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blzzrdstryr · 3 years

Text

Galatea

Yandere(?) Albedo x gn!reader

Wordcount: 2410

CW: Panic attacks, hallucinations, slight dehumanization.

...and his creation was so beautiful: silent and non judgemental, pure and demure, it would endure any of his whims of love and passion.

Albedo looks calm as usual as he scoops the honey from the beehive, even though he doesn’t wear any protection; Bees are angrily buzzing nearby, but otherwise not attacking him. It would look strange to you if you didn’t know the answer: insects are not real. The alchemist created them, turning pure slabs of carbon, water and organic matter into tiny fuzzy bodies, as you watched the scene with wide eyes, one moment and a non-living becomes living. He commented on the whole process and while you tried your best to listen to him there were so many scientific terms and jargons in his speech that after some time you zoned out, preferring to observe the birth of insects instead.

There are bones and flesh and organs growing and fusing together. They writhe and convulse as blood starts to fill them. Whose body is it?

“Is this for examination too?”, you remember that Albedo was collecting honey several days ago, albeit in much lesser quantities, and when you asked what the alchemist was doing, he said it was for comparative analysis.

“Well, you could say that” alchemist looks at the full jar and closes the lid, “Previous analysis showed that this honey has the same compounds as the natural one in the same proportions and isn’t dangerous for consumption”. You nod, urging him to continue - even though Albedo isn’t the chattiest person, you noticed how talkative he becomes when you ask him for explanations.

“Smell and taste are usually dependent on the composition, but there is always a place for exceptions, so I decided to conduct another experiment, one that needs your help”

You raise eyebrows - alchemist, despite actually enjoying your company, usually didn’t disclose much of his work :“Is that so? How can I help?”

Small smile appears on his lips, subtle and controlled, “I want you to taste it”. He looks happy.

You have seen that smile long before. You can’t remember where.

You hate sweets, but there's something stopping you from declining. It's bone-deep and chilling, woven into every fiber of your flesh. You can’t get out the needed words, even if you wanted, with your lips somehow shutting tight at the mere thought. There's something stopping you from saying "no" to Albedo and you assume it's gratitude.

***

The honey turns out to be as sickly sweet as the one from the real bees. You frown, as you take another sip of tea, trying to wash down the saccharine taste from the tongue. Albedo sits in front of you and scribes something in his notebook, throwing occasional glances at you from time to time.

“It seems that we’ll need to keep this secret from Klee” you muse, no longer tasting the nectar on your tongue.

“Why so?” he asks, still writing - his handwriting is too small for you to see from this distance. You could stretch your neck to have a better glimpse, but it would be rude to do, so you refrain, curiosity still nipping at you.

“Well, you know what a big sweet tooth she is, and if she learns that your bees don’t sting...”

“But they do sting, just not me”.

“Why?”

“Bees were created with my will, so they just can’t. It’s against the nature of alchemical creation to oppose its creator”

You hum, processing the new information and guessing how far he would teach you that in your own alchemy lessons. You are far behind Sucrose or Timaeus in your studies, still stuck on basics, but Kreideprinz doesn't look displeased or bored with you. In contrast, mentoring you is something he really likes, judging by the rare smiles he allows himself to show. He proposed to teach you one day and you couldn't find it in yourself to turn him down.

You thought it was strange at first how the recluse seemed to favour you, but then as you familiarized yourself with a man you realized that he liked all things unseen and unheard before and your selective amnesia must be the one.

There are large gaps in your memory, but you can remember some small moments - peeking into a cave and plunging deeper into a forest out of curiosity, spending hours in the library, completely captivated by the book before you, feeling satisfied from finally solving an advanced math problem.

None of the memories include people.

It's an identity forming memories, Albedo theorized when you shared your concerns, experiences shape who we are, [First], and maybe that's why you retained them, they define you.

Were you as reclusive as him then?

A bit later you see what Albedo was drawing: a familiar bird and decapitated head. You are disturbed - how does he know my dreams?

***

Mondstadtians are weird, it’s the first time you leave Albedo’s lab and side, deciding to take a quick stroll around the city and look around. Some look at you with wide eyes, as if you just grew a second head before their eyes, some shamelessly whisper things to each other.

The knight that was assigned to look after you for the duration of the walk is no better than them. He also treats you like some sort of oddity, with all that persistent glances and hesitancy to interact with you.

What kind of person old you were to prompt such a reaction?

Walking along the streets of the city you can't remember any of it. Books that mentioned amnesia and other memory related issues stated that visiting once familiar places can help with overall recollection. Walking along the streets of the city you can't recollect any of it, memories slipping past your fingers like water.

You can’t remember the blue cloudless sky above, or the deep clear lake of the same shade or the gentlest breezes playing with your hair. You can’t recall the bright red roof tiles, or the giant windmills that dwarf other buildings, or the statue of the anemo archont overseeing the city. You can't think of once being among the other idle citizens, of praying and worshipping Barbatos, of participating in the windtrace or Ludi Harpastum. There’s emptiness where a familiarity should be, a dull ache rotting and festering at the back of your mind - I don’t belong here, I never did.

You don’t feel like a part of Mondstadt, not even a single part of you does. There’s an invisible yet unbreakable wall separating you from other people. You can smile and chat and be all polite and nice, yet there’s always a certain coldness and caution others treat you with. You want to be both accepted and left alone, feel loved yet be distant enough to avoid any emotional hurt.

Of course, there are people who managed to get close to you - Albedo and Klee, with the former one being your official caretaker and mentor and the latter being as bright as the Sun, you doubt there’s anyone that couldn’t fall under little girl’s charms, except acting Grandmaster Jean.

That must be why you act so warm towards them, why you decide to bare your soul and feelings towards them, no matter how scary it can be. That’s why you play with Klee, engaging her in less destructive entertainment than the fish blasting and that is why you never refuse Albedo in any of his requests, be it a quick walk on a sunny day or assistance in his experiments.

***

A familiar dream.

You see a giant owl, it's yellow eyes piercing right through you. It's a majestic creature, with snow white fluffy feathers and razor sharp talons. Bird looks at you with all knowing eyes, and then spreads its wings, soundlessly flying in your direction. You dodge it, still marvelling at its grace, as the bird continues its way to the giant head laying behind you.

You turn back still tracing the bird's flight, eyes then turning to the bodiless head. It has the face of an aged man with wise eyes, it's lips move silently chanting. There's something hypnotizing in the chant - listen to me and you will now, listen to me and I will tell you, listen to me and you will learn things that he doesn’t want you to know.

You take a step, hand outstretched to touch it. It burns your skin, and the world around you darkens, all sounds stop and soon enough darkness consumes the bodiless head too, leaving you all alone.

A memory comes.

You're absolutely naked and shivering with Albedo hovering above you. He says something but you can’t understand the words, liquid(?) in your eyes and ears. You hear Sucrose and Timaeus in the background too and how excited they sound.

You turn your head, catching the sight of slabs of pure carbon, bottles of water, pieces of lime and ammonia solution and the rest of organic and inorganic matter lying around you.

There are no thoughts and feelings - you are nothing but an empty vessel that needs to be filled.

"Timaeus, bring the blanket" It's Albedo's voice, “Sucrose, check.. [First]’s temperature. I will observe them”

“[First]?”

“It’s a fitting name”

The memory ends. You wake up.

***

You wake up to Albedo sitting near your bed. It's not a rare occurrence with him frequently checking up on your health, but the memories of previous dreams make you almost jump when you see his silhouette again.

"Uhm, hello?" you still sound husky from sleep.

"Apologies for coming here, I heard your whimpers and decided to check if everything was alright". His face looks as impassive as ever, but there's a concerned tone in his voice. He must be extremely worried then.

"I..” you start but then trail off, unsure what to say. Is the revelation that you dreamt even true? Aside from the strange coincidence and sense of isolation that loomed over you, becoming a bit unbearable with each day, you had nothing to prove your nonsensical conclusion: you are not real.

“I saw a dream, of me lying among the lime and carbon and water” Albedo gives you an intense stare, eyes and expression completely unreadable: “it wasn’t just a dream, was it?”

A moment passes and then another and you feel even more stupid with each second to just come to that conclusion, not to mention saying it outloud. And then the most unexpected thing happens: Albedo nods.

“Yes, yes it happened to you” he suddenly sounds tired, as if he admitted a dark, dark secret, that it arguably is. A shock goes through you, as you start to gasp for air - it’s one thing to speculate and guess, it’s completely different to hear a confirmation.

You can’t exactly remember what happens next - you think you broke down right there and then, as alchemist awkwardly tried to comfort you. He was explaining how and why he created you - he thought that your creation would give him answers he was looking for, solve his internal conflict, and then he started to wonder how different artificial life is from the natural one and that’s why he decided to give you memories.

It was hard at first, he says, to push back the existing ones back and replace them with new. Make you believe that you were born too. Memories were his favourite thing to do, he had a theory you see, that people are majorly products of their environment, and he wanted to prove that with you. That’s why he decided to mold you into a person with traits he usually finds valuable.

In the end you found yourself nursing a hot tea mug with a few drops of calming concoction dissolved in it. Albedo is lingering around in his own disquieted fashion, as you rethink your whole life - can it even be called a life anymore?

You glance at the alchemist fretting around you, frowning, and unsure what to do, the warmth and happiness you felt upon seeing him replaced by disappointment and confusion. Albedo isn't the one who you thought him to be, Archons, you're not the one who you thought yourself to be!

Suddenly the way all others interacted you became crystal clear - they treated you like oddity because you were one. You remember Klee and how she always seemed to love calling you her "bestest special friend". No way they don't know of your origin. No way they will ever treat you like a person.

There's an ache when you think about Klee also turning away from you; She is a sunshine personified right now, spreading her kindness and enthusiasm without even trying, but who knows what will happen once she grows up, will she have a problem with her peers because of you, or she'll adopt the general public's opinion of you? The thought is almost enough to send you into a crying fit again. You want to run far away.

"I want to travel" you finally say, there's no way you can integrate into society when everyone knows what you are and will always see it before who you are. You want to run away and start anew somewhere far, so the rumors will never reach that place and no one will look at you with that wide eyed stare again. You say what you think about this whole situation.

"Please, don't" he says and you of course stop, legs no longer listening to you, "I understand you are distressed right now, but running away isn't the solution"

"But I will never be able to truly connect with anyone, they know it, of my birth, right? The whole city knows about it, right?"

"I know that you want to feel loved, I… We are the same - before your creation I felt the same loneliness, I couldn't bond with anyone save for Klee, but interacting with you was far more pleasant than expected. Relationships are needlessly tiring and I never understood why people focused on them so much, yet now, looking at you I can understand them. I love you, [First], you are perfect".

You still again, now stunted by his words and sudden love confession. It's all so sudden and strange and confusing and you are too tired and too shocked to deal with this, so you decide to distance yourself. "I can't love you in return"

"But you will"

"Why do you think that?"

"It's against your nature to oppose me in anything"

Note: Galatea is an ivory statue created by Pygmalion, who later fell in love with it. The head in reader's dream is decapitated Mimir, a figure in Norse mythology who is known for his knowledge and wisdom. His decapitated head was reciting secret knowledge and giving counsel to Odin.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin #yandere albedo x reader #Yandere Albedo #Yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin x reader #Yandere #Albedo #Yandere x reader #Honestly it's not very yandere #My sleeping pills don't work again #my writing

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glimmerglanger · 3 years

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Soooo…….HotR Codywan proposal snippet if you’re still taking requests? I feel like they’d be absolute saps about it and I am Soft

OOOOOH! Oh! They're going to be SUCH saps, fair warning! Let's have some family time and sweetness and a proposal on this fine Friday morning! (No spice in this snippet, only SWEET).

~~~~~~~

Autumn slipped away, eventually, and Cody wasn’t sorry to see it go. Ben’s civil case wrapped up towards the end of the season, leaving him with enough funds to cover the memorial costs for his uncle and some extra, besides.

Mostly, he knew Ben put the money towards his school expenses and loans, though he also insisted on paying half when they bought a new bed for Cody’s place, replacing the one they’d broken so impressively.

Winter brought with it true cold, the dropping temperatures no longer teasing at freezing. Often, the sun didn’t rise until long after Cody was already up and working, but he was used to that.

And he had someone warm to curl up with in bed after a long and chilly day, burying his nose against the back of Ben’s neck so many nights.

Ben mostly slept over at the ranch, though he’d kept the apartment. He said, when they discussed it again, that he thought he ought to at the least keep it until the end of the school year. He’d stayed there through most of his work during finals, but….

But, in general, he went to sleep beside Cody and woke up beside Cody. In general, he was there, sharing meals just the two of them or with the rest of the family, going to the triplet’s games, or taking Anakin for walks with Boba.

He was there on New Year’s Eve, watching with a bemused expression as Boba and the triplets helped Jango load fireworks into the back of the four-wheeler.

“Aren’t fireworks...generally a summertime thing?” Ben asked, leaning against the porch as they loaded up box after box.

“New Years is during the summer where I grew up,” Val said, coming down the steps, offering out steaming cups of coffee - decaf, Cody hoped - as she did. “Jango and I were used to New Year's fireworks. So…” She shrugged.

“Do you do this every year?” Ben asked, expression curious, and Cody left them to it, making sure the four-wheeler was appropriately loaded up. He’d handled fireworks the past few years, but Jango wanted to take care of setting them off again, with Rex and Ahsoka volunteering to help with the lighting, so…

So, he ended up sitting beside Ben, huddled out on the porch and wrapped up in a blanket as the four-wheeler set off into one of the nearby fields. “Warm enough?” he asked, feeling the heat radiating from Ben’s body, all along his side.

In fact, it didn’t feel that cold on the porch, not with so many of them sitting so close together. But the air bit, still, cold and crisp, even with the blanket of clouds overhead. There’d been flurries, throughout the day, and they were starting to come down more heavily, drifting through the air, heavy and white.

“Mm, yes,” Ben said, arm curled around him, shifting to make room for Wooley on the step below them. He looked tired - but nearly midnight was late for both of them, early risers by nature and habit - with darkened circles under his eyes.

“We’ll go to sleep, after this,” Cody promised him, and got a smile in return, sweet and fleeting.

“No sleeping yet,” Val said, wading through the pile of them, followed by Bly, who started handing out cups. They didn’t keep champagne flutes or even enough wine glasses. Everyone got what was available, coffee cups, tall glasses, and even a few mason jars, already filled.

Most of them contained sparkling grape juice.

Cody and Ben got champagne, by the smell of it, and Ben raised an eyebrow. “Don’t drink yet,” Cody told him, with a little grin, and Ben huffed a laugh, opening his mouth, only to be cut off by Echo, who stood quickly, holding up a hand.

“Get ready!” Echo shouted, everyone shifting around, vibrating when he started counting backwards from ten.

Cody nudged Ben at one, gesturing to his cup, and they all managed to drink more or less on time as, off in the fields, the first of the fireworks went off with a flash of brilliant color and a crash of sound.

Ben made a sound, both surprised and delighted, and Cody set down his glass, curled an arm around Ben’s shoulders, and pulled him over, kissing him as the first seconds of the new year ticked over, feeling something stretch out, filling up the entirety of the space inside his ribs, realization unfolding not in a flash but in a sweet, inevitable wave.

He stared at Ben, when they pulled apart, Ben turning to watch the fireworks lighting up the night, and knew that he wanted to kiss Ben every New Year’s for the rest of their lives, wanted to sit and watch fireworks with him, hold him after a long day at work, eat breakfast beside him--

“Hey, man, fireworks are that way,” Fives hissed in his ear, at some point, while elbowing him in the ribs, and Cody shoved back at him, but blinked and shook himself, turning his attention to the show up in the sky.

They’d gone all out.

They usually did.

The fireworks echoed out across the fields, the sound held close by the cloud cover. Cody knew, from experience, that there would be cars parked out along the roads leading to the ranch, neighbors and people from further in town, who came out to see the show every year, watching colors chase each other, heralding in another year.

Ponds started the cheer, when the last of the fireworks finished echoing, leaving bright afterimages on the inside of Cody’s eyelids, and they all pushed themselves up, gathering blankets and cups while excitedly talking, half of them cleaning up the porch while the other half of them lit out for the fields, going to help find the firework casings, making sure nothing had landed where it ought not.

Cody ended up standing at the sink, rinsing off glasses that Ben dried, listening in as Echo’s girlfriend - who had never attended before - talked to Ben, her hair pulled back and her cheeks rosy.

He was glad Ben had someone to make conversation with. Cody’s thoughts were buzzing, thrumming along. He felt...not quite distracted. More waiting, with the tension in his gut of anticipation and something larger.

It was snowing in earnest by the time the clean up was finished and Jango, Rex, and Ahsoka returned as conquering heroes, to cheers and applause. The flakes swirled around them when Cody and Ben finally managed to say their good nights, stepping off the porch and heading back to their space.

Cody held Ben’s hand, gloves in the way, both of them leaning together as they crunched across the frozen ground.

Cody made it to his porch before he pulled Ben to a stop, standing there in the softly falling snow and just...looking at him for a moment. Seeing the whole future, spread out around him, feeling - feeling everything, all at once, wild potential just waiting for him to embrace it.

And he’d never been any good at ignoring that feeling, at hesitating once he knew what he wanted. Indecision wasn’t a valuable skill in his career, nor a feeling he’d ever been comfortable with. He exhaled, just looking at Ben for a long moment, lovely and cold and--

Everything he wanted.

“So,” Cody said, tugging on both ends of Ben’s scarf, pulling him in closer, cold noses brushing together when he went on, the words just slipping free, like they were meant to escape his lips, “What would it take to convince you to marry me?”

He was close enough to see Ben blink several times in rapid succession, eyes so clear and so bright, even as Ben asked, “What?”

Cody felt his mouth curve, pulling on the scarf again, stealing a fast kiss as Ben’s hands came up to rest on his sides. “A nice ring?” he asked, thoughts running ahead, wondering what kind of ring Ben might want. Something practical, likely. He wasn’t the ostentatious sort. He kissed Ben again. “A big wedding?” Ben’s hands squeezed, his breath came out in a pant against Cody’s mouth. “A fancy honeymoon?”

“Are you - are you being serious?” Ben asked, voice wavering, and Cody could acknowledge that this was...a bit sudden.

But he knew how he felt. He looked at Ben and saw the future unfurling outwards and wanted it, wanted to make it his, to shape it into being.

He made a rough sound, let go of the scarf to cup Ben’s face, and pulled him into a proper kiss, long and deep. And, when he pulled back, Ben looking dazed, he said, “Yeah, Ben. I’m being serious. What would it take? Tell me, and it’s yours.”

The snow was starting to fall in earnest, thick flakes swirling around them, landing on the copper strands of Ben’s hair and his eyelashes. His cheeks were tinged red from the cold. Maybe from the kiss, but Cody didn’t want to presume.

Not even with Ben swallowing, staring at him without blinking, eyes searching.

Cody wanted to prompt him for an answer, even though it hadn’t been very long, perhaps a heartbeat. Maybe two. And then Ben exhaled shakily and said, voice thick and quiet, “Well. You could ask. Properly.”

Cody groaned, the sound torn from his chest, fingers clenching in Ben’s hair as he rasped, “Will you marry me, Ben?”

He felt Ben shiver, watching his eyes flutter, delightfully, and had a moment to grin - feeling victorious, that same heady kick that came with looking over at the timer during a competition and knowing he had the best time - when Ben murmured, “Yeah, Cody. I will.”

And then Ben was kissing him as the snow swirled around them and the world went on, unnoticed.

#glimmer replies #ask me anything #home (on the range)#the cowboy au #codywan #AND THEY SMOOCH #check your sugar there's a lot of sweetness here

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bee-s-honey · 3 years

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Describing HxH Character's With Pretty Scenery Or Actions Or Objects pt 1 (maybe)

I don't really know how to explain this but..enjoy!

Mention of a lot blood in Hisoka's!

Chrollo Lucilfer:

1800s ink from a crystal glass jar getting violently knocked over onto a poem written on parchment paper

Burning down a rotten building. It had vines crawling out of one window, but the window was already crumbling to the ground under its own pressure and the house looked like it was winking, yet still screaming at the same time. The grey of the sky is not able to compete with the orange of the hellish flames

One shimmering diamond with perfect shape and a gleam bouncing around the middle of it sitting on a silver band that has a quote carved into it

A dandelion, now roughed up from being thrown, resting on dirt. The flat land around is scarily undisturbed with no hills or bumps and it's so compact on the ground that it feels like stone

A purple candle alight on top of a wax catcher. It has purple flowers carved into it's sides and dust fills the lines. (I have no idea if a wax catcher is a real word for it it might just be described as a candle holder or something help)

Kurapika Kurta:

A honey colored glow from the sun on thick snow that hasn't been walked on at all in a very clear and empty place without shadows

A blood orange cut into neat halves on an old china plate, the blue lace designs on the edge bright for their time

When the water of the shower feels like needles after being outside in the cold to the point where your hands are almost numb and you can't tell if the temperature of the water is too hot or if your hands need to adjust

Maroon red cherries all clean on their napkin before somebody starts taking the seeds out and the color streams in bloody paths

Light blue crystals on golden chained earrings, similar to oval shaped diamonds. They reflect the light around and splay themselves across your jawline when you tilt your head.

Killua Zoldyck:

A large freckle on the very edge of a shoulder blade with moonlight from a window cascading down on it

A crunchy, cold strawberry covered in pink chocolate with sprinkles on top

Holding somebody's hand in the night while a thunderstorm rumbles outside. Light is reflecting off of their finger nails, their breath on your hand icy but present

The rough edges of a tab that you fidgeted off of a grape soda can

Blue raspberry flavored candy staining your lips and teeth while you laugh with your friends

Gon Freeccs:

An unrealistic cartoon version of a swamp. For something in nature it looks so clean, and each long strand of messy vines is defined and the water looks so grey but so clean you'd want to swim in it. Maybe there's fish in there that don't belong- coy fish, out of where they should be but so bright it feels right.

When the sun hits a raindrop just right and there's a rainbow inside of it as it slides off a leaf

A horseshoe above the front doorway, decorated with turquoise beads and carved plant shapes. Initials are centered from when it was first placed, but for a moment the horseshoe is taken down so more can be carved in symbolism of the protection of the family being shared

Tree roots sticking out of a hill edge with a family of flowers and a rusty bottle cap staying under them

Moss on top of charcoal, creating a little hill that the sun beats down on just before a stomp from large boots shoot mud everywhere

Hisoka Morrow:

Blood of an unsettling light color spilling onto white marble and somehow not staining it. Is it because it's fake? A scene for a movie perhaps? Or are you in a dream, only the smallest details being unrealistic?

A kiss on the cheek from lips covered in those kinds of round sprinkles before everything goes black

The feeling of when you're going up the roller coaster and realize the bar holding you down is a bit too loose. As the fear builds up you press your own hands down to keep it as best you can and you don't know if it's you that's making it work or if you were paranoid. Still you must hold on until it's over because you aren't sure and despite it all by the end it felt even better than the first time you rode

Lemonade mixing with blood from a nose after a glass was thrown at a face, stinging coming to play and glass stabbing into a cheek

Leorio Paladknight(?last name hard to write) :

The smell of musky yet sweet incense filling a comfortable office with only one lamp in the corner for light and the sound of the door opening as soft as a small *tap*

Chopped firewood sitting in a holder to be burnt. It has dark oil stains spilled just a bit, and beside rests rough gardening gloves that someone, someone safe like a dad or a husband or a friend, had used when cutting the wood

Coffee in a white mug. There's a chip on the rim of it, a dribble of creamer running down the cup from the hurried pouring job of a busy man

The sound of pages turning from somebody reading a book while scratches and scrapes of a pencil are from someone else drawing in a notebook

Illumi Zoldyck:

A white, pretty butterfly landing on a natural black mushroom, the long drooping shape making the under part a nice home to a few bright ladybugs hiding from the sun

Roses growing from a deer skull, overflowing with tiny little black Beatles that look like dried blood stained on the red

When the wind is so strong that you can hear it from inside your house and you think it's a loud, pouring rain, only to go out and all around it's dry and the wind is whipping around the trees, this odd feeling of euphoria and adrenaline kicking in just because of the absolute energy all around

When you look outside your window during nighttime, scared that you'll see anything even though you're safe in your home, and yet at the same time you're waiting- nearly wishing to see a face just run up for no reason

#hxh #gon #hxh headcanons #killua #hunter x hunter #leorio #anime #chrollo #hunter x hunter headcanon #hxh drabbles #hxh anime #hxh killua #hxh gon #hxh writing #hunter x hunter writing #anime writing #anime writing blog #hisoka

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drazzilder · 3 years

Text

A Winter’s Flight

By Drazzzilder

Chapter 8: Snow

Winter has taken over Japan this year. Almost the whole country is covered in a fresh blanket of white powder. Shoto and Natsuo are home for winter break and Fuyumi is visiting as well. You and Enji took the initiative to plan a vacation at a ski resort for the whole family, even managing to convince Enji to let Keigo come as well. You could practically hear Keigo yelling in excitement when you texted him the news.

E: “Is everyone ready? We need to leave soon so we don’t miss the Shinkansen.” He yells from the first floor.

F: “Almost! I’m just closing my suit case now!”

N: Coming down the stairs followed by Shoto “I don’t know what’s the big rush, we can just teleport there if we miss the train.”

S: “We used his powers before.”

Z: “You can’t rely on us for everything. You need to learn how to time manage.”

K: “I might be a mess according to your father but at least I’m on time. You all have been spoiled by Hellboy’s quirk.”

(Y/N): “I know I spoil them; I can’t help it. But we really need to leaving soon.”

F: “Coming!” She says running down the stairs. She trips over her feet and is about to tumble down but a few feathers quickly catch her and her suitcase.

K: “Careful!” He slowly lowers her back to the ground. He looks at her face which is flush with embarrassment.

F: “Thank you. I was in a rush and I guess I tripped over myself.”

Z: “Please be careful, we don’t want you to get hurt before you even get to the resort.”

E: “Now that everyone is ready, let’s go.”

You all leave the house and manage to just make the train. You and Enji are sitting right next to each other while Zaheer is facing you both, taking up 2 seats. Shoto and Natsuo are sitting next to each-other on the other side of the train while Fuyumi and Keigo are sitting behind them. You put Enji near the window to prevent him from turning back to look at the two constantly.

F: “I’m really excited you are coming with us.”

K: “I am too! I don’t know how (Y/N) managed to convince your father to let me come. He must have used some of that demonic power on him.”

F: “No need. My father loves him so much that if (Y/N) ask for something, he would make it happen no matter what.”

K: “I think it’s strange seeing him in love. I mean, look at them up there.” At this point Keigo is looking and you and Enji. Enji has wrapped his arm around you while you hold his other hand in his lap. Your free hand is holding your phone, watching a video together. “It’s kind of adorable when you see it. Such a large, imposing man absolutely in love with someone. It is nice to see him happy. When I was a kid, he was just grumpy looking all the time.”

F: “He has a tendency to be private about his personal life. They are definitely more open about their relationship now but for a while it was hidden. He was afraid of what the public would think; being married to a woman then a man. But, I am happy (Y/N) came into our life. Without him, my father might not be here.”

K: “What do you mean?”

F: “All that stuff I told you, he regretted it so much it was eating him alive. (Y/N) was there to help him process it. It was strange seeing him with a man at first but after a while we saw what he was doing for dad, we know why they fell in love. Now I can’t imagine the two not together.”

K: “I’m glad to hear everything worked out. I did want to know, what is it like living with a demon?”

F: “Hmmm, other than he looks different, Zaheer acts just like us. He is just another member of the family.”

K: “That’s boring…” he pouts. “Wait, I just realized. He has a wedding ring on too?”

F: “Technically only Dad and (Y/N) are married but my father gave Zaheer a ring as a symbolic gesture. He does live inside of (Y/N) after all.”

K: “Awww, does he like Endeavor too?”

F: “Yes. It might be strange, but this is our family.”

K: “Anything else about the big guy?”

F: “He does break things but that’s just because he is so big. He is really fun when you get to know him. Even Natsuo likes him, which I can’t say about a lot of people.”

K: “Kinda wanna see him at home being all silly. I only see him when he is being a hero.”

F: “You will probably see that on this trip. Why are you so interested in Zaheer?”

K: “I just think it’s strange that a demon acts like he does.”

F: “He loves (Y/N) and Enji so much, he would never hurt them.”

K: “Eh… I guess that makes sense.”

F: “That doesn’t mean he won’t come after you if you make him mad. He is quite a force to reckoned with.”

~Meanwhile~

(Y/N): “Don’t worry so much. They are fine.”

E: “I can’t believe I said yes to him coming.” He gruffs.

Z: “I can. You always say yes to (Y/N).”

E: “I know… I can’t help it.”

(Y/N): “I didn’t ask him to come just for Fuyumi. I wanted Keigo and you to try to get along.”

E: “What?!” His glasses begin to fog.

Z: “Calm down. We don’t want the whole train to hear you.”

(Y/N): “You don’t have to hang out but just see what he does for her. Maybe you can see why she likes him. Come on, give him a chance. For me?” You bat your eyes at him, all goofy like.

E: “Fine…. But only for you.” He kisses you on the lips.

It isn’t long till everyone arrives at the ski resort. It is high in the mountains, fresh snow everywhere. Everyone wastes no time getting onto the slopes. Shoto and Natsuo had no problem getting up the mountain but down was another story for Natsuo where Shoto was a natural at the snowboard. Zaheer had the hardest time trying to find equipment to rend but they eventually found something that fits his size, hopefully he doesn’t break the skis. You and Enji just skied down some smaller slopes, keeping things calm. You had to, on more than one occasion, remind Enji not to use his fire on the mountain. Keigo and Fuyumi went all the way to the top to try the black diamond slope. She was a little afraid but Keigo wasn’t. The fresh powder made for a great ski down the mountain. She did fall twice but he was there to help her up. Everyone met for lunch in the cabin Enji rented. Afterwards, they went back to the mountain again.

F: “I’m having a lot of fun, Keigo. I never have skied before.”

K: “You’re a natural! I knew it would be a good time with you.”

F: “Maybe my dad will lighten up seeing how much fun we are having together.”

K: “Eh… we can hope. Come on, we got time for one more run, want to try the triple black diamond?”

F: “I don’t know….”

K: Opening his wings “Don’t worry, I got you.”

F: “Alright. Why not.”

Once at the top, the two stand looking down the intense slope. Fuyumi is having second thoughts but Keigo holds her hand to help her. They slowly start moving forward and let gravity take them down the mountain. The two are going down at a good pace when something seems off. There is a rumbling coming from behind them. It is an avalanche! The snow is approaching so fast the two don’t have any time to react other than Keigo flying to Fuyumi and wrapping his wings around the two. The two are engulf in a mountain of snow as they tumble down the slope. Keigo is ok but Fuyumi starts to feel a little sick from all of the tumbling and falling they are doing in the snow. Soon there is no sign of light anymore as the they fall deeper into the powder. Almost as fast as the snow started moving, it stopped and everything is silent and dark.

K: “Are you ok?”

F: “I think I’m ok. How are we going to get out of here?”

K: “My feathers should do the trick…” He tries to move but is completely still. The snow has compacted so tightly around the two that he can’t even move his feathers. “Um… I guess we are stuck. Any ideas?”

F: “I have one…. Zaheer, can you hear me? Please? We are trapped.”

K: “What? He can’t hear you?”

F: “Remember, we are marked. Maybe he can sense something is wrong.”

In the cold silence, the two wait. They are scared but at least they have each other for comfort. Not much time passes and they start to hear rumbling again. This time, it is coming from right above them as they hear what sounds like digging and yelling. Soon, the darkness is broken with a bright light. A large red hand reaches for the two and pulls them out.

Z: Pulling the both of them close to warm them: “Are you ok!?”

F: “A little shaken up but we are fine.”

K: “Wait, how did you know we were here?”

F: “Like I said, we are marked, he can find us anywhere.”

Z: Now fully hugging the both tight while crying “When I sensed you under the snow, I panicked. I was afraid I wasn’t going to make it in time. Please don’t do that again. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t make it in time. I know I might not be your parent but I care for you too, Fuyumi.”

K: “Calm down big guy, we are ok. I managed to protect us with my wings. I think we are done with skiing today.”

F: “Yeah. Do you mind teleporting us back to the cabin?”

Z: “Not at all. You know I am going to have to tell your fathers about this, right?” He says after he manages to calm down.

F: “I know, just try to ease it on them.”

E: “YOU WERE IN AN AVALACHE?!” Enji is practically about to break Fuyuimi in half with how tight he is hugging her.

(Y/N): “Normally I would say Enji is overreacting but this is serious. You could have died!”

K: “I was there. I used my wings to protect us.”

E: He releases Fuyumi from his titan grip and starts hugging Keigo “Thank you, thank you for protecting her.”

N: “Wow! Dad, are you ok? This is a little out of the norm with for you.”

(Y/N): “He is still processing the car accident and this isn’t helping. His emotions are raw right now, give him some time. Also thank you Zaheer for rescuing them.”

Z: “Of course.”

E: Regaining his composer “Yes. Thank you Zaheer. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to get that emotional.”

F: “Its ok, we understand. Hearing that news would be jarring for any parent.”

(Y/N): “Why don’t we all relax in the hot tub for the evening.”

K: “Sounds good to me.”

The rest of the trip is much more relaxing. No one went down the mountain the rest of the trip out of fear for how Enji might react. They relaxing in the cabin, went to the spa, and even had karaoke night. The children didn’t know who was funnier to watch singing, Keigo or Zaheer. At the end of the week, everyone was ready to go back home. The train ride home was quiet and Keigo finally left to go home himself.

Next Chapter

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sdwolfpup · 3 years

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I waited until the @jaime-brienne-fic-exchange Festive Festival was mostly done before talking about the fics that I was gifted this year, since I know everyone was deluged with wonderful stories, and the ones I was gifted were all excellent and I hope hope hope you make time for each of them. These are the fics I was @’d on in one form or another.

First up is the fic that my assigned writer, @naomignome wrote for me, A Winter Wish. Naomi is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, but she also has an unbelievable knack for description even in comments, and such a good sense of tenderness and emotion and she brought all of that to her fic for me. In this, she takes one of my new favorite headcanons -- that Jaime and Brienne’s moms were friends! -- and transposes them to modern Westeros, where J & B meet as children during a tradition around the first snowfall. What’s especially brilliant about this is that she also keeps the years-long seasons, so the five (plus one) times they meet to do this spans a huge portion of their lives. There is humor and sorrow and flirting and sexiness and love underneath all of it. I was so happy when I saw she was my writer and this fic was fantastic.

They trudged in good humor to the closest park to the university, the air chilly and cold with the promise of snow. Brienne’s laughs came out in puffs of white, and Jaime yearned to jar the sound and keep it in his pockets for when he felt cold.

When the powdered snow began to drift down around them, he watched her smile openly into the sky, in a way that she only ever did at him and at first snow. He watched some lucky snowflakes catch on the soft tendrils of her pale eyelashes, and kiss the flush of her cheeks. The warmth wrapped around his heart, much like the mitten she had knit him wrapped around the stub of his hand.

For my stocking stuffers, I’ll go in order received. @potatothecat wrote me campfire stars in the distance. This is a lovely little modern AU vignette of Jaime and Brienne and all of their friends sharing a night around the campfire under the stars. It’s so quiet I can almost hear the crackle of the fire, and I can definitely hear Jaime’s very loud love for Brienne, even if their friends aren’t sure if it’s real between them or not. But they know it is, and that lovely bond between them comes through strongly.

They’ve done this a hundred times by now—on the couches in both their apartments, sitting on the floor across from Addam and Dany when the four of them meet up for game night, in restaurant booths, and now by the fireside—but it’s no less delightful for the familiarity of it. He’d spend his entire life pressed up against Brienne’s side if he could, staring into the dancing flames and laughing along with the rest of their friends as Sansa reenacts a prank she played on her siblings.

Then @eryiscrye wrote me Caught Gold Handed, which is a canon AU set after the Long Night, where Jaime and Brienne get in a snowball fight with the squires and orphans of Winterfell. That summary ALONE should sell you on this, if it being Eryi isn’t enough on its own. What’s marvelous about this is it’s a rare chance to see the canon characters having fun together, and the ways their love for each other comes through even in something as simple as Brienne helping Jaime make snowballs. No one can take this happily married version of JB from me, I will fight you.

She flushed, all blotchy and red. “We already slept in this morning.”

“We hardly slept. And that was this morning,” he replied as he happily pressed up by her side.

She glanced over at him, still shy, but also so bold, his darling lady wife. “We’ll go to bed early tonight.”

Jaime chuckled, “And yet sleep late.”

Brienne bit her bottom lip, “I suppose that is how all our days will go now.”

He beamed at her happily.

@kurikaesu-haru wrote Merry & Bright for a group of us and it is a delightful modern AU that tackles a bunch of tropes - fake dating! only one bed! Christmas activities! - in a fun, funny, and sweet package. The banter in this is wonderful and there are some tender little moments tucked in between the laughs (Arthur Dayne cutout!!) that are lovely to stumble on.

He rests his head against her shoulder, so his stubble scratches her skin, and he’s whispering in her ear. “And I’m glad you tricked me into standing under the mistletoe with you. Who else would I want to kiss as much as you?”

Brienne realizes, suddenly, that a lot of the things Jaime says to her mean, I love you.

@wildlingoftarth wrote a group gift fic as well, I want a house with a crowded table, which is a canon-based future established relationship fic that feels like coming home to family and sitting by the fire. It’s years and years later and Jaime and Brienne live happily in a cottage on Tarth and they’re welcoming their children and grandchildren for a feast. The weight of all their history and love is palpable. This is everything I want for them, and whatever canon may or may not says happens, this is where I believe they end up.

It is a life she never dared to hope for, never dreamed of in her days of fighting for this king or that, being sent on a series of seemingly impossible errands she accomplished through sheer force of will, and falling desperately and irrevocably in love along the way. That the man she’d fallen for had somehow developed the same feelings for her still fills her with astonishment at times, even after all these years.

THEN, @elizadunc wrote me Fêted Snow! This is a perfectly delicious little morsel of Brienne and Jaime married with kids (and more on the way!!), snowed in and making the most of it. Their banter and way with each other is so easy and familiar, their feelings and history are there, plain as the snow falling down out their window. It’s a delightful slice of their very happy life.

But then it had started snowing on Friday afternoon and apparently hadn’t slowed at all through the night. On Saturday morning when Brienne woke to a very insistently ringing phone she knew that the party, sorry, fête, was off.

She brought the phone back into the bedroom and smiled at the sight of Jaime stretched out across the bed in a starfish pose. He liked to claim he was an excellent bedmate but moments like this proved very much otherwise.

And finally, when my cup was already overflowing, @forbiddenfantasies1 came swooping in with Let’s Make This Next One Last and made me cry. This is a modern AU where Jaime and Brienne are happy and married (I would read eight thousand more stories where they are happy in an established relationship it is literally all I want from them) and their holiday plans get diverted when snow rolls in, cancelling a flight to see Dacey and Benjen (!!!). This fic is such a beautiful treatise on a long-term, mature couple who are struggling through the roteness of daily life. They still love each other deeply, it’s just life that is difficult right now, and their love and commitment to each other is what gets them through it. The tenderness and humor and history and beautifully hot sex are woven together perfectly into this utterly wonderful story.

Jaime was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her, and she felt her heart tighten in her chest for a moment just as it always did when she laid eyes on him. He was still so gorgeous, even after all these years they had passed together. His hair was more gray than golden, and his face was softer, more lined, but she still only saw Jaime. Every mark of time that he bore was simply a reminder of all they had been through together, all the days that he had been hers, and only made him more beautiful in her eyes.

Right now he looked like the golden retriever she so often compared him to, nearly quivering in his skin with excitement. He had changed into his sleep clothes, a pair of thin gray pants that hugged his hips and thighs in a way that always made her fingers twitch, and a long-sleeved black tee that went perfectly with his complexion. She nearly rolled her eyes before she caught herself. Only Jaime Lannister could make lounging around the house during a vicious snowstorm a testimony of how attractive he was.

Thank you, again, to all of my gifters, I am so grateful to have received these and it helped make my end of the year an absolute joy. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

#jaime x brienne #jaime x brienne fic recs #jaime x brienne festive festival exchange #overwhelmed with gratitude tbh #please go read these they're all excellent!!!#long post

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gambithq · 3 years

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FAHYRST

Along the northeastern coast of Haelion, just beyond the permafrost that occupies the continent’s northern tip, lies the small city of Fahyrst. Though for most of the year Fahyrst is too cold to attract many visitors, its summers are temperate and comfortable, and it is commonly thought to be the farthest south travelers can go in order to see one of Haelion’s finest sights: the Night of the Endless Day. On the days surrounding the summer solstice, the sun in the north of Haelion does not set for five full days—and in Fahyrst, infamous for the carnival it holds in honor of the solstice, the celebration begins when the sun first touches the horizon on the first day and does not end until it sets completely five days later.

Fahyrst, it is said, spends most of the year preparing its humble habitats for the hospitality of the Carnival. As its greatest attraction, there is a massive increase of traffic to the small city for the festival. This means an influx of trade, of tal, and of intrigue: they say those who venture to Fahyrst for the Endless Night never get bored.

The city itself holds several possible sites of interest: an open-air marble temple to the city’s patron god Laimyre, god of winter winds, the healing of old wounds, and the melting frost; a tall tower from which people claim to be able to see the edge of the continent, though the veracity of this claim is disputed; and the wide fields of frost-flowers, a rare potions ingredient with healing powers, grown only in the permafrost and cultivated only in Fahyrst.

CARNIVAL OF THE ENDLESS DAY

The Carnival of the Endless Day is an elaborate celebration that has grown out of what was once a much humble festival. The sun provides unusual warmth for so far north in the continent and so close to the tundra, which means absolutely no one wants to be inside for as long as the sun is out and the weather is warm. The streets and plazas of the city are flooded with bustling excitement and joyous celebration.

Among these celebrations, you can expect to find:

COSTUMES: bright, colorful silk costumes are the traditional garb of the festival, light for the warm weather and elaborately decorated. merchants eagerly sell fine costumes in every imaginable hue, each brighter than the next, and anyone not in costume can be expected to be stopped frequently by those selling their wares as they navigate through the festival.

COCKTAILS: the city’s taverns throw open their doors and pour into the streets for the duration of the festival, with plentiful outdoor seating set up. to attract business, tavern keepers craft elaborate and colorful cocktails in floral flavors to serve to anyone passing by, some swearing magical properties to the drinks, others with elaborate showmanship—drinks set on fire, drinks with flowers growing inside the glass, drinks that exude puffs of pink smoke, each more over the top than the next.

BLESSED BEADS: some say that the Carnival of the Endless Day was not always a festival centered around the idea of luck—there used to be a winter solstice festival famous for such, long ago. and yet, luck is what many people make their way to the Carnival for these days, those looking for a little extra fortune purchasing strings of blessed beads—colorful glass beads with small flakes of metal inside them, crafted by the priestesses of Laimyre in the temple, a skill unknown to anyone outside the temple walls.

DANCING CONTEST: a two-day long dancing contest occupies the central city square, free for anyone to join. tradition states that the longer you can dance without falling, the longer your luck will sustain you for the year to come.

SOLSTICE LOTTERY: for the low price of a small donation to the temple of Laimyre, you are granted the chance to blindly draw a glass bead from a large jar just outside the temple, with each color representing a fortune for the new year. red beads mean conflict, friction, growth; white mean neutral fortune, a steady and reliable year; silver means good fortune, a little extra tal in your pocket and perhaps a fortuitous encounter or two; and gold signifies great fortune, the kind often reserved for kings.

PERFORMANCES, PARADES, AND OTHER SPECTACLES: great outdoor stages are erected around the city for musicians and other performers to entertain upon, and often the crowds from these performances spill back into the streets and move through town. from almost anywhere, you can catch a glimpse of a crowd of people in costumes, dancing and singing. not to mention, of course, the elaborate fireworks show the moment the sun finally sets at the end of the carnival.

TRAVELING MERCHANTS AND ARTISANS

In addition, the carnival is filled with performances, parades, and various other spectacles, as well as a wide array of merchants and traveling artisans setting up stalls on the outskirts of town to sell their wares.

OUT OF CHARACTER

After several weeks of traveling eastward from a stop near Lodorwind, the Gambit will reach Fahyrst on the day before the Carnival begins, and stay through its duration before heading south along the coast, hoping for a chance to have some fun and make some tal doing odd jobs around the festival. A shop inventory of items available for purchase in the city and at the festival can be found below the cut – please message the main if you would like to purchase anything while in town.

Missions in and around Fahyrst can also be found below the cut. To claim a mission, please post the title of the mission and the two characters claiming the mission in the #mission-claims channel on discord. Fahyrst missions should, to the best of your ability, wrap up around the 16th of May.

MISSIONS

1. THE LAIR OF THE BEAST. Several travelers to Fahyrst have reported being attacked by a massive, shaggy, snow-covered, unidentifiable beast on the road into town. Worried that the beast will disrupt travel into the city for the Carnival, Fahyrst’s captain of the guard Ellora Kel is commissioning any brave enough to find the beast, slay it, and return to the city with proof before the outset of the festival. ( REWARD: 50 tal ) GWYN & VASHKA

2. SECURITY DETAIL. The Mayor of Fahyrst, Darwen Oaswell, fears that his estate at the center of town may be broken into or vandalized during the course of the festival. A recently elected and rather unpopular man, he believes members of his opposition will use the festival as cover for robbing him or otherwise embarrassing him, and to avoid this, has offered to hire you to guard the mansion for a portion of the festival. ( REWARD: 60 tal ) OPEN TO MULTIPLE PAIRS

3. A MISSING CHILD. A young girl named Misty Ridenour has gone missing, and her mother Sera believes she ventured into the fields of shimmering purple frost-flowers just outside of town and got trapped or hurt somewhere inside. The frost-flowers, which grow on stalks of up to eight feet tall, are prickly and difficult to maneuver through, but Sera is willing to provide a reward to anyone willing to venture into them to locate the missing girl. ( REWARD: 25 tal or 3 oz. of frost-flower petals ) ADRIK & TATSUO

4. MAKE YOUR OWN LUCK. A student magician from Lodorwind, Razia Morn has traveled to the Carnival because he desperately needs luck this year, as he embarks upon his final year at the Academy. His best friend Kolra, tired of Razia’s superstitions, wants your help to fix the lottery draw to ensure that Razia gets a golden bead and stops wasting their money on foolish endeavors. ( REWARD: 35 tal ) GAVRIL & OVID

5. THIEF IN THE NIGHT. While the priestesses have been distracted by the Carnival, someone snuck into the temple undetected and stole an important relic—the jaw bone of the blessed frost-dragon. It is imperative that someone track down the thief, recover the relic, and return it to the temple before they have a chance to escape. ( REWARD: 75 tal ) GAVRIL & VASHKA

6. A SURREPTITIOUS MESSAGE. A mysterious cloaked figure with a raspy voice approaches from behind your left shoulder and slips a piece of paper and several coins into your hand. On the paper, instructions to find an elf named Solaire somewhere in the crowd of dancers and tell them the red will run when the hawk calls thrice. The instructions promise more coin if and when the task is completed. Seems easy enough, right? ( REWARD: 35 tal ) OPEN

7. THE SHOW MUST GO ON. World-renowned lutist and singer Clarion Call has been commissioned to perform on the third day of the Carnival, but mere hours before they are meant to perform, their manager Markia finds them dreadfully hungover at one of Fahyrst’s many outdoor taverns, unable to perform. She’s willing to pay heftily for anyone capable of impersonating Clarion and performing in their stead, so as not to ruin their reputation. ( REWARD: 85 tal ) CALLIOPE & OVID

8. THE PERFECT DRINK. Adarius Contravere, one of the Carnival’s two most impressive drinkmakers, has invented what he swears will be the perfect drink. The only problem is: he’s missing an ingredient, and a rare one at that. Desperate to one-up his competition, Ravenswing Ebonaria, Contravere has offered quite the fee to adventurers willing to venture northwards into the permafrost to bring back the necessary ingredient—a small piece of crystal known as giant’s tear, which instantly freezes anything it touches. ( REWARD: 60 tal ) GWYN & TATSUO

9. AN IMPOSSIBLE SIGHT. From high in Fahyrst’s tallest tower, a teenage girl named Varthé has claimed to see the silver wings of the legendary frost-dragon. While most who hear her think she must be making it up—after all, frost-dragons have been extinct, even this far north, for well over three hundred years—if she’s right, dragons are said to drop scales and teeth that make some of the strongest armor in the Fade, which might be worth hunting down. ( REWARD: rare materials ) GAVRIL & GWYN

10. HEALING TOUCH. A short way outside of the city you encounter an injured traveller on the side of the road, alone and in desperate need of healing. Though you watch several other travelers pass by her without making any stop to help, you decide to see what you can do for her. She turns her head up to you and says, “you have shown that you are true of heart. if you are true of strength as well, you will be rewarded.” ( REWARD: a spell of choice ) CASSIAN & VASHKA

11. THE CURSED ORB. Arlo Higgenbothom, a traveling wizard and showman who is in town to sell charmed trinkets at the Carnival, has approached you with a dire problem in need of solving: he misplaced a small and terrible cursed orb roughly the same size and shape as the glass beads used in the temple’s lottery drawing, and he fears it may have ended up in with the other beads, or in someone else’s hands. ( REWARD: 55 tal ) TATSUO & ZHENYA

12. THE OVEREAGER VANDAL. A young upstart political revolutionary wants to plaster the temple, the tower, and the mayor’s home with pamphlets advocating for the People’s Movement of Fahyrst. The only problem is: he’s banned from every major building in the city thanks to his last attempts to sabotage the mayor’s campaign by vandalizing public buildings, and every guard in Fahyrst knows his face. To get his pamphlets in place, he either needs a very good disguise, or he needs someone else to do it for him without also getting caught by the guards. ( REWARD: 45 tal ) OPEN

13. A PROLONGED ENGAGEMENT. A young halfling man named Basil has asked for help locating his fiance, Cedar. The two are from different towns, and met three years ago at the Carnival, and though they have written letters, they have only been able to see one another here each year, and thus had planned to wed before the end of this year’s Carnival. However, having been unable to locate Cedar, Basil is worried either that Cedar thought better of it, or that something has happened to prevent him from reaching the city. ( REWARD: 65 tal ) GAVRIL & ZHENYA

14. MIRROR OF SHADOWS. Among the wares of a traveling merchant, you find a mirror that—rather than showing your reflection when you look into it—shows instead a swirling void of shadows, with something you can very nearly make out within. When you touch the mirror, it whispers to you that it must be taken to the top of the tallest tower, where it will reveal its secret. Unfortunately, the salesman refuses to part with it for less than 1600 tal. ( REWARD: the location of a much-desired object, person, or goal ) LUCKY & OVID

15. ESCAPE ROUTE. A young woman in a hooded cloak stops you, offering all the tal she has to help her to escape the city undetected. When asked why, she is hesitant to provide further details, only insisting that her life is in danger if she has not safely left town by the time the sun goes down. ( REWARD: 75 tal ) OPEN

SHOP INVENTORY

if you would like to purchase any gear or supplies from the shops in Fahyrst, message the main. the following items are available (estimated prices listed):

a show-stopping cocktail ( 3 tal )

a blessing from the temple of Laimyre ( 5 tal )

a bag of crushed frost-flower petals ( 10 tal per oz. )

a fine healing potion ( 60 tal )

lucky Carnival beads ( 10 tal )

a fine colorful costume ( 15 tal )

basic spell or potion components ( 10-30 tal )

an enchanted sapphire ring with freezing powers ( 75 tal )

a cloak of disguise ( 80 tal )

a hand-sized harp that never goes out of tune ( 35 tal )

#fantasy rp #new rp #skeleton rp #fantasy rpg #literate rp #fahyrst #loc

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gdotsand · 4 years

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Que sera, sera

Pairing - Armitage Hux x Reader (Modern Au)

Summary - Coming home for Christmas with bad news is nerve wracking, but coming home to you is all he needs.

Word Count: 2,700 (ish)

Warnings - Nothing, I wrote something without the word fuck in it so y’all should be proud

A/N - Well, this whole lockdown situation is getting to be a little bit. So I did a thing! This might be slightly self indulgent but I just, i’m soft for husband Hux and I love him and wanna protect him. So I guess that’s where this comes from at almost 6am.

It was late when Armitage arrived home. Granted, it was always late, very rare was it to see your husband walk out of the office earlier than around 7:30 pm. Yes, he always made exceptions for birthdays, ballet performances and the like (even if there was the odd missed violin recital but to be quite honest if you heard another kid old play twinkle twinkle little star again you were going to lose it yourself, so you couldn’t quite hold a grudge for his absence for too long).

Armitage always made time for the important moments, however, the memories that when he was old and grey, he could look back on wistfully and remember a time when he loved nothing more than coming home to his girls. Especially on Christmas eve. Because unfortunately, there was always a small part of his brain that knew kids grow up and go off to university and he wasn't yet ready to wish for the fantasy of having you all to himself again. Just as he had as a younger man. When there were no hints of grey, when he wasn't such an important partner at the firm, his name never gracing an office door. An all together simple time. Armitage was finishing up his law degree and you were halfway through your own in English Literature and everything seemed to be possible.

Your lives could have taken you anywhere, you could have done absolutely anything and boy did you take that as a challenge. Never once taking for granted the memories that made their way into photographs that now littered your house. Filled with bright smiles and younger faces, without laugh lines and any sign of sleep deprivation or hesitation of any kind. Vacations and trips captured and kept within trinkets you had collected on the way, sat on bookshelves and kitchen countertops as though they weren't a lifetime ago.

He took a moment stepping out of the cab into the stark white-covered streets, the bitter coldness of the snow seeping through the very sole of his dress shoes making his teeth chatter together just a little bit more as he watched the soft glow through the front window.

He half expected to see the house in darkness and have to unwrap his various layers whilst holding onto the substantial pile of paperwork that was nestled firmly in the crook of his arm without a single shred of light and he was almost positive if he knocked over the fern to the left of the front door one more time you would kill him. So, he let himself, there at the bottom of the driveway, watch the gentle flicker of a clearly dying down fire and thanked the stars that he would not have to babble out apologies whilst cleaning soil of the tiles once more.

It's at least a minute more before he completed his journey home for the holidays, pushing through the front door as he shook the soft white flakes out of his slicked-back hair, damped at the ends by the elements. The snow melting away before it even had a chance to settle on the floor.

Firstly, his scarf, unwrapped from around his neck and placed on the hook closest to the door, then his coat and suit jacket, shrugged off his shoulders however caught in firm hands numbed from the cold before being placed on the same hook.

Armitage was always methodical, routine centered at the very core of every action he made, something from his childhood with a military father that he just could not shake for the life of him. Everything had a place and every place had a thing. Which is why he toed off his shoes firstly left and then right, never right then left, and lined them up with yours on the mat by the door.

It truly did smell like Christmas, soft notes of cinnamon and vanilla somehow not drown out by the overwhelming pine and firewood and the scent filling his senses as he padded his way into the living room. Nimble fingers rolled up the tight sleeves of his once crisp white shirt exposing strong forearms as he called out your name softly, it was dangerously close to midnight after all. All of this before catching sight of the bundled up trio. All softly breathing, light snores falling from your eldest's (if only by 18 minutes) open, drooling mouth as she clutched her tiny hands into your jumper. A spray of bright red ringlets fanned out over your chest and she slept deeply.

Of course, they had his hair, as if some higher power was adamant that everyone who laid eyes on the girls needed to be reminded that they were Armitage's pride and joy. When the twins were born they were completely bald, not a single hair graced their head and you mostly overcompensated by colorful headpieces and bows and then they got older only for bright red ringlets to form after a few months and Armitage couldn't have been happier.

Soft blue eyes fell to your youngest, tiny thumb firmly pushed into the roof of her mouth as she used your hip as a pillow. All rosy-cheeked. Her other hand gripping onto a stuffed bunny's ear with more force than you would think a 6-year-old was capable of.

Finally, he looked over you from head to toe. From the fuzzy socks still encasing once cold toes, to the book that now lay ignored against your stomach. Of course, you were reading 't'was the night before Christmas', you had read it to them every single year since they had been born and although the book which was once a gift from your own mother to you now had a broken spine and dog eared corners you could never bring yourself to part with it. You'd always say that most loved books were battered, tear-stained and torn in places but treasured none the less.

It was only as he plucked the glasses from falling off the tip of your nose that you woke with a groan, only cracking one sleepy eye before being met with your husband's gaze.

You hummed a greeting as he leaned in to place a gentle kiss against your brow.

“They really wanted to wait up for you” you gestured with your only free hand to the small bodies entangled in your limbs to which Armitage just gave a soft huff. “long day?” you asked, all soft in the eyes just happy to have him home.

"Something like that, we should probably untangle you from these two" and he ruffled the curls on top of Fliss's head before gently prising her sleeping figure away from you and into his arms before she started to stir awake. Armitage shot you a look of panic, thinking he had made an absolutely terrible mistake and awoken the sleeping dragon as it were. However, Fliss just buried her nose further into her father's neck, smacked her lips around slightly and once again became a dead weight in his arms. You huffed out a chuckle and Armitage exhaled dramatically enough to get the point across before turning and making his way upstairs.

You followed behind, carefully lifting your youngest to be placed against your chest before following closely on his heel.

After you respectively flicked off nightlights, placed gentle kisses against cheeks and whispered wishes of sweet dreams, bedroom doors were closed and the real work would begin. It took around half a second, your hand still clutched around the metallic knob before you felt your husband's palms run around your waist, resting his chin right on top of your head. Needy fingertips making themselves known against your hip bones. He wasn't a man with a lot of words, not really into small talk, Armitage was always a man of touch. To be honest, it's all he needed to get by, there was nothing that man could say that could not be conveyed through the smallest of actions.

You know somethings playing on his mind, however, you know there’s a pile of paperwork and documents on the sideboard by the door with confidential, bold and red spread across the top page because you eyed it on your way up here. But you’re also aware that the grandfather clock at the bottom of the staircase has informed the pair of you that time has steadily crept past midnight and into Christmas Day and this conversation isn’t one for this very second.

So he breathes you in for a moment longer than necessary and lets you pull him back downstairs and into his office.

He didn't use it all that often to be quite honest but it still housed dark woods and floor to ceiling bookshelves all the same. Still had his favorite wedding photo set in a golden frame, it's not his favorite for aesthetic reasons. No no, it's his favorite because every time he sees you in that white dress, arms draped around his neck, cheeks rosy from one too many glasses of champagne it really hammers home the fact that he found such love and stability in you.

It's only then that he spots the mountain of presents that need to be arranged around the tree. Golds and rich browns of wrapping topped with any kind of bow or decoration you could think of and he side-eyes you from the corner of his vision.

It was cliché that you always said you 'aren't going crazy again this year' and yet there was always an abundance of gifts, always cookies in the treat jar that sit on the counter, always some form of chocolate or candy piled into a cheesy decorative bowl you would never part with and most importantly always a good bottle of scotch hidden at the back of the drinks cabinet, only to be opened once the clock struck midnight and there was no more preparation to do.

You know what he's thinking as you move across the room and start gathering boxes into your arms, careful not to tread on anything that may have fallen from the pile that you look up and say "next year, next year I promise I will" and Armitage just rolls his eyes, smiling whilst he does and moves to help you gather everything together to take into the living room.

You're carefully filling the last stocking hung high on the fireplace, and the familiar squeak of a cork leaving a bottle almost brings you out of a trance. Before you can fully acknowledge how tired you are a rocks glass is being pressed in your hand. You take it, looking up at your husband with an all too knowing face, he's trying his most damn to find words in the back of his throat that just won't seem to string together. You bring your face close to his and whisper a soft 'Merry Christmas' against pink lips before pressing him into a kiss.

The sentence is bearly audible but the kiss not quick and it's not lacking in any form of understanding or love, and it's definitely not simply out of habit. You did this a lot, whenever something plagued the back of his mind you would simply result in kissing it out of him, and Armitage, always the man who firmly believes that actions speak louder than words, lets you.

He lets you with all the enthusiasm in the world.

"Ren's taking over from Snoke, he's out, there are going to be newly named partners" came out all at once, when you pulled away in an attempt to catch your breath and in all honesty, the confession did nothing except knock the wind right out of you. All together you thought it would take a little more coaxing, a little more of the brown liquid burning his throat before he fully let go of whatever was bothering him.

You take in his creased brow and watch as a half sigh half huff passes through his lips. You're all too eager to find out what this means, what this means for the firm, for him, for you and the girls and the only thing you can do really is rub a small pattern on his shoulder and let him spill out every bit of information he has. So you offer him some expression close to pleading and slowly take a sip of your scotch.

"He wants me to head up the London office full time, he says he's going back to New York. Something about tensions in the family, I didn't really press for too much intel. I don't really think it's my place" and he punctuated his continuation with another sip.

You hum something that vaguely sounds thoughtful to his ears, really just trying to let more time pass so you can gauge his opinion on the situation. It's not hard, from the grip on his glass to the strands of red hair that is no longer slicked back but messy because hands have been raked through the locks over and over again. He's indifferent, as always, this isn't his normal shade of indifference. It's careful and it's still trying to be calculated because you can quite frankly see the cogs in his head turning ever so slowly. but You press.

"Well, how does this affect us"

He pauses and a small smirk plays against the corner of his mouth, it's small but its there and you focus on that before he explains. "It means that my name, our name, will be above the door" A beat. "next to his". Its information that has you whistling on a downward key and mouthing a 'wow'.

Your tentative about your next question, not because you're afraid of the answer, because you know what being a named partner at such a big firm will mean. It will mean that his schedule will be wilder, his business trips longer and stress levels too boot. You know all of these things but his eyes, those ever so muted blue eyes are saying more than his mouth could ever speak because he's staring at you carefully, almost as if he's trying to anticipate the worst possible reaction his brain could come up with. So you decide to put him out of his misery and lay it all out there.

You're trying not to let the partial sadness be shown in your own delicate features in the soft lamplight but evidently, it's not working.

He's instantly reaching his hand in search of yours, instantly needing your soft warm skin to ground him into the moment because he knows he's about to break your heart. Because from his perspective taking this position means leaving the only thing he loves in this world without him. It means that he will miss things, he will be so late home that the house will be in darkness and he will knock that damn fern over. He knows this. But part of him, the small piece of him deep down that craves the power his new position will come with wants him to accept blindly and ignore the fact that you will wake up next to a cooling dent in the bed and fall asleep with the same empty pillow next to you. He knows, Armitage knows that this would be good for business, he knows it would be good for the family's future in the long run but right now it's tearing him in two practically in front of your eyes.

So you adjust your gaze, run your soft thumb over the back of his hand and press another kiss to his lips. With the same message as always. Unweaving support, unconditional love and a fierce commitment to your family that's etched into the very DNA of you.

His gaze softens slightly, and he knows. Knows in his heart that all of it will be okay when you look at him like that when you kiss him like that.

And just in case he's wondering, you add your trademark saying to seal the deal.

"Que sera, sera"

#amitage hux #general hux x reader #hux x reader #general hux #general armitage hux #starwars fanfic #starwars

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hamlets-ghost-zaddy · 5 years

Text

queen of peace

Part 4/10 Shifty Powers x Reader

A heavy snow blankets Aldbourne Friday night, but you find Shifty on the front stoop, his tracks trailing behind him, bright-eyed, red-cheeked, but right on time. Always on time.

“You must be absolutely frozen,” you exclaim, ushering him and slamming the door behind him, choking the winter chill before it can sneak in. “Where’s your scarf? And your hat?”

Abashed, Shifty allows you to take his Army-issue tank-jacket, replying, “Well, our supply officer hasn’t gotten them in yet, and it seems wasteful to go buy one when they should be coming in any day now.” You could appreciate that: you’ve felt your coin purse lightening for the past month with the demands of holiday spending.

Still, you frown. “I don’t think the Army wants you getting frostbite, though.” Without needing to be instructed, he follows you through the sitting room, dining room, and hangs a right into the workshop. You pull down his work from last time—an old scrap of muslin littered with his shaky attempts at a whip-stitch—and the spare button tin, adding, “Stitching or buttons today?”

“Buttons, if you don’t mind. Mine keep popping off only a few days after I fix ‘em,” he replies, accepting the offered muslin before digging out his compact sewing kit from his breast-pocket. “And maybe they think frostbite will toughen us up a little? It might be a new training tactic Sobel has discovered to help us beat the Germans.”

You eye him, eye his smile, turned up at the little joke, and want to ask about Sobel, how things are going with him. Shifty never outright gripes about Sobel, not like George or Allen Vest, but you’ve gathered from his fleeting comments that his upheld optimism—his policy of goodwill—stretches to breaking with Captain Sobel. Yet, is it your place to ask? Is that something a friend asks after? Are you even friends? You settle for a safer response: “Your buttons probably need more anchoring, or you’re using the wrong thread.”

Shifty nods, and follows you to the worktable. You demonstrate different techniques of anchoring a button on his scrap of practice muslin, before setting him to his work as you return to George Luz’s trousers. You hemmed one pant-leg after breakfast, over your fourth cup of tea of the day, and you wanted to finish the other before the end of Shifty’s lesson, hoping he’d play delivery boy for you.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Shifty asks, threading his needle. He’s gotten faster at it over the past month.

“Oh,” you begin, patting around your mind for an acceptable lie. Truthfully, beyond Margaret’s Christmas Eve tea and Christmas mass, you’re doing very little. You made Mother and Margaret a few little baubles, waiting for the money from the nurses’ orders to come in before deciding if you could buy Mother the tea kettle she’s been mooning over, but beyond that, gifts would be little, too. You settle on a fraction of the truth: “Well, since moving from London and my father, he, um . . . well, we don’t really celebrate. Mother doesn’t seem to have the energy for much on Christmas.”

Shifty nods, his lips twisting in a frown. “Do you want to celebrate?”

Under his sad eyes, pity softening them, you squirm, scrambling to justify: “O-of course, it’s just that money…um, we can’t.” And God, you hated that word—money—it makes you sound wretched, someone who really does deserve kind-hearted Shifty’s pity; someone who can’t take care of herself. You try your utmost to not let anyone, not Margaret, not Shifty, not even Mother, realize how truly tight things are and you had admitted it to him. Why did you admit it? you internally demand, and grab for the first distraction you can: “You’re sewing your sleeve to the muslin.”

“What?” Shifty squawks, jerking his attention away, easing a physical weight from your shoulders and you breathe a quiet sigh. You offer Shifty the little silver scissors for thread, assuring him it’s a common enough mistake—‘I did it all the time as a little girl’—and once he’s making tentative stitches on his muslin again, an embarrassed, pursed-lip smile glowing on his face, you allow yourself to grin down at George’s pants.

You resume hemming and, hoping to avert returning to the previous topic, you ask, “What does your family do for Christmas?”

“Gee, what don’t we do?” Shifty asks enthusiastically, apparently forgetting he’s supposed to be embarrassed, his expression opening wide. He sets aside his sew in his enthusiasm. “All the Powers relatives, my Pa’s side, gather up at Granny’s house for the whole week of Christmas to New Years, and we go out and chop down a tree, decorate it and the rest of the house endlessly, roast chestnuts and the game us boys shoot during the day. Pheasant, duck, goose; Granny’s a magician at cooking them so they’re the best thing you’ve ever tasted. I usually help Ma with her cookies, and my Auntie Gertrude with her pies—pies of all sorts: apple, pumpkin, rhubarb, pear. Oh, and I can’t forget Uncle Floyd and his famous mashed potatoes.” He winks. “You’ve never tasted nothin’ until you’ve tried what that man can do with a potato.”

Shifty loses his train of thought then, his eyes growing murky as he sinks into memory and your heart twists just to look at him. He stares at some vague point in the workshop, but you’re sure he’s seeing his uncles and aunts and cousins, he’s smelling the magnificent perfumes of cooking wafting from his Granny’s kitchen. Quietly, you ask, “Is this your first Christmas away from home?”

He blinks once, twice. You watch his senses return, watch his eyes refocus on you, and your heart twists—maybe fractures a bit, adding another crack to the patchwork already fissuring it—that the excited light of recollection doesn’t rekindle. “Um, yeah,” he confirms softly.

You consider taking his hand, you consider squeezing his fingers together to assure him that, though you are a poor substitute, you’re here for him.

Yet, before you can weigh the implications of that gesture—if it’d read as anything beyond friendly—Shifty pointedly returns to his button practice, nodding to George’s trousers as he does. “What are you working on there?”

“Oh, George Luz’s trousers. He needed them hemmed, and I actually need to get them back to him.” Head bent over the trousers, sliding out straight-pins from a freshly sewn hem, you don’t see Shifty’s lips pull into a frown, his shoulders hiking, rigid and stiff. You continue: “Actually, would you mind horribly delivering them for me?”

“Of course, I’d be happy to oblige,” he replies, and you frown at the flatness of his words, the automated quality. Before you formulate a question—the right amounts of casual, innocuous, and inquisitive—your Mother trots in from the kitchen, fixing Shifty with a radiant smile.

It’s a smile that used to be a staple of the London atelier, her eyes crinkling into winking crescents—back when she had every reason to smile with unrestrained excess, to smile and not worry about economizing the energy it spent—and it has been coaxed out over the past month and a half through virtue of Shifty’s presence (or so you’ve deduced). “Hello, Darrell, darling,” she chirps, setting down her loaded tea tray.

You eye the tin of biscuits nestled on it—a tin of biscuits you don’t remember Mother having on her shopping list—and you clamp your lips to keep from asking and embarrassing her.

“Hello, ma’am,” Shifty replies, popping to his feet, submitting to Mother kissing both of his cheeks before offering his assistance with the tea. He asks every week, Mother always delightedly insisting ‘I’m quite capable, thank you, darling,’ though you know from Shifty’s smile that he’s aware of how happy it makes Mother that he’d think to ask. Shooed back to his place the worktable, Shifty begins to your Mother, “Oh, I almost forgot! I got something for you; I asked Ma to send it for you.” He fishes a little jar from his breast-pocket. The clear glass allows you to see the pale-yellow paste inside. “I know it looks unpleasant, but it has turmeric in it and my Granny swears by it. If you put this on like lotion, it should help the aches and pains in your hands.”

Mother blinks once, twice, before her smile blossoms—all white teeth, and twinkling-crescent eyes. Watching her graciously accept the gift and subjecting Shifty to another round of cheek-kisses, you allow yourself to pretend you had taken his hand, you had assured him he isn’t alone on this side of the Atlantic, and that the fond smile he currently wears is for you.

(But, you think, desperately grabbing for a ploy to buoy your dark thoughts, surely this gift is a good thing? Surely it proves Shifty is your friend? After all, what is he, if not a friend, when he brings gifts to your mother?)

. . .

Margaret finds you outside the cookware shop, nose pressed in a highly undignified, indulgent moment of ogling, squinting through the frost-kissed window at your Mother’s tea kettle (well, not really her tea kettle; the money from the nurses’ wages had come in, but it didn’t allow for any superfluous spending like a tea kettle after all). She pounces with a: “Just who I was looking for!”

Squawking and stumbling back from the window—nearly plopping into a snow bank—your arms pinwheel before latching on Margaret’s shoulder. “Margaret!” you exclaim at her satisfied grin. “Are you trying to scare me to death?”

“Of course not,” she assures, not in the least repentant. If anything, her grin has stretched wider, the she-devil. “Because then I couldn’t draft your help.”

“What possibly for?” you ask, straightening the hem of your coat and brushing off a few stray snowflakes. For good measure, you readjust your stocking-cap. “What mischief are you cooking up? I don’t want nor need you dragging me into anything.”

“Mischief? Nothing of the sort,” Margaret assures unconvincingly. “I only talked Father out of the Christmas Eve tea—”

“What?” you squawk, “But, Margaret, I have everyone’s gifts ready and the cakes—”

“But we’re to host the parish’s Christmas Eve party for the American soldiers!” She bounces on the balls of her feet, curls swaying around her face quite fetchingly. You eye them darkly, finding the fetchingness utterly hateful.

“How on earth did you manage that? What happened to the church’s community room? Did you burn it down?” You squint at her.

Rolling her eyes, she clicks her tongue. “Of course not, but there was a bit of a booking conflict. The Christmas Eve Party for the London orphans needed to be somewhere, too, and I just so happened to mention to Father that hosting a party at such a convenient location like our house, right in the middle of the village, might foster more friendliness between the Americans and the locals. It is the season of goodwill and peace to all men, after all.”

You decide against breaking it to her that there’s a war on, and goodwill and peace might be hard to come by, opting instead to point out: “Where are you going to get the things to decorate for a party? Almost all the shops are picked over.”

“Easy,” Margaret replies, stretching the word and even winking. You scowl. “I’ve cabled up to the American headquarters and they thought the party is such a good idea that they offered to donate decorations. In fact, some of the boys are delivering it tomorrow, which is where you come in.” She playfully taps your shoulder even as your stomach lurches at the mention of American boys, finally confronted with the source of your disconcertion: a party with Shifty; a Christmas party with mistletoe and Shifty, no less. Oblivious, Margaret continues: “Would you be a dear and come conduct the decorating? I’d only steal you away for the afternoon.”

Though every instinct in you hollers to refuse, to decline attending the actual party, while you’re at it, Margaret wears her most charming of smiles and you know you only have one option. “Well . . . I guess.”

. . .

You’re barely through the door when Margaret springs, trumpeting: “You’re here! Finally! You must help me face down the hoards; they’re going every which way, and I simply cannot make sure everything is being done correctly!” You raise your eyebrows at Margaret, her usually pristinely fluffed hair disheveled into a great gnarl, before peering around her shoulder. Her family’s sitting room is awash in brown-uniformed boys—American soldiers putting baubles on a real tree, American soldiers cutting out paper chains of angels, American soldiers arranging garland on the fireplace, up the staircase railing, around the archways into the dining room and kitchen. You return your attention to Margaret, blinking. She reads the expression, sighing. “Yes, I know; it’s a monstrosity. Help me, would you?”

Grinning, you ask, “Where do you want me?”

Shoulders sagging in relief—you wonder if any of the boys asked Margaret for instructions before blindly embarking on a decorating rampage—Margaret briefly rests her forehead on your shoulder. “Bless you.” Drawing in a noisy breath through her nose, she straightens, calling. “Skip? Would you help y/n with the ladder and go see about putting up the mistletoe and garland on the front door outside? Then ribbons and wreaths on the lamppost and fence?”

A brown haired young American—his face a study in angles, giving the impression of puckishness—materializes from the activity, answering the name of ‘Skip.’ He nods at the instructions, eyes igniting at the word ‘mistletoe,’ while your eyebrows steadily climb. “Wow,” you breathe, “The Americans really fixed us up, huh?”

Margaret shrugs, smile bemused. A crash, a glass shattering, and a round of colorful curses sends her scurrying away, leaving you to stick out a hand to Skip. “Good to meet you. Looks like we’re project partners for the afternoon.”

Shaking your hand, he returns, “Nice to meet you, too, and even nicer of you to sign up for the pandemonium.” He juts a chin to the source of the crash: a short, Italian-looking soldier standing over a shattered punch bowl with a guilt reminiscent of a puppy piddling on the good China rug, Margaret turning a steadily more concerning shade of red nearby. Adopting a conspiring grin, Skip asks, “Should we evacuate while we still can?”

“Probably for the best,” you agree. Once you and Skip identify the boxes with decorations for outside, haul them to the garden, and fetch the ladder from the shed, you make the executive decision to begin with the lamppost and fence. “Seems like the easier of the two tasks,” you reason, Skip eyeing the eave above the front door with the same trepidation you feel on your own face. You don’t want to begin thinking about the amount of wire, rigging, and finagling it’ll take to fix the mistletoe up and still allow for the door to open.

Skip proves to be a remarkably competent and amusing project partner, beginning with observations about how nippy England is, but that it’s really nothing compared to upstate New York (“sorry to belittle the ferocity of your winters, I’m not saying I don’t appreciate how quickly I lose feeling in my nose and toes, but the snow is up to here at home right now!” He gestures to ear-height and you giggle, unsure if he’s serious but amused by his wide-eyed gravity nonetheless). Perhaps to punctuate this point—though it only succeeds in cementing your opinion all boys are idiotic, regardless of nationality—he regales you with a tale of swimming the Niagara (“the river, not the falls,” he assures. “I’m not as dumb as I look, you know”).

(You politely don’t respond to that).

It’s getting on to four when you declare the fences and lamppost satisfactorily festive, the weak winter sun begins dipping toward the horizon. The hour, it seems, calls a little gang of Americans soldiers from Margaret’s house. They look delightfully warmed, you observe jealously, from spending the day inside. You stamp your feet and scrub your hands on your forearms, as Skip calls: “Hey guys! Headed back already?”

“Yeah, don’t want to give Sobel a ready-made reason to give us shit,” replies one of the boys, who Skip introduces as Alex Penkala, before touching his hat to you. “If you’ll excuse the, uh, expression, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry, Maggie tells me y/n is friends with Luz,” Skip says, slinging a chummy arm over your shoulder. You don’t mind it. “She’s heard worse language and idiotness—err, idiocry?”

“Idiocrity?” offers the red-headed American; you’ll learn later his name is Donald Malakery, and have to hurriedly pinch your nose to keep from snorting in a very unladylike way. “Idiocrasy?”

Sucking his teeth, Skip shakes his head. “Hmm, still doesn’t seem right. Do you think it’s even a word?”

“Where’s Web when we need him, huh?” Penkala asks. “The only time he’d come in handy.” The other two boys snort, voicing their agreement with smiles splitting their faces. It takes a few minutes of shooting the shit about this Web fellow before one of them—Malarkey—seems to remember they meant to collect Skip and be on their way.

Apologizing for leaving you with a half-done job, Skip grips your shoulders solemnly, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Listen, Maggie says we’re playing charades at the party, and you’ve gotta promise me you’re going to be on a team with us.” He gestures to Penkala, Malarkey, and himself.

“We need someone with a brain on our team,” Penkala offers. Malarkey aims an elbow jab at his ribcage. “Ow,” he mutters, though his smile belies any regret for the comment.

Laughing, and offering a gratuitous agreement—Skip asked out of polite inclusivity, and you know he’ll forget by the party—you wave them off with a smile, wishing them a good evening. Watching their shadows recede into the growing twilight, you dance from foot-to-foot, trying to encourage warmth back into your limbs while also dawdling mightily on the inevitable: putting up the mistletoe.

You eye the front door’s eave apprehensively.

In a purely theoretical sense, you are the woman to tackle and triumph over this damnable mistletoe conundrum. You’ve rigged shift dresses to lie flatteringly over chesty woman, you’ve created hourglass figures from the flattest of silhouettes, you’ve broadened a boy’s shoulders into a man’s; you can say, without arrogance, that you’ve worked a fair share of miracles. But, in a purely realistic sense, you feel conquered by the mistletoe before even beginning.

Puffing out a sigh, sending a wisp of your hair fluttering, you march smartly to the ladder Skip slogged out of the shed. Deciding a sensible starting point would be to at least inspect your canvas, you haul yourself up one step, two, three, and—“Don’t you dare go any higher without someone holding your ladder!”

Your heart restarts, you catch your breath, startled from your lungs, and check over your shoulder to see Shifty hurrying along the lane, worry darkening his face. He’s still not wearing a hat or scarf, you notice. The other boys, you remember, sported homemade or store-purchased winter wear (unless the American Army suddenly indulged in pompom stocking caps, like Malarkey’s, or yellow and black scarves reminiscent of a bee, like Penkala’s). Maybe he’d like them for Christmas? You catch yourself thinking. You physically shake your head to dispel the thought.

“Don’t shake your head, all obstinate; no, ma’am,” Shifty laughs, halting at the base of your ladder, gripping it with his steady hands, grounding you. “Ladders can be awfully dangerous.”

“Really, Shifty—” you protest, but it feels weak and more obligatory than pointed. A little candle of warmth has kindled in your chest at the concern lacing his voice. You know you’re foolish, selfish and silly, but you can’t help preening under his attention. “Well, alright, I suppose if you’re holding the ladder, would you mind passing up the mistletoe?”

“Mistletoe?” Shifty repeats, tone edging on awkward.

“Yes, it has pointed leaves and oh—” you begin to explain, interrupted by its presentation at your side. Casting a smile to Shifty, accepting the mistletoe and climbing the last few rungs of the ladder, you briefly glimpse his face, pinker than a moment before. Digging steadying fingers into the top step of the ladder—more to keep you from whipping around and minutely studying Shifty’s expression, deducing what it could possibly mean—you inspect the eave. Multiple nails from decorations’ past litter it as well as a lip in the molding that attaches the eave’s roof to the house; its idle for anchoring mistletoe. “Do you have the same tradition about mistletoe in the States?” you call down.

Momentarily, you wonder in horror at your own daring.

“Um, what—what tradition is that?”

“Oh, well,” you begin, pausing to gather your courage. “If two couples are caught underneath, its tradition to kiss.” You lean against the ladder, patting a wary hand along the eave to check for more nails.

Perhaps it’s the unaddressed kiss, perhaps it’s the lingering longing to clasp his hands—his perfect hands, callouses and all— in yours, perhaps it’s his lack of hat and scarf and the uncertainty if you ought to make them for him, perhaps it’s the persistent speculation of if he’s giving you a gift and what he means by it—going around giving a girl a Christmas gift—but the words are from your mouth before you’re sure of why: “You know, a lot of local girls are going to be at the party—Margaret said she’s inviting almost everyone. Are you thinking of catching anyone under here?”

You’re too much of a coward to look back at him, too much of a coward to break the following choked silence, and, as you walk home well into the evening gloom, Margaret having insisted you fill your belly with hot chocolate and fresh ginger snap cookies, you decide it’s for the best. It’s better to paint yourself as chummy—chummy like Skip, arm-thrown-shoulder and everything—as a friend, who Shifty can confide any secret pining to than delude yourself. Than trick and hurt yourself with thinking his concern or his blushes mean anything beyond Shifty being, well, Shifty.

Too kind for his own good.

tag list: @maiden-of-gondor, @medievalfangirl, @gottapenny, @wexhappyxfew @mayhem24-7forever

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #Shifty Powers #shifty powers image #shifty powers x reader #pining #mutual??? pining #romance #my writing

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asterythm · 5 years

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A is for Amour || Home Again, Home Again (3)

Pairings: Eventual Logicality, eventual Prinxiety Word Count: 6.6k Chapter Summary: Roman lives with his boyfriend most of the time, but comes back to visit his family every other weekend. Of the two houses, only one is home. Chapter Warnings: pain/injury mention, argument mention, food mention, sleeplessness/insomnia, general negative emotions, toxic/abusive relationships (specifically, roman and a character who was originally supposed to be deceit when i first started planning this story way back when. i don't know if monet is really deceit anymore, but if you're not a fan of abusive deceit then i'd say maybe steer clear of this fic just to be on the safe side. <3)

<< First Chapter || < Previous Chapter || Read this chapter on AO3

Roman Foley had to actively restrain himself from slamming his car door as he headed towards the front porch of the house where he’d grown up.

It wasn’t that Roman wasn’t happy to be home; quite the opposite, in fact. There were few things more important to him than his biweekly visits — as anyone who had ever met Roman could confirm, the young man talked about his family very fondly, and very often. (To be fair, the entire Foley family tended to talk very often in general.)

It was because of Monet, you see.

Well, no — that wasn’t entirely true. Granted, Roman’s boyfriend was a large part of the reason that Roman’s teeth were gritted and his fists were clenched, but it wasn’t fair to put all of the blame on the lovely Monet Triche. They had only started arguing earlier that day because of how much Monet cared, and Roman could hardly get upset about having a caring significant other in his life, after all.

Still, it was getting to be absolutely exhausting, having to tell Monet the exact same things over and over and over again every single time he wanted to visit home. It didn’t make sense. Monet knew perfectly well that Roman visited his family every other weekend! He’d been doing so ever since his first year of college, long before he and Monet had met, or fallen in love, or moved in together. Rain or shine, snow or hail, no matter the workload, Roman would always set aside time for the ones who’d raised him.

And rain or shine, snow or hail, no matter how many times Roman had repeated himself, Monet would somehow always take it as a personal attack whenever Roman wanted to spend time with anyone else. It was really getting on Roman’s nerves, having to constantly explain the same things every time the subject came up: It’s only going to be for two days / I just want to spend time with my family / I’ve got a life outside of our relationship, too, you know / No, no, I didn’t mean it like that / I’m not trying to imply that I don’t need you in my life / I just have other things that matter too / Of course, I’m not replacing you / I could never replace you / You’re all I need / Nothing matters to me more than you do…

Sometimes, Roman felt almost like a broken record; stuck in a loop, only capable of repeating variations of the same phrase. He’d tried changing the music, once. The experience had taught him to never try it again. It was so much easier to just stick to what was safe. The truth was, Roman knew that his boyfriend’s anger was simply unavoidable. Rather than wasting his time trying to prevent it, he might as well focus on the next best thing: pacifying Monet as quickly as possible.

To tell the truth, his reasons for wanting to keep Monet happy were a little selfish. Roman just couldn’t stand knowing that someone was mad at him. Especially when the someone in question was as near and dear to Roman’s heart as his boyfriend was. Monet was too kind, too caring, too considerate, too perfect. The idea of upsetting him was positively sickening to Roman.

And yet.

As much as he’d like to pretend that today had only been a fluke, the truth of the matter was that the two of them were fighting. more than ever lately. No matter how hard he tried, Roman was always slipping up, always saying or doing the wrong thing. Throw Roman’s short temper into the mix, and, well… it wasn’t hard to see where all the bickering was coming from.

Had today’s argument been his fault, then? Maybe. Probably. After all, the past two or ten or so had all been his fault. Why not this one too?

Without warning, a stab of pain jarred Roman back into the present. He glanced down to see his hand curled into a fist, fingers clenched so tight his knuckles were turning paper-white. Ouch.

Rubbing at the four little half-moon indents his nails had left, Roman forced all thoughts of Monet out of his head. What’s done is done, he reminded himself. The conversation was done and over with; now he was at last where he was meant to be. Where he wanted to be. Where his mother’s joyful laugh and his father’s steady arms and his brother’s bright eyes lived.

Roman’s keys jingled merrily as he unlocked the front door of his home.

He barely managed to set a foot inside before Patton came flying down the stairs, barrelling right into his chest. Fortunately, Roman had been ready for this — intentional or not, his younger brother always greeted him the same way — so instead of losing his balance, he shut the door behind him and swung Patton around in a tight hug, all in one fluid motion.

“Good to see you too, Pat,” Roman laughed as he gently let his brother down. “I’ve only been gone for two weeks, you know. Like always.”

“Yeah, but that’s two weeks too many! I always miss you so much when you’re on campus. Why can’t you just come back to live with us again?”

An eyebrow went up. “This again? You know exactly why, Patton.”

“Yeah, yeah, the house that you and Mr. Perfect live in is closer to J. M. Stokes College than our place is. It’s just…” Patton sighed. “It’s been so long since you moved out, and I know that means I should probably be used to it by now, but the house still feels so empty all the time without you around! I was just being silly, though. Obviously, I’d never actually ask you to leave Monet. It’s really easy to see how much you two care about each other.”

Easy to see how much we care about each other, huh? Might want to get those glasses checked, little brother.

No sooner than the thought slipped out, Roman stiffened. Where did that come from? He and Monet did care about each other. They were just going through a bit of turbulence, is all. Nothing to worry about.

Nothing that his family needed to know, either; especially with how overprotective his parents could sometimes get, Roman figured it was better to avoid raising unnecessary concerns. He and his boyfriend could work their relationship out on their own.

Roman managed a smile. “Yeah. Thanks, Patton.” He knew even as the words were leaving his mouth that they didn’t sound quite right; something in his voice felt crooked, bent, unnatural. And judging by the way that Patton’s face subtly twisted, his little brother had picked up on it too. Roman’s smile fell away as he started desperately praying that Patton wouldn’t ask about —

“Roman, is there something wrong?”

Shoot. Roman’s mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, as he frantically cast about for an excuse. He came up empty. Shoot, shoot, shoot! Now was not the time to be drawing a blank! It wasn’t like he could just tell Patton that he’d fought with Monet; one thing would lead to another, and then before he knew it his family would be asking him all sorts of hard-to-deflect questions. But what else could he say?

Just as he was starting to panic, two familiar faces appeared from around the corner, and the relief that crashed into him felt almost tangible. “Mom! Dad!” he called out, smiling genuinely this time.

“Good to see you, Roman.” Dot and Larry Foley greeted their eldest boy with a hug (albeit much tamer than the one he had given to Patton a moment ago) before hustling both sons further into the house, tutting about the cold weather and Patton being underdressed and Roman needing to wash his hands. Grateful for the distraction, Roman was more than happy to oblige.

***

Warm water slipped between his fingers, sending heavily-scented suds spiraling down the drain. The small room was completely filled with the smell of bilberry-and-thyme soap he’d been using, so intense that Roman was almost feeling a little lightheaded. His family was still awfully fond of their scented stuff, apparently.

(Oh well, it could be worse. At least they’ve moved on from their floral phase. Roman shuddered, remembering the days when every single toiletry they owned came from this fancy yellow-tulip pack that Patton had adored, but Roman had detested. That phase had lasted his family at least a solid year and a half. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t a power on Earth that could convince him to go back to that awful time.)

Inspecting his palms, Roman was glad to see that the little crescent marks made by his fingernails had disappeared. He found himself hoping that perhaps he’d been mistaken; perhaps, Patton hadn’t really noticed Roman’s odd behaviour after Monet had been brought up.

It was a foolish hope, of course — Patton’s quick, emotionally-attuned mind could catch even the slightest shift in mood — but that didn’t stop Roman from hoping nonetheless. He just didn’t have the energy to lie to anyone else.

Fortune favours the beautiful , he’d once heard someone say. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, all rich red-brown hair and dark eyes and sharp features, Roman had his fingers crossed that those words might turn out to be true. He’d need all the fortune he could get over the next two days.

***

“So how’s Into the Woods going?” Dot asked as soon as the four of them sat down for dinner. It had already been a few weeks since rehearsals had begun, but his mother and father were still just as excited about the production as they had been way back when Roman was first cast as Cinderella’s Prince.

Roman answered her between bites. Rehearsals had been going fantastically well. In fact, only a few days ago, Roman became the first and only actor to be off-book. The young lady directing their musical production had been very pleased at his dedication — a fact that she didn’t hesitate to make clear. She had held Roman up as an example to the rest of the actors, saying that the others all ought to be off-book as soon as he was. He’d pretended to be embarrassed, of course, but really he’d been having a blast gobbling up all of the praise.

What had been less fun was when his director decided that, since Roman was off-book, she was going to take away his script entirely until the show was over. This information had not sat well with the rest of the cast, who weren’t exactly keen on the promise of seeing their scripts disappear into the director’s Black Backpack of Doom (as they all fondly referred to it) as well.

“It took me a dozen donuts to convince her to give it back,” Roman finished. As his family laughed, he felt himself starting to relax a little bit. “That reminds me of something that happened just the other day, in fact. At the end of one of our recent rehearsals, our Baker came up to me and said...”

Gesturing animatedly, Roman began a new story. And then another one, and another, and another. He talked about missed cues and flubbed lines and wet paint and high notes, about anything and everything he could come up with.

Truthfully, though it may have seemed like Roman was only babbling on because of how much he loved the sound of his own voice, there was more to it this time. He was only telling so many stories in a desperate attempt to keep his family interested in the topic at hand. The last thing he wanted was for them to get bored and switch to something else (read: Monet).

As Roman finished talking about a dance number gone wrong, he could feel his mind racing, struggling to come up with something else to say. His plate was almost empty. He only needed one more anecdote to see him through to the end of the meal. But nothing was coming to mind. Think, Roman, think!

Larry Foley cleared his throat, leaning forward. At the sound, Roman’s heart sank into his shoes. That was a sure sign that his father was about to change the subject.

He had to say something. As a last-ditch attempt, Roman turned to address his brother. “So — uh — Patton — how was your first week back at school? You missing the winter break yet?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roman could see his father slowly settling back. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. Safe.

Meanwhile, Patton poked at his food, refusing to meet Roman’s eyes as he replied. “About as bad as you’d think. Turns out, a couple weeks away from Mr. Mitchell wasn’t enough to get him to get off of my back a little bit.”

Roman made a face. “Dragon Witchell still getting you down?”

“Yeah, but it’s whatever. Same old same old. I’m pretty much used to it by now.”

“Oh! That reminds me!” their mother chimed in.“Patton just had his first tutoring session yesterday!”

Roman perked up. “Oh, that’s marvelous news! How come you didn’t tell me that you were starting tutoring, Pat?”

“Didn’t want to bug you,” Patton shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

“But really, how has that been going for you, Pat?” said their father. “You didn’t give your old man to many details yesterday, you know.”

“Just gave us the whole leave me alone, I’ve got homework due tomorrow speech and bolted.” their mother explained to Roman. “You know the one. You used it more than a few times yourself when you were in high school. Anyway, we left him alone since we knew that you’d be able to get all the juicy gossip out of him today.”

Roman didn’t know what to say to that. On one hand, he didn’t want to pressure his brother into sharing details if Patton wasn’t ready yet. On the other… he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t even a little curious.

Luckily, he ended up not needing to say anything at all. Patton spoke up instead. “First of all, quit saying things like juicy gossip, mom. It doesn’t actually make you sound cool. You have got to stop listening to everything your students tell you. Second, the reason I didn’t tell you anything is because there’s really nothing to tell. The session went exactly the way we were expecting; I showed up at the library, the guy introduced himself and asked me a couple of questions, I left. Just like I already told you — I got to meet the guy who’s going to make me smarter, and that’s it.”

Their mother gave Patton a stern look. He flinched.

“Sorry. Um, I got to meet the guy who’s going to fix my marks. Is that better?”

Apparently not. Dot wasn’t satisfied yet. “That’s not the point of these sessions, Patton. He’s not ‘going to fix your marks’, or fix you, or anything . Your tutor — what was his name again, Larry?”

“Logan Berry,” their father supplied.

“Right, thank you — your tutor Logan is just going to work through your homework with you and sometimes give you some questions to solve. It’s really just extra review for what you’re covering in class. Nothing about you needs to be fixed , all right?”

“Okay. Yeah. You got it.” With that, Patton hurriedly shoved his last forkful of spaghetti into his mouth, then got to his feet before he was even finished chewing. The wooden legs of his chair scraped loudly against the ground. They all cringed in unison.

“Patton!”

“Sorry, mom!” Swallowing, Patton grabbed his plate to carry it over to their kitchen sink. “Did you want me to wash the dishes today?” he called over his shoulder.

“Yes, thank you, love.” Roman’s mother lowered her voice and leaned in conspiratorially, muttering across the table to her older son. “I just know there’s something he’s not telling us. And if anyone can figure out what that something is, it’s you.”

“I can still hear you, mom!” called Patton from the other room, with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“No, you can’t, sweetie.”

Patton’s only response was to turn the kitchen tap on at full blast, very conveniently drowning out the conversation between Roman and his mother.

Despite the loud water, though, Roman never was one to pass up an opportunity to put on a performance. Matching his mother’s dramatics gesture for gesture, he glanced exaggeratedly around him before replying in an equally hushed stage whisper. “I mean, I’m curious too, mom, but I don’t think that Patton could be hiding anything important. They’ve only just started, haven’t they? What secrets could he possibly be keeping? So, as flattered as I am that you have this much faith in my — admittedly impressive — detective skills… I think that if he doesn’t want to talk about it, we ought to respect that choice.”

Dot sighed dramatically. “You’re right. Goodness gracious, why do you have to be so mature, Roman, really? You’re making your mother look bad!”

Swallowing his last bite of dinner, Roman grinned. “You could never look bad, mom. I promise you, you’re the most beautiful woman I will ever know. Beyonce’s got nothing on you.” He punctuated his statement by grabbing his now-empty plate and getting up to give his mother a kiss on the cheek.

“Roman, you stop that!” laughed his mother, giving him a good-natured shove. “Oh, you’re just so darn cute , I can’t handle it. Go help your brother with the dishes.”

“Sorry, I just can’t help it. My natural charm waits for no one , ” Roman joked in response before obediently turning away. With his back to his mother, Roman waited until he was nearly into the kitchen before finally allowing himself to breathe a sigh of relief.

I made it! he cheered silently, a smile stretching from cheek to rosy cheek. Dinner’s over, and not once did anyone mention —

“Yes, well, save that charm for your boyfriend, why don’t you?”

…Monet.

Roman forced his feet to keep moving, praying that his mother wouldn’t notice the way that his shoulders immediately tensed up.

***

2:06 am. 2:07 am. 2:08 am.

Roman lay still, staring at the blinking numbers on his bedside clock. He’d tried everything he could think of to fall asleep, but a nice cup of calming tea, a warm shower, and at least fifty-six quadrillion tosses and turns later, his eyelids were still refusing to grow heavy.

Try as he might, he couldn’t get his boyfriend’s disappointed face out of his mind.

The fact was that their argument from earlier was still weighing heavily on him. But something wasn’t adding up. For one, who was he even mad at? For most of the day, he’d thought the answer was obvious — Monet, of course. Now he wasn’t so sure.

With every second that ticked by, it became clearer and clearer that Roman wasn’t getting any sleep tonight. If that was the case, he might as well try to work apart this tangled knot that was growing in his mind.

Roman began by asking himself a simple question, figuring he could work his way up to answering some harder ones once he’d laid down a foundation of facts. Silently, his lips formed words: how are you feeling?

That was easy. Angry. No, guilty. No, bitter. No, jealous. No, confused. No —

Perhaps this question wasn’t as easy as he’d thought.

Roman lay in the dark, struggling to figure out the right word to describe how he was feeling. Nothing was coming to him. Why was this so difficult?

He pondered. By his head, numbers blinked. Slowly, gently, Roman blinked too.

***

Roman’s bedroom window was ablaze.

Delicate fingers of frost curled across the glass, illuminated by golden ribbons of sun. Millions of tiny rainbows were scattered across his carpet, a dazzling light show the result of the sun hitting the window just right. The vision was breathtaking, otherworldly...

And entirely unwelcome.

Rubbing at his bleary eyes, Roman wondered, not for the first time, why he always seemed to wake up just when the sun was at its brightest.

Oh, well. At least he was awake. He wasn’t completely sure at what time he’d fallen asleep last night, but even it had only been for an hour or so, the short rest had worked wonders.

Surrendering to the bright sunlight, Roman rose out of bed with a yawn and luxuriating stretch. He had to admit that things seemed a lot better in the morning. Today, he decided, I’m just going to forget about Monet. I can figure out what I’m going to do about him when I get back to campus in the evening. I only get to see my family every other week — there’s no way I’m spending the entire visit too caught up in my own life to enjoy the limited time I have in theirs.

The unmistakable smell of bacon frying greeted him as he made his way down the stairs, pulling his shirt on as he went. Roman inhaled deeply. When he let his breath back out again, he could feel the last traces of negativity from the night before escaping with it. It was impossible to be upset with bacon on the grill.

“Good morning, world!” he sang out — literally — as he turned into the kitchen, making a show of closing his eyes and wafting his hand under his nose. “Mmm. That smells downright delectable, dad.”

“Breaking out the alliteration already, are we? Someone’s in a good mood today,” said his father, giving him an affectionate pat on the back. Loading a plate with a few pieces of bacon plus a slice of toast, Roman turned to make his way towards the wooden table, where his brother was already halfway through a slice of his own. (His mother was still asleep, of course; she never got up before noon if she could help it.)

“Morning, Roman!” Patton said around a mouthful of breakfast. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

It took a second for Roman to realize the full implications of his brother’s words. He froze.

Briefly. Then, he remembered his morning resolution — no worrying allowed, least of all about Monet. Holding tightly to that thought, Roman started to move again. As he reached for a jar of Crofter’s, he asked, as nonchalantly as possible: “Why, whatever do you mean?” The Crofter’s kept evading his fingers, just barely out of reach.

His brother passed him the jar. “Well, it seemed like something was getting you down yesterday, but I didn’t wanna ask. Sorry, should I have not brought this up?”

Gesturing with the spoon he was using to spread jam, Roman breezily waved off his brother’s concerns. “Never fear, Patton, I’ve just been stressed out of my mind about schoolwork lately. Have I told you yet about the colossal paper I need to write for Theatre History 201?” When a shake of Patton’s head indicated that he hadn’t, Roman launched into an explanation about the difficult assignment, playing it up to be the only thing that had caused his strange behaviour yesterday.

Their father sat down next to them about midway through Roman’s spiel, coffee in one hand and newspaper in the other. “Sounds stressful,” he commented once Roman was finished, before promptly adding, “but I’m sure you’ll do perfect, as always. I wouldn’t expect my clever boy to ever settle for anything less.”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” Roman replied, chewing. “But I can’t help but worry all the same. It’s an important paper.”

“Don’t be silly, Roman. I know you. You have nothing to worry about.” Roman couldn’t help but feel a little uncomfortable at the finality of the words — what if his father was wrong, and Roman ended up letting him down?

That said… it was true that Roman had a history of perfect scores. His father was probably right; important or not, this paper would become nothing more than another item to add to that list, in the end.

“Thanks, dad.”

“Anytime, pal.” Satisfied, Larry Foley stood with a yawn, peering into his now-empty coffee mug before heading back into the kitchen, presumably to fill it back up again. Roman didn’t miss the meaningful look that their father threw at Patton on his way out, though the meaning was lost on Roman.

Patton seemed to understand it well enough, however.

Roman noted his brother’s angled eyebrows, drooping shoulders, pursed lips. Being an actor had its perks; for one, the subtleties of body language hardly seemed subtle at all to Roman’s trained eyes. But at the moment, he couldn’t help but wish away that particular skill. Watching Patton get sad was like watching a puppy cry. And oh, Roman did not want to think about puppies crying.

He hastened to change the subject before he could be attacked by any more distressing dog visuals. Roman waited until his father was completely out of the room, then spoke quietly. “Patton, I told mom last night to leave you be, but I have to admit I’m still curious about the whole tutoring thing. I mean, maybe there’s nothing to talk about in terms of the whole boring words-and-numbers-and-teaching part, but… how are you liking the actual person tutoring you? I think mom said his name is Logan, right?” His brother’s face changed, almost imperceptibly, at the mention of his tutor’s name. Aha! Encouraged by this apparent success, Roman pushed on. “Don’t get me wrong, I completely get it if, for any reason at all, you’d rather not talk about that guy right now. But I know you, Pat, and I know when you’re hiding something. If you so choose to share that something with me, I promise you I won’t tell anyone else.” He grinned. “Prince’s honour.”

Patton hesitated, and Roman could see the cogs turning behind his brother’s eyes. He held his breath.

Then, at last: “Roman, it’s… it’s nothing serious, honestly. I think you’re making this whole thing a lot more intense and dramatic than it needs to be.” Patton huffed out a breathy half-laugh. “I just didn’t really want to say this in front of mom and dad, but the truth is —”

“Hey, I’m gonna stop you right there.” Roman’s gaze slid from Patton’s face to the doorway behind Patton, where their father stood, newspaper comically close to his face and coffee mug nowhere in sight. “Dad, for all the directing work you do, you’d think that you would have picked up at least some acting skills by now. You’re trying way too hard to pretend that you’re not listening.”

Larry lowered his newspaper, flustered, trying (and miserably failing) to paste an innocent expression onto his face. “What? I’m — I’m not eavesdropping! I’m just waiting for the coffee to finish brewing!”

“You had a completely full carafe when I came downstairs twenty minutes ago and you’ve only had one mug of coffee since then,” replied Roman. He adopted a thick British accent. “ Elementary, my dear dad.”

“Alright, fine.” Recognizing that he had been defeated, their father was forced to give up. “Sorry, kiddos. I’ll give you two some privacy.”

As their father retreated back into the kitchen — for real this time — Patton couldn’t help but giggle at the good-natured banter. Roman was grateful to see how much more relaxed his brother seemed now. He pushed his plate aside to rest his elbows on the table. “Okay, so my interest is piqued. Lay it on me, Pat.” An almost-wicked smile suddenly split across his face. “I want to hear all the juicy gossip you can spare.”

Patton drew in a deep breath. Opened his mouth, closed it again, stuffed a piece of bacon in his mouth to stall for time. Roman waited patiently.

Then, swallowing hard, Patton finally managed to squeak out, “Logan is, um… he’s kinda cute . ”

“Oh?” Roman’s eyebrows raised. “Kinda cute , is he now?”

“Yeah. I mean, no, he’s really cute. I was expecting some grumpy guy in a hoodie or something! Not someone like Logan. ” Patton didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. “Like, tall, handsome, with swoopy hair and shiny eyes that I could swim in. The whole package.” One fluttered uncertainly at his chest while the other ran through his hair, almost exasperated. “He — he wore a tie to our first meeting!”

By the time he was finished speaking, Roman’s eyes were alight with a shine that could rival even the brightest of gems, and his teasing tones were just as bright. “Sounds like someone’s got a crush. Never fear, you’re looking at the best wingman the world has ever seen. You need me to play matchmaker? I’ll put Cupid to shame, just you wait!”

But Patton shook his head. “No! Stop it! He’s way out of my league. And besides, even if he wasn’t… after all the rambling I did last night, I’m surprised he’s even letting me come back next week.” He pretended to fiddle with his glasses in an effort to hide his blush. (It didn’t work.) “I got, um, really nervous when I saw him, and you know what happens when I get nervous. He literally had to give me a five-minute speech about how desperately I needed to shut up.” Patton chuckled, until he realized his brother wasn’t chuckling with him. “Seriously, it’s okay! I wasn’t exactly going to tutoring so I could make ou — uh, friends. So I could make friends. I’m just there to learn, and he seems like he’s going to be a really awesome teacher. Please, don’t be worried.”

Though Roman still wasn’t convinced, he knew how to take a hint. His brother was through with the subject. Reluctantly, he said, “Well, I guess if your mind's made up, then… that’s that. But Patton, I’m sure that this whole situation isn’t as bad as you think. No one could ever not like you. It’s impossible.”

“Well, what about Mr. Mitchell? He hates me.”

“No one whose opinion is actually valid ,” Roman amended without missing a beat. “Dragon Witchell is nothing but a massive jerk. He doesn’t count.”

“Roman, you can’t say that! That’s not nice!” The words probably would have been more convincing if Patton hadn’t been laughing while he said them.

“That doesn’t make it any less true!” The tension from earlier quickly disappearing, Roman found himself able to breathe easy again now that the great crying puppy threat of 2019 had been averted. Sitting on either side of their familiar table, wood worn smooth from years of love, Roman and his brother were for a moment completely at peace as they laughed and joked about school — about work — and about everything in between.

***

The rest of the day came and went much faster than Roman anticipated. He and Patton had gone their separate ways not too long after breakfast was over, him retreating into his room while Patton settled himself down at the small desk near their house’s front door. He’d been keeping himself busy since then, only venturing out of his room every so often to grab a snack or use the washroom. Then, all too soon, his curtains were drawn and he was reaching to turn on his desk lamp. It seemed almost like he’d only managed a breath or two before the sky was suddenly painted over with shades of inky black.

Roman’s laptop slid into its bedazzled sleeve. His clothes, neatly folded, went into his bag, which was then slung over his shoulder as he made his way downstairs. “I’m heading back now, okay?”

Patton immediately abandoned his worksheet to run over and give his older brother a hug. “Bye, Roman!” he said. Roman gave him a quick but firm squeeze.

“See you soon, love,” called his mother from the dining room, where she and her husband were engaged in an intense battle of cards. “Go Fish, Larry. Ha! Take that!”

Smiling fondly, Roman stepped outside.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click. The instant he heard that sound, he could feel his whole body deflate.

Frankly, he wasn’t quite ready to go back to the house that he and Monet shared.

It’s not even that I’m still mad at him, reflected Roman as he settled into his black car. He turned the key and it sputtered to life. Somehow, the sound was at once familiar and foreign. This car used to belong to his parents. It was even older than Roman himself. It should feel anything but foreign.

And yet, things always looked so different from the driver’s seat.

But then the speakers came on — Best of Broadway; Vol. 3 — and everything was alright again. Coasting on down the familiar streets of Sandford, fingers drumming out a beat on the steering wheel, Roman finally let his mind wander free.

I’m just…

He wasn’t sure exactly when he’d figured it out, but somewhere between learning about Patton’s crush-that-was-not-a-crush and finishing up neglected schoolwork, Roman had realized that Monet had never been to blame for their argument. It was hardly a bad thing that Monet wanted to spend as much time as possible by his side. Roman had overreacted, plain and simple.

And therein was where the problem lay. This time, Roman was the one at fault; he should have spent the weekend figuring out how he would apologize. But instead, he’d been moping about, feeling sorry for himself, distracting himself with idle tasks, all to avoid thinking about the person who cared about him perhaps more than anyone else in the world.

I’m just ashamed of how I handled everything.

With every second that ticked past, Roman grew more and more restless. He was slowly but surely getting closer to the very same house he’d angrily stormed out of two days ago, meaning he was getting closer and closer to having to face the man he’d hurt. He didn’t mind needing to swallow his pride and apologise; that had never been a problem. No, the gnawing in his chest was from the worry that his apology might not be accepted.

The further he drove, the more restless Roman grew. Saying sorry never did get easier. Not for a lack of trying — no matter how proud Roman could sometimes be, he could handle letting go of his ego if it meant holding onto his boyfriend — but because what worked one day might completely backfire the next. Too many times, a sincere apology had ended up being taken for an excuse, which of course only made things worse.

By the time Roman pulled into the driveway of the very same house he'd stormed out of two days ago, he was already rehearsing various apologies in his head. He imagined how Monet might react if he said this, if he did that... It took some time, but the mental preparation did help. A deep breath in and out, and then Roman was ready.

The door and his mouth opened at the same time, a plea already perched on the tip of his tongue. The words never got any further. When Roman entered the house, he was greeted not with an angry face, not with a stony silence, but with the sound of Monet’s laugh and the babble of their television set.

“Monet?”

The man in question turned at the sound of his name, arm slung lazily over the back of the couch. Completely at ease. “Oh! Hey there, Ro, good to see you! Did your family visit go okay?” His tone was casual, lighthearted, warm, without even a hint of accusation.

Roman blinked. “I — er — yeah, it was fine, but —"

“Glad to hear it,” Monet interrupted before Roman had the chance to voice his confusion. “Welcome home.”

Something about the way Monet said the word home seemed a little stiff, but Roman didn’t linger on it; there was a much more important question at hand. “Are you not… angry?”

“What?” Monet looked puzzled. “Why would I be angry? Did something happen?”

No way. “You know, the argu…” Roman started to explain on autopilot, but cut himself off. If Monet had already forgotten about the argument, then he saw no reason to bring it up again. “You know what, never mind,” he finished, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

But Monet wasn’t fooled. “Roman, tell me what’s going on. Why do you look so unhappy?”

“It’s really not a big deal —”

“Roman.”

Monet’s voice was suddenly hard as steel.

“Tell me.”

It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command, and Roman had no choice but to obey.

“...The argument we had. Right before I left on Saturday. I kept blaming you, but the problem wasn’t you, it was me. I was just too stubborn to admit it. I thought you’d still be upset at me for that. You’re… not?”

To Roman’s surprise, his boyfriend laughed.

“You can’t seriously think I’m still angry over that little spat. I would never let something so small ruin what we have. Don’t you know we’re stronger than that?” Monet’s expression changed just then, darkening as something new occurred to him. “Unless… Roman, you’re not still upset at me.”

“What? No!” Roman cried. “Not at all, I don’t — I’m not upset, Monet, I’m relieved. I spent the entire weekend worrying that you were mad at me!”

“There’s nothing to be mad about, Ro. We’re fine. Seriously, forget Saturday ever happened.” Monet gestured towards the television with his head. “Come on, it’s about time we finished off the last bag of popcorn anyway; it’s just been gathering dust sitting all alone in the cupboard. Let’s watch some TV together, okay? I’ll even let you choose the show.”

Overwhelmed with gratefulness, Roman could barely squeak out an “okay” before nearly tripping over his own two feet on his way to the kitchen cupboard. Forgiven and forgotten, just like that. He couldn’t believe how easy that had been.

He should have seen this coming. Sure, his boyfriend could get a little passionate now and then, but most of the time Monet was a real sweetheart. It was just like his boyfriend to have already given him forgiveness before he even thought to ask for it.

I don’t deserve him, thought Roman, watching the bag of popcorn slowly spinning around through the dimly lit microwave window. While he had been busily shifting blame and letting feelings fester, Monet had dismissed their petty little shouting match as soon as it was over. Had it even been a shouting match at all? Maybe he only remembered it as one because he had been shouting. He could have sworn that Monet had gotten angry too, but in the heat of the moment, his judgement could so easily have been clouded. He’d have to be careful not to let his temper get the better of him next time.

Though something uneasy and uncertain lingered in the back of his mind, the beep of the microwave distracted him from focusing on it too much. Whatever was bothering him, he was sure it was nothing a couple of handfuls of popcorn and some bad sitcoms couldn’t fix.

***

[next chapter]

A/N: okay, i know, i know it’s late, but i swear to you i have been doing absolutely everything in my power to finish editing this darn thing. it's been an insanely busy week, please forgive me for publishing late again :00 hopefully you enjoyed the chapter anwyays!! and as always, thank you so much for reading.

General tag list: @surleytemple @starryfirefliesbloggo @icecoldparadise @lyditist @fandom-random2405 @beach-fan @ihateitwhenyourejustvague @starryeyedhomicide

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Let me know if you’d like to be added to or removed from either tag list!

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #roman sanders #patton sanders #tw deceit #tw abusive deceit #tw pain mention #tw injury mention #tw food mention #tw argument mention #tw sleeplessness #tw insomnia #tw negativity #tw toxic relationship #tw abusive relationship #spec made something #spectral scribbles

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twistednuns · 3 years

Text

January 2021

Creating art is about growing the world and increasing its reach, and it has more to do with the act of creation itself than what is actually made. Anything that animates us creatively in a positive way — be it the grand design of a great architectural wonder or the Big Bang of a child’s drawing — is a re-enactment of the original creation story. Whether we realise it or not, making art is a religious encounter as it is our attempts to grow beyond ourselves that energise the soul of the universe. (Nick Cave on shitty art)

Seeing the old library guy having dinner table with his wife. They even lit a candle. How celebratory.

Writing a birthday message for Frank about my new beginnings and first days of the year.

Making my nails look as if I had dipped my fingertips into a jar of silver glitter.

How black and glossy blueberries suddenly become after being coated in my warm coconut porridge.

Shinto does not strictly divide the world between material and spiritual, nor between this world and an alternative perfect realm, but instead emphasises that intuitive spirituality facilitates the fusion and equilibrium of all realm. - Why Haruki Murakami is so very Japanese

Sporting a hickey on my neck like a basic 16-year-old.

Going new paths (on my daily walk).

Feeling really grateful for the habits I established last year. A daily walk, taking helpful supplements, flossing, hair and face masks before every shower. Cold showers! A reasonable bedtime. I'm incredibly excited about forming new habits this year! The first ones to tackle are meditation, strength training and a daily creativity practice.

Suddenly imagining the taste of strawberry sauce. Anticipating the first spaghetti ice-cream of the year.

Loving kindness meditation (!) and smiling meditation. Spotify's Wake Up/Wind Down podcast is really quite good, too.

Cracking the impossibly hard to reach spot in my back by twisting and stretching my right leg (who knew).

The first tulips of the year on my nightstand. I chose a dark yellow, almost ochre.

Sparkling water with passion fruit juice. All I could think of during the last minutes of a long and cold walk. Getting undressed. Stretching. Meditation.

Vivid dreams of diving. How I miss being underwater. At least I got to do it in the nightly virtual reality show, eh?

Walking in a winter wonderland. I hate snow but I do admit it's quite pretty when the whole forest is covered in white.

A friendly nod from the delivery guy with the amazing curls.

Running into the neighbourhood's wild cat. Giving him a good scratch.

My new salt crystal lamp. I love its warm light.

The random house on a street nearby with the word nest next to its doorbell. Is that really the family's name? Or just what they call their house? (I would totally get that as nest is one of my favourite words)

Kalimba covers. With cat. Wholesome.

Sinking my face into a pair of warm tracksuit pants which had been drying on the heater. The warmth and the fresh laundry smell were so nice.

Plucking icicles.

The fact that the sidewalks aren't quite as icy and slippery anymore (I hate having no proper grip when I'm walking).

A gorgeous animal atlas with really pretty drawings in one of the boxes with free stuff people often put out these days.

Sarah Wilson. I could hardly put her new book down and immediately started reading her book about anxiety when I was finished. In a way I feel really connected to her. What an inspiring woman! Another thing I love is how she structures her books. She merely numbers her paragraphs, some only a few lines long, some a few pages.

The taste of strawberries. It's hard to describe but somehow it lights up my brain? Can I say that?

Osteopathy. I don't know what she does or how she does it but Laura has magic hands. My body feels completely healed after a session with her.

Simply walking everywhere. I get my steps in and don't have to deal with annoying public transport or my shitty bike.

Peeking out of my shell: looking at people I came across on an early walk and saying good morning.

Little yellowhammer birds on my balcony. I've never seen them before around here. And the tiniest bird on one of my walks through the forest. Perhaps a wren?

Dreaming of India. Visiting a local family, inquiring about a "somatic reading" (whatever that is) but deciding that it was too expensive and watching them prepare food instead. Talking to the grandmother. Riding to their restaurant on the market in a little wagon together.

Lying in bed after taking a shower, bathing in sunlight.

Dorky donkey confetti paper tissues.

A very soothing video of a cat purring loudly got me through a lousy Thursday. I kept coming back to it every couple of hours and it actually helped.

I'm currently watching Chilling Adventures of Sabrina on Netflix. It was a bit hard to get into it at first because it's SO different from the series with Melissa Joan Hart I used to watch as a teenager but ever since that cheerleading scene where Sabrina and Ros perform to RUN DMC's It's Tricky I'm absolutely sold.

The other day there was a lady just standing at the edge of a field, watching her dog run around in the snow, enjoying the sunset. A very peaceful image.

More tulips: red ones this time, a smaller variety. I loved watching them blossom.

Collecting ideas and yellow objects for a yellow-themed letter.

These baby blue and pink sunrises I have been seeing lately.

A new magic trick: summoning dogs by simply holding their gaze for a while.

I hate snow. I really do. But I love how bright the light suddenly is. I smile apologetically at people shovelling snow when I walk by. The other day I stood under a branch when a couple shook the tree and let the snow fall down. I would have been mad if it hadn't been for my umbrella.

When the first and last bits of light colour the tree tops in a warm, gold and orange colour during sunrise and sunset.

The smell of my armpits (have we all stopped using deodorant during lockdown and are suddenly able to smell our armpits or is it just me) made me remember kids carnival parties at our local sports club. We wore cheap costumes made from synthetic fabric and were all super sweaty from running around all day as princesses, vampires and cowboys on a sugar high.

Learning the reason why snow melts faster under trees.

Listening to the New York Times' The Daily podcast. More speficially the Sunday Read (which mostly seems to feature the topics I'm really interested in). There was the wonderfully whimsical episode about the Cloud Appreciation Society. I'd never realised that Joni Mitchell's song Both Sides Now is about seeing shapes in clouds ("pareidolia"): Rows and flows of angel hair / And ice cream castles in the air / And feather canyons every where / Looked at clouds that way. Then there was this other episode about Moonstruck, a movie starring Cher and Nicholas Cage. At the end they keep playing the film music for a while before the episode slowly fades out. I was walking down a snowy alley and felt like the heroine in a late 90's movie (which I could also describe as end-of-century now, how peculiar).

Pelvic floor training. I have more strength, I'm taller and it somehow keeps straightening my back? I'm really impressed of how effective it is and am planning on learning more about the Cantienica method.

I know I'm late to the game but last night I watched the whole first season of Emily in Paris in one go. I needed something to cheer my up and, oh my, did Emily deliver. Well, not really her, but Paris. Everything about the serious can only be described as delicious. The food, the man candy, the fashion, colours and backdrop. While watching I kept thinking about outfit planning, exotic cuisine, roadtrips, kissing strangers, enjoying the good life. Oh how much I miss it. I feel awfully trapped in my apartment these days. One last thing I need to highlight: Sylvie, played by Philippine Leroy-Beaulieu, who is the real star of this series for me. She is just SO chic.

More light! I actually stand a chance to get home before sunset now when I head out late-ish for one of my daily walks.

A good talk with Lena. Home-made ramen. Watching en episode of Planet Earth and Blue Planet each.

Sourdough pizza with goat cheese, honey and fresh truffle.

#january 2021 #2021 #january #personal #present perfect #things i love

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myaekingheart · 4 years

Text

So, I was informed yesterday of an unexpected death in the family--a distant family member who I didn’t really know very well personally, but my parents knew him better so my mom especially was sad. I may not have known him, but he knew me at least in the sense of knowing my parents. He would comment nice things on posts my mom had made about me and stuff, so that coupled with the knowledge of his sudden death have had me a little fucked up all day and it definitely informed the strange dreams I had last night.

First, I was in what was meant to be my grandparents’ house. It looked nothing like their actual house but I just automatically understood that that was where I was. My grandfather, who passed away in 2014 (his death was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life and has led to me actually becoming pretty necrophobic), was brought back to life but was then told he only had 2 days to live before he’d die again. He didn’t look sick at all during this time we spent with him, however, which was probably for the best. My parents, aunts and uncles, and myself all were at their “house” for dinner to spend some time with him before his second death. We got to catch up with him about what he had missed in the past six years. And then him and my grandmother were about to leave and I remember standing in the driveway looking up at him like I was a child again, and I told him I was getting married and I got to hug him super tight. The last thing he said to me before getting in the car and driving off was “I love you, Amanda.”

SO AT THIS RATE I’M CRYING BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK. I’ve had dreams about my grandpop in the past that always feel like this, like visiting his spirit in the afterlife or in the unconscious space between living and dead or something and it’s always super jarring but this time specifically just UGH MY FEELINGS. I am in pain.

Then the dream transitioned into visiting this very weird, cheap indoor knockoff of Epcot. The whole building had that feeling of clearly being old, like built in the 1960s or 1970s. Like when you step foot in one of the buildings on Main Street in Disney World and you can just tell everything there was built like 50 years ago. The entryway had a wide but short stairway into the main hall through which you walked to visit the different countries. It started with Greece and I remember banners hanging from the ceiling. The whole place also kind of had the same vibe as my local church’s event hall. But anyways, Greece was hardly anything, and then there was a Japanese tea room that looked like a cheap American attempt at capturing Japan. All I remember were red and white banners hanging from the ceilings and women dressed like geishas serving tea at round tables with cheap white tablecloths. Then there was Russia. One room was more of an alcove or indoor amphitheater hybrid where you walked down some shallow stairs and there was a little scene with snow and a little kid ice-fishing. There was another room set up similarly that had a very creepy set of animatronics meant to be the Romanov family dancing like at a ball, but nothing about the atmosphere itself screamed “ballroom.” The walls were this unforgiving pale blue-ish gray and the carpets were crunchy and old and a slightly darker shade than the wall. I remember everyone was wearing bright and tacky yellow and turquoise clothing, too, like a take on Bluth’s Anastasia from the Once Upon a December scene. The animatronics themselves were absolutely terrifying with Resusci-Anne-esque faces. The most detailed of all the countries, however, was Germany. Once you reached that portion of the building, there were rosemaling-esque murals on the wall (which I know is Norway and not Germany but fight me, my unconscious brain is dumb) and forest green shingled awnings to represent some pretend housing structures or something. While in Germany, suddenly everything became academic. I found myself in a private school uniform (plaid pleated skirt, gray blazer, white button down, probably loafers and knee high socks) sitting on a wooden bench in a rounded dead-end corner where there were a handful of classroom doors. There was something said about something bad having happened to my math teacher, who looked exactly like Bea Arthur but was not, but that she was coming back so we just had to wait a little while or something. While I was sitting on the bench waiting, my senior year math teacher showed up and we were talking about something I can’t remember. I think at one point during this time, I had mentioned something about planning to go get my engagement ring resized or something because it kept spinning and sliding off (which, ironically enough, I had to take it off to type this up because it was spinning violently and my grouchy ass got so frustrated, I nearly chucked it out a window because I couldn’t type with it on). When I brought this up to my math teacher, however, she insisted against getting it resized though I can’t remember why. Then I was by myself again on the bench but I had a handheld white board. I was practicing sketching figures on it before I got called someplace and had to leave, so I remember crouching down in front of the bench with a black dry erase marker and gold metallic permanent marker and quickly writing some message onto the white board for the next person to find. I don’t remember exactly what I said in full, except that the first part was “Take care of yourself” and the tone of the message overall was something positive about self-care. Then I ran off and I was back in the Germany section of old, fake, indoor Epcot again. There was a rendition of the Oktoberfest restaurant which was actually pretty decent, like it looked pretty close to the real thing except that it was snowing inside so it also had a slight aura of A Christmas Carol. I distinctly remember a young male waiter pulling a metallic brass pole like the kind that line ride queues out of the fake brick ground and readjusting it in it’s little hole. Then there was a makeshift theater in what was either Italy or Greece, I can’t remember. It was a terrible looking theater, though. Same unforgiving blue-ish gray walls and crunchy old carpet. The walls were so tall, too, which made me feel tiny and powerless. They were projecting an old movie onto the one wall, but they didn’t turn any of the lights off. I’m pretty sure the seats were just a bunch of those business-y chairs they have in church event halls and school assembly halls and principal’s offices. The gray ones with no arms and scratchy fabric seats and backs that have zero cushion whatsoever. I went into this theater with my parents where we took a seat right in the front and watched a very weird vintage montage film. The only scene that I specifically remember was a young man with blonde hair and a toned physique who I guess was supposed to resemble Apollo flying through the air as if on a zipline ass naked with drum tied around his waist which he was beating consistently with his penis. How he had that much control over his dick so as to bang a drum with it, I don’t know. Right after this, the theater was interrupted (not in a terrifying way, however) by the Sanderson sisters from Hocus Pocus. They were holding either red solo cups or Styrofoam cups likely filled with beer and were drunk off their asses. And that’s just about the last thing I remember.

#weird dreams #ramblings

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somewhereapart · 7 years

Text

Garden of Simple

For the OQ Prompt Party: #74 Enchanted Forest, s3, OQ secret candlelight dinner.

Robin misses the forest – especially on nights like these. Clear, cool nights where the moon is a heavy, glowing orb up above, and the stars scatter pinpricks in the darkness of the heavens. It's bright enough one could stroll the forest by moonlight alone – something he'd loved doing, before. He'd enjoyed the solitude, the peace, the feeling of being a part of the world just like any other beast that walks or crawls.

But there are dangers now – brought close to home by their returned travelers. Winged monkeys that swoop and snatch, and midnight wandering is ill-advised. They've retreated indoors, into the safety of the Queen's castle. A laughable statement once – who'd have ever imagined finding refuge there?

And yet, they have. He and his motley crew of ruffians have taken over a series of rooms on a lower floor, strung it with hammocks and bed pallets (they're not much for creature comforts, indoors or no), and begun to take regular meals in a great hall next to the very royals they once would have plundered.

It's funny how life works out, isn't it?

And it has its benefits certainly – last week had been one of near-constant drizzle mixed with bursts of downpour, and bitter winds all the while. He can't say he'd missed their encampment, then – not when he and his son were nestled in warm bedclothes by a roaring fire, Roland sipping heated broth while Robin drank from a flask of whiskey he'd been gifted by Prince David. Warm, full bellies, and warm, dry clothes are a good sight better than huddling beneath canvas tents and trying to keep any sort of flame over hissing, sputtering embers in the forest.

And then there's her. The Queen herself.

Robin supposes he shouldn't consider her a perk of castle life – she's not a thing, after all, not a pretty bauble, but a person. And what a person she is, full of life, and fire, with an acid tongue, a quick wit he quite enjoys matching with barbs of his own. And she's lovely, absolutely lovely, to look at.

He's been caught staring more than once by John, or Tuck, or Much, his gaze riveted to the shape of her frown as she takes bites of venison as though they're as boring as whatever tale Princess Snow is regaling her with at the royal table. How someone can be so surly and so pretty at the same time, he'll never fathom, but he's drawn to her like moth to flame again and again.

And then there are the moments that she smiles – with sharp malice after she lands a particularly sound insult, or (his favorite) the soft curves of lip she saves for Roland and Roland only. To have said she has a soft spot for children was an understatement – in Robin's experience, they seem to be the only thing to bring her any joy.

So yes, he does consider her a perk of castle living. Her lively wit, and her secret smiles, and the dark coffee color of her eyes. Privately, he does.

And yet, on nights like these – the clear, cool ones – life inside these castle walls simply isn't enough. He feels confined here, trapped. Feels the urge to prowl, if only because he's not allowed to simply roam.

He's not foolish enough to leave the grounds on his own, but Roland is tucked dreaming away beneath his covers, and Robin is restless. So he heads for the nearest thing to a forest he can find within the fortified walls – the Queen's garden.

Her prized apple tree lives in an upper courtyard, a place of prominence, but it's not the only vine she tends. There's another grove on the castle's eastern side, a sizeable patch of land gated and walled off, said walls now covered entirely by creeping ivy that had grown thick and lush during the years of the curse. There are rosebushes there, and flowering trees, tall shrubbery and an old weeping willow that Roland loves to play hide and seek in.

It's not a forest, but it'll do. It still smells of green things, and there are frogs that croak merrily in its depths, and birds that nest happily in its trees and sing their songs during the daytime. If he faces the right direction, keeps the high spires of the castle at his back, he can pretend he's not walled in by stone and circumstance.

The old gate creaks as he enters, a low whine that's echoed by one of those friendly frogs, and Robin smiles as he lets it swing shut behind him and takes a deep breath in. The chilly night air fills his lungs, bringing with it the scent of night-blooming flowers that he knows full well are out of season right now, and yet, somehow they flourish here. (It is the Queen's garden, after all, and it bends ever to her will – he's fairly certain the hush that falls over him as that gate clicks closed is not simply the sound-dampening effects of ivy.)

Something in his middle settles, and that part of him that needs to feel the softness of earth beneath his boots bears down just a little into each blessedly springy step as he leaves the footpath and trods over well-watered grass. He doesn't have a destination in mind, per se, circles the outer edge, and runs his fingers over the night-chilled growth of ivy, feels the pillowy roughness of a patch of stone covered over in thick moss, and every bit of it soothes that restless heart of his.

He visits her roses, the red ones almost black under the light of the moon, and the white ones nearly glowing.

And then he takes a trip to that old willow and its drooping, leafy curtains. There's a bench beneath it, hidden in close near the trunk, and he's a mind to sit for a spell and let the foliage engulf him. To pretend he's high up in some old canopy in Sherwood, free as a bird.

Or maybe just to peek out the parted swath and admire the garden as a whole, the lights of the castle looming above it, yes, but not quite managing to touch.

It's not until he's ducked beneath that very canopy of leaves that he becomes aware his idea wasn't a novel one.

He doesn't see her dress (it's black) or the moonlit pale wash of her skin (that bench is well ensconced in shadow) – it's the fire he sees first. A sudden, orange bloom of it clutched in her palm that makes him yelp rather embarrassingly and stagger backward.

She smirks – none of the ire he might expect from a Queen interrupted, simply amusement at her own ability to call up a fright in him. To catch him unawares.

Robin presses a hand to his hammering heart, and forces a smile in return (it doesn't take much effort, summoning a smile for Regina), speaking over the gentle nighttime chorus of nature to offer her, "Apologies, milady. I thought I was alone."

"It's Your Majesty," she corrects, as always, but without a bit of heat, and then, "And I noticed."

A flick of her wrist and the flame in her palm is gone – or not gone, but it flickers into pieces, little wafts of flame that wrap slowly with thick glass until they're each cupped in a little jar. Robin watches, rapt, as silvery chains grow link by link from their rims, up, up into the darkness. After a moment the little jars seem to cease hovering, settling into their own weight and swinging lightly from their chains.

He's never been too terribly trusting of magic, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't fascinated by her little displays.

"Is that safe?" he wonders, his heart kicking up again as he catches sight of her shifting to make room beside her in the bench.

They're not friends, Robin and the Queen, and the clear invitation seems out of character.

Out of character, but not unwelcome, and Robin certainly won't refuse. He approaches slowly, but casually, feeling a bit like he's about to spook a momentarily friendly bear.

She's squinting slightly up at their makeshift lanterns, and from this close and in the glowing lamplight, he can see the rise and fall of her shoulder as she shrugs.

"They're well-contained and it's not a terribly warm flame," she concludes, as he sinks to the stone beside her. "Not much wind tonight. We should be fine."

"Mm," he hums in acknowledgement, leaning back against the trunk of the old tree and gazing upward at the flickering lights, if only because he's afraid looking too long at her (what he'd truly like to do). They're getting along quite nicely at the moment, and he wouldn't want to disturb whatever mood she's in by staring at the wonder of her profile by candlelight. Not just yet, at least.

For a minute, they just sit in silence. Just them and the frogs, and the crickets, and an owl hooting somewhere not too far off. Robin thinks perhaps they'll sit there like that all evening (and perhaps they should, he really wouldn't mind it), but it seems a shame to waste such a pleasant mood on silence, so he breaks it, finally.

"So," he begins, rolling his gaze toward her and nearly losing his train of thought in the flickering line of brow, nose, lips he shouldn't want to kiss (but does), and chin. He clears his throat lightly and continues, "I know why I went wandering in a dark garden on my own tonight – I needed a bit of fresh air. What's your reason for sitting here, all alone in the dark, Your Majesty?"

Those kissable lips curve (she's still looking up, up, at her own little flames), and she sinks back against the trunk beside him, a flick of her wrist illuminating a little table he'd not noticed sitting on her far side. It's not very large, set only for one, with a plate piled high with fruits and meat, and roasted vegetables. A goblet of wine, and a small plate of sweets.

"I was having a late dinner, away from Snow White's incessant need to party plan," she tells him, dryly.

And, "Ah, yes," he smiles. "She has been on about that lately, hasn't she?"

Regina Mms, and her eyes roll heavenward. The princess has been insisting on a ball to honor the change of seasons, something festive to keep morale up around the castle. It doesn't surprise him overly much that Regina isn't eager to help throw the little soiree.

Still, that's not what has him most distracted at the moment. No, that's the fact that she was, "Eating in the dark?"

It's a question somewhat unspoken – why on earth would she be taking her meal in near blackness, even if she was dining alone.

One perfectly shaped brow rises up at that, and she tells him archly, "I wasn't," smirking to add, "I had the candle lit, until someone came wandering through the garden gate."

Robin has the decency to look guilty for a moment, offering up an, "Ah," and an, "I'm sorry, then. I've disturbed your meal. I could go, if you'd prefer."

Idiot. He shouldn't have offered – she'll surely take the out and send him packing.

But the night is full of surprises, it seems, because Regina only shakes her head and tells him, "It's alright. It seems I'm rather poor company for myself tonight; I wouldn't mind if you… stayed."

Ah. Well, that explains her willingness to be sociable, then.

"Well, then it's good I haven't had my fill of the night air yet," is all he says in reply, hunkering down a little more comfortably into the bark against his back.

She hums a little, and adds, "And besides, this is far too much food for one person."

He tilts his head to spy her plate again, and it's not, really, not at all. But then, she eats like a bird most days. Not that he's noticed. (He's most certainly noticed.)

Before he can blink, the candle winks out, the table with it, a dark swirl and the sharp scent of impending rain, the hairs on the backs of his arms stand on end for a moment, and then the table is in front of them, candle and all, a second goblet of wine beside the first.

"Help me finish it?" she requests, and, well, who is Robin of Locksley to refuse the delicacies offered by a Queen?

(FFnet/Ao3)

#outlaw queen #somewhereapart writes #oq prompt party #y'all know how i feel about the missing year

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gospacegay · 7 years

Text

Dreams and Possibilities

So... This thing started out as a rusame short and grew like crazy! There is swearing. Get over it. There is mentions of suicide but It’s a very fluffy piece otherwise. Kinda smutty. Enjoy the alternate universe cuteness!

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The argument during the world meeting had spiraled out of control so fast. Alfred had something, or possibly lack of things that were wrong. Then Russia was on his case, completely angry beyond reason. Totally surprised, the always armed American whipped out a pistol. That was when Ivan took out his pistol, whispering “Nothing but broken promises.” Shocking everyone, he shot himself through the mouth. He then fell to the ground, limp and dead.

Alfred ran over but he knew it was far too late. The angle of the bullet was just too good. It ripped out so much brain matter on the way out, the guy would be retarded as all hell when he inevitably recovered. The living nations were not invulnerable, after all. “He killed himself because of me.” the freckled blond grieved, Ivan's blood still staining the carpet. “I thought you'd be happy, boy.” England replied coldly, having the nerve to kick the corpse on the floor of the meeting room. Everyone gasped at his rude behavior.

“Why would I be happy a defining part of my culture is dead?” America hissed, training the gun on his terrible father figure. “It's just Russia, lad. No need to do anything regrettable...” the English man begged, backing up from the lifeless body. “He taught me how to skate, and ice fish, and sail a boat, and cook pies. He visited me all the time when I was a lonely colony. He was a better role model than you. He knew how to make love, not rut like a sick goat. He was mine.” Alfred spat, advancing with the gun safety off. “But you said, but he just...” The emerald eyed Brit sputtered, crumpling as he was shot between the eyes.

Despair and loss shredded his rational mind. His long time crush and former nemesis had killed himself. Alfred had been so sure they could be friends again. It was nothing like being lovers, but it was better than total deprivation. Then Ivan killed himself. This was all Alfred's fault. The arguments, the bloody cold war, the bombs, the deaths of children in gulags... it was all indirectly Alfred's fault. He always had to be so stubborn and proud. A world without Russia was meaningless, no one to rival Alfred's light with shadow. There was only one solution now.

Not waiting to be stopped, Alfred put the gun to his own temple. Pulling the trigger, everything faded painfully to black. Death was a funny thing. Before this point, dying had been like falling asleep painfully. This death was different. For one thing, it hurt way less on the way out. He had never seen anyone after the fact. Even recovering and waking up, there had been no one there. He was always alone forever.

Yet Alfred was wearing white, in a bright white room, with Tony seated beside him. The short red eyed alien just stared at him. It was hard to tell if he was disappointed due to lack of eyebrows or notable mouth. “Hey cool space buddy. I haven't seen you since the 90's.” Alfred greeted. “So you had to fucking kill yourself. I stop paying attention for two decades and you fuckin' kill yourself.” Tony cursed, clearly not impressed. “You, don't understand... he killed himself because of me, and... I thought... were...” Alfred attempted to explain with watery eyes, the event still overwhelming. “The Russian dumb shit killed himself too.” Tony summarized sourly between Alfred manly not-sobs. Giving the distraught nation a pat on the back. “Don't worry about it idiot. Your space buddy will fix this. Don't fuck it up.”

“What?” Alfred squeaked, confused and distressed.

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Alfred sat up sharply in bed, heart racing. He instinctively reached for a reading lamp he couldn't recall owning. God, what a horrible dream. There was guns... and some kind of court room... and Russia died? The details were falling apart the more he recalled them. Everything felt super surreal right now.

He was Alfred Foster Jones. But that wasn't accurate either. His mind kept pronouncing Alfret, then a very unfamiliar jumble. It was just the fog from waking up, confusing him. It was time to get dressed quietly and make breakfast. He didn't want to wake people so soon. What people was he edging around again? Stretching his arms a little, an elbow bumped one of said people.

It was a big sleeping somebody all cuddled under warm morning blanket. The covered up somebody was taking up slightly over half the bed, sharing the blanket Alfred was trapped in. The freckled blond was terrified to look under. The physical urge to squeeze and tickle the half asleep bundle was stronger, and Alfred had always been impulsive. He gave the mystery person a big morning hug. Hearing a happy sigh, the nation was pulled back under all the blanket. Alfred nearly had a heart attack.

It was Ivan, sleep tousled in sleeping pants. He had been shot, he had been dead in the memory. He killed himself because of Alfred. Maybe it was a dream. It had to be, otherwise life was even more terrible than ever. With trembling hands, Alfred grabbed the Russian’s face and peppered it with kisses. That big nose, that brow, that sexy jawline, nothing was missed.

He was stopped mid neck. “Dearest, calm down. It's a Sunday.” Ivan grumbled in Russian, draping an arm over Alfred to pin him lazily. “I can't help it. I saw you kill yourself, and I don't know if it was a dream or real. Maybe it was a prophecy, it was so bad.” Alfred rambled, scared. Ivan freed the tanned blond's hair from it's scrunchy prison. Alfred eventually calmed, allowing his surprisingly long hair to be disentangled. He had never had it long at all, yet it had been long for over a century. The conflicting memories were both right.

“I suppose this nightmare had England in it.” Ivan soothed sleepily, now the bigger spoon and holding Alfred close. “It did, I shot him in the face. But it didn't make you alive again.” the younger nation admitted. “When I killed England for mistreating you, I promised you he was dead. I made absolutely sure of it sunshine. I even crushed the bones into dust and put the dust in a jar.” Ivan promised casually, clearly having made this oath before. Alfred remembered such a thing. It had been a first year anniversary gift along with a nice boat ride.

“It just felt real.” the younger nation whispered, still uncertain of reality. Ivan kissed that last shred of doubt away, snuggling slightly closer. “My god, how can you be so handsome and rugged at the same time?” Alfred flirted blatantly. Ivan blushed the slightest shade of pink, giving Alfred a squeeze. “I'll dress the kids if you make breakfast.” the ash blond volunteered, clearly not fond of cooking.

Alfred seemed both reviled and joyful over having to cook. An angrier short haired version of himself wanted to tell Ivan to shove a frying up his arse. His kinder souled self was faster, answering “Of course. I was thinking fluffy western omelets.” The additional statement of children, as in more that one was a bonus. He had always wanted a son, or a daughter. He would even be fine with anything in the middle.

He forgot about words when Ivan dragged his lazy ass out of bed. The Russian was fit, like underwear model fit. He could probably punch a hole through concrete or scare physics into letting him walk to the moon. Alfred drooled, raking into those sexy back muscles with his eyes. Then Ivan dumped an ugly university sweater over a carved body of god's finest marble. A low whine came from the freckled blonde. Ivan swiveled to look, just noticing. “What?” he asked, adjusting the drawstrings on his hooded sweater. “It's a Sunday. We should have crazy sex.” Alfred ordered more than asked.

God could Ivan blush when he had the tan of a snow man. “They're down the hall! They'll hear everything!” he whispered hoarsely. “I'll be good and quiet, We can do anything!” Alfred tempted, already tugging at the sweater impatiently. Ivan looked at the door, then Alfred. Like any other sex deprived overworked parent, the Russian jumped at the opportunity.

Alfred was face first getting ground into the mattress, a moaning mess. “This... was.... good idea.” Ivan panted, thrusting deep like a wild man. “More! Don't stop for anything.” Alfred ordered lowly, a bruising grip on his hips. The rhythmic fucking was amazing but Alfred had already come. It was all about Ivan now, for he always took a while to push over the edge. The ash blonde was easily the more sexually frustrated of the couple because he couldn't get out a quick orgasm in the shower.

Ivan's breath hitched as his pace turned erratic and rough. Finally he gasped, thrust deep inside, and came loudly. “Oh fuck, oh, your my angel.” he uttered, both men turning into a pile of blissful nudity. Not even a second later, there was knocking on the door. “Mama, Papa. Are you practicing fighting bears again?” a small boy asked. “No.” Alfred lied sheepishly, blushing as well. Still inside Alfred, Ivan stammered “I'll be right down. Go brush your teeth with your sister.” “Okay Papa.” the boy cheerfully obeyed, heard skipping away.

Ivan was quick to shower and leave, making Alfred suspicious. After languishing in the heat of the bed a few more minutes, he felt his used hole. There was a pearl of cum on his finger. That bastard never put his condom on. If Ivan made him pregnant again, he was getting shot. The last child had been ten long months without coffee, chocolate, or rum. Alfred damn near lost his mind. Between all the former British colonies giving him bad medical advice and Ivan treating him like glass, it was a miracle no one was murdered.

After spermicide type products strong enough to kill, Alfred washed, and cleaned some more. Not a single Russian swimmer was getting anywhere near his uterus this time. Hastily dressing, Alfred stomped downstairs while loading his pistol. Ivan was hiding behind his daughter, Alaska, at the kitchen table. “Annika, my little darling, lay flat so I can get a clear shot at your father's throat.” Alfred asked sweetly. Obeying, the platinum blonde batted sky blue eyes at him while climbing off the chair. It was normal for her not to talk much, despite having the appearance of an 11 year old.

“Don't kill Papa! He didn't build the pool yet!” Oregon protested with a mouth full of cereal. Ivan looked at his son with a disapproving frown. “You tried to make me pregnant again you sneaky rat!” Alfred hissed, the pistol only a foot away from Ivan's handsome face. “Just one more child, maybe it'll be Moscow!” Ivan cheered, having been at gunpoint over this before.

“I will not live without coffee or chocolate for nine months. I need them.” the freckled blonde threatened, slowly holstering his weapon. After a sigh, he kissed Ivan on the nose and began cooking. “New plan babies. Mama's gonna make you chocolate chip pancakes. Papa was bad, so he's getting one plain pancake with no toppings.” Alfred announced. The children were quick to turn on their father. He put on a pout, replying “Now I will starve!” Alaska was back in her chair, leaning in to whisper “I'll feed you some of mine, Papa. I love you more than Nikolai does.” The younger Oregon, appearing seven years old by human standards, snorted. “You want the pool too.” he muttered. Such loving children.

As breakfast progressed, Alfred sipped his coffee while watching his babies eat. “So, what are you all doing today?” he asked. “Papa said we're gonna play with Catalonia while he's working. Spain's house is huge, Mama. Catalonia has an air hockey table!” Oregon explained excitedly, making a mess of his breakfast. “Work on a Sunday?” Alfred asked with a pout.

Ivan shrugged, then rubbed his temples. “A very big problem has not been solved.” he said flatly, not keen on going himself. “I'll come. Maybe I can help, motherly wisdom and all.” the freckled blonde replied. With a tired smile, the paler nation nodded in silent agreement. The adult topic of politics was never discussed in front of their precious young states.

After breakfast clean up, Alfred combed and braided his hair into one large rope. Putting on his best Russomerican colored Hello Kitty sweater, the braid was made to match with a navy blue ribbon. He took the time to admire the silly shirt. A white eagle with red wing feathers was on Hello Kitty's clothes, while all 136 stars of the Russomerican flag were displayed in layered rings. The rings were centered around the cute kitten's silly dance. The sweater was a birthday gift from the Japanese Empire, a good friend of the couple and old wartime ally.

Once the children were picked up by Spain, Alfred and Ivan departed. The drive was not very long, since it was hosted not far from their Washington home. Since the Russomerican Republic was so huge and powerful, most nations had regular places to stay for the monthly meetings. They would never dare complain how far Washington was from their actual homes.

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Alfred was already not impressed as soon at the couple arrived at the meeting building. “What?” Ivan asked, knowing every look of his partner. “This is a dump.” the tanned nation muttered. “No, its cheap and efficient.” Ivan countered stubbornly. It was a dump, an old brick building with a lazy government sign at the front. Not a single flower bed or wall mural spiced the place up. They could have easily taken a wrong turn and ended up at a mortuary.

The inside was just as bad, with whitewash walls and scratched up wooden floors. The long meeting table was dimly lit, due to one light being burnt out. “How much time until people arrive, dear?” Alfred asked, running a finger over the table. It came back thick with dust. “Twenty minutes, maybe.” Ivan answered absently, pouring over papers in his briefcase.

Accepting the impossible challenge, Alfred tackled the dinghy meeting room. After changing the dead light bulb, The table had a soft white cloth cover. Snacks and potted flowers were stolen from another meeting in progress down the hall. Alfred longed to dust and mop the large space, but nations were already beginning to show up early. Resigned to living in dusty filth, the north American dropped next to his husband. Ivan was still brooding over a peace treaty proposal for Syria and Turkey, putting a grouchy expression on.

“If you frown too long, your face will get stuck.” Alfred teased, edging his chair closer. He gave a few kisses, nothing graphic. It was enough to make Ivan's cold mood melt to a dopey expression. An unfamiliar chuckle was heard as a stranger approached. Alfred tensed until he recognized the long wavy locks and flirtatious blue eyes. The nation was an old one, suspected to be Alfred's illegitimate father by most. They shared too many physical qualities for it to be a coincidence.

“France, long time!” Alfred greeted with traditional kisses on each cheek. Welcomes aside, the french man looked over Alfred's currently strong but trim figure. “You look great. I haven't seen you in years.” the man complimented, his pronunciations butchering the Russian language. “You still strangle my language like a boa, dear Francis. You always look so good in your suits as well.” Alfred replied in kind. Ivan glanced up at the overtly friendly chatter, jealously threatening “Alfred is mine.”

“Of course, sunshine, and you are mine.” Alfred finished the possessive sentiment with a smile. “Forever.” Ivan whispered lovingly, losing his dark edge again. France grinned and took several pictures with his phone. Several others were arriving, sitting at the table. France bid Alfred farewell with a kiss on the hand, then took his seat at the far end of the table. The second the last nation sat his bottom to a chair, the low chatter began.

“Thank you for coming to this... emergency meeting...” Ivan faltered despite his loud introduction, completely unheard. Alfred analyzed the seating arrangements quickly, years of raising tempestuous young honing his instincts. Ivan was about to start again, when he was hushed by kisses. Alfred then stood, and whistled so sharply it made the whole room twist to look at the source. Without a word, he forcibly picked up each guest and shuffled the entire table.

The result was a mildly confused group of nations that had nothing to say. Several nations murmured while snacking on the stolen plates of cookies. Admittedly, Alfred had been overly sheltered in his colony days, only picking up Russian and English. A happy brunet nation directly addressed Alfred. “We are wondering who you are.” the cute nation said in decent Russian, heavy Italian accent coloring each vowel.

Relieved to understand, the freckled blonde replied “I'm Russomerica, or part of it.” “I don't understand. He's supposed to be Russomerica.” another Slavic nation protested, gesturing to Ivan. Flashing the simple wedding band on his right hand, Alfred silently answered the question. “He's my beloved. We share the responsibility of monitoring all 136 states and territories.” Ivan added seriously.

“Think of little brother as Russ, and his wife as Merica.” Ukraine said, loving to dote on Ivan in public and make him squirm. Alfred personally didn't care if he was called a wife, for he did many wifely things. A few chuckled at the joke, and the meeting finally began. Due to the odd new seating arrangements, no one felt comfortable enough to talk over Ivan.

Still, others eyed the docile Alfred fearfully. A few were unlucky to know Alfred as the bloody Valkyrie of Russomerica, always alongside Ivan in battle. He was no stranger to war and death. Alfred had only lost a few battles since the Russomerican Republic had initially formed. That was almost three hundred years ago.

After watching Syria and Turkey bicker with Ivan over border reassignments, Alfred felt tense. Being so close to his husband, the freckled blonde could almost feel Ivan's internal anger as it built. “Accept these new terms or we will enforce them. Everyone is tired of your petty war.” Alfred ordered. Both warring nations looked at him dubiously with his Hello Kitty sweater and adorable blonde braid. Syria laughed mockingly, having to adjust her partial hijab. Turkey smirked, asking “Does your whore wife speak for you now?”

Instinctively, Alfred rose in anger. “Take that back.” he growled, glaring holes in the man. “I would take that back unless you want to die.” Ivan warned lightly. The fool laughed at Alfred, laughed. Upset, the freckled blonde slammed his face into the table hard. “I'm loyal and cute, and I look good in sweaters. You don't know anything about me!” Alfred roared, slamming Turkey's face two more times. Letting the nation go, Alfred retreated to his husband's side. A consoling arm was draped around his shoulders.

Syria paled, quickly signing the peace treaty and returning to her chair. Spitting out several broken teeth, the bloodied Turkey grudgingly added his own signature. “I'm not a whore.” Alfred whispered softly, upset. “Of course you aren't darling. You're perfect.” Ivan assured with a chaste kiss. With that little war out of the way, there was still a lot of time left. A few constructive dialogues managed to play out. Global relations seemed improved by the end, with several trades proposed between the forty nations attending.

The meeting ended, with a few stragglers the last to leave. Alfred could hear a conversation in rapid fire English down the hall as he cleaned up. “Wales, you can't. You were my ride home!” a young voice whined. “I don't care. I can barely afford to attend as it is.” an older male voice dismissed. “But, I need you!” the younger appealed, no avail. There was a slamming of doors, then stifled crying. Unable to ignore a child in distress, Alfred peeked into the hall. A boy, almost a teenager was slumped against the wall.

Clearing his throat, Alfred attempted conversation in English. Due to not using it everyday, it was quite rusty. “Hello child. Why you cry?” he asked kindly, Russian accent thick. “Oh, oh, Mr. Russomerica. I'll leave now. I didn't mean to be so upset.” the boy answered quickly, fiercely wiping tears with his ragged looking shirt. The child was too thin for Alfred's liking, arms like twigs. “Nyet, you come with me.” the taller nation insisted.

“Um, that's nice. But I still need to find a way to get home. I live really far away.” the child noted. Alfred ignored this, scooping the child off the ground. He was a light little thing, almost too light. “You see, I'm Sealand. I'm the best little country ever, but it's really hard.” the boy prattled on. “Child of England, da?” Alfred asked, seeing the same sandy blonde hair as his own abusive mother. Sealand shrugged, shivering and snuggling into Alfred's fluffy sweater. “I don't know. I've always been alone.”

“I alone too, once. Was very unhappy, until I meet Russia. Ivan, good man, best comrade. We will talk with him.” Alfred conversed awkwardly, wishing the child knew Russian. A minute later, Ivan returned to the meeting room. Coats in hand, he clearly wasn't expecting a rail thin child clinging to Alfred's leg as it ate cookies.

“Honey, no.” Ivan refused prematurely in Russian. “But, he's stranded here, and he's so cute and little. Can I please take him as a state?” Alfred begged. “He's a principality at best, off the shore of Wales. Wales. It's too far away.” Ivan reasoned. “He is so skinny and sad. You said our navy didn't have enough influence there.” Alfred argued back. Ivan rolled his eyes, retorting “He doesn't even speak Russian. He's just another mouth to feed.” “Hey. You keep trying to get me pregnant every chance you have. I though you would want another state.” Alfred bristled verbally, still mad about the early morning sex.

“I suppose he would be a suitable navy base. Ask him then.” Ivan sighed, giving up. “Sealand, you hungry and poor, da?” Alfred asked in clumsy English. “Maybe. What's it to you?” the boy stammered defensively. “I wish keeping you for my own. Little son.” Alfred said proudly, realizing after just how fucking creepy he was being. Ivan was right after all.

Sealand was being surprisingly positive about all this. “Like you're the mom and he's the dad?” he asked, pointing at Ivan across the room. Alfred nodded, explaining “Da, but many rules. Must learn Russian like other little ones.”

“You can't get bored of me and return me to the sea. And you can't beat me or tell me I'm worthless. And... you can't touch me... down there.” Sealand grew more quiet at he continued, shielding his groin fearfully from sight. Poor child of the sea, what trials and tribulation had he already faced? Likely many since he was English offspring. The late nation had a habit of abandoning his children in fields, or in this case, at sea. “Nyet, malchik. I love my children. Fight for them, da.” Alfred assured, offering another stolen cookie. After eating the treat ravenously, the boy smiled. “Okay. I'll be your kid. I've never had parents before.” he replied casually.

Alfred crowed with joy, twirling the child around. “I Mama, or Alfret Arturovich Braginski. He your Papa, or Ivan Zimavich Braginski.” he instructed, letting Sealand down. “I'm Peter Lawrence Kirkland.” the boy introduced. Alfred pinched the sandy blonde sharply, correcting him “Nyet. You are son, Peter Arturovich Braginski.” “Ow! Fine I'm Peter art pants Braginski.” he grumbled, rubbing his sore cheek. And so the family grew a little larger.

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A few years passed by, and the strange white dream never returned. Peter quickly learned Russian, becoming one of the family. Meanwhile Sealand's actual infrastructure was repaired and improved. The former principality with a population of four was transformed. It was now a notable Russomerican navy base, with twenty people living there full time to maintain machinery. Oregon was pleased to have a big brother he could play games with. Even Ivan tentatively bonded with Peter, taking him fishing and taking time to help with homework. The boy would never be blood, but he was just as close.

After making Alfred heavily pregnant, Ivan managed to avoid getting beat to death in the hospital. Still, California was a cute little baby. She had her mother's deep tan and freckles. It took a year, but the baby aged enough to sleep normally. After a month of being horrible to everyone, Alaska realized she wouldn't be ignored forever. A few trips to the mall later, the girl's head seemed screwed on straight. Alfred's crazy life finally started calming down.

That was until he woke up one night, discovering himself propped up and thoroughly mounted. Ivan was thrusting in frenzied fashion, panting hard. Enjoying the motions, Alfred could feel his own sticky excitement spilled beneath him. Suddenly Ivan pushed deeply and came with a cry. Hot release filled Alfred's hungry insides, his ass forcefully tilted so none could escape. Riding out the bliss, something came to mind in the groggy nation's head. If the cum wasn't going out, it could only go his... no.

“You worthless bastard! Get out of me! I don't want to be pregnant again!” Alfred growled angrily, bucking and trying to roll. “Oh just... oh, a minute.” Ivan whimpered, his still hard cock giving a mighty throb inside that stuffed passage. Oh hell no, he was still pumping seed inside. It wasn't much, but even one little swimmer was enough to ruin the rest of the year. Resisting, Alfred rocked violently and clenched his anus for all it was worth. He only succeeded in fucking thick seed deeper into himself.

Crying hot tears, Alfred felt the cock swell slightly. “I thought you loved me. I thought you respected me. All you want to do is use me.” the mounted nation wept in frustration. Ivan paused, panting as he rode out the last shots of cum. Alfred could feel every bit of it, his insides swelled with the stuff.

“That's not true. I care for you more than anything else. I love you so much I need to touch you constantly. You fixed my heart, and you're raising four perfect states. You're eyes, your hair, your cheerful optimism. Everything about you is so perfect. It makes me want to make you so full of our children, make the world a better place. We could save the world, with our happy perfect children. We'd love everyone of them.” Ivan gasped between thrusts, clearly starting another round.

The love behind every word was palpable. Heart fluttering, Alfred asked timidly “Do you really mean that? You don't think I look hideous when I'm pregnant?” Ivan started roughly fucking the filled anus, making Alfred melt into a puddle. “I want you more pregnant. I want so many children we need a van.” he ground out, hips rutting rhythmically. Alfred's body rocked in sync, so completely in love. Ivan did love him, even as a whale bloated with unborn young. Ivan loved him in his grouchy day pajamas and wild hair. He even loved Alfred during his Japanese cartoon obsession phase. To give another child didn't seem like a high cost if this cosmic love was the prize.

Six. The agreed limit was six children including Peter. Until the limit was reached, Alfred gladly let himself be filled and stretched. After rigorous secret midnight sex, he agreed to butt plugs that would keep every seed inside. Eerily enough, seed from that first night vanished before the plug was removed. There was absolutely no doubt he would be pregnant. Even so, Ivan wanted to keep up the act until the womb had completely sealed. Taking vacation time, the couple visited Saint Petersburg. Visiting was a loose term, since they were locked together in lovemaking usually. That few days turned into a week. Alfred was so delirious from all the mind blowing sex, he didn't much care what the excuse was.

They only stopped so Alfred could clean out over a week for his doctor's visit. The poor children were probably tired of hearing them “practise fighting bears” at unusual hours as well. Alfred had a very special doctor, one that had helped him through all the other pregnancies and troubles. There was so few doctors trained to deal with nations in the world. Admittedly Alfred only shared the talented physician's existence with former British colonies. Lord knew there was enough of them. If the European union got hold of the man, Alfred would never get medical care again.

Sitting in the stark waiting room, Alfred felt confident everything would be fine. With Alaska, Alfred had discovered he was pregnant while drunk off his ass at a New Years party. The girl turned out alright, if quite nonverbal. Oregon's pregnancy had been a nightmare of nutritionists and nurses. He didn't eat a single drop of anything tasty for ten painful months. It basically ruined child rearing forever. California had been okay to birth, but Alfred dodged food specialists like they were assassins.

“Braginski?” A nurse called out from an open door. The couple stood, escorted to a small office. The doctor was an ageing human, followed by a woman in a lab coat. “Doctor Varkins. A pleasure as always.” Ivan greeted warmly, for the doctor was one of the few he trusted. He eyed the young protege acting as the old human's shadow. “Why is she here?” Alfred asked, holding himself and clenching his legs closed.

“Relax, this is my replacement in training. Her name's Tiffany, or doctor Kinley.” the older man introduced. “But I just got you. Annika just shed her last baby tooth. What if she needs braces?” Alfred protested. “It's been forty years. I have a family of my own, and I want to enjoy my golden years.” the doctor explained patiently. Alfred nodded uncomfortably, sorely reminded of human fragility. It had taken Alaska forty five years to physically age to preteens. Oregon grew slightly faster, taking fifteen years to reach his current state. California would likely grew at the same rate, representing a warm state.

“Tell me about your kids, they looked cute.” the younger doctor said kindly, her Russian carrying a distant Irish tinge. Alfred nervously glanced at Ivan while Doctor Varkins checked his vitals. With a nod, the pale ash blonde put a comforting hand on his husband's leg. “Well Annika, she's my little snow princess. Then there's Peter. I adopted him. He's my little sailor. Nikolai is second youngest. He wants to be a farmer when he grows up. California is just a babe, but I knew she'll do great things.” Alfred rambled, proud of his offspring.

“California... like the state?” the woman asked dubiously. “Well, for now. We can't seemed to agree on a first name. Ivan wants Katyusha, but I want Nadia. It's fine. We have five more months before she figures out things beyond pooping and sleeping.” Alfred explained casually. “I told you. Nations. States. All that.” the older doctor mentioned while listening to Alfred's insides with a stethoscope.

“Well your vitals are good, why visit so soon?” doctor Varkins asked curiously. Blushing, Alfred revealed the good news. “Well, we're trying again for another little one. I wanted to make sure things were alright. And Ivan needs a check up. He keeps coughing.”

Ivan looked shocked that he had been tricked into the doctor's office. When he tried to flee, Alfred's steel strength kept him trapped by the arm. The stubborn Russ was inhumanly strong, but his husband had always been able to match him. “I'm fine. I don't need help.” Ivan hissed stubbornly. His heart beat, blood pressure and other lesser things were measured and noted.

“Well there's your problem.” Dr. Varkins said confidently, pulling out a series of stock market charts. The dips in Ivan's health were still too closely linked to the price of oil. “You need to diversify your exports, so you stop getting these coughs. And you haven't been eating enough vegetables.” The ancient nation pouted as he was scolded like a child. Alfred grinned, with a pleased 'I told you so' attitude.

“Does this mean these folks are Russomerica?” the trainee asked. “He's the Russo, and I'm the Merica. But yes, we are Russomerica.” Alfred patiently explained, remembering when Dr, Varkins first freaked out over this. “Oh wow! I worked with Ireland, but I never though I'd meet my own nation.” the girl gushed. Alfred shied away from the attention, nervous around humans that could recognize and extort him. Playing nervously with a braid, Alfred's fidgeting was stilled by Ivan's arms. “He's shy, you can't be so direct with him.” Varkins corrected, approaching Alfred slowly. “Do you need anything else checked?” he asked courteously. Alfred shook his head, unnerved by how the younger doctor stared at him intently. They fled the office soon after.

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

Officially two months pregnant, Alfred was feeling exhausted on the living room couch. Ivan and Alaska were enthralled in a show about big game hunters. Sealand and Oregon were on the floor, designing amphibious cars. Baby California was finally sleeping upstairs after wailing like a siren for an hour. Lazily dragging a couch quilt over his tired form, Alfred could afford to close his eyes for a second.

The dream was vivid and white. It was a white room with white tile and white benches. It was all so white and painfully familiar. Three gunshots, and one wrist cutting. Suddenly Alfred could recall being red haired, having killed himself in a bath tub by cutting his wrists. Blonde and shooting himself in the temple many times. Long haired and jumping to his death. It all felt frighteningly real. A short grey figure entered the room, using some sort of hologram device ripped right out of a movie.

Knowing and not knowing, Alfred had five confusing memories over lapping of this creature. It was safe, it was his space buddy, his confidant. Excited, he scooped the short figure up and swung it around the room. Despite never having met this creature, Alfred felt relieved to be reunited with it. It squabbled at him in a language he couldn't comprehend, until it was sharply changed to Russian.

“-ing Christ. What language is this time line in anyway?” the grey man cursed. “Who are you?” Alfred asked, refusing to let go. “You understand now?” the grey figure asked, resisting being cuddled. “Yes, little space buddy.” Alfred confirmed, the affection slipping out of him. “God fucking christ, you're going to ooze sugar if you keep this up. So, how's my favourite US of A?” the grey man asked, giving up on escaping Alfred's hugs and snuggles.

“I don't understand. Who is yuss of ah?” Alfred wondered, head cocked. Browsing alien symbols on his device, the short figure shook his head. “Wow, okay. Forget whatever I said. This line is damn confusing. What happened after 1776?” he asked bluntly. Absently petting the bald bulbous head of his friend, Alfred felt a name spring to mind.

“Well Tony, I was my own country of Americana. But it was really hard. England kept blockading my ports to starve me. Spain kept pressuring me. Ivan was courting me at the time, and became really mad. He fought off England so I could focus on Spain. After a while Ivan proposed to become a republic with me. Oh, it was so romantic. You should have seen the roses and the moonlight. I couldn't say no to that charmer. We've been married as the Russomerican Republic since 1889.” Alfred explained warmly.

“Was just checking. Normally I leave you idiots alone twenty years and you both end up killing yourselves. My boss wasn't happy about that.” Tony replied, still browsing his miniature projector. “Oh cute. Congrats on the twins. Fuck you have a lot of children. Breed like goddamn rabbits in this time line don't you?” he continued, browsing pictures of things that looked unfamiliar.

“Twins?” Alfred asked, confused. “Those things in you right now. Yeah. Fraternal twins.” Tony explained. “Why we would kill ourselves? I love Ivan too much to kill myself.” the freckled blonde protested, nothing cleared up at all. “Don't worry about it. I'm just happy that you're happy. Oh and by the way... The twins are Moscow and Washington, so Ivan can stop riding you like a used dirt bike.” Tony informed dryly.

“What?” the blonde sputtered, surprised.

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

Alfred woke sharply, aware he was holding a napping Oregon and not a grey alien man. Ivan too had passed out on the opposing couch, the wildlife show still playing. Alaska and Sealand were long gone, but that was normal. The older states were becoming teenagers and highly independent. Looking fondly at his husband, five gruesome memories flashed by.

Ivan, throat cut and bleeding onto the cushions. More memories, his head with a variety of gun shot wounds. Another, his eyes lolled back in death, mouth foaming from poison overdose. Panic gripping Alfred's heart, the snoozing Oregon was nearly dropped on the floor. The anxious nation scampered over Ivan's still form. Checking for a pulse, he went giddy with relief when one was found. Clinging to the splayed man, Alfred kissed that pale skin, licked it, cried with joy to touch it. Ivan wasn't dead. Thank God Ivan wasn't dead. Sealand and Alaska strolled in on the odd scene, both eating three ice cream bars at the same time.

“Sex on the couch? Really?” Alaska snorted derisively. “Your papa isn't dead. I touched him. He's alive.” Alfred whispered loudly, still sobbing as he squeezed Ivan's rib cage. The older nation woke with a cough, surprised. “What?” he gasped, lacking air to make real volume. “Mama's losing her marbles.” Peter replied, in no rush to rescue his adoptive father. Finally taking a breath, Ivan forced himself to sit up. After Ivan rubbed Alfred's back and fed him the rest of the ice cream bars, the grieving nation calmed down.

“It's the hormones, Alik. Nothing bad happened to me, and nothing will.” Ivan promised, wiping a mess of melted ice cream off Alfred as he sniffled. “It felt real, and there was a white room. I died, you died. It was terrifying, Vanya.” the upset nation whimpered, clinging to his muscular husband. “It was just a dream.” the ash blonde soothed with a kiss.

Alaska and Sealand were gone again, probably off to play video games. Oregon was still sleeping like a rock on the couch. In the rare moment privacy, Alfred relaxed and sagged into the soft touches. “Marrying you was the best decision of my life. I can't even imagine the madness the world would suffer if we hadn't.” he murmured, lacing Ivan's collar bone with gentle kisses. Ivan returned the kisses with one of his own, reducing both of them to lovesick lumps on the furniture.

It was true. Alfred was so lucky fate hadn't dealt him a worse hand. He would continue to cherish his blessed life, and his happy family. No matter what war or ecological disaster befell him, Alfred would always be thankful for true love.

#rusame #hetalia #fluffy #russia #america

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words-writ-in-starlight · 7 years

Text

For @littlestartopaz : Steve catches Wanda sulking and invites her to Disney Night with Nat and Clint. Wanda teases him, and Vision ends up there too. Better yet, not MCU so we can also have her brother. Or just ignore that part of the MCU.

GOOD. Also, Quicksilver is alive and healthy after a while in a healing coma, as speedsters do. I read a wild AU once where he was shot and died, and the comments were full of complaints about how it didn’t make sense. I am RIGHT THIS MOMENT deciding that this fic and this and this and possibly some others with small tweaks exist in the same universe as this one (I do not have a timeline to speak of) and also I’m disregarding that same wild AU’s belief that Clint lives? On a farm? Rather than a shitty apartment building in NYC and the Tower/Mansion? And that Nat and Clint are not soulmates on a level that makes romance look downright petty, kay-thanks-bye. AND also I’m so glad we all remember how Wanda and Pietro were kids who were pressganged and conned into service of HYDRA rather than being voluntary recruits.

It wasn’t like Wanda had expected her relationship with Pietro to be all roses after he came out of his coma, but her worry had also done a spectacular job of blurring out some of his less desirable qualities as a brother. Like, just for example, his overwhelming, pointless, overprotective bullshit. She muttered a bitter Sokovian curse under her breath and stripped off her jacket, dropping it on the bed without a care for the soot that would certainly stain her sheets. The rest of her uniform was given the same careless treatment, abandoned on the floor as she yanked on a pair of leggings and a soft shirt two sizes too big.

She wasn’t even sure who she was more frustrated with—Pietro, for yanking her out of the way of a spider ‘bot that she could have taken care of, or herself, for losing focus for long enough to let him take the hit for her. Someday, he was going to suddenly realize that his fragile twin sister had gone and turned into an adult while he was busy fending off the world. She hoped it was sooner rather than later, or she might have to beat it into him. Assuming he even lived that long, which was beginning to look increasingly unlikely.

“Stupid nervous bastard,” she muttered in English, and flopped down on her bed, flat on her back with her fingers laced over her face. “Martyr.”

“Hazard of the profession,” Steve’s voice said, amused. Wanda turned her head, untangling her fingers to look toward the door, where Steve was leaning against her doorjamb. He was dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, standard fare for any of them after showering upon returning from a mission. His hair was a rumpled mess and he had a nasty purple and blue bruise marbling over one cheek, where Bruce had diagnosed a cracked zygomatic. In combination with the blood that had been leaking from a split in his lip, Natasha had cheerfully commented that he was looking very patriotic indeed.

“Put ice on your face,” she said, frowning at him across the landscape of her comforter. Steve grinned at her, and winced, raising the cold pack in his hand back to his cheek.

“Like I said,” Steve said. His voice was muffled, but his eyes were bright and wild with adrenaline, like blue fire. “We’re all fucking martyrs, or so I’m told. Your brother just wants to keep you safe.”

“Well, I just spent months at his bedside because he took eight bullets to the chest and severed his spine,” Wanda said, sitting up sharply. “So he can get over it.”

“Easy,” Steve said, holding out his free hand in a gesture of peace. “I’m not saying whether he’s right or wrong, just that he’s got his reasons. You’re a grown dame, if you want him to cut it out you can tell him.”

Wanda pressed her lips together and looked down at her hands, rubbing at a spot of grease she’d picked up while she was blowing up a ‘bot. It just seemed to get more deeply ingrained into her skin. “I just. He’s protected me our whole lives. I want to be able to protect him sometimes.” She glanced up, and Steve was nodding, ambling over to move her jacket out of the way and sit down beside her. Some of the anger was beginning to burn itself out, but the feeling of failure it left in its wake was worse—much worse. “I should be able to protect him,” she almost snarled, slamming an open palm down onto the bed, and Steve gave her a half-smile, rueful.

“Yeah, that doesn’t go away,” Steve said, all dry, dark humor, and Wanda hummed agreement, then sighed, leaning into his shoulder. There was a moment where the only sound was the quiet crackle of the cold pack as Steve adjusted it against his cheek. “Hey, Wanda,” Steve said at last, “you wanna watch a Disney movie? Take your mind off things?”

Wanda laughed a little at that, startled. “The Captain himself watches children’s movies after missions? What would the world think if they knew?”

“It was Nat and Clint who started it, actually,” Steve said, standing, and offered her his hand. Wanda didn’t move, blinking up at him in shock. “Don’t believe me?” he asked, clearly entertained by whatever her face was doing.

“I believe Clint—Natasha?”

“Yeah, she thinks kids’ movies are good for the soul. Something about Clint watching a lot of them while the two of them were waiting for her to get over the Red Room’s influence. Are you coming or not?”

“All right,” Wanda said, bemused, and took the offered hand, letting Steve haul her bodily to her feet. “Is anyone else coming?”

Steve grinned with the half of his mouth that he could move freely and dropped her a wink. “Our secret. Well,” he revised, “Vision probably knows. He’s got the databanks from the Tower’s theater room.” He smirked as he gestured her out the door. “If you wanted to invite him--”

Wanda made a strangled noise and hit Steve with the back of her hand. “Steven!”

“What?” he asked, all innocent blue eyes, and she scowled at him. Whoever had suggested that Captain America was a pure and naïve soul, entirely unaware of the concept of mockery, had obviously never met the man. Natasha had once confided to Wanda that Steve had convinced them all he was scandalized by the mere thought of a woman swearing, and had fleeced almost a hundred dollars off Tony by way of a Swear Jar before the man figured out he was being conned.

It was all very funny until Steve was needling her.

“Leave Vision alone,” Wanda huffed, lost for a better response.

“I haven’t done anything to him.”

“He is still figuring things out.”

“Aren’t we all,” Steve said, perfectly neutral.

“He does not think of me like that. I don’t know if he even can.”

“Sounds like someone should ask him.”

This time the sound that choked on Wanda’s tongue sounded almost like an angry cat, and she smacked Steve again, harder. “Shh!” she half-hissed. “Don’t you dare!”

Steve was laughing when he raised his free hand in surrender. “I won’t,” he said, sincere. “But really, if you wanted to invite him, I’m sure Nat and Clint wouldn’t mind. They put up with my commentary the whole time already.”

“Maybe another time,” Wanda said, walking quickly to keep pace with Steve as he took a flight of stairs at his usual quick pace. “What are we watching?”

“I think the plan was Atlantis, but if you have a favorite we could watch that instead.”

Wanda shrugged, pushing through the door at the top of the stairs to Natasha and Clint’s floor. “I have never seen one.”

She didn’t notice Steve had stopped until his hand closed on the back of her shirt and brought her up to an abrupt halt. He’d removed the ice from his cheek, as if he was too distracted to hold it in place. “Seriously?”

“Our mother showed us Snow White once?” she said, looking up at him. She didn’t often feel particularly short—five foot six put her at a perfectly respectable height, and a full inch taller than Natasha—but Steve was an even six, and built like a fridge. She would have dared anyone not to feel small standing beside him in their bare feet and most casual clothing. “But that was years ago. We got…busy.”

“Wanda,” Steve said solemnly, dropping her shirt and resting his hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to watch Bambi.”

“That is…specific.”

Steve took a deep breath, and said, in a tone approaching religious fervor, “Tyrus Wong was the finest animator of his time, and the art he assembled for Bambi is beyond unique and--”

“—represents a level of expression all animation should aspire to,” Natasha chorused, appearing in the hallway as she toweled her hair off, red curls sticking damply to her skin. “Hi, Wanda. Are we watching Bambi?”

“I have never seen it,” Wanda said.

“Steve has some thoughts on it.”

“We should all hope to be half as skilled,” Steve said, entirely unashamed. “The fact that Wong wasn’t appreciated as a genius at the time was--”

“Reprehensible and an indicator of systemic intolerance. Come on,” Natasha told Wanda. “We can get set up. He’ll go on as long as you keep making affirmative noises whenever he pauses to take a breath.”

“Are we showing Wanda Disney? Tasha, you should dance the Firebird for her,” Clint said, balancing two monstrous bowls of popcorn on one arm as he pulled the door to the small kitchen closed behind him. Natasha shot him an exasperated look that he ignored blithely. “Wanda, make sure you ask Tasha to dance the Firebird when we watch Fantasia next.”

“Okay?” Wanda asked, bemused.

“Stop harassing her,” Natasha said, catching Wanda by the elbow with one calloused hand and tugging her down the hall. “Steve, put that ice back on your face. What do you have to say about the animals in Bambi?”

“It was actually the first time anyone put real work into making them move like real animals,” Steve said, almost bouncing down the hall after them. “It was absolutely fantastic.”

Wanda laughed, feeling better than she had since they had departed for their mission. Natasha smiled at her, the small, quick, toothy thing that the spy offered as genuine happiness, rather than the practiced one she flashed cameras and marks.

“Your brother will sort his shit out,” Natasha said quietly, under the steady rhythm of Steve’s voice. “Clint had a protective moron phase after the first time I had to run missions without him, too. He got over it. You’ll have the same problem, whenever you get taken out of commission and have to watch Pietro go get into trouble without you.”

“Thank you,” Wanda whispered. “Wait,” she asked, looking back at Steve, “did they really keep a private zoo?”

***

The movie, to Wanda’s surprise, was exactly what she hadn’t known she needed—it gave her a chance to come down as gently as possible from the adrenaline rush of the mission, and having other people around was steadying in a way she hadn’t been prepared for. Clint sat on the floor, the ankle he’d sprained stretched out in front of him as he leaned his head against Natasha’s thigh and she played with his hair. Steve sat between Natasha and Wanda on the couch, offering informative commentary on the art and the occasional comment about what the movie had been like the first time he saw it, in 1942. As Wanda felt the electric energy of the fight fade from her muscles, she let her head drop wearily to Steve’s shoulder. Steve was, she thought, very much like a really big dog, affectionate and protective and tactile—she hid her face in his shirt when Bambi’s mother was shot, and when she looked up again even Natasha’s eyes looked a bit shiny, and Steve’s lashes were damp.

The door opened as Bambi took his father’s place as Prince of the Forest, and two figures stood there. Wanda didn’t look over, still watching the screen as the music swelled.

“Close the door, Vision,” Natasha ordered. “What do you need?”

“I have been speaking with Pietro and thought you would not mind if I brought him here,” Vision said, doing as he was told and closing the door behind them.

“Brat,” Wanda said, sitting up in surprise.

Her brother smiled at her, a little sheepishly, and blurred across the room to stand beside the couch. Pietro lowered himself to sit on the floor and looked up at her, chewing on his lip. “Sestra,” he said, “I—I am sorry. I should have let you take care of yourself. You are not a child anymore.”

“Neither are you,” she said, and reached out tentatively toward him. Pietro tangled their fingers together, like they had when they were small, and she looked at where their hands linked. “I know you want to protect me. I want to protect you, too.”

“I should have trusted you more,” Pietro admitted quietly. The words clicked into place like the last piece of a circuit, and Wanda blinked.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, you should. You are always in a hurry to protect me from the whole world. Do you not trust me to protect myself?”

“I do!” Pietro rushed to reassure her. “I do. I just.” He sighed, visibly casting about for the words he was struggling to articulate, and made a motion, as if tearing his heart out of his chest with one clawed hand. “You are my sister,” he said helplessly.

Wanda took a deep breath and felt the last of the hard knot in her chest unravel, the words he couldn’t find settling into place in her mind as surely as if he had written them a foot high on the wall. “I know,” she whispered. She clutched his hand tighter. “You are my brother. Let me take care of you, too. That is all I ask.”

“Da, Wanda,” Pietro murmured. “I will.”

There was a beat of respectful silence before Natasha announced, “I think this calls for another movie.”

“Can Vis stay?” Wanda asked, looking up from her brother.

“Sure,” Clint said. “Pull up a bit of floor, Bot Boy. All right, kiddies, raise your hand if you’ve seen Lilo and Stitch.”

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