the receiving chamber and your lips curved slightly in kind. Then his words settled in your mind, ‘prepare for the king’. You would have to deal with Loki eventually.

🐍

The door slammed and had you rigid. You spent the hours since your arrival pacing the room and watching through the window. Hal appeared once more to clear your plate but didn’t say much as he returned to the task of unpacking the king’s luggage.

You heard Loki’s voice from the receiving chamber and you went to the bedroom door. You peered through as he swayed on his feet and Hal struggled to unclasp his cap from his shoulders. The king was barely aware of the boy as he drunkenly smiled at the walls.

Finally, Hal freed the length of green silk and hung it. The king staggered forward and caught himself against the settee. His eyes flicked up and caught yours. He smirked and stood straight. He raised a finger.

“Boy, you can go. I trust I can tend to myself tonight,” Loki declared, “And I have help should I require it.”

Hal bowed his head with a quiet ‘your majesty’. He peeked over at you as he went to the door. He reluctantly left you and the door closed gently in his stead. The king ambled forward and reached out for you as he stumbled. You could only catch him as he threatened to topple.

“Look at you, mouse,” he slurred, “Dressed as a maid. How silly!”

He leaned on you heavily and too afraid to drop him, you turned and angled him into the bedroom. His arms fell down your back and he squeezed your ass through the layers of wool and linen. You grimaced and managed to get him onto one of the chairs. He sat sideways and slumped against the back with an arm bent over the top.

He hiccupped and pushed his legs apart. He swung his leg as he looked at you and hummed.

“Do take off that ridiculous attire,” he slithered, “You will serve me but I expect more than a dusting.”

You stared at him and hesitated. You touched the apron across your front and he sat up and snapped his fingers.

“I am your king!” He proclaimed. “I have bid you undress for me, wench!”

He slapped his thigh and you flinched. You reached back and untied the apron. You turned and tossed it over the low bench against the wall. You undid the straps of your smock and shimmied out of the skirt. You left it atop the apron and removed the long white linen underdress. Your shift slipped easily down your figure as you spun back to him and raised your chin.

You slid your feet from your slippers and rolled down the stockings. You stood naked and glared at him as he admired you. Your crossed your arms as his gaze made you shiver and he grabbed onto the chair as he nearly fell over.

“Here,” he waved you forward with two fingers, “Get me out of this...” he pushed himself to his feet with effort, “Shit!”

His voice warbled between quiet and loud as the alcohol made him clumsy. You crossed to him and his hands clapped your shoulders as he held himself up. You looked up at him as he leaned dangerously and reached up to unbutton the high collar of his overcoat. His hands fluttered up your neck and cradled your face.

He bent and his nose touched yours. He smiled and swayed you with him. 

“You’re mad at me.” He sang. “I do love it when you sneer so.”

“I’m not mad,” you worked down the front of his jacket, “You need to stand straight so I can get this off.”

“I can hear it in your voice,” he stood and let his arms drop so you could push the brocade down them. “Or perhaps you are impatient. You wish a repeat of our last meeting.” He snickered, “Does your cunt ache for me?”

You tore his coat off entirely and strode away to hang it over a chair. When you returned to him, he bent for you to remove his tunic and his hands grazed you sides.

“I did expect a slap for that one,” he taunted, “I will only have to try harder…” He looked down, “Speaking of hard.”

His trousers tented as you unlaced them. He sat for you to slide his boots off with his socks and stood again as you pushed his leggings down. His erect member was hard to ignore as he was completely naked and unstable. You looked him in the face and narrowed your eyes.

“I am not angry at you because I despise you already,” you said, “It is hatred you feel from me.”

He chuckled and pulled you to him, his arms around your waist as he pressed himself to you.

“You hate what I make you feel because you are too proud to admit that you want me,” he purred, “And too afraid of what you’ve never known.”

“Oh, let go of me, you drunken fool,” you pushed on his arms. “You are like to have us both on the floor.”

He winked and slapped your ass again. He drew away but took your hand as he did. He neared the bed and sloppily snuffed the lamp with a blow. The chamber was dark as he flopped onto the mattress and dragged you down beside him. You snarled as he rolled you against him and stretched your arm across him. His other hand danced over the scars along your back.

“I am drunk,” he admitted and played with your hand, “I had to imbibe to bear my brother’s nonsense.” He guided your hand down and closed it around his cock. “And I do require a release as I find myself riled.”

You gripped him but did not move your hand as his fell away. You breathed darkly over his chest and his other arm hugged you tighter.

“Would you rather your mouth?” He taunted, he slipped his arm beneath yours and turned his body slightly, “Or you do long for reciprocity?”

He pushed his fingers between your legs and found your bud. You squeezed your thighs against him and he rubbed you roughly.

“Go on, don’t just hold it,” he hissed as toyed with you.

Slowly, you moved your hand up and down his length. Your legs twitched as your cunt slickened beneath his touch. He explored your folds as he held you to him and you stroked him almost without thought. Your hand kept time with him as he lured you to the edge and dangled you there. His breath smelled of wine as his grazed your skin and he pressed his nose against your hair.

“Come on,” he whispered, “Almost there.”

He shoved his hand between your legs and felt along your entrance. He pushed a finger inside and you gasped. Your rhythm faltered but he urged you on with a groan. You were too overwhelmed to stop. That unearthly delight began to gather in your loins, deeper as he slid another finger into and rocked his hand against your clit.

You rasped, then moaned, and felt his body begin to quake. The noise of your wet cunt underlined your heady pants and he had you on your back as he turned onto his side and kept you against him. Your legs splayed open around his hand and your eyes lolled back in your head.

You exclaimed as your walls clenched his fingers and you came. He climaxed in quick succession as warmth seeped down your palm and coated his member. He spasmed and pulled away from you as he grew overly sensitive but kept his fingers inside of you. He stilled his hand and sunk to his knuckles as he explored your depths.

“I can only imagine how you’ll feel around my cock,” he said. “But I should like to remember the first.” 

He slipped his hand away from your cunt and sighed as he rolled onto his back. He lifted his fingers to his lips and licked them. He purred and sucked them clean before trailing down to his pelvis. He tutted.

“I am a mess,” he said, “You’ve made a mess of me.”

You sat up, trembling and turned to climb off the bed. “I will fetch a cloth then--”

“You will not,” he grabbed your arm as you held your wet hand aloft. “You will clean me up yourself.”

“Wha--”

“Your mouth,” he pushed your hand towards your face. “Taste me.”

You stared at the silhouette of your hand in horror. You hoped he could not see your face. You gulped and brought your hand to your lips. You touched your finger with the tip of your tongue and reluctantly dragged it over your skin. He released you and pushed himself up on his elbows as he watched you in the dim.

One, two, three, four fingers and your thumb. You lowered your hand in shame and he nodded at his loins. You stifled a grumble and bent over him. His cum had cooled and was sticky as you closed your eyes to the revolting task. He groaned as you tried not to hear him and when you finished, he pet your head like an obedient dog.

“Ah,” he sighed and drew you up against him once more, “I feel it. You are mad now.” He yawned and tickled your hip, “Perhaps we might take it up on the morrow.”

“You are vile,” you sneered.

He snickered and pinched your ass. “I never denied such a claim, little mouse.”

#loki #dark!loki #dark loki #loki x reader #fic #dark!fic #dark fic #mcu #marvel #thor #by the king's hand #series #medieval #medieval au #medieval!au #king!loki

[lackingspace]

Tender Sugar (Bo Sinclair)

Rated: EXPLICIT

Word Count: 3.4k 

Warnings: Not reader, Name used, Suggestive language and themes, explicit dirty talk, humiliation, degradation, spanking, fingering, uhh kinda like pseudo-exhibition kink, squirting, hmm Im sure theres something else I forgot 

Author Note: Ok, this is a super special piece for @yourlocalslasher​. It was her B-day yesterday and well, she loves Bo just as much as me, so I HAD to write her something. So again, NOT A READER- used a name, but its not heavy-handed. Anyways, hope you enjoy it! 

You’d finished breakfast and went to Bo’s truck without a second thought. Hadn’t seemed like there was anything else to discuss after giving Vincent a reminder to bring some snacks with him to the basement, but the look on Bo’s face screamed that something must have happened after you'd left the room. 

"Everything okay there?" He didn’t even grace you with a look before he said, "Right as rain, Sugar" his grip on the steering wheel said different- just little too tight, too much force when shifting gears, "Right as rain." He was such a liar.

But you let it go. Nothing good ever came from pushin Bo when Bo didn’t offer up an argument. Usually boded better if you let him come to whatever conclusion he wanted first and then wait for him to initiate. So you had no intention of straying away from your tried and true method. Just had to wait it out.

And it paid off. Fuck, had it paid off. 

You’d decided to spend the day with Bo at the station on a whim, not like you had much else to do today- besides it’d been quiet for a while now. Bo’d made the offer to teach you about engines earlier that week. Learning was always good and it occupied your time, so why not? Can’t say you had a huge interest in mechanics, but maybe it’d come in handy one day, who knew. You’d always heard learning how to change a flat was important, but no one had ever offered, so you’d never learned. Maybe now you had that chance.

But you didn’t want to make the ask if your boyfriend’s mood was veiled in annoyance. You’d give him space to cool off, but you didn’t really need to worry. When he pulled up outside the station and got out you watched him move towards the back of the truck before turning to open your door. Having to fight with the latch for any small amount of give, after a minute you were finally free. 

Once you had the door open and looked up Bo was standing there with a raised brow, “Havin some trouble there, Sugar?” You gave him a flat look, “I’m tellin you this side needs some WD-40, it sticks.” He leaned in and gripped your waist to lift you out of the truck while rolling his eyes, “Sticks my ass, opens just fine for me.” 

You huffed as your feet hit the ground, “Yeah, says the man with muscles. I don’t have that advantage you brute.” He looked down at you with a smirk, “Well, it’s a good thing these muscles will be around a long while to help my little princess out.” The slight flush it caused was instantaneous and you felt it in your face and in your chest. He was definitely annoyed before, but now he was being sweet? Something was definitely up, so you ignored his comment in favor of turning around to head into the shop. 

Before you could take more than a step away, his hand was snaking down an arm to grip around your wrist. Tugging you back only to spin you around before he boxed you in against the door, "Now, where do you think you’re scurrying off to so quick, sugar?" He gripped your chin surprisingly gently, something that was rare for him, and tilted it up so you locked eyes, “It ain’t right to ignore a man when he’s declaring his devotion. Mighty rude to just walk away don’t you think?" You would have answered, you had some words to say that a man shouldn’t tease so early this side of the sun, but the hand that had been resting on your hip had slithered around to fondle your backside. 

Of course Bo would use this to get his hands on you. It wasn’t that you didn’t want them on you, it was just that he’d done it so unexpected and you were still wary of the attitude change. It wasn’t that you were afraid, far from it- just had you on edge because it meant he had something planned and shocking you was a favorite past time of his. Hopefully this shock was a good one.

"That silence ain’t helpin any, Luce." His grip on your ass turned rougher which finally knocked you back to reality, "Bo! It’s barely 10 in the mornin and you’re already copin a feel?!" His hand only got more aggressive in his fondling, "You really complainin ‘bout that?” Ok, he had you there, unable to really deny it you flushed further and narrowed your eyes at him, “can’t help that this ass was made for the palm of my hand," he gave you a slight smack, nothing too hard, but had heat flash through you and settle between your legs, “Love the way it bounces when you take a spankin…or my cock” That had you groaning and looking away, couldn’t take the eye contact when he talked like that.

Only that provided him the opportunity he needed to lean down and nuzzle your throat. A few kisses were placed here and there which had your pulse pick up and the heat between your legs worsen. He nipped at your ear before whispering, "Besides, I reckon it deserves a good spanking today. Turn it a cute red to match that blushin face.” The thrill that shot down your spine had your senses buzzing. Your nipples starting to pebble between his words and his mouthing at your throat, "w-what?" 

He was too busy making sure love bites would be visible on your throat for the next few days to answer. Groaning from the treatment you tried again, "Bo, what?" Again, silence as his mouth littered kisses and hickies along your pulse, "Why do you wanna give me spankings today, Daddy? What’d I do?" Now that got a response. Bo loved when you played the daddy card. You wanted something and he was being unresponsive? 9 times out of 10 if you dropped that name on him he’d hear you out- if nothing else it always sent his arousal from 0 to 100 and horny Bo was easier to get to talk than angry Bo. It was especially effective if you whined and begged for him. 

He pulled back to answer your confusion, "See, sugar, learned something interesting from Vinny just before we left." His hands were back to kneading from your hips down to your ass, "Oh? What was that?" He tilted his head and you could see the mischievousness in his eyes- a certain twinkle, decidedly not angry, thank god for that, “Seems someone told my brother it was their birthday and never mentioned it to Daddy.” Oh fuck, you’d completely forgotten! You’d meant to tell him last week when you heard the date on the radio down in the basement with Vincent. You were helping him clean up down there while he was going about his business and the radio announcer had shouted the date, you’d perked up and told Vincent, but by supper time rolling around you’d completely forgotten. It wasn’t like you stared down the date here. Sometimes you actually forgot what month it was let alone the week or day. 

Shit, maybe you wanted angry Bo because that look he’d given you spoke of edging and you weren’t sure if you could take it this early in the day. Panicked you tried to hastily explain, “Bo, I completely forgot! I meant to tell you last week, but it slipped my mind!” You were going to add more on, more explanation, more begging for him not to be too harsh on you, to not edge you within an inch of your life, but he was already tugging you along to the back of his truck while cutting you off, “You don’t gotta explain there, birthday girl. I get it you’re just more fond of my brother than your boyfriend. I see how it is.” 

The tailgate was already down, when had he done that? Must have been when you were struggling with the damn door. You tried to respond as quick as you could, “Bo! That’s not true! You know you’re my number one. You’re the one I wanna curl up with at night.” He gave you a hum as if he was contemplating it while rubbing a hand soothingly down your arm, but what he said had your insides clenching and your nerves shoot up, “Take those pants off for me.” 

Your throat went dry as you registered what he wanted- and your nipples were achingly hard scratching against your bra, “W-what?” He smacked your ass again, this time harder than before, “Did I stutter, Sugar? You heard me.” You had...But here? It was so open...what if Vincent or Lester were wondering around town...or worse if some tourists were lured in, “B-but Bo, its...we’re in public…” That earned you another swat, “I don’t rightly care, pants off now, Lucie. Before Daddy changes his mind and you won’t like it.” 

You couldn’t lie, the demand and idea had you hot enough that you could feel how wet you were. Not drenched, but definitely on the way there, hopefully he’d take care of it soon and wouldn’t make you beg too much. Ever so slowly you reached down to unbutton your pants and drag them down your legs. As you were doing that he’d maneuvered to hop up on the tailgate and sit at the edge to watch you strip, “Panties too, Lucie.” A fresh wave of heat pulsed through you at the way he said your name and the fact you’d be in the middle of town with your wet pussy out on display. 

You went to grab your shirt to lift because why wouldn’t he want that too? But he stopped you, “Nah, keep that on for me. Like the way your tits look in it.” With a red face, you put your hands behind your back waiting for what he wanted you to do next. After a few moments of him raking his eyes up and down- tilting his head when he looked to your wet center before he smirked and said, “Get your sweet little ass up here, Sugar. Lay across daddy’s lap.” With a gulp, you climbed up and settled over his lap. Thank god he’d had you keep your shirt on because your breast would have ached against the cold metal- your knees certainly were.

You felt him smooth a hand down your ass, gripping a cheek and then the other before sliding down to your dripping core, “Already so wet for me, Lucie, and I’ve barely done anything.” He speared a finger down through your wet folds, “So needy for Daddy even here out in public, where anyone could see.” You groaned into your arms and tried to squeeze your thighs together for friction, but he wasn’t having it. With a slap to one of your cheeks he said, “uh ah, Daddy didn’t give you permission for that.” 

Eyes shutting at the delicious sting that slap had sent through you before you let out a deep breath as he soothed the area, “You’re such a little whore for me, Lucie. Look at you,” He gave another spank a little harder than before and soothed the area as you groaned, “Ass and pussy out, drippin down your thighs. Anyone could look out a window or walk by and you’d still push that ass up in the air for me, huh? Needy slut like you don’t care who sees, do ya?” Oh, he wanted to play up the public angle like there were really people in town watching. Fuck, that did something to your brain- sent tingles down your spine and a fire through your veins. 

Pushing your ass back into his hand just like he’d said, you whined, “You’re right, always want you to play with me. Don’t matter where.” You felt his cock twitch against your stomach as he chuckled, “There’s my cute little cockslut...bein all nasty desperate for it when that good Christian lady could be lookin out her window across the street.” He tapped your cheek as he said, “Would give her a heart attack seen this tight little ass taking a good spanking before breakfast.” A finger trailed back between your pussy lips, “Might even let em watch how good this pussy can swallow up my cock too.” You groaned because god damn was this man lethal, but all these light touches and love taps were driving you insane. 

You needed him making your ass red or fucking that hard-on you could feel deep into your wet cunt in the next five minutes or you might just spontaneously combust, “Bo...Daddy, please, please! I need something- Spank me, finger me, fuck me...Whichever I just need it! Please! I’m so achy and empty...” You heard his smug laugh, “Beggin already princess? But damn it sounds so pretty out those lips of yours.” You made another whine when all he did was roughly grip the flesh of your ass, but nothing else, “How old ya turning, Sugar?” So you mumbled out your age and he tapped your ass, “Think we’ll add on a few more after that for good luck. I won’t make ya count them, birthday girl privileges and all that. Just enjoy it, babe.”

And goddamn did you enjoy it. The sound of his palm meeting your flesh rang out in the area, Vinny or Lester would definitely hear if they were around town- no way they couldn’t hear. The sting of his slaps were delicious and he rained them down all over. Some a little higher, some lower, even on the backs of your thighs. You could feel how hot your flesh was from the treatment and all you could manage was to sob out in pleasure as you begged him for more. “That’s it, Lucie, takin it like a good little whore for me.” 

Another rough smack low near your thighs had please rolling off your tongue, “Look at that fucking jiggle, all nice and red for me too. You gonna feel this for a good week.” with a few more quick and heavy-handed slaps he finally cooed at you while soothing the area, but all it did was make you needier with how sensitive you were, “Thinkin you deserve a little treat after takin it like such a good girl for me.” he cupped your sex as you cried and squirmed in his lap, “want my fingers or my cock in this drippin little hole?” you felt your clit pulse at his offer and before you could answer he was already shoving two fingers in, “I don’t even need to ask do I? You’re always thirsty for this cock.” 

You didn’t care that you looked like a mess, that you definitely had drool down your chin, and you definitely didn’t care to try and deny what he was saying because he was right. You were always thirsty for it and good on him for realizing you were crazy for his bastard self. So you just made a half attempt of nodding while tucking your knees under you to raise up slightly for more leverage to push back against the hand that was fucking into you, “That’s it, baby. Fuck this little cunt on my fingers. So wet and desperate for it.” 

His other hand reached under you to rub at your clit, “You’re gonna fuck yourself on my fingers until you cum and then I’m gonna make you squirt on my cock, right here out in the open. Got that, Sugar?” You whined but didn’t make any other acknowledgment. You felt a jerk in his fingers inside you curling at just the right area to hit against your G-spot, “I asked you a fuckin question, Lucie and I expect a damn answer. You got that?” your head shot up as he hammered against that magical spot, “Yes! Yes, Bo! Yes, daddy! I got it! Please just let me cum, please!”  

Your hips were pushing back just as fast as he was hammering his finger into you and down on your clit had you cumming within the next few minutes with a scream of his name. “That’s right, baby girl tell ‘em all who just made your toes curl.” You didn’t even need to look to see the smirk that was on his face, it was plain in his voice. His hand in your pussy was still slowly moving, helping in your come down while his other hand moved to rub circles on your back. “You did so good, Lucie. But we ain’t done yet sugar.” 

Your breath hitched, that’s right, he wants you to squirt on his cock outside in front of the station. That thought was already making your sensitive pussy tighten around his fingers still in you, “Oh, I felt that darlin, you need my cock that bad after cumming so soon?” at your nod he pulled his fingers out and gave your ass one last resounding spank, “Of course my nasty girl does, wouldn’t be a cockslut otherwise.” 

At that he picked you up like it was nothing as he stood before turning and placing your back to the tailgate. Looking up at him he was giving you such a devious smirk that it automatically had your legs spreading and your knees pulling up to your chest. His smirk only deepened, “Look at that puffy swollen cunt all ready for a pounding. Hold yourself open for me, babe. Wanna see that hole ready for my cock.” you groaned out his name but did as he asked and looped your arms around your thighs to hold yourself open for him- had the added benefit of locking your knees to your chest too. 

 He didn’t even undress fully just unbuttoned his jumpsuit enough to take his cock out and slap it against the top of your pussy before sliding it down to your open hole, “You look so good like this, sugar. Gonna look even better stretched out around my cock.” As he said that he’d been tracing a hand between your folded legs up your stomach along the bottom of your shirt. In a tight grip, he ripped it up and pulled your bra down, “Wanna see these tits bounce while I fuck this pussy.” you answered with a, “Mmhmm, anything you want, just put it in, please!” his hand continued up to your throat while he slid into you. 

His hand clearly felt the vibrations of the deep moan you let out when he finally hilted inside you. “Feel so snug in here. Your cunts always so tight for me. Let’s see if we can stretch it a little, sugar.” and he was rapidly moving within you. He didn’t pull any punches, no starting off slow and building up, no he went full force and stayed that way. You were constantly sobbing at the feel of him, your tits were bouncing just like he’d wanted, and the hand at your throat was putting just enough pressure to add to your pleasure, “Touch that clit for me. Hammer down on it hard and don’t stop. Said you were gonna squirt and I mean it.” 

He adjusted his hips and finally found that magic spot that had you crying out, “Right there! Don’t stop, right there! Just like that, please, Bo!” He cooed at your begging and kept at that spot, “Look at this cunt swallow up my cock, looks like its more desperate than you are. Such a dirty fucking girl lettin me do this to ya out here.” You were so keyed up that his words were almost background noise, you could feel the pressure building and you wanted it, needed it, craved it. 

So you listened to his advice and kept your harsh pace on your clit while he kept hammering into that spot. It only took a few more moments before you were crying out a mix of his name and please and then finally a half moan half scream as you came hard against him. He’d got what he wanted, you definitely squirted and your pussy had gotten so tight that it set his orgasm off too. He pulled out of your quickly to aim up at your chest and face- most landed on your breast, but some painted against your cheek. 

You were like jelly, just floating and you had no intention of moving. Vaguely you felt a hand stroking your hair and that finally brought you back to your senses. With a full-body stretch you groaned, you were an utter mess, “Happy Birthday, Lucie.” And then he laid a kiss to your forehead and you absolutely didn’t care about the cum cooling on your chest.

#hope you liked it! #Idk how well I did #but hope it was decent! #Happy birthday! #ily! #bo sinclair #slasher smut #writing gift #house of wax #house of wax smut #slasher community #slasher writing #slashers #house of wax 2005 #bo sinclair x reader #and if anyone is this deep in tags yes im still writing jelly danny he almost done

[sparklydreamies]

Stray Kids 8 Part Series ~ (2) Lee Minho: Pride is Sinful

Group: Stray Kids

Member: Lee Minho

Genre: Light angst + hurt/comfort

Word Count: 5,300+

Summary: Accepting help from his younger brothers is hard for Minho, but it may be necessary in the case of an injury. 

Stray Kids 8 Part Series MASTERLIST

A/n: Hi guys!! This story was kind of inspired by Minho during Stray Kids’ survival show days, and the times when he said he shouldn’t need their help since he was older ;-; It kind of gave me the idea to create a story where Minho begins feeling prideful, but ultimately realizes that he can lean on others as well! Also, LEE MINHO IS MY BIAS AND I FEEL SO BAD WRITING ABOUT HIM LIKE THIS :( 

“You have to make sure that your legs and back are straight when you land.”

Lee Minho is a dancer. Nothing in his life gave him the beautiful, euphoric feeling that he got when he moved effortlessly around the stage. Nothing was as satisfying as the feeling of the air hitting the thin layer of sweat on his face. Nothing felt more right than the feeling of his heart pounding and blood rushing through his body. 

Even as a child, Minho had never thought of himself as extraordinary in any way. Compared to his friends who were undeniably smart, funny, or good-looking, Minho had always thought he was rather average. Never nearly as good as others, let alone better. 

He was always told it was better that he thought that way. Pride was sinful, and according to his parents, an ugly trait for a young boy to have. They would tell him that being too prideful meant being arrogant and cocky. 

Maybe that was the reason he couldn’t take compliments without denying them. Never accepting any sort of praise without belittling himself. Maybe it was also the reason he was such a damn perfectionist. He never felt like he was good enough to be comfortable. 

That was, until he began dancing. 

To Minho, dancing wasn’t just his hobby. It was his lifestyle. He ate, slept and breathed dance. When he fell, he got back up. In some respect, the only time that Minho felt vaguely better than people was when he was dancing. 

It wasn’t wrong of him to want to be the best at something. This was what he was passionate about, which meant there should be no harm in wanting to improve and be special. Pride may be a sin, but ambition is the key to success. And what is ambition without acknowledgment of how far you have come and how hard you have worked? If anything, his ambition was only helping the team.

And for a while, his determination was doing nothing but pushing him to be the best he could be. That was, until it pushed him too far. 

Choreography practice had ended a few hours ago, and yet Minho told himself he was going to run through the routine a few more times. A few more times, and then he would leave. 

Minho had been exhausting every kink out of the choreography for days straight. As Minho watched the way his body contorted awkwardly in front of the mirror, he began to worry about his progress. 

Earlier that day, he had watched how Hyunjin led the team through a full practice effortlessly, the years of dancing skills shining through with the way that his body became fluid, accenting the music perfectly and hitting every beat. It was quite mesmerizing to watch. However when Minho saw himself attempt at the same routine of twists and steps, he found it was much different. 

It shouldn’t bother him that Hyunjin was catching on faster than he was; Hyunjin was the team’s dance leader after all. Of course he was going to be the best off the bat. 

But Minho was the oldest dancer in the team. He knew that it was immature and futile to feel resentment towards the other members who are working hard on their own, but his pride and ambition seemed to get the better of him. 

During the day’s practice, Hyunjin had spent his precious time teaching Minho how to safely practice the killing part in the song, which was a jump-slash-spin type move that Minho was having trouble grasping. 

The younger man had done nothing but show Minho how to practice it so that the team could benefit, however as much as Minho’s mind denied it, it felt so condescending. Minho could handle himself, why was Hyunjin acting like the hyung? Why was he acting like he was better than Minho? Hyunjin was already the visual of the group, why did he have to be the best at dancing too?

Minho had always thought that dancing was his thing. The thing that made him special. It wasn’t wrong to want to be the best. It wasn’t wrong to want to succeed. It wasn’t wrong to feel jealous. 

Minho grunted in frustration as he counted his steps again, using his emotions to push himself harder, promising himself that he would show Hyunjin how he can handle his own problems. 

The music was pounding Minho’s eardrums at a sonic volume, almost mocking how he was unable to monitor the beats well enough. The sound alone was enough to drive him mad. 

Countless tries after countless tries, Minho launched himself into the air, twisting his body and snapping his joints in seemingly the same way that he remembered Hyunjin showing him. Yet, as he carefully watched his body in the mirror, it was still too awkward and stiff. The muscles in his thighs were in excruciating pain as he willed himself to jump again and again, repeating the same mistakes. 

Why was he even a dancer? Hyunjin was a more fluid and swift dancer, Felix was more charismatic and memorable, but what was Minho? Every day that he spent exhausting himself just trying to keep up with the others was another day where he felt unworthy of his career. 

It should not be this hard to be mediocre. 

And anyways, it wasn’t as if Minho could ask anybody for help. As soon as he asks for help in the field that he was supposed to be good in, people will start questioning his abilities. Maybe the boys would spare him the judgement because he is their friend, but how could he be sure? He was supposed to be the oldest dancer that helps the younger boys learn and grow, and yet here he is, practicing the same move over and over again for hours on end. 

If anything, Minho’s moves were only deteriorating in quality as time went on. His movements were sloppier and less precise. He wasn’t paying attention to anything that Hyunjin had told him earlier. His mind kept drifting away from the task at hand, which was practically automatic at this point. Minho wasn’t focusing on his footwork and where his weight was placed. His head was pounding and he felt hot all over his body, yet he couldn’t tell if it was from the hours of dancing or the frustration. He felt like he wanted to rip his hair out, or his skin off, or scream at the top of his lungs, but he just kept jumping and twirling and twisting and leaping and spinning until he found himself falling towards the ground. 

Minho let out a loud yelp as his hands shot out to try and break his fall as best as they could. Shooting pain spiked up the bone in his forearms as he let himself fall slack on the cool studio floor.

Panic had set into Minho’s mind as he had heard it before the adrenaline in his brain had let him feel it. The sickening pop sound that had come from landing on his left ankle at a weird position. 

Minho sat up frantically and suddenly felt the god awful pain in his foot. He cried out a little bit when he tried to move it a little bit. 

Of course he had to fuck up his ankle. 

Without touching his foot, Minho worked to untie his shoelaces and stretch his sneaker out as wide as he could so he could inspect his injury. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but he could already feel the muscle begin to swell. 

Minho took a deep breath and whimpered a little bit as he slowly inched his sneaker off of his injured foot, wincing at the tenderness of the ankle. 

He sighed in relief as the sneaker slid off of his foot, and he rolled his pant leg up. Minho was relieved when he saw that the visual damage was minuscule, only resulting in a bit of swelling and slight bruising. Minho’s trembling fingers moved to press down on the skin lightly, gasping at the explosion of pain. 

Timidly, Minho shifted to stand on his injured foot. His overworked muscles were trembling as he faintly transferred his weight from his right foot to his left. There was no pain for the first second, but as he slowly pressed on the tender foot, a shooting pain flared up his leg. 

Minho cried out in frustration as he sat himself back down to the ground, burying his face into his hands. Hot, unwanted tears began to escape his eyes and wet the skin of his palms. 

There was no reason for him to cry, so why was he still sniveling like a child? Minho sniffled a few times before wiping his tears onto the back of his hand. 

The clock suspended high up on the studio’s wall read 10:47. Minho swore to himself when he remembered he promised Chan to be home before 10:30. 

Minho took a shaky breath as he stretched the discarded sneaker out as much as he could, already wincing at the thought of restricting his aching foot in it. 

By the sickening mess of raw, swollen flesh that rested at the bottom of his leg, Minho figured that the injury was a sprain. Sprained limbs are not uncommon for dancers, but they could be dangerous. 

It was about 11:00 in the evening when Minho hobbled into the dorm, fully expecting the scolding he was about to endure from Chan. Surprisingly, the space seemed fairly quiet, save for the faint sounds of video games coming from Felix and Hyunjin’s shared room. The dorm still smelled like whatever Changbin had brought for supper, which seemingly lured Minho right into the kitchen. 

Minho heated up some of the take out that was left in the fridge for him, sighing as he found himself an ice pack for his ankle. 

He ate with his leg propped up on another chair, covered with ice. Although it felt uncomfortable, it also felt oddly nice. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Chan slurred as he stumbled into the kitchen. 

Minho moved his leg from the chair to underneath the table. His ice pack fell onto the floor with a soft thud, but Chan seemed to not notice it. This must have been some sort of reflex; almost like Minho’s mind rejected the idea of anybody knowing about his injury. Especially not their leader, who had an abundance of other problems and issues that he has to deal with. 

“I was practicing and lost track of time, I’m sorry.” Minho explained, returning his attention to the noodles that were starting to cool off in his bowl. Chan sighed and sat down at the table. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Chan said, “I was starting to get a little bit worried.”

Minho scoffed at the older boy. “You know I can take care of myself, you don’t have to worry.” 

Minho saw Chan smile tiredly behind his fingers. It wasn’t until Chan looked up that Minho saw the dark bags underneath the other’s eyes. Chan had lines of worry stretched across his forehead, his hair was messy and looked like it hadn’t been washed in a while, and his eyes looked exhausted. 

Minho knew about Chan’s habit of putting the team’s success above his own health, and he knew about how dangerous it could be. Judging by the rough looking pile of a leader sitting across from him, he could guess that Chan hadn’t slept in a while.

“You look like a sick old man,” Minho cautiously jokes, leaning across the table to push on Chan’s shoulders. Minho winced slightly as he put some more pressure on his ankle. Luckily, the tired leader didn’t notice a thing. “You should go to sleep,”

“I can sleep when I’m dead,” Chan said, cracking a wide smile at the younger. 

Minho giggled at him. “With the way you look right now, that day will come sooner than you thought.”

Chan gave an amused huff towards Minho. He rubbed his dark eyes, and leaned forward in his seat, resting his head on his hands. “I thought you knew me, Minho,” he said with a small chuckle. 

“I’m just saying you shouldn’t overwork yourself,” Minho retorted, eating some of the noodles Changbin bought, “you look like a zombie.” 

“Changbin and I spent all last night in the studio,” Chan yawned, “I had to pull him home because he passed out at the desk,” 

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Minho said. 

“By the way,” Chan shifted in his seat, “how is the choreo coming? I noticed you were having some difficulty today,”

Minho felt a weight crash on him. Chan was giving up his sleep and sanity to help the team, and Minho isn’t even able to keep up his own workload without breaking himself. 

“Uhm,” he started, shifting his gaze back down to his noodles to look unbothered, “it’s coming along. I’ve almost got it down, I think,”

“Just take care of yourself too, okay?” Chan asked, his aura becoming a little bit more serious, “we can’t have you injured right before a comeback,”

That was it. Minho felt his anxiety build at that one sentence. If Chan only knew the irony of that statement. There was literally an ice pack beneath the table to soothe an injury that might prevent Minho from making any progress with his improvements, and yet Chan didn’t know a thing. 

Minho played his dread off with a little chuckle. It felt too awkward, and he was sure that the leader knew something was up. Yet, being the tired and clueless boy that he was, Chan didn’t notice anything. 

“Well it’s kind of late, and I can barely keep my eyes focused anymore,” Chan stated, getting up from his seat, “I’m going to go to bed. Make sure you get some sleep soon, okay?”

Minho hummed a yes before Chan bid another goodnight, leaving Minho to finish his food and shower before heading to bed. 

What was he going to do? The logical thing would be to tell Chan or a manager or someone that he accidentally hurt himself, but he was too damn prideful. It would be embarrassing to admit to Hyunjin that he ignored the advice he gave him, or to let Chan down by taking a break to heal his foot. He didn’t want his company, members, or fans to think that he was fragile or weak.

If it was any other member, Minho wouldn’t hesitate to suggest time off for healing, but he couldn’t admit to needing the same thing. 

The next day, Minho woke up feeling even more soreness in his ankle than he had before. He was sure that it was a sprain, which conflicted him. He didn’t know if he should tell somebody and risk giving up practice and work until it healed. Then again, if he didn’t say anything, he risked causing an even worse injury. 

Minho made his way to the kitchen, trying to walk as normally as possible with the aching feeling spreading up his leg. If he could make it to the kitchen and snag some painkillers without anybody noticing, he might be able to soothe the pain enough to make it through the day. 

Without anybody in the kitchen, Minho limped over to the cabinet above the coffee machine, where the boys kept all of their medicine and bandages. For good measure, he pocketed the bottle just in case he felt more pain later. 

“G’morning,” Felix grunted, stumbling into the kitchen towards the coffee pot. 

“Morning, Lix.” Minho ruffled the kid’s messy bed-head before looking for something to eat. “Did you sleep well?” 

Felix gave a small nod as he poured himself a cup of completely black coffee. Felix looked very tired; Minho assumed it was probably from playing video games all night like usual. 

“You should take better care of your health, Lix.” Minho said. “Spending eight hours playing computer games is bad for your brain.” Minho sat down at the kitchen table with a granola bar in his hand. 

Felix chuckled and sat down too, “Maybe for you, but I’ve adapted myself to spending hours online.” 

Before Minho could scold him any more, he was interrupted by Hyunjin yawning as he walked through the door. He was dressed in his usual workout clothes, which surprised Minho, since they didn’t have choreography practice again until the next day. 

“Good morning,” Hyunjin said, seating himself down beside Felix.

“Morning,” Minho said, “are you going to the gym today?” 

Hyunjin shook his head. “I was thinking maybe we could go work on your move? You and I? Chan told me you didn’t get home until late last night.” 

Minho felt the anxiety build in his chest. How could he say no to practice? He knows that he isn’t that good and therefore shouldn’t pass up an opportunity to improve. But on the other hand, Hyunjin had taught him how to be safe while training, and he ignored the advice. He could barely walk on his ankle properly; Hyunjin would know something was up immediately. 

“Also Felix, you have to cool it with the games, you kept me up all night with those stupid little gunshot noises.” Hyunjin complained. “So we’ll leave in twenty?” 

Maybe it was a reflex or an instinct, or maybe Minho was just used to agreeing to practice time when offered, but before he had the chance to figure out a way out of it, the older boy was agreeing to working one-on-one with Hyunjin on their day off from practice. 

A while back, Jisung had twisted his ankle badly. He was out running, and hit a crack in the pavement. It wasn’t that bad of an injury, but for good measure, he had bought himself some support socks. 

Minho excused himself away from the table, trying to walk as naturally as possible, yet feeling what felt like the eyes of a hundred people burned into the back of his head. 

Minho sifted through Jisung’s sock drawer before finally pulling out the black and silver support socks from the very back, where they had been discarded and forgotten about ever since Jisung healed from the incident. 

Wincing, he carefully pulled the stiff fabric over his foot, almost letting a noise out when it moved his ankle. Once he stood up from the bed he was perched on, he took a few test strides. He was surprised at the way that the expensive fiber backed up his muscle. 

Minho quickly changed into some fresh workout clothes, and met Hyunjin by the door. 

“Ready?” Hyunjin asked, already opening the door. 

Minho hummed a yes and followed the boy out. The two of them made their way out of the dorms and down the street towards the studio. Minho was trying to distract himself with the uncomfortable pressure on his injured foot, and contemplated telling Hyunjin about it. Yet, as they walked, he began to worry again about his progress. Isn’t it natural for an idol to push through injuries for their careers? 

“So how did practicing it on your own feel yesterday?” Hyunjin asked as they walked, Minho trying his best to look as normal as he could, thanking god that he had the socks to help. 

“Uh,” he started, “it wasn’t bad, I think I’m improving,” 

Out of the corner of Minho’s eyes, he saw Hyunjin smile. It seemed unlike a smile of amusement, but more like a smile of fondness. 

“You improve everyday, Minho.” Hyunjin said, “You’re a hard worker. I know you’re going to get it,” 

Minho scoffed at Hyunjin before he could register it and stop himself. Hyunjin bumped his shoulders as they walked. Minho winced at the pain that sprouted from his foot, but kept moving nonetheless. 

“Don’t make that noise, you’re doing fine,” Hyunjin assured. Minho hated the way that he wanted so desperately to argue with Hyunjin because he can’t take compliments well. “It seems tough because you’re not getting it right away, but that’s what I’m helping you for,” the younger boy smiled brightly as they walked.

Minho was so happy knowing that he has a team of brothers that are willing to help him whenever he needs it. As much as he knew that he was lucky to have Hyunjin, he still felt that heavy pang of unnecessary jealousy. His mind was screaming at him to resent Hyunjin for making him feel inferior. 

“Thanks,” Minho said rather quietly, wanting to change the subject or end the conversation quickly before he felt even more awkward. 

“Ah don’t be like that,” Hyunjin sighed as he opened the company door for Minho. Minho made a confused noise as he passed the younger. “Just accept my help.”

Even though Hyunjin’s words made him sound upset, he was still speaking in a rather calm and light-hearted voice. It made Minho undeniably angry. 

“I am accepting your help, that’s why I’m here,” Minho countered, “let’s just practice, okay?” Minho was walking slightly ahead of Hyunjin on their way to the dance studios, when he stumbled slightly. He must have put pressure on a weird part of his ankle, because he felt a new wave of soreness in his bone. 

“Hold on, are you limping?” Hyunjin suddenly asked. Hyunjin instinctively grabbed onto the older’s arm, trying to help him regain his balance. 

Minho shook Hyunjin’s hand off of him, trying to play it off as easily as possible. “I just stepped on something,” he said, but Hyunjin was not easily fooled. 

“No it wasn’t that. You’re walking weird, Minho. Come over here,” Hyunjin gestured, leading Minho towards the practice room. 

“I swear I’m okay,” Minho awkwardly laughed. The dread of his ignorant mistake set into his chest when he realized he was found out. Hyunjin wasn’t an easy member to fool about anything. 

Hyunjin was staring at Minho with hawk-like eyes. “There’s something wrong and you’re not telling me,”

Minho avoided Hyunjin’s gaze by moving towards the bench at the side of the room, where he normally changed into his workout shoes. “I already said it’s nothing,” he sighed. He started taking the shoe off of his uninjured foot, feeling a little bit nervous to take his left one off in front of Hyunjin. 

Even after Minho thought he ended the conversation, Hyunjin still stared at him skeptically. Hyunjin knew that something was up, and Minho couldn’t hide his foolishness from him any more than he already has. 

Mentally groaning, Minho reached down to his left ankle, and untied the laces. Hyunjin sat down at the bench directly beside Minho so that he could change his shoes as well. Minho stretched the shoe out as much as he could to avoid the pulling motion on his sensitive flesh. He could not hide the way that his face contorted ever so slightly from the discomfort. 

“Mhm,” Hyunjin hummed. “Let’s take a couple laps around the room to warm up, okay?” he suggested, practically springing out from his seat, light feet bouncing him with ease. 

By now, it was a game of cat and mouse. Hyunjin was the cat trying so desperately to catch Minho, who was trying to escape the other’s claws. Hyunjin already knew what was up, yet of course, he wanted to force Minho to confess. 

Minho huffed as he rose himself from his seat, trying to give Hyunjin nothing to worry about. “You want to run?” he asked, walking away from Hyunjin, “Fine.” he said. Minho took off in a light jog down the side of the practice room. He was cringing with the amount of stress it put on his leg, yet he focused himself on remaining stone-faced. Damn all of these mirrors. 

Behind him, he heard Hyunjin take off in a jog as well, catching up to Minho fairly quickly. 

“I say we should do this every time we practice, don’t you think so, Minho?” Hyunjin teased. It made a pang of anger burst in Minho’s head.

Minho kept running and running, trying to keep up with Hyunjin’s slightly increasing pace, putting one foot in front of the other over and over and over again, until--

“Fuck!” Minho yelped after he landed himself weirdly on his left ankle. He fell to the floor with a thud, and clutched his leg to his chest. The pain of the fall mixed with the embarrassment of Hyunjin’s gaze made him so frustrated that he let out a growl like noise. 

“Holy shit! Are you okay?” Hyunjin asked, crouching so that he could examine Minho. His eyes were as wide as saucers, and full of worry. 

Minho groaned out a “Yeah,” as he moved his trembling fingers to untie his shoelaces. Stretching the material once again, he slipped it off of his foot, wincing at the pull. 

“No you’re not, oh my god,” Hyunjin’s hands were fidgeting. He wasn’t quite sure what he should do to help Minho. He watched as Minho rolled up his pant leg, exposing a ball of swollen and bruised flesh. “Is it sprained?” he asked, reaching his arm out before pulling it back, not wanting to touch what he figured was a very tender and painful limb. 

“What the fuck does it look like?” Minho growled. The hostility in his voice took Hyunjin aback. 

“Well c’mon, we’ll call someone and get it checked out,” 

“No,” Minho ran his fingers through his hair as he felt the frustration bubble in his chest. 

“What do you mean, no?” Hyunjin looked concerned, to say the least. As calm as he tried to seem on the outside, his eyes gave away his panicked state, and he was as pale as a ghost. 

“I mean I don’t need to get it checked out!” Minho said in such an exasperated tone that it made Hyunjin cower like a dog. 

Minho shifted onto his right foot to push himself up off of the ground. It felt degrading to sit like that with his younger brother crouching beside him. 

“Woah, what are you doing?” Hyunjin asked, “And... Why are you so hostile today? I think that you should have someone look at it. What if it gets worse?” he said, as he stood up as well, grabbing onto Minho’s arm to keep his balance. 

Annoyance clouded Minho when Hyunjin put that hand on his arm. In a harsh movement, he yanked away from his brother’s grip. 

“Just fuck off!” Minho yelled. 

Hyunjin was so shocked that he couldn’t think of anything to say back. He saw Minho’s eyes begin to fill with tears of frustration. 

Minho was upset beyond his control. On a normal occasion, he would never say these things to any of the members. But as Hyunjin remained calm, acting mature, Minho felt anger pile up and fog his mind.

Minho grabbed his hair, trying to ground himself. He was trying to keep himself from flying off the handle at Hyunjin. 

“I don’t know what your problem is, but you should figure it out before you talk to me like that,” Hyunjin said, a quiet tone contrasting to the loud outburst that the older boy created. 

Minho snapped his head around. “Will you stop treating me like that?” 

“Like what?”

“Like you’re my hyung!” Minho shouted. 

Realization dawned on Hyunjin. He chuckled dryly to himself. “I get it.” he whispered coldly. His expression was like ice, and his gaze was overwhelming to Minho. “You’re so mad because you’re too immature to take criticism. Not just that,” he said, his voice slightly rising in intensity, “but you can’t handle the fact that you can learn from someone younger than you,” he accused. 

Minho was outraged. He wanted to scream at Hyunjin and rip his hair out, but what was the point? Hyunjin was right. No matter how well he knew that, he couldn’t admit it. He couldn’t let Hyunjin win. 

“You have such a goddamn age superiority complex that you can’t accept help from someone younger than you, isn’t that right?” Hyunjin asked, stepping forwards. 

Minho took a step backwards from the boy, only to cry out in pain again and fall to the ground. This time though, Hyunjin didn’t crouch down. 

“All I’ve been doing these past few days is help you because you’re my friend, and that’s what friends do,” he said. 

Minho felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment as he realized he was sitting while Hyunjin was towering over him. He felt that there was a power imbalance, yet he didn’t deserve to try and even it out. He was childish and petty. Minho felt guilty for everything, which only contributed to the pool of unshed tears in his eyes that refused to be blinked away. 

With a lowered head, Minho whispered “I’m sorry.” 

There was a brief beat of silence before Hyunjin finally sighed in exasperation as he crouched down again. 

“I just...” Minho sniffed and took a breath, finally feeling a hot tear run down his cheek. “I just want... to do well. And I’m jealous.” 

“You can’t be jealous of people like this, it’s not healthy,” Hyunjin said. 

“Yeah I know, but...” Minho dabbed his eyes with the hem of his shirt, not wanting his face to be all red and puffy, “I am the one who was supposed to help you. I was supposed to help you, and Felix, and Jisung, and Jeongin and everyone else, but all I’m doing is being a fucking child.” 

Hyunjin brought his hand out to rub circles into Minho’s back. Minho wanted to push him away, not deserving the comfort of his friend, but he couldn’t help the way he leaned into the touch. 

“I don’t know what’s going on inside your head to make you think that you can’t tell us when you’re injured or having a hard time, but I hope that you can find it in you to believe me when I say that...” Hyunjin paused, only starting again when Minho raised his head and they made eye contact, “you are talented, and you are special. Nobody thinks anything less than that.” 

Minho’s mind was telling him no. it was telling him that Hyunjin was lying, and that he shouldn’t believe what he said. Minho was an awful dancer and didn’t belong in the team. 

Yet, seeing the emotions in Hyunjin’s eyes, Minho felt himself beginning to believe it just a bit. 

“I’m sorry I exploded,” he murmured. 

Hyunjin gave him a gentle side hug. “Although it was shitty, I know you’re just stressed. The Lee Minho I know wouldn’t do this.”

Minho took a second to appreciate the lovely boy beside him. The boy that is more mature than his hyung. 

“I’m an awful friend, aren’t I?” Minho asked. 

Hyunjin chuckled softly. “Just a little bit,” he said, before pulling Minho’s head towards his chest. 

Minho sighed as he lolled himself towards Hyunjin. For once, it was nice to not have to be the hyung. It was kind of nice to not have to show his strong side. 

“I let my pride get the best of me,” Minho whispered. 

“I could tell that,” Hyunjin was rubbing soothing patterns on Minho’s hip, “just don’t let it happen again, okay?” 

Minho nodded against his shirt. 

“Hyunjin?” he asked, “Do you think... that you could take me to get my ankle looked at?” 

Hyunjin pressed his face against Minho’s head. Minho looked up into the mirror in front of them to see himself, red-eyed and puffy faced, curled up against Hyunjin, who had a lovely smile on his face. 

Again, it wasn’t an amused smile, but instead, it was a smile of fondness. A smile that one friend would give to another after they’ve settled a rather childish argument. 

“I was planning on taking you anyways.” 

#stray kids #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids fanfic #stray kids ff #skz #skz fanfiction #skz fanfic #skz ff #angst #smut #fluff #stray kids angst #stray kids fluff #stray kids smut #skz angst #skz fluff #skz smut #skz angst fanfiction #skz fluff fanfiction #skz smut fanfiction #oneshots #skz oneshot #stray kids oneshot #stray kids reactions #skz reactions #stray kids smut oneshots #skz smut oneshots #stray kids hurt/comfort #skz hurt/comfort #bang chan

[windup-dragoon]

Pain

|| FFXIV write - 2020

|| Prompt #15 - Ache

|| Post ShB - Some years later

|| Kirishimi lore !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Eyriwolk and Lynawyb are Kiri’s adoptive parents who have been missing since the fall of Dalamud

|| Word Count: 2,154

|| In which the Stray becomes broken 

>>> Warning!!!! This piece involves mention of slavery, torture, blood, bodily injury and death!!!!!!!! 

Ache. 

Many types of ache exist in the world. 

From the physical ache of old injuries - 

His hands, so gnarled and broken over the years, no longer able to thread the line of a fishing pole. Scar tissue marred his face and pulls at the corner of his lip; his back is more broken skin then muscle any more. The once welcomed breeze off the ocean now stings at his injuries and gives him reason to shiver that evening. 

He was forced to his knees beneath the glow of a single lantern, a motion that had him murmuring with pain. The years had not been kind to the old captain, the scars that disfigured him could attest. But a hissed growl from the Roegadyn woman at his side had silenced him. 

She had promised him freedom. Spoken of his hearts true desire, the only dreams he still clung to so hopelessly in the middle of the night when sleep was outside his grasp. She was not a kind woman, but what else did he have to lose? He was a broken, lonely man, patiently waiting for death to claim him. Oh the sweet embrace it would be; at least he would be reunited with those who had parted before him. 

But this offer? This once in a lifetime chance? He saw no other option than to reach for it with both mangled hands. Just maybe it would be enough to breathe life into him once more; to rekindle a spark that had been snuffed out years ago. Time and time again the little flame in his thundering heart had left him. He has suffered so much loss. 

“Twelve, please...” He whimpered brokenly to any deity that would hear him. “Give me this at least...” 

Just as his captor rose to her feet, a massive ax clutched in her hands, footsteps echoed. 

They were along the coastal region of La Noscea to be sure, some long abandoned port that was previously overrun with carnivorous beasts. What were once pristine white buildings were now dilapidated skeletons. The only light casting long shadows was the swaying lantern, rocking listlessly in the breeze. The ebb and flow of the tide beneath the dock seemed to fade with the approach of the stranger; everyone in his company, including himself, held their breath. 

From the darkness she emerged, stepping cautiously into the pool of color and light. The dock creaked beneath her footfalls. And all at once, Eyriwolk choked on a strangled gasp. 

Snowy white hair glittered beneath the faint lanterns glow; familiar mismatched eyes widening as she looked him over. He would know this girl from a crowd of thousands and it made his broken heart swim for the first time in many moons. 

Caution was thrown to the wind as the ran the short distance between them, the jetty beneath them all swaying in the tide. Although shackled still as he was, he raised his bound arms to catch her as she hurled herself to her knees before him, her own arms immediately thrown around his neck. 

Scars along the length of his neck and scattered across his now thin shoulders kept him from feeling the sting of tears falling, staining his already tattered and dingy shirt. But he felt her sobs in the way her shoulders hitched; he could hear it in her broken hiccuped voice. His own tears welled and crested over his swollen cheeks. 

His daughter. His sweet, beloved daughter. 

She had grown since the last he laid eyes on her. From a little pup with a permanent scowl, to a beautiful young woman. He had never known such pride until now. 

The woman pulled herself from him, taking his too thin shoulders in her hands and looked him over with bleary eyes. 

“Da’...” There was hurt in her voice as she took in what the years without her had done to him. Once a powerful Roegadyn himself, who could eat supper for two without batting an eye and sang sea shanties well into the night with his crew; now little more than skin, bone, and pain. 

“She said I could see ya’ again, lass.” Eyri choked on his own voice, the smile on his lips hurting his cheeks. How long had it been since last he smiled? 

With this, mismatched eyes lifted from his to stare up at the company he shared. 

There had been three others in total. The ax wielding mountain of a woman, Eyri had to double take at the resemblance she shared with his own daughter. A hyuran woman, young and frail who hadn’t spoken a word since they had taken him from his handlers. The way her eyes seemed vacant had unnerved him dearly. And the third, a Garlean man. However, he was more machine and technology than man any longer. Magitek parts kept him together like some old broken toy, a patchwork of metal and weeping flesh. 

The roe woman moved between them, her ax breaking their reunion. 

Kiri reeled back on her heels, not quite knocked back but still unsettled. “Yer letter,” his daughter ground out as she rose to her feet. So tall she had become, no longer the little pup he had found stranded on some island out at sea. “Ya’ wanted ta’ bargain?” 

Her eyes shift between the company. Eyri feels his stomach churn as the conversation begins to fill in the missing pieces he lacked. Why would anyone free a slave to reunite him with lost family? Kindness? Not in this cruel world. 

But he had been desperate to see her. At least one last time. 

It was the Garlean that advanced next, his movements mechanical and jittery. “My my! You’ve grown!” He announced with a voice filled to the brim with joy and happiness. Did he know Kirishimi? Had Eyri’s assumptions of her past been accurate all these years? 

Was Kirishimi Garlean? 

But Kiri crossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other impatiently. “Sorry, mate, but have we met?” Before she receives an answer, she moves on to her next question. “What do you want?” 

“Ah, you waste no time I see. Fair enough.” The Garlean man reaches a hand for Eyriwolk’s head, patting ever so softly at his now silver touched hair. If he had been stronger, younger, Eyri would have taken that hand and cast the man into the ocean in one swift motion. Instead he deigned to grimace. “A trade, my dear Warrior of Light.” 

Eyri’s stomach falls. His blood runs cold as ice. His round eyes stare blankly up at his daughter, her stony features and furrowed brow only causing his heart to thunder like drums in his ears. “No-” 

“You, for your fathers freedom.” 

“No!” Eyri finds his voice at last and calls out with a boom that shakes his core and echoes along the forgotten stonework of the ruined port. His eyes search hers although she does not remove her fixated stare from the Garlean before her. “Kirishimi, you bull headed- Don’t’cha DARE think-” 

It is the sound of metal grinding metal that stops him cold. The blade of an ax drags across his shackles, just shy of taking fingers. A practiced swing or a lucky miss; no matter which, the action had startled both he and Kirishimi. 

There’s a feral look to her mismatched eyes as she glares and snarls at the roe woman. “Bitch-” 

“Not my name,” The woman sighs casually and hefts the ax over her shoulder. “But nice guess.” 

“Ladies! Please!” The mechanical man steps to the other side of them. “Lani, take a seat and cool off for a moment, hm?” 

There’s a groan of protest, but the woman abides and marches out of Eyri’s sight, no doubt alongside the other girl lurking in the shadows at the edge of the dock. 

“Look at your father, dear. The man who raised you. Took you in and cared for you.” The man kneels beside Eyri now, grabbing him forcefully by the chin and tilting his head back. He squints against the light of the lantern but sees the concern glittering in Kiri’s eyes. The tears beginning to shimmer beneath her thick lashes. “He hasn’t much life left to him. Refuse and he will be returned at once to the slaver that neglects him.” 

Eyri tries to plead with Kirishimi but his voice is lost to the Garlean man. 

“Where’s Lynawyb?” She asks at last, tearing herself to look away from him. “The letter said-” 

“Ah. There was a... lack of communication, to put it simply. At the time the missive had been sent, we had the full intention to return both your parents to you.” He says this sorrowfully, as if truly apologizing for the misunderstanding. 

Eyri’s heart echoes with a hollow thump in his chest. His wife... His wife... 

Kiri lurches forward and grabs the collar of the mans shirt, dragging him to his feet despite the weight of his metal parts. Her lips curl back as a snarl fills the night air. “Where is she?!” 

But the man is once more unaffected and merely chuckles. “...Why not ask your father? Eyriwolk, be a sport and tell her?” 

Her grip loosens and the man slips away as her eyes slide back down to Eyriwolk. Her lips tremble even as her jaw slackens. “...What?” 

“Gods, please!” Eyri fights through a sob that makes his throat hoarse. He casts his eyes away, shaking, his whole body shaking. “She shouldn’t have’ta hear it.” The memory will always be fresh in his mind. From the scent of ash and smoke, to the wails and cries echoed on the wind. 

But without telling her, Eyriwolk has already shown her. 

Kiri crouches suddenly with a hand to her temple. 

Lynawyb, his beloved wife... The woman she called mother... 

Eyriwolk’s last memory of her is of a frail woman cradled in his arms. Crimson blossoms across her apron. Blood splutters in her mouth and spills over her lip as she stares up at her husband with hopeful, broken eyes. She had been cut down in an attempt to free themselves, and others, from their hell. Countless others lay motionless around them while the house of their captor burned. 

“Don’t’cha cry....” Lyna had whispered. “I’ll go see... Fraethota first... I’m sure she’s waitin’...” Trembling as she was, the dying woman clutches her husbands hand. “...A-And if you see her.... Tell our little pup.... Her ma’ loves her....” 

To the ache of the heart- 

Hours had come and gone. She tried to drown out the pain as her lip was split from a punch; desperate to busy her mind with thoughts of Hien and the others as she heard her arm snap and Lani curse her to the Hells and back. 

Hien... 

His coronation was only days away. He had been a child at a carnival with excitement for it as he and his company delighted in the details of the festivities they would have. He would be King or Emperor or something along those lines, Kiri couldn’t focus long enough to remember which it was... But she knew he would be perfect for the job. He would do his father and mother proud while ruling Doma. But... he would have to do it alone. 

Eyriwolk...

Kiri tried to forget the events that transpired only hours ago before she had been thrown like cargo onto an airship. The trade agreement had been complete, she should have been elated. Her father was a free man once more. It would be a shell of a life, broken as he was... But what better gift was there than freedom? 

The chains at her wrist rattle and slither across the floorboards as she lays herself down. Lani had exhausted herself for the evening, talk of resuming her punishment in the morning was the last Kiri had heard before she slammed the door to her cell and locked it. 

Lynawyb... 

A sob, painful as it was to even breathe, ripped through Kiri as she lay curled in on herself, knees to her stomach and shackled hands buried against her drumming heart. The echo had granted her one last chance to see Lynawyb alive. All she had ever wanted for all these lonesome years was to know her family was still breathing and living... but what sort of life had that been? How long had Lynawyb been waiting for rescue? How many nights had she stared up helplessly at an expanse of star dusted sky and wished on every falling star for her freedom? Just how many nights... did Lynawyb dream of the day the Warrior of Light... her own daughter... save her from her misery? 

Coward... 

She had been a coward for not searching for them all these years. Fear of what she might find had kept her from investing herself to the task... And now? 

She paid the price... 

#ffxivwrite2020 #ffxivwrites2020 #CAUTION WHILE READING #Kirishimi #ffxiv #I have plans to turn this into a story but idk ??????? #at least her dad is alive right :')))

[rather-impertinent]

A Wish Fulfilled

A/N: I’m sorry if this is full of errors, I am far too exhausted to keep my eyes open for another second longer 😅 I also have a (very long, very angsty, very lovely) fic which is almost complete and that I will be adding to The Enys Chronicles tomorrow, stayed tuned! 💗 For now, I hope you enjoy this wee drabble, friends! xo

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The November rain pattered off the window of Dwight Enys’ study, whispering its wintery secrets. The frosty afternoon and incessant rainfall, however, was no match for the loving warmth of the room itself.

“Dear little Isabella is very sweet, is she not?” Caroline rhetorically asked her husband, carefully studying his concentrated features as he examined his appointment diary at his desk.

The Enyses had returned from a visit to Nampara barely an hour ago. Caroline and Demelza had hoped to have a civilised cream tea with their husbands and catch up on each other’s news as they had barely seen each other all month with Ross’ tasks taking him all over Britain - and Dwight and Caroline themselves had been in London for over a fortnight. The ladies’ plan was foiled the moment the Enyses walked into the house, as Clowance and Jeremy immediately dragged their uncle Dwight into the game they were playing with their father and youngest sibling. Ross had devised a new game of hide-and-seek, one which involved a chase, whomever managed to find and hold baby Bella before the seeker caught them was the winner. And so the ladies had sipped their tea alone at the table, raised voices exchanging pleasantries, their teacups hiding their smiles as they fought to maintain their put-out pretences.

Dr Enys’ features softened as he thought of the newest member of the Poldark family, whom he had assisted into this world two months ago. “She is lovely,” agreed Dwight, his tone soft; there was something about babies that was so inexplicably comforting to him - perhaps it was their enchanting innocence. And with large blue eyes like her mother and wisps of dark brown curls like her father, Isabella-Rose was most definitely enchanting.

“Just think, Dr Enys, the next child you deliver could be your own,” Caroline hinted, smothering a smile from the armchair Dwight had installed for her in his study.

The doctor let out a soft chuckle as he continued to write in his diary. “God willing, my love,” he murmured, glancing at her before taking a piece of parchment and beginning a letter of correspondence to Dr Pinel, with whom Dwight had worked closely during and after his time in France these past few months.

Caroline hummed, now grinning mischievously from behind her book. She discarded the novel, schooled her grin and stood up, moving to casually rest against Dwight’s mahogany desk, her hands clasped against the edge of the table as she stood next to him. Caroline pointedly stared at the doctor, a small smile on her face as she placed her hand on his shoulder. Dwight’s eyes met her own and he returned her tender smile, his hand momentarily resting on top of his wife’s.

Caroline huffed quietly as he resumed writing; how could one so intelligent be so stupid when it came to picking up hints? “Well, pray check your diary and see that you be free for such an occasion around May.”

“May?” Dwight repeated absently with a small chuckle, his quill still scratching the parchment as he noted down possible treatments of psychosis. “But it is already November-“ A dawning realisation stole the end of his sentence and ruined his neat script as his hand slackened in surprise.

Satisfied that the news had sunk in, Caroline smiled smugly: smug that she had managed to hide her condition from him and surprise him. But most of all, Caroline was smug that she - that they both - had not allowed life’s greatest hardship to snatch away any future happiness.

Dwight rose from his seat and stood opposite his wife, simply running his eyes over her, his gaze clinical and disbelieving, hopeful and uncertain.

Caroline pulled anxiously on her fingers; it was not often cool, calm and collected Dr Enys was rendered speechless. “My love?” she asked, her eyes searching his. “Are you alright?”

“Alright?” Dwight softly repeated. He laughed and shook his head; never had there been such an understatement. “My darling, I am so ecstatic I am quite afraid to move for fear this is all a dream.” Even in the muted winter light, Caroline could see that his eyes were filled with tears.

Caroline then felt her own eyes prick with tears, a surge of relief and happiness filling her being. “Fear not,” she murmured, carefully taking her entranced husband’s hand and pressing it carefully against her abdomen; a small, but readily detectable, curve was present.

A beaming smile stretched across Dwight’s face; it was truly no dream, it was a wish no longer.

Caroline closed her eyes in anticipation of a kiss but instead felt her body jolt forwards and upwards as Dwight lifted her from her waist and spun her around like a madman. “Dwight!” she gasped, shrieking and laughing as the room spun around her, her feet brushing the curtains, bookshelves flying past her gaze.

Grinning like a fool, Dwight put her down and stumbled, dizzy from the action but more so from Caroline’s news. Just as he was about to lean in and kiss her, the doctor within him bubbled to the surface and drowned out the expectant father. It had taken them a long while to come to expect, and it was certainly not for want of trying. “You must have at least one strengthening tonics a day,” Dr Enys ordered, his mind whirring as he thought of the ingredients he would need, “It will be good for both you and the child.” The child! A child! Their child!

Caroline rolled her eyes gently; they both knew she would be drinking no tonics unless Dwight poured them into her slackened mouth while she slept. “Dwight.”

Dr Enys held up a finger. “My love, I’m afraid I must insist.” He leaned over the ruined piece of parchment on his desk and dipped a quill in ink. “Have you any sickness? I can prescribe something depending on its severity. Are you feeling alright now?” He glanced at her; she didn’t look pale. She looked beautiful and happy and radiant.

“Dwight.”

“Of course some exercise every day is important,” Dwight continued. “Not too much, though,” he warned, now very much babbling. “A walk around the gardens shall do fine. We can walk together after some supper,” he offered as he continued scribbling things on a piece of parchment, his brain going a mile a minute. “Hmm,” Dwight then said, turning and narrowing his eyes at the bleak day. “But only if the rain stops, lest you catch a chill.” He felt a gentle hand on his back.

“Dwight.” Caroline was smiling now.

“May, you say, my love?” Dwight double-checked, unable to prevent another smile forming on his handsome features. “Well, if you wish to return to London then we must go soon because you will not be in suitable condition for such a long journey come March or February,” he told her, continuing to scribble on a piece of parchment, his hand trembling with excitement. “Oh, and-”

“Dwight!” yelled Caroline, flicking his bicep and grinning with impatience.

Dwight’s head snapped around to look at her, his blue eyes were round in surprise. “What?”

“Dr Enys, I wonder, could you be persuaded to stop worrying for long enough to give your wife a well-earned kiss?” Caroline asked, her tone teasing and flirtatious.

With a slightly guilty smile, Dr Enys dropped his utensil and straightened his spine before quickly closing the distance between them. He smiled softly as he brushed his hand against the barely detectable swell of her abdomen. “I think that can be arranged,” he purred as he placed his hands on either side of her face and kissing her deeply.

Caroline’s arms went about his neck as she deepened the kiss, not a single beam of light passing between them as they embraced.

Dwight paused thoughtfully as he broke their kiss; he wondered if anyone else knew. Did Demelza know, or suspect? Did Ross know? Well, they would know within the hour, he would ride there and share the news himself, it simply could not wait. He must also write to the Blameys, Sam and Rosina, Kitty and little James, his only living aunt, George, Caroline’s aunt...

Caroline’s mouth swished from side to side to contain her smile and imprison a laugh at her husband’s predictability. “Good Lord, Dr Enys, I can practically hear the quill on the paper already. At the risk of not being clear, you may not write to every single acquaintance that pops into your head to inform them of our news. We shall tell the Poldarks and the Carnes at dinner on Sunday over some of Demelza’s delicious pie and any other bodies who happen to hear of our news may do so then, but only once our dearest friends are aware,” she warned without heat, wagging her index finger at him.

Dwight barked out a laugh, which echoed throughout the study and floated down the long corridor. “Must you always read my mind?” he wondered, smiling, as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear.

Placing both her hands on his shoulders, Caroline pressed a kiss to his mouth. “I suppose it is the consequence of our abiding love for each other, or something to that effect,” she teased, though her eyes were soft and shining.

Dwight smiled softly and kissed her again. And again. “Or something to that effect,” he murmured against her lips.

#poldark #poldark fanfic #carolight

[whindsor]

farmer steve life!!! for @isaaclahys!!! (also sorry it’s so long and so introductory i don’t know how to half ass things)

It was his damn impulsivity, really. Who knew the thing that used to get him in the most trouble would make everything finally go right?

“What’s next, Cap?” That’s what Sam had asked when he’d finished returning all the stones. He’d taken one look at Bucky, thinking of all the conversations they’d had about after the war and retiring, and promptly held his shield out to his friend.

“Dunno. You’re the Captain now.” It was a lame joke from a movie neither one of them liked, but it got his point across. He was done. Done with all the time traveling, and aliens, and shouldering the responsibilities of the world. Now all he wanted was some goddamn peace and quiet. Sam had fought him on it, of course. I’m not good enough for this and this is yours and did you mean to hand this to Buck-eye? But Steve was adamant, and Bucky agreed. The world needed Captain America, and Captain America needed someone to do the things that he couldn’t. And Steve needed his own space. 

That’s how he ended up buying three acres in the middle of Vermont with a house that could barely be described as a fixer-upper and three boxes of books on gardening and livestock. He’d been a city kid his whole life, but he was smart, and strong, and determined. That was what it took to be a farmer, right?

It had been a long time since Steve felt completely incompetent at something, but home renovation quickly reminded him that his moxie was not enough to solve some problems. So he’d taken another trip to the bookstore (“Why not just use Amazon?” “I don’t trust Alexa”) and gotten everything from Carpentry for Dummies to The Magnolia Story, which actually had nothing to do with construction but did make him feel a little more inspired. Once prepared with his newfound knowledge, he took a carpentry pencil to the wood panel of the kitchen and wrote out his list. Every morning he woke up with the sun and got to work, slowly making his way through each project until the sun started setting. Then he drove the old pickup he’d purchased to replace his motorcycle into town to get supper at the local diner, treat himself to a slice of pie and some coffee (even adding a little bit of sugar, he still couldn’t believe how readily available it was) before going back home to crash. 

Once he’d painted over the list as a way to cross off his final project, the house was solid and perfect and empty. Not of things, no. He’d splurged and bought comfortable furniture and a few essentials (and nonessentials), but now that he didn’t have the sound of his hammer pounding or saw spinning, the house seemed quiet. Very quiet. Too quiet. 

A dog. He should get a dog! That was next on the list, he decided. The next morning, he woke with the sun, cooked himself breakfast for the first time in months, and drove the old truck an hour away to the next town over. The shelter was relatively empty, most of its occupants being feral cats with a few stray dogs. He walked the aisles, hands in his pockets as he looked at the few choices. He was just losing hope until he turned onto the last row, spotting a large black Labrador mix stretched out on his bed. He lifted his head, looking him dead in the eye and wagging his tail exactly one time, as if he didn’t want to get his hopes up that Steve was coming to see him. He knelt in front of the cage, the dog eyeing him suspiciously before slowly getting up and inching his way towards the door. Steve slowly held a hand up, and the dog stretched his neck to sniff it, his tail starting to move just a little bit. His tongue barely darted out, licking his fingers.

“Hey, bud,” Steve murmured. The dog’s tail started moving more. “Whattya say we get you outta here, hm?” 

As if he understood him, he started wagging his tail furiously, his claws clicking on the concrete floor as he pranced. The woman with the keys opened the gate, and the dog hesitated for a minute before moving out of the pen and into Steve’s waiting embrace, shaking with excitement as he tried to touch as much of his body to him. A quick leash, a few signatures, and a hastily written check, and Steve and Roosevelt were on their way back home.

With the house done and man’s best friend by his side, now he could finally tackle the garden. Fall was just beginning, and he consulted a few charts and books to prepare himself. He thought Roosevelt might help him with the digging, but the dog was perfectly content to lay on the porch and watch him do all the work. Turns out tilling the earth was really hard, and plowing straight lines even harder. Farming was challenging, and exhausting, and tedious. And he was loving every minute of it. For once, if he screwed up, that just meant he had to go to town for the market, no harm no foul. It was liberating. 

Every morning, Roosevelt woke him up just as the sky started to lighten. They went for a jog, past the few houses that sat quietly over the couple of miles close to his own. The sun was usually cresting the horizon when they got back, but instead of going into the shower, he just changed into jeans and dirty work boots and went out to his rows, checking the water in the soil and adding more where it was needed. He went down each lane, step by step, pulling up the weeds that threatened to choke his little seeds that were trying so hard to grow. 

Then, one day, instead of dirt and weeds, there were tiny green sprouts standing proudly in the ground. He whooped loudly, holding his hands proudly in the air, thinking that this was possibly the best he’d felt in years. Roosevelt looked vaguely unimpressed, but he didn’t care. He had built a house. He had tilled the earth. He was growing things. Whether or not they actually bore anything edible remained to be seen, but right now all that mattered was those little green leaves, waving in the breeze. 

Every day, he got to go outside, feel the sun on his face and the cool breeze as it brought the tellings of fall, and take care of his little plants. Every day they got a little taller, and a little fuller, until they came up to his waist and started bearing the tiniest fruits and vegetables. Every day he helped something grow, instead of trying his damndest to tear it down. A few plants turned into a lot of plants, and soon he expanded to chickens, four little birds nestled in a coop that he built himself. It would take a few months before they could lay eggs, but it would be worth it, he knew. 

One morning, he woke up to Roosevelt growling, his ears perked up and the hackles on his back raised. At first, he thought it was just from the rain storm outside, but then he heard a scratching at the backdoor, and a high pitched whining. He pulled off the covers, hushing the dog and going to the back door. He carefully pried open the big door, the cool, wet air blowing in through the screen door. And there, curled up on his back porch, shivering and soaked, was a big golden retriever with a pink collar. She looked up at him as the door opened, begging to come inside. He obliged, opening the screen and letting her come inside. Roosevelt greeted her as an old friend, jumping around like a puppy again even though the golden was more subdued. 

“Hey, sweet girl. Where’d you come from, hm?” he asked, holding a hand up. She came up to him, her tail between her legs, startling as he reached for the collar. He finally got a hold of it, the pink collar sliding off as she pulled away from him. But at least he could read the tags now, and grab his phone to call the number on the back. “Alright, Daisy, let’s call mom or dad, huh?” he said, tossing a towel in her direction and not worrying about the water drops going everywhere on the tile floor. He dialed the number, pacing slowly as it rang. 

“Hello?” the feminine voice on the other end sounded worried, and he could hear the rain and the rumble of thunder behind her.

“Hi, my name is Steve. Uh, I think I found your Daisy.” he said. 

“Oh my God! Thank you, thank you so much! I promise I’m a good dog owner, but she needed out and the storm blew my fence down and-and-she’s so scared of thunderstorms she just bolted when the first thunder sounded and-” she rambled, clearly relieved but still shaky.

“It’s okay, it happens.” he said with a laugh. He told her his address, and she thanked him about a hundred more times before hanging up. Steve smiled down at his phone, eyed the two dogs laying in front of the fireplace, and went to go make some coffee. Just as he was mixing a little bit of sugar into it, a bright flash of lightning illuminated the kitchen, followed by a loud clap of thunder that shook the walls. He heard Daisy as she yelped and whined, but he also heard the panicked clucking of his chickens. Roosevelt could take care of the dog, he would have to take care of the fowl. 

Steve put on a baseball cap, ducking his head against the rain and going to pull the chicken coop onto the porch. But the birds were so panicked that they were shaking their house, shifting it uncontrollably until the door popped open. He shut it as fast as he could, but one managed to escape, dumbly taking off back into the rain. He swore loudly, shoving the coop under the awning and running after it, his boots sliding in the mud as he rounded the corner towards the front of the house. Who knew chickens were so goddamn fast?! None of the books he read mentioned that!

Luckily, he didn’t have to outrun the chicken, as when he arrived at the front of the house, he found a pretty woman on the porch, soaked to her bones and holding his runaway fowl. He slowed to a walk, giving her a crooked grin.

“You found my chicken.” he said, gesturing at the terrified thing in her hands.

“You found my dog.” she countered with a relieved smile. He held out his hands for the bird, tucking it under his arm and extending his hand.

“Steve.” he said as she shook it.

“Savannah.” she replied. “Thank you, for finding Daisy.”

“Right, yes. Come on, let’s go inside.” he said, nodding towards the front door.

“Oh, I couldn’t - you already saved my dog, I couldn’t impose on you anymore.” she said, looking bashful. Steve shrugged.

“Might as well wait out the storm. Besides, I just made coffee.” he said. He pushed open the door before waiting for her response, holding it open for her until she followed him inside.

“I’ll get your floors wet.” she said apologetically. Again, he shrugged.

“No moreso than I will.” he replied. At the sound of their voices, the dogs came running from their place in front of the fire, Daisy practically launching herself into her mother’s arms. Savannah bent down, telling the dog how scared she was, how she needs to not run away from the house during storms, and how she’s lucky she found friends to help her. Roosevelt, jealous of all the attention, wiggled his way into her embrace. She greeted him happily, thanking him for taking care of her girl and complimenting how chivalrous he was. Steve couldn’t help but smile, going to the kitchen and pouring another cup of coffee. He paused before returning to the entryway, grabbing a zip up jacket. He handed both to her.

“Oh, are you sure?” she said, trying to hide her shivers. He waved her off.

“I own a washing machine, don’t worry about it.” he replied with a laugh. She nodded, slipping it on and unable to hide her relief at the warmth. She held the cup of coffee like a last source of life, her fingers covered by the sleeves of his jacket. He nodded towards the dining room table, situated with the massive windows around it.

“Wanna watch the storm?” he asked. He felt a little awkward, having someone in his house that wasn’t Sam or Bucky. But it felt nice too, making a new friend. Savannah nodded, settling into a chair and gazing out the window. Daisy came and curled up on her feet, finally settled now that Mom was back. Roosevelt, who usually stretched out on the couch, decided to come with his buddies, laying down between Steve and the other two. 

They sat and watched as the rain came down, turning everything to shades of grey. His plants were probably very happy, he realized. Perhaps this would be the extra push for them to really bloom. Conversation was light and casual, nothing serious as the storm went on. He hadn’t actually met one of his neighbors, which was apparently quite unusual in such a small town. He laughed at that, figuring he was on his way to being some urban legend. 

When the rain finally slowed and stopped, he bid goodbye to his neighbor, watching as they made their way across his back pasture towards their own home. Roosevelt looked a little sad that his new friend was leaving, and Steve patted his head encouragingly.

“Don’t worry, bud. It’s a small town. I’m sure we’ll run into them again eventually.” he said, unsure if he was really talking to the dog or to himself. With a sigh, he looked out at the green of the garden, and of the haphazardly moved chicken coop. With a smile, he went outside to go do everything on the chore list that was needed.

After all, farm life didn’t stop just because of a little rain.

#this was not proofread #and is way too long #and i flew by the seat of my pants #but i hope it was okay! #and that you like it!

[sweetprincing-blog]

        ❝         can the world buy such a jewel         ?         ❞

( joshua castille, cis male, he/him ) ❝ hey that's CLAUDIO FLORIAN from auradon, they’re the THIRD child of BELLE & ADAM FLORIAN. they're TWENTY FOUR years old and always seem to remind me of FRESH SHEETS, STRAY GLITTER ON THE SKIN, BALLET SCORES, HONEYSUCKLES, AND A FULL BOOKSHELF. you’ll notice that they're CHILDISH but also pretty SUPPORTIVE too. with all that’s going on, i heard they DON'T think the villain kids are responsible.

hello !! i’m holly, 21, from australia. more importantly, this is my soft garbage boy, claudio !! come love us, pls n ty

tw: depression, anxiety

NAME / claudio pierre florian NICKNAMES / claude D.O.B. / june 23 STAR SIGN / cancer ORIENTATION / homosexual, homoromantic HABITS / wringing hands, blushing, downcast eyes, standing on toes POSITIVE TRAITS / supportive, intelligent, forgiving, romantic, proactive NEGATIVE TRAITS / childish, blunt, whiny, foolish, reclusive BUILD / thin; about five foot two. SCARS & BIRTHMARKS / a smattering of faded freckles across shoulders

cowardly     ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○      brave energetic    ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○     lethargic forgiving    ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○      vengeful charitable    ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○     selfish authentic     ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○      deceitful chaste     ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○      lustful humble   ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○     boastful naive     ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○      experienced cautious     ○ ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○       daring restrained     ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○      bold trusting     ��� ○ ○ ● ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○      suspicious

1 / he is born number three of four children and the world around him is exceptionally quiet. it’s not as if he notices, however. what he does notice is getting in trouble far more than his siblings, finding himself yelled at more than them, sent to bed without supper more than them, but he can’t work out why. in fact, he only starts to notice something is wrong when he’s taken to a doctor at four years old. there’s too many tests and his little ears hurt afterwards but they realise he’s deaf. he’s not a rude little boy at all -- he just can’t hear them.

2 / as a little prince growing up, claudio lives a relatively peaceful life. he’s a big lover of stories, just like his mother, which leads him to books. loving to tell stories leads him to a life of dance. he’s an excellent little ballet dancer, actually, which takes his whole family by surprise. terribly ungraceful in his real life, claudio is effortless whilst dancing, even when he’s little. it’s a gift that transfers into other areas -- movement is a skill that allows him to speak. he picks up signing and invests his time in the deaf community.

3 / he has a special teacher to tutor him on deaf culture on top of his regular education, he dances six times a week, he fences, he reads, he tells stories to children at deaf schools. despite the pressure on him from his parents and the kingdom and himself, he is doing his part as a good and noble prince. he is doing good and it feels good. unfortunately for claudio, sweet as he is, he is incredibly naive and easily wrapped up -- he loves to tell romance stories, love stories, sickly sweet disgusting stories, and so when a slightly older man comes into the picture, claudio cannot help but get swept up in the rush of it all.

4 / when it ends, as inevitably it does, he completely breaks claude’s heart. his entire world falls apart, really, and it takes him a long time to put himself back together. he loses all interest in dance and books and speaking ( relying purely on sign, with no interest in speaking english at all ), and instead spends all his time curled up in his room suffering. he’s a big romantic and so a broken heart really hurts him. as time passes, he slowly emerges out of his room and back into the world, still naive but much more wary about love this time.

5 / now twenty four, claude is trying his best to keep his life together and to stop himself from falling apart. his mental health is trying to get the better of him, but here he is, studying law, getting back into dance, returning to telling stories to deaf schools and pushing for more accessibility. princely things. good things. and god, god -- he wants to be good. he needs to be good, because being passable isn’t enough. being okay isn’t enough. he is the son of belle and adam and he is a prince and he has to be good. he just hopes the pressure isn’t becoming too much.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

EX BOYFRIEND, 26-29. ANY MALE OR MALE-ALIGNED NB FC. this guy was claudio’s whole world. may or may not be able to sign. where claude was completely and utterly in love, this guy was in it for the clout, wealth, and material gifts. he completely and utterly broke claude’s heart. they dated for four years ( claude was 18-22 ) and it ended two years ago. 

( suggested fcs: rahul kohli, sean teale*, austin p. mckenzie, andy mientus*, kiowa gordon, bob morley, henry golding* )

CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND, 23-27. ANY FC. this person has been claude’s rock for their entire lives, as he’s been theirs. the two of them are seldom seen apart, even now, and are able to communicate by just looking at each other. it’s that kind of friendship. basically claude’s sibling outside of his siblings. likely a child of royalty. 

( fionn whitehead*, geraldine viswanathan*, jordan fisher, lana condor, luke newberry, reina hardesty*, daniel durant, lauren ridloff*, shamir bailey*, ali stroker )

CURRENT LOVE INTEREST, 25-29. ANY MALE OR MALE-ALIGNED NB FC. this guy wasn’t in claude’s life during his last relationship, and so is mostly unaware of what has gone on, aside from gossip they might have heard. i would,,, love him to be the bad boy type to contrast claude’s preppiness. it would be cool if they were a villain’s child! 

( suggested fcs: charles melton*, tommy martinez, rome flynn, dacre montgomery, avan jogia, diego tinoco*, alex aiono* )

BAD INFLUENCE, 26-28. ANY FEMALE OR FEMALE-ALIGNED NB. a bad influence friend. claude’s way too uptight for his own good and needs a little loosening -- also, considering his quietly growing interest in feminine clothes and things, he needs someone to help him explore his femininity as well as break the rules. could be villain or hero child. 

( suggested fcs: elizabeth gillies, jessica vu, kelly gale*, lyrica okano, emma mackey, hayley kiyoko, emeraude toubia, maddison brown* )

EX FRIENDS, 22-27. ANY FC. people who claude was friends with before and during his relationship that his ex drew him away from. they didn’t know much about the ex boyfriend, but they knew he was bad news. claude desperately wants to reconnect with them. likely to be children of royalty. can be any number of muses! 

( suggested fcs: naomi scott, chella man*, anthony ramos, nico tortorella, iman meskini*, maddie baillio*, maxence danet-fauvel, maia cotton, marlon langeland*, shannon purser, herman tommeraas, ingrid nilson*, cengiz al*, courtney eaton*  )

BRAND NEW FRIENDS, 22-29. ANY FCS. literally just give this boy some friends. we can discuss how and where and why they met and what their dynamics are, he just needs some pals, honestly. could be villain or hero child.

#wckdintro #hello !!!!! #like this and i'll come bother you #depression tw #anxiety tw

[bigumlorentzen7-blog]

7 Ways To Establish Clear Boundaries With People In Your Life.

The intoxicated German male had been drinking with his 53-year-old friend in the city of Wetzlar, in central-western Germany, when the surprising case supposedly took place. Loving, caring as well as great at developing comfy supper parties, the Cancer buddy is loyal, yet sometimes expects reliance from close friends in return. Throughout our first full day together my mommy and also I chatted periodically; I assume neither people quite recognized what to do. She asked me a few questions regarding my women, and I addressed with my face coming to be warm. Initially, as suggested by Reis and Shaver (1988), interpersonal goals need to predict responsiveness processes in close connections. Tummy troubles prevail in people with anxiety or anxiousness, particularly in kids as well as adolescents. Study published this month by the Ohio State University revealed that employees who fought back versus their boss experienced much less emotional distress compared to those who did not and much more dedication to their employer. If a job or job is not going well, it is necessary that the brand-new supervisor allows their boss know there's an issue and also has a plan for ways to resolve it. Things do not always go to strategy, but having methods in position to handle it reveals that somebody is reliable and dependable. Regardless of a rich property, Just Friends inevitably fails to measure up to its early capacity, working out right into wide funny that rips off the romantic possibilities. Quiting Full Article and also interests for your partner will certainly have an adverse impact on your overall wellness, and also ultimately harm your partnership. A regulation applied similar to this will certainly not immediately develop that kind of environment, so the policy isn't really mosting likely to assist and also could rather develop more troubles compared to it addresses. Their relationship is initially based only on sex, however their connection is so effective, that they are bewildered with the should be with each other. He deliberately omitted Peter Lawford from the film, livid that his buddy had actually agreed the Kennedy clan. She reminded the viewers a minimum of when every phase that he's her boss and also they should not be together ... alright, obtained it the very first time. Following day, to every person's awe, John walked in front of the class as well as excused his incorrect doings and also assured them that he would certainly prove to be an excellent close friend. Although serious Curriculum Vitae occasions can happen without alerting signs and symptoms, patients must look out for the signs and symptoms of chest discomfort, lack of breath, weakness, slurring of speech, and also need to ask or clinical recommendations when observing any kind of a measure indicator or signs. Being pals with him will make you near to him even after the break up as well as he will certainly be totally free to share certain points that are taking place in his life with you. Robin Bielman is among my auto-buy authors, and also I'm a significant fan of her Kisses in the Sand series, however because of an individual prejudice, I wasn't prepared to enjoy The very best Good friend Bargain a lot more than the very first 2 books in this series. The doctor-patient relationship deserves our significant attention as well as defense during these unsafe times. Scott worked hard then came home exhausted as well as One sentence testimonial of Friend Me: This book is cooling and also remarkable. If you duplicate the same individuals every 3 months, you'll remain close with 12 old pals throughout the year. To help set you on the appropriate path, here is a run-down of the top things to stay clear of doing as a boss. To deal with a hard manager, Gabarro advises first understanding that your boss is - the context where he or she lives, as well as the pressures he or she routinely deals with - and then performing a self-assessment to identify your personal staminas and also weak points. Like a Manager by Logan Opportunity is one that drew me in from the beginning and held me there up until the end! Later on, he informed them his close friend was attempting to knock the gallon could off his head as component of an initiation right into a rafting as well as exterior team called Hill Guys Anonymous. Medical professional: You can see that there are some genuine issues right here, however you're not happy to think of giving up completely. Deforrest Youthful, also, had noticed the adjustment in his little good friend. had observed her severe nervousness and also uncommon shyness when she recited her lessons. Little did Reese recognizes that destiny will certainly put him in her course soon enough where he at some point winds up becoming her Manager. On a rainy day Boss comes to Meesha rescues and it is love prima facie for her. Martin is the very successful author of the dream collection A Track of Ice and also Fire The initial book in the collection, A Video game of Thrones, has actually additionally been become a blockbuster television collection on HBO. Losing her cost savings was a dreadful strike, yet much worse was her loss of count on the individual she saw as her friend. It's not easy to face poisonous people with their actions, and also it could be even tougher to finish the relationship. This review of Love A Boss by Logan Opportunity is for The Sweet Spot Sisterhood Blog site. The participants can say which task they preferred, yet their boss made the final decision. And also who had no children of her own when they left I did not look out the home window to see them stroll away with my friend who had actually brought them. My buddies in some cases relocated away or switched over colleges, so I would certainly need to make new close friends as well as try to keep a far away relationship going (which was hard at such a young age). I selected this publication because I think it is necessary for kids to see how to be a good friend, and also how to treat their close friends. One of the old Philosophers, Plato, I think, claimed that 2 buddies resemble 2 bodies with just one Heart between them. Furthermore, a manager should show the behavior they expect of employees, and if you desire staff members to confess to mistakes after that you need to do the same. The link, the connection between the hero as well as heroine, despite the setting, the number or type of sex scenes, the time duration or sub-genre. It deserves mentioning Buddy Me is a Christian thriller, suggesting a great deal of the story's main problems-- mainly Scott's battle to withstand lure and also remain devoted to Rachel-- recommendation straying far from the course of God, as well as consist of lots of prayer also. I believed it would certainly be sensible to update some of my old titles and also as Motion-picture studio Boss was always a favorite I assumed I 'd begin with that one. As I put down to create this review, I know there are no words to fully convey how excellent The Best Close friend Deal is. Since she has this capacity to write personalities that worm their way into your heart, Robin Bielman is one of my favorite writers. You have to accept it and get over it as well as proceed, or else your relationship will crumble.

[freefallingforfanfiction]

Super Strange Things

Chapter Four: Is This Real Life or Is This Just Fantasy

Pairing: Johnathan Byers x Reader

Overall Summary: Y/N Winchester, middle child of John and Mary Winchester, arrives in Hawking’s with her family to investigate a series of disappearances and hearsay of a strange, faceless monster, along with a girl who can supposedly move things with her mind.

This Chapter: An awkward car ride home turn out better than Y/N expected. 

Warning: Warped time line.

Tagging: @loquaciousmelanin @laurel-celestial @shortykatezey @bands-and-shietz @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou @myshakespeareandarling @precious-cinnamon-roll666 @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @castelo-amado

Authors Note: I think I got everyone that asked to be tagged but if I missed you please send me a message and I’ll be happy to start tagging you! :)

Series Masterlist

The car ride back to the Byers residence was deafeningly quiet; Jonathan hadn’t turned on the radio, and you had not attempted to speak to him after the car doors closed and encased the two of you in a sad, awkward silence.

Instead, you had opted for slipping off your black boots and tucking your legs under your thighs, careful to not expose anything under your skirt. You propped your elbow on the doors arm rest and relaxed your chin the palm of your hand, watching the scenery pass you by.

In the seat next to you, Jonathan sat. His face wasn’t angry, nor was it stoic, instead a state of melancholy had overtaken his features, and you sighed quietly to yourself.

You felt horrible about what happened. The look on Jonathan’s face when his camera crashed to the ground… It was heartbreaking to say the least, especially knowing that you were the one that caused said heartbreak. You hadn’t meant for things to escalate like that, it was the exact opposite of what you had hoped for, actually. But your temper had gotten the best of you.

I’m so fucking stupid, you thought to yourself as you rested your head against the cool glass of the car window, shutting your burning eyes. You bit your trembling lip and steeled your face. You were a Winchester. Winchester’s did not cry.

“Thank you, Y/N.” Jonathan muttered from the driver’s seat, his voice hoarse.

Jonathan’s voice did not hint sarcasm, but you were sure it had to be in there somewhere. Perhaps he was just too upset, too emotionally drained to fully put the tone into his voice. Because what did he have to thank you for? A broken camera, maybe? Possibly for a new set of bullies? Oh, or maybe even a new and improved reputation as the school pervert?

You laughed dryly, lifting your head up off the glass to look at your more than likely soon to be ex-best-friend, “For what? For coming into your life for less than 48 hours and completely screwing everything up?”

Jonathan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white. He swallowed heavily and bit down on his jaw before he lightly shook his head, causing his brown locks to sway gently back and forth.

“No,” Jonathan’s voice was still horse, thick with some emotion you could not place, “Thank you for standing up for me. No one’s ever done that before, besides my mom.”

Suddenly, the overwhelming acrimonious emotions were washed from your person as you blinked up at the boy in the driver’s side seat. He hadn’t taken his eyes from the road, but the melancholy that had been prominent on his facial features only minutes before was replaced with, what you only assumed to be, gratitude.

Slowly, he turned his deep brown gaze on you, and you suddenly felt shy under its intensity. You blinked up at him with doe like eyes, almost in a trace as you ran a hand through your messy H/C locks and nibbled on the corner of your lip. “Any time,” you whispered, watching as a ghost of a smile appeared on Jonathan’s face.

He reached over and softly patted your knee, “Don’t worry about the camera, it wasn’t your fault. He was going to break it no matter what either of us did or said. That’s just who he is.”

You shook your head, sending a flurry of H/C about your face, “No, I shouldn’t have been so snappy with Steve, I was just so mad,” you explained, running your hands through your [curly, wavy, straight] hair once more, “You doesn’t deserve to be treated that way, you didn’t do anything wrong, it was my fault but they were just so fixated on you,” you leaned back into the worn seats on Jonathan’s car, letting your head hit the back of it. “It got to me, but I was wrong to act the way I did.”

Jonathan shifted his gaze from the road to you once more, and again, the shy feeling returned. You met his gaze uneasily, picking at the sleeve of your [favorite color] flannel that had made its way from around your waist to around your arms in fourth period. Jonathan moved his right hand from the steering wheel again, this time to lay it on your shoulder. His stare was gentle, yet firm as he looked directly into your eyes, “Y/N, please. Don’t blame yourself, it’s like Dean said, were all at fault, we were all stupid.”

You tried to smile at the sweet boy before you, but your heart had stalled in your chest at the unexpected behavior, and you found yourself lost in those deep, brown eyes of his. Swallowing thickly, you opened your mouth, nothing came out for a moment before your brain finally decided to make a clumsy appearance, allowing you to stammer out a breathy “Okay.”

Jonathan smiled at you fondly before he placed his hand back on the wheel and sped up a bit. And with that simple smile, it was as if all the tension in the car had vanished into thin air. You smiled back at Jonathan as you shifted yourself in the passenger side seat, tuning to towards Jonathan instead of away. You brushed your fingers over the radio, eyeing it quickly before you found the power button and pressed it.

Queen’s Crazy Little Thing Called Love quickly filled the car, and you smiled and rolled the window down, letting the wind further tangle your already matted hair, not noticing Jonathan gazing at you longingly from his seat beside you.

“Sam? Dean? I’m home,” you call as you stepped through the threshold of the small powder blue rent house.

“In the kitchen,” you heard Dean’s gruff voice call back.

“Coming,” you responded, slipping off your black boots and padding over to the cramped kitchen in your skull patterned socks. You leaned against the small yellow stained fridge that came with the house and took in the tranquil scene before you.

Sam was seated at the make shift dining table, his school books and homework packets splayed around him. His face was set in deep concentration as he carefully moved his pencil across the papers, fully absorbed in his work. Dean was at the stove, he had shed his twenty layers of shirts as the kitchen was rather toasty, and had only his white undershirt and indigo flannel, which was rolled up to his elbows as he stood over the stove, stirring a pot of something. You loved walking in on moments like these, moments where everything seemed so normal, you felt as if you were just a regular family, with a mom and dad at work, and a caring older brother to cook the family supper. You smiled lightly and pushed yourself away from the fridge, making your way over to Sammy, you ruffled his hair lightly and kissed the top of his head. He stopped his work to look up and smile at you before he dove back into his science homework.

“What’cha cooking big brother?” you asked as you made your way over to the stove to peer into the pot.

“Homemade hamburger helper.” Dean answered blankly.

“WhAt?!” You screeched, shoving his shoulder aggressively to see what was in the pot. Dean shoved you back easily with one hand, causing you to stumble forward as he let out a loud bark of laughter at your dramatic reaction.

“I’m kidding,” Dean smiled as you pouted up at him, crossing your arms over your chest. You stamped your foot on the ground for emphasis before stomping back over to the stove, where Dean let you peer into the spot. You let out a sign of relief when you saw he was cooking spaghetti.

“Thank the gods,” you mumble as you turned away from the stove and pulled out a chair from under the table and plopped yourself down in it. The metal was cold as it seeped in through your stripped stockings, sending a chill down your spine. You rested your elbow on the table and set your chin on the back of your hand, E/C irises skimming over your brother’s homework.

“What are you working on Sammy?” you asked, your eyes swimming over a wall of text.

“Science homework,” Sam answered, “Today we started discussing the causes and effects of regional climates,” he elaborated. Then he turned his large puppy eyes on Dean, “But I just finished. So can I go meet the guys?”

“The guys?” you asked, quirking a brow. Sam rolled his eye at you and the knowing smirk you had on your face, but answered you anyway. “Mike, Dustin, and Lucas.”

“To do what?” you asked curiously, setting your eyes on your baby brother. His face held a small amount of excitement as he looked back and forth between you and Dean, his brown locks swishing at the motion.

“Well, the cover up story is that were playing DND.” Sam said, causing Dean to turn around and give Sam a questioning look.

“Dungeons and Dragons,” Sam said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You grinned and blew some of your stray looks out of your face, “Phft, nerd.”

Sam playfully narrowed his gaze at you and you sent him a wink, knowing exactly what DND was.

“But we’re actually going search for Will,” Sam continued, ignoring your brothers extraordinarily confused look as watched the two of you at the table. “So can I go?”

Dean whipped his hands on the dish towel, his brows furrowing as he thought it over. Sam gave his sweetest eyes, and you could see Dean internally groan and give in. “Fine. But be careful.”

Sam grinned ear to ear and shot up from the table and to the hallway where he snatched up his jacket, “Hey!” Dean called, causing your younger brother’s head to whip around to face your older brother, “This isn’t going to be a nightly occurrence, you hear me?”

Sam nodded his head sharply, but the small smile that graced his lips never left as he waved goodbye to the two of you and jetted out the door.

You hummed to yourself quietly, causing Dean to send you a questioning look. “I never thought I’d see the day you let Sammy out of the house by himself,” you mused, picking up Sam’s discarded pencil and twirling it between your fingers.

Dean sighed and flipped the dish rag he was holding over his shoulder and walked back to the stove to stir the pot. “Gotta let him have some freedom every now and then, otherwise you know what happens.”

Your face dropped slightly at Dean’s words, the memory of how angry your dad had been at the both of you the weekend Sam had run off during a hunt. It had taken you almost a week to track him down, and though it was both of your faults, John and ultimately put the blame on Dean, the eldest.

“Yea,” you muttered under your breath, “I guess so.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, Dean finishing up the pot of spaghetti, and you doodling on the back of one of Sam’s homework assignments. The only noises that filled the kitchen was the pencil scrapping against paper and the metal spoon hitting against the black pot.

When the spaghetti was finished you took out the paper plates and fixed yourselves some food, you each had a warm bottle of coke to drink while you chatted easily about the school day you had had before the Steve fiasco.

“Yea, I was just walking down the hall, and suddenly the janitors closet is tossed open, and three arms reach up and grab me by my collar-” Dean’s dramatic tale of being kidnapped by high school girls was cut off as a sharp ring sounded through the quiet house.

“I’ll get it,” you said as you pushed yourself away from the table and hopped to your feet. You jogged over to the phone and snatched it up off the hook, answering it with a brisk “Hello?”

“Y/N, its dad,” your father’s tired voice came from the other end of the phone.

“Oh, hey dad. When are you coming home, Dean cooked spaghetti, don’t want it getting cold you do?”

You could hear voices in the back ground but you weren’t able to make out what they were saying, you could only hear the rushed tones the people spoke in.

“I don’t think I’ll be making it home anytime soon, sweetheart,” your dad said, and this time you could hear the dismay in his voice.

You swallowed heard, almost afraid to ask the question, because you knew what he was about to tell you. But it didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel real. It wasn’t, was it?

“Why?” you forced the word from your lungs and waited with baited breath for your dad to give you the answer you dreaded the most.

You heard your dad let out a heavy sigh from the other end of the receiver before he answered you. “Someone just found a body at the quarry,” he started, “And it’s been identified as Will Byers.”

#stranger things #stranger things 2 #stranger things imagine #jonathan byers x reader #jonathan byers #jonathan byers x you #jonathan byers imagine #jonathan buyers x you #steve harrington #Nancy Wheeler #mike wheeler #lucas sinclair #dustin henderson #Will Byers #mileven #supernatural #supernatural imagine #Sam Winchester #dean winchester #sam and dean #sam winchester x sister!reader #dean winchester x sister!reader #sam winchester imagine #dean winchester imagine #john winchester #jim hopper #joyce byers

[philosophiums]

Closing Time - TFCFansgive fic

This is the fic that I did for @curlyhairedneil through @tfcfansgive. Hopefully this turned out alright!! I won’t lie, I really super struggled with the prompt, because we all know I’m not one for fluff writing, but this was... admittedly a lot of fun once I finally figured out where I wanted the story to go.

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Neil doesn’t know what to do on a snow day. Not that he considers this much of one. There’s barely a dusting on the ground, hardly enough to even call it snow. It’ll be gone by tomorrow morning, if not later this evening. He doesn’t get it. Classes – canceled. The whole school – shut down. Even Wymack, the betrayer, had called off Exy practice for the day. It’s not that Neil doesn’t get that, regionally, this is a lot of snow. It’s not even an inch, but to people who live here, who make a home in the south east, this is an abomination. Neil’s been here for three years – has called himself a Fox for three years, holy shit – and they’ve never called a snow day before. It’s unprecedented.

And yet all Neil can see when he looks out the dorm window is a lack of ice and perfect running conditions.

“We’re not going out there,” Andrew says from his spot on one of the bean bags. Kevin is at his desk doing homework. He’s been grumbling for the past fifteen minutes about stubborn coaches and unreasonable fathers. Apparently, not even Kevin could win Wymack over. The court is closed to them.

He should take a page out of Kevin’s book and get caught up on some homework. His chemistry is falling a bit short, but it’s fine because he’s still managing to maintain his GPA. Neil’s already done the math for that. He’d still be eligible to play even if he gets a low D in the class. And thank god, because Neil doesn’t understand the subject and his tutor is atrocious.

“Do your homework,” Andrew says as Neil drops down onto the sofa beside him, heaving a great sigh of boredom.

“No.” Neil stares at the ceiling and then at Andrew’s lap, debating.

“Yes,” Andrew says, and Neil can’t tell if it’s to maintain their argument or if it’s an invitation, but he takes it as the latter and settles down with his head on Andrew’s lap. Neil likes the way Andrew’s eyes track his progression all the way down until he’s on his back, neck at a bit of an uncomfortable angle, but it’s fine because Andrew is watching, looking. It makes Neil warmer, as if it wasn’t winter outside at all.

Kevin puts in his headphones and turns on an Exy game. Neil had known that the homework wouldn’t last long, especially since it was for his literature class and not any of his three history classes. It’s still nice to know that anything Neil says to Andrew and vise versa will be in confidence.

Neil waits for a staring comment from Andrew, but what he gets instead is a hand in his hair as Andrew returns his attention to the television. Neil doesn’t know what’s on, doesn’t care. He watches Andrew the way Andrew watches the show, taking in the reflection of the screen in Andrew’s glasses only to the extent that he likes the way the colors play on Andrew’s amber eyes beneath the lenses. He hums when Andrew takes to lightly scratching his nails over Neil’s scalp, and Neil likes the way Andrew’s jaw works like he’s trying impossibly hard to restrain himself from looking at Neil at all.

There was a time in his life – a long, long time – when this, here with Andrew, wasn’t even a thought in Neil’s head. It wasn’t even a fever dream. Neil knew his life was running and running and lying, was new identities and his mother’s backhand when he fucked up their backstory. Teenage hormones had gotten him a secret kiss that had turned out in the end to be not as secret as he had thought – and nothing special anyway. It hadn’t been worth the beating, hadn’t set off anything inside of Neil that kissing Andrew had – does.

Kissing Andrew is… different. It’s something Neil is afraid will be taken from him one day, something that could be used against him. Every kiss could be the last, every moment like this could be taken away from him so quickly, so easily. His father is dead, Lola is dead, Romero is dead, but there are so many, many others. And on top of it all, there’s Ichirou. Neil could wake up one day and his life could be in ruins.

So when moments like this come – no classes, no practice, an invitingly comfortable Andrew to lounge against, Neil knows better than to wish for anything else.

Neil tracks time by episode changes. They’re all half-hour segments, short little skits that Neil still finds too long and uninteresting. The tropes are boring, and Neil hates how poor the acting is, how the information is never tied together properly and how most of the “facts” are presented through a screen of bullshit. The plots are predictable, all following the same arch, the same path. The jokes are subpar and bourgeois. He’s never asked why Andrew likes them because it never seemed relevant; there were more important truths to be shared.

“Why do you watch them?” Neil asks during a commercial break. Andrew mutes the television and looks down at Neil. “If I spewed half of the nonsense coming from these shows, you would knife me.”

Andrew gives him a look which clearly tells him to not be so dramatic and then returns his attention to the still-muted television.

Kevin swears into the silence, then mumbles something about the stats of the game he’s watching. Neil picks up on the scribble of a pencil and wonders if Kevin is going to assign him this particular game to watch at a later date – tomorrow, most likely.

“I watched them in juvie,” Andrew says, pulling Neil’s focus where it should never have strayed from. The position of his neck is getting uncomfortable, but he doesn’t dare move. If he pulls away now, Andrew might stop talking, and Neil would rather die. “It was always funny to me,” Andrew continues in a humorless tone, “that the detention center allowed us free range on the television for an hour each day, but most of my foster homes wouldn’t even let us look at their screens.”

Thinking about Andrew’s past is never fulfilling for Neil, in the same way that he would rather never think about his own past. It happened, it was awful, and he doesn’t want it to keep affecting who he is today. Neil was never allowed to watch TV shows either, unless it was the news or it was a requirement for class – and those were usually documentaries. It was only when Neil showed up here, rooming with Seth and Matt, that he was allowed television. And despite Neil never taking advantage of Matt’s open invitation to watch sports other than Exy or Allison’s near-insistence that Neil watch some reality show with her, Neil can empathize with Andrew, with the juxtaposition of gaining a freedom in a place that should have been his prison.

But, for all of the hideous events that they have survived, television is not something worth weeping over.

So Neil snorts derisively and gives his head a small shake. “And of all of the channels available on cable network, you chose this one?”

Andrew blinks quickly enough for Neil to count it as surprise. Of course, Andrew chose the channel in juvie. Andrew has been frightful since day one, and Neil doubts that Andrew has ever allowed himself to be weak. Juvie would have been the perfect opportunity for him to bulk up, to punch someone hard enough to knock a tooth, to gain some semblance of control for the first time in his life.

It’s not surprising when Andrew tugs at Neil’s hair, signaling him to sit up. It’s also not surprising when Andrew immediately stands and makes his way to the kitchenette. But Andrew’s crooked finger is intriguing enough to unfold Neil’s legs and get him off the sofa. He glances just once at Kevin, sees his nose mere inches from the screen, and decides to just let him go blind.

Andrew pins Neil with a yes or no the second he’s in the kitchenette. The answer is yes, always yes, and Andrew’s mouth is a fire trying to fend off South Carolina’s poor excuse for a winter. Neil winds his fingers through Andrew’s hair to tug him along as he backs himself into the counter. He likes being here, something solid at his back and Andrew at his front. It doesn’t feel like being pinned for dissection. It feels… good. It feels like home, like reassurance, like Andrew’s hot breath against Neil’s wet lips as they break apart for a quick grab of air.

They don’t need words, don’t need misguided and ambiguous ‘thank you’s. They don’t even need to trade one calm assist for another.

Andrew kisses Neil once more, just as intense but not for as long, and then pulls away.

“We’re out of ice cream,” Neil says, half-amused when Andrew beelines for the freezer. They haven’t eaten supper yet – fuck, they haven’t even eaten lunch yet – but ice cream is an easy way for Andrew to, well, cool down after a mention of his past. Andrew stops before his fingertips even brush the freezer’s handle. Neil waits for Andrew to open the door, to double check as if looking for himself might make the ice cream appear, but he’s mildly surprised when Andrew instead turns back to Neil. Being the recipient of trust is still a new sensation.

“Who ate the last of my ice cream?”

Nicky did. “I don’t know,” Neil says, and he knows that Andrew knows he’s lying. But Andrew doesn’t call him out except to frown a little deeper. “We could always go get some.”

That suggestion is greeted with indifferent eyes and a simple, “It’s snowing. Everything is shut down.”

“I’m sure Walmart is open.”

“That’s in Columbia.”

Neil shrugs. “Good thing you own a car.”

“I’m not going to drive in this weather.”

Neil has a close call with a humorless scoff, but manages to pass it off as a hitch in his breath. “It’s just a little snow, Andrew. Haven’t you ever driven in snow?”

“No,” Andrew says, immediate and honest. “But you have.” It doesn’t have to be a question.

Once more, Neil shrugs. “That’s not a very interesting story. Just some shitty cars, some grinding gear shifts, and some snowy mountains.” Maybe Neil owes Andrew for the story about juvie, but that doesn’t mean he owes it now. It could be a debt, something to pay later when Andrew needs something from him versus simply wanting something.

“To Columbia, though?” Andrew asks, and Neil gets where he’s coming from. “It’s just ice cream.” And it’s a long fucking drive.

“Not only,” Neil says. “It’s a way to get me out of the damn dorm. I’m dying. I hate being cooped up.”

“So dramatic. Alright,” Andrew says, agreeing just like that.

They don’t bother to say goodbye to Kevin, to tell him where they’re going or what they’re doing. Andrew doesn’t even text Nicky to put him in charge of Kevin. Riko is dead and their deal is off – Kevin needs independence more than he needs protection.

Andrew grabs his jacket and for a half-second, Neil debates shirking his own just to prove a point – but in the end he doesn’t know what point he’s trying to prove, and he, like Andrew, has adjusted to South Carolina’s temperature enough that it does feel chilly outside. He can afford time for comfort, so he puts on the jacket and follows Andrew outside.

The car keys are traded for the cigarettes in Neil’s pocket, and Andrew crosses behind Neil for the passenger side. It takes a moment to readjust the driver’s seat to where Neil likes it, but soon enough they’re on the road.

The snow plows are out. Neil honestly can’t fucking believe it. There’s less than an inch of snow collected on the grass, and the pavement is wet but completely clear. He doesn’t get it, can’t comprehend how an entire campus and surrounding businesses can close down from such a minor inconvenience.

In the passenger seat, Andrew lights a cigarette, but he doesn’t offer one to Neil. More surprised than offended, Neil glances at Andrew.

“Eyes on the road,” is all Andrew says.

“There’s nothing wrong with the road except slow-ass snow plows and the congestion they’re causing,” Neil says. “Can I have a cigarette?”

Andrew seems to debate it, staring stonily out of the windshield. After a moment, he digs out a new stick and lights it. “If we end up in the ditch because of you, you had better pray that the crash is bad enough to kill us both, or you’re paying for all of the damages and buying me a new car.”

“Again,” Neil supplies – unhelpfully, judging from Andrew’s expression.

The interstate is shut down – really? Neil thinks, and flips a U-turn in the middle of the on-ramp – so they take the back roads. It’s freeing, Neil supposes. Peaceful in a way that comes from them being alone on the road, everyone else shut-up inside their homes, enjoying a day off from school or work. Though the snow is melting almost faster than it can accumulate, it’s still pretty as it falls from the clouds, and Neil likes the sheer screen it makes across his vision, something beautifully obscure.

“Do you like the winter?” Andrew asks, and maybe it’s collecting a debt but maybe it’s just curiosity.

“I miss it, sometimes,” Neil admits. “I’ve had a lot of good ones and a lot of bad ones. I’ve seen snow turn red, seen it fall like crisp linens to cover bodies and any traces that my mother and I were there. But I’ve also woken up and seen an inch of frost covering the trees, catching the light.” He wants to say that he’s spent a couple of winters with Andrew, now, and they’ve been the best yet, but he keeps that to himself. “I like the cold. It’s refreshing, makes me feel alive.”

“You have Exy for that.” Andrew digs out the pack of cigarettes, and Neil thinks it’s to hide his bemusement. “I’m not living anywhere that gets constant snow. You’re on your own.”

Neil’s hands relax on the steering wheel as a laugh rolls through him. “Making me choose between you and snow. That’s not fair.”

“I could make it be Exy and me,” Andrew threatens around the cigarette in his mouth, clicking lighter in his hands.

Neil takes the cigarette away and catches Andrew’s eyes for as long as he dares on the snow-wetted highway. “I would choose you,” he says, “without hesitation.”

Andrew looks away. For a moment, Neil thinks he’s lost the conversation, lost their pleasant afternoon. But then Andrew rasps out, “Don’t say that.”

“You think I don’t mean it?”

The slight shake of Andrew’s head would have been answer enough. “You’ve told me once already that Exy is everything to you. Don’t lie to me and tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

Neil puts on the brakes and pulls the car over to the side of the road. He puts the hazards on just in case before he twists in his seat to face Andrew head-on. “Look at me,” he says, and Andrew does. “I mean it. I don’t believe that you would ever make me choose between you and Exy, but if something happened… if the world aligned the wrong way and I had to give up one or the other….” Neil reaches out, stops, and then touches Andrew’s cheek when he nods. “You are the single best thing in my life. That I get to share my favorite hobby – my future job – with you is beyond amazing. But you are worth so much more than that, Andrew.”

They both know what it feels like to not be wanted, to be used and then pushed aside. Neil is not going to let Andrew feel like that anymore, not around him, anyway. But he’s also not about to force Andrew into an emotional conversation so far from home, in the middle of the snow that Andrew seems to loathe. So Neil smiles and hands back the cigarette. Then he shakes his head and pulls back onto the road.

“I’m driving two hours just to get you some damn ice cream,” Neil mutters, as if that should be proof enough. It’s not, but it does what needed to be done. Andrew relaxes and takes a drag, flicking the ash out through the cracked window.

“Stop bitching and drive.” He sounds normal again.

Neil has every intention of bringing up this conversation at a later time, but for now… for now, he’s content to just drive and reaffirm that this is real life, that he’s not dreaming, and that he’ll have Andrew for as long as Andrew will let him.

#the foxhole court #tfcfansgive #curlyhairedneil #andreil #mine #my fics

[literateape]

Stevie

By Paul Teodo & Tom Myers  

In that moment I went from trying to save my marriage to trying to be the best single father I could be.

Saturday afternoon. August 1992. Like it was yesterday. Ninety-five fucking degrees. Humidity over the top. Just got done cutting the grass. In our bedroom. Dripping with sweat. Grass clippings stuck to my back making me itch like I had a disease.

Her back to me lying in a bed not shared for the past five years. My breath short, scared, my heart slamming like a hammer. Staring at her, tears pooled in my eyes, wanting to say the right thing.  Shattered by what was happening.

“We can do this.” She didn’t turn. “The kids.” Nothing. “I don’t get it,” I was choking, trying to breathe some life into us, “I just don’t get it… unless there is another…” She turned looking wounded through her tears. “Guy.” Silence made my ears ache. I grabbed the dresser to hold myself up.

After months of useless counseling she moved out leaving the two boys with me.

I told myself I could do this. Reality told me I was full of shit.

My boys lying in bed the night she left. I’d just finished reading them a story. “Why did Mommy leave?” Peter’s soft voice oddly stark in the dark quiet room.

I paused trying to take the pain of that August afternoon out of my answer. “Mommy and Daddy both love you and your brother very much, but sometimes it’s better for people to not live together.” Enough for now, I hoped. I kissed them goodnight.

I stood to leave.

Peter again, voice trembling, “Are you going to leave?”

I turned back and knelt down. “I swear to God, I will never leave you guys. I will always, always be here for you.” My breath short, chest tightened like a fist. I coughed over my sadness and tears.  “Always.”

I yelled upstairs figuring he got caught doing what we’ve all done in a bathroom with a flashlight.

In two years it became abundantly clear that I was living with wild fucking animals. My previously clean, sweet smelling house now stunk like a locker room and looked liked a pig sty. Farts and belches were practiced as works of art. A dry towel was unlocatable. Bathroom, bedroom, basement or garage lights were never turned off and doors were always left open. Wind, rain, snow and sleet blew through the house unimpeded. Grotesquely contorted stray boys lay most weekend mornings on my family room floor. I wondered who they were, how they got there, and when the hell were they leaving.

After supper one night I could tell my son Paul needed to take a dump. He backfired like a truck and smelled like roadkill. Plus he’d downed four kielbasa sent by my Slovenian friend, a big glob of sauerkraut and a scoop of pickled kidney beans. He scampered upstairs to the bathroom gurgling all the way.

The shifting shadows from what appeared to be a flashlight drew me to the stairwell.

The bathroom light flipped on. “You mental retard!”

“I’m sorry Paul I didn’t know you were in there!”

“Knock it off, Paul” I yelled upstairs figuring he got caught doing what we’ve all done in a bathroom with a flashlight.

Relentless: “Ignorant. Fag, homo, retard.”

“Knock it off.”

“Ass wipe.”

“Knock it off!”

I heard a slap, then Peter’s muffled whimper. He flew from the bathroom propelled by Paul’s shove, cheek flaming red. I bolted up the stairs ready to strike as the door slammed shut. My fist went through with remarkable ease, the wood exploding like a rifle shot. In what eventually became folklore in my family, my hand went through the door and wrapped precisely and tightly around my son’s throat. He gurgled, choking, wriggling in my death grip.

“You’re going to kill him!” Peter screamed trying to contain my out of control one hundred pound dog.

Paul still gurgling. Me admiring the comic book action of the moment, grounded only by the splinters buried in my wrist.

Finally relaxing, I loosened my grip and ripped my bloody arm from the jagged hole. I flung the door open. Paul stood in the bathroom, flashlight in hand, pants around his knees, finger prints marking his neck, tears streaming from his wildly defiant eyes.

I glared back.

“You have a temper!”

I did, and at that moment I was fucking proud of it! “You’re gonna pay for that door!”

“I don’t have any money!”

He didn’t. “You’re gonna get a job!”

“I’m a kid! Who’s gonna hire me!”

He had me. “Pull up your pants and keep your mouth shut. I’m going downstairs to think.”

“You need to calm down.”

I already had. I trudged down the stairs, cracked some ice, packed it on my bloody arm and sat at the kitchen table.

A triple Dewar’s woulda been nice, but I quit that shit in '78.

After careful calculation I lumbered back upstairs, ice pack on my mangled arm. “That door is gonna cost about three hundred bucks to fix.”

“I don’t have any money.”

“I got an idea.”

“What?” He was trying to be tough but looked like a bird stuck in a cat’s mouth.

“It’ll help my income taxes.”

“What are income taxes?”

“Shut up.”

“What are income taxes?”

“We are gonna volunteer. And it’ll be an income tax deduction for me.”

His eyes curious, lips quivering, “Volunteer? Income tax?”

My fingerprints on his neck were starting to fade.

 I called one of my coworkers, “Joanne.”

Paul still gurgling. Me admiring the comic book action of the moment, grounded only by the splinters buried in my wrist.

“Yes?” She had her nice voice on. I was her boss.

“I got a favor to ask.”

“Anything. What can I do?”

“It’s different.”

“Anything.”

“I need to volunteer.”

“You?” Her voice curious, cautious.

“Yeah… and my son.” Silence, I could see her standing in her office thoughtful. She always stood. A good looking youngish woman. Both a nurse and an attorney.

“Isn’t he…” she was deliberate.

I helped her, “Yeah, young twelve.”

She cleared her throat.

“Joanne, don’t break rules for me. Maybe a stretch but nothing unsafe. We can come at an off time. You name a time, we’ll be there.”

I hated doing this. I rarely played this card. But my kid needed something different. We both did.

“Okay. Let me get back to you.”

“Thanks.”

Three days later my phone rang. Her name popped up on the screen. “Joanne.”

“Sunday nights. Seven to nine.”

“Thanks I appreciate this.”

“You’ll have to stay with him the entire time.”

“I will. Start date?”

“This Sunday.”

Fuck. Super Bowl. “We’ll be there.”

Silence, I could see her standing in her office thoughtful. She always stood. A good looking youngish woman. Both a nurse and an attorney.

I had the game on the car radio.

“We’re missing it.”

I didn’t look at him. The 49’ers were kicking the shit outa the Chargers and I didn’t care. “It’s twenty-eight to seven.”

“They can come back.”

“They ain’t coming back.”

“We’re missing halftime entertainment.”

“Tony Bennet? The Miami Sound Machine?” He was like a fish flopping on the beach.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Where I am taking you?”

“You’re supposed to tell me where we’re going to volunteer.”

 I gave him nothing to work with. “We’ll be there soon.”

“This isn’t fair.”

“You’re right. Bullying isn’t either. Deal with it.”

We pulled up to the front of the building. The Christopher Forte Children’s Home.

“Who‘s this Christopher Fort?”

“You don’t need to know.” He squirmed in the seat. “You scared?”

His eyes flashed. “No.”

“Good.”

I rang the bell. He kicked a rock, shaky hands stuffed in his pockets. Finally, a large woman opened the door. Her name tag read “Hollie.”

“Mr. Paul!” She engulfed me in her meaty arms. I’d met her once. “And this must be little Paul.” She smothered my son and I lost him for a moment in her abundant flesh.

She released him and I saw fear inch across his face. He didn’t know what to expect, but knew lashing out was not okay.

“I’ll get Consuela. She’s gonna show you around and introduce you to your student.”

His eyebrows raised at the word “student.”

“What is this place?” he whispered to me as Hollie waddled briskly down the hall.

“The Forte Children’s Home.”

“I know. But what happens here?”

“It’s for kids who have physical and mental problems.”

“You shouldn’t a brought me here.”

“You shouldn’t be an asshole to your brother.”

Hollie returned with another chunky woman at her side. Consuela displayed on her name tag. “Mr. Paul.” Thick melodic accent. “Little Paul. Mucho gusto.”

“Gracias.” His response prompted Consuela to rattle off a string of conversational Spanish. His month of middle school Espanol wasn’t gonna cut it. He responded sheepishly, “Si.”

“I will take you to Stevie.”

“Stevie?” My son whispered.

I wouldn’t look at him.

Consuela led us to the hall padding silently past the nurse’s station. The door opened to a corridor lined with children of all ages in wheel chairs. Noisy, bent over, twisted arms flailing in the air.

Happy? Sad? Impossible to tell.

My son Paul was starting to come through. His cocky smugness began to vanish. The good kid I knew that was deep down inside him was starting to peek out from behind his veneer of twelve-year-old arrogance.

Consuela opened a door to a cool quiet room. In the middle sitting on a large padded mat was a small boy. “This is Stevie.” She smiled and took Paul’s hand leading him towards the boy whose head was waving side to side, making guttural noises. I saw my son’s shoulders tighten. He glanced back at me with an uneasy look.

“This is Stevie. You play with him. These are his toys. He likes squeaky the best.” She grabbed a green frog from a toy box, squeaked it a few times and she shoved into my sons face. “You do.”

Paul took it reluctantly and squeezed. The frog squawked weakly. Stevie smiled and made what might have been a happy noise. Paul looked at me again. His nervous smile genuine. I almost felt some empathy.

“Good. You play. I come back two hours. If you need me call phone.” She pointed to the wall. “Uno, tres, cinco. Si?”

I heard him respond humbly, “Si.”

Consuela turned to leave. “Consuela?” Paul's voice respectful, kind.

She turned back. “Si?” dark eyes radiant in the dim light.

“What’s wrong with Stevie?”

Consuela’s eyes dimmed as she grew serious. “Very sad, cystic fibrosis.”

“Oh.” Paul said even quieter. “Will he get better?”

Consuela looked at me, her face softened, she looked back at Paul. “Is in God’s hands.”

That first night crept in slow motion. As the Sundays past each other on the calendar things got better. By week seven there was some smiling. A few laughs. Paul no longer looked at the clock every few minutes. Every time we walked in Stevie squealed and grabbed for his frog waving it at my son.

When our eight weeks were up, Paul hugged Hollie, Consuela, and Stevie and said goodbye.

I never fixed the door. People would look at it and wonder what happened. I’d tell them to ask Paul. He’d squirm but eventually spit out the truth.

My boys left and went to college. When they graduated I decided to sell my house and finally fix my door. By then Paul was a real estate agent, and was handling the sale. Even made some dough off the deal. After the closing he approached me when it was just the two of us.

“This is for you.” He handed me a check.

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

Three hundred dollars. In the notation line. It read “For damage repair to door.”

Later that week I was unpacking in my new place. I came across a box marked KIDS SCHOOL SHIT. I opened it and thumbed through some papers. I came upon a handwritten assignment.

Mr. Haufman 7th Grade. Memorable Moments From 1993

Stevie died today. He was 9. He was my friend. He had a disease called cystic fibrosis. It can kill little kids. It killed him. I met him after my dad went nuts. He broke a door and got me around the neck. He has a short temper. But I was bullying my brother after he walked in on me in the bathroom. He told me to stop. But I didn’t. so I sort of deserved it. He put his fist right through the door. Then I had to help pay for the door with income tax deductions. Stevie lived in a place with other kids who had all sorts of diseases. It was sad, but sometimes it was happy too.

At first when I met Stevie I was nervous because he was so sick and little and hardly could do things like sit up or talk. He rocked a lot and made noises. He hardly smiled at all. He had a tube sticking out of his stomach to give his nutrition. Sometimes Consuela had me help her clean it. Consuela was a really nice Mexican lady who worked at the Forte Home where Stevie lived.

I was never sure how much Stevie knew what was going on around him. He loved a green frog that squeaked and when I made it make a noise Stevie would shriek louder than the frog.

The people who worked there were almost all women. They were from everywhere and spoke lots of different languages. My favorite was Consuela. She talked to me in Spanish and I got better at talking Spanish from her.

My mom and dad are divorced. I remember the night my mom left my dad knelt down on the floor next to our bed. It was dark and quiet. He told me and my brother a story. He was crying low. But I could tell. He told me and my brother he would never leave us. Then he hugged me and Peter really hard, almost like he thought we were going to leave. Stevie’s mom and dad never came to visit him. When I first met him he never smiled. But the last time I went to see him he did.

Wherever he is now, I hope he is still smiling.

#finding meaning #literature #Family