#and Edward just needs some warm soup

[greykolla-art]

Every day I wake up and think:

“At some point Izzy realised how out of control things had gotten, and started putting himself in between Ed and the crew, as much as he could. Especially when Ed was too drunk/high to even know what he was doing. Cause Izzy doesn’t want the others to suffer more for his mistakes.”

“They are all bonded through shared trauma now.”

And every day I cry like a baby.

#grey art #fan art #ofmd #ofmd season 2 #ofmd s2 #ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd spoilers #ofmd comic #ofmd fanart #can you believe how much I love Izzy??? #and Edward just needs some warm soup #Izzy hands #edward teach #jim jimenez #this season is so dark I’m honestly here for it #whump art #self sacrifice is also a trope I’m very weak for

[wellntruly]

Blogging, vol. v

I’m having surgery tomorrow. Why this is always happening in November is beyond me, but it sure is an aesthetically kind month to not work and be extra-grade cozy in soft knits, sipping soups, while outside it rains grey on amber.

Unlike my gum surgery last year, this one I had no idea was coming for me, and the weeks getting up to the point of finally knowing what was going to happen were, not to exaggerate, not good. It's odd that it's better now, since it was indeed something you don't want to find. But then you can start to process. Process, process.

I actually tend to do quite well with surgery, both as a concept and a thing to heal from, even before I spent my recovery from the previous one watching a 50 year old TV show about surgeons. I find the kind of pain engendered by things you need stitches about to be quite reasonable mentally; it hurts, it hurts there, for this reason, you have pills to dull it, and it will gradually heal. Simply “feeling sick,” or worst of all nauseous, that’s what can make me wonder what it’s all even for. Miserable, derogatory.

So the fact that it really seems a predominantly surgical approach is going to be most of what we need to take care of this problem has me almost overwhelmed with gratitude. It could have been far, far worse for me. But I have all the most treatable metrics for this, even being rather young for it has the silver lining of meaning I should heal well. And I’m so lucky to have a warm, funny, exceptionally skilled surgeon who actually went through the same thing when she was also my age, and that honestly, I’ve absolutely the Edward Gorey illustration body type to probably even end up looking pretty chic going down to just a bit of an A cup, which is what she's going to be able to do, not to bury the lede. Surprise top surgery, is what I’ve been calling it, and thank you to the boys for the re-contextualizing dream that is the phrase ‘top surgery’, a concept of such positivity; life-affirming, life-saving.

It is a strange, swift-approaching change to reckon with though, impossible to avoid that. I've always tended to dress as if I don’t even have the actually, admittedly, great boobs that I've had up til now, but it is still the body I know. I’ll roll onto my stomach in bed and think, for one that I soon won’t be doing this at all again for a while, and that when I do, it’s going to feel different. Fascinating to consider.

I'm leaning into a sort of Orlando-like curiosity about it, this vague physical transformation just spontaneously befalling me in my adulthood. How will this be. What sort of opportunities might this actually grant. I’ll be endeavoring to hardly ever wear a bra again, I’ll tell you that for certain. Should I use this as the push to finally get a bespoke suit, soft and wide-legged, with a jacket that can fall in just a clean draped line from my shoulders? Will I be able to wear suspenders? I think about watching Margaret Qualley in The Stars At Noon this summer, how I watched her just drop a loose sundress over her bare body, entirely backless, and walk out the door. I think, of course, of "Keira Knightley Atonement," as my inspiration board folder is called.

I’ve also been thinking about this blog, what I think Tumblr user sashayed once called her secret public journal. Sometimes what I or others will post can break into the very real & personal, like this, for the benefit that comes from just releasing, sharing the large challenging things in our lives. I think about a long-time mutual who posted about some of the strangeness she felt during hospitalization for an accident, how recalling some of what she wrote about has brought me a feeling of solidarity in this.

But there’s also how I’ve actually been blogging about this for weeks and weeks, it’s just only been for me. Another kind of secret public journal. This butterfly coming out of a row of cocoons in a window: this was for how I was, fully insanely yes, watching A Zed & Two Noughts while I was wracked with anxiety over what might be going on with my body, but/and the idea of emerging after this surgery new and striking and light. This is self-explanatory. This tiny-chested witch vaulting skulls is “literally me” goals this time next October. This was actually exactly, exactly my vibe getting my biopsy, with the sweetest nurses.

And now at last it all comes together, the public and private journal, on the eve of really what we’re all waiting for, oh god me for sure: the return of painkiller diaries. Painkiller diaries is a lifestyle, actually, it’s an ethos. I let myself so wholly rest after my gum surgery last year that the rest of November was the happiest I’d been in years. Please, again. Return to cashmere convalescence. And would you look at this beautiful soup sippin' mug I’ve gotten since then:

Oh I think we’re ready.

#pers. #blogging

[eiightysixbaby]

Eddie taking care of you when you’re sick.

He helps you into the tub and washes you when you’re too tired to do it yourself, drying you off with a fresh and warm towel and helping you into your comfiest pajamas for you to lie down in.

He’s not a very good cook but he tries to make Wayne’s chicken noodle soup anyways. It comes out too watery, but you appreciate it none the less. He even offers to spoon feed it to you, and pouts when you say no.

He fluffs your pillows for you and gets you the softest blankets he owns to make sure you’re comfortable. Putting on your favorite movie even though you both know you’re going to fall asleep anyway.

He checks up on you frequently (almost too frequently) to check your temperature and see if you need anything else until you just tell him to get in the bed with you.

“I thought you were worried about getting me sick.”

“Do you want to cuddle or not Munson?”

He reads to you with your head on his chest, stopping every so often to give a kiss to your sweaty forehead.

When you ask him to rub some vicks vaporub he happily obliges, rubbing it into your back and chest, staring at your chest a little too long with a look in his eyes you know too well.

“Don’t get any ideas Edward.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

When you end up throwing up in the bucket he provided for you he holds your hair back and rubs at your back, cooing sweetly at you. If you call yourself disgusting or gross at any point he doesn’t miss a beat to correct you.

“You’re not gross sweetheart. Your just sick. You’re beautiful. A total babe.”

“Are you really flirting with me right now?”

He’s holding you while you sleep, massaging at your head soothingly while he listens to your breathing to make sure it isn’t abnormal in any way.

And when he gets sick afterwards, you return the favor. Although…he’s a lot more needier and whiney than you ever were. But you love him anyway.

I literally need an Eddie to take care of me when I’m sick 😭 I need it so bad.

his cuddles would be the best and him reading to you is so 100% something he’d insist on doing. he’d do a bunch of silly voices for different characters to make you laugh.

he’d probably hardly sleep he’d be so concerned for you, just wanting to make sure he’s ready if you need something.

but oh lord, the dramatics when he gets sick. he’d be so whiny about everything. and I’d baby him anyways but man, he’d be the worst.

#leah’s got mail 💌 #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #gia 🧨

[scoops-aboy86]

Steve who realizes he's grown out of everything but his sweatpants? and those are on their way out too.....

Ooh, juicy. Both the ask and Steve. 😜 I, uh, got carried away again, 1636 words apparently jfc. Lots of stuffing and belly worship and soft mutual pining below the cut, but I’d say it’s still rated T.

So Steve notices, right? Of course he does, there’s no way he couldn’t. First it was the stretch marks, then the other red lines on his belly—the one that mark his circumference like a globe, little creases radiating out where the seams of his underwear and the fly of his jeans are also pressed in tight enough to leave an impression. Some days he could just spend hours after he undresses, tracing lightly over those impressions and imagining what will happen when he can truly no longer be contained. 

It’s kind of like a hobby, one he’s picked up since Eddie left Hawkins to try and make it as a musician. 

At first it was eating his feelings—because they’d come close, they’d almost been something before a demo tape sent out to some random acquaintance of an acquaintance actually got some traction. Eddie had seemed reluctant to leave, but Steve had told him to go, hadn’t wanted to be the one to hold him back in this town that still lowkey thinks he’s a cult leader. 

Now, though, it’s more like a game; if he hears a Corroded Coffin song on the radio, he eats. Something substantial, like a sandwich or a burger or a bowl of soup. If he catches the tail end of one, that’s just a snack. He has plans for someday, when they really make it big, to graze constantly if there’s an interview on tv or in a magazine… They’re not there yet, but he has both faith and a growing appetite. 

His waistline is an ever-expanding testament to his devotion to one Edward Wayne Munson, who still writes him letters regularly. They land in his mailbox haphazardly, sometimes not even in order, but the postmarks and the date-of-writing that Eddie always scribbles in a corner of the pages are consistently once every week. Steve can’t really write back because Eddie moves around too much, but the letters include numbers and date ranges for where he can reach him, so he calls whenever he can. And wonders if Eddie hears the snack wrappers crinkling in the background. 

And now, it’s really all caught up to him. He’s got one pair of sweatpants that fit, and really needs to go shopping to fix that problem (not to mention getting some bigger shirts, too). But first, he needs to do laundry, because he’s kind of been laying around in said sweatpants since he last got home from work, and they’re a little bit covered in drops and crumbs and… other stains. (He likes his food, and he really likes feeling full these days, okay? He’s made his peace with that.)

Eddie never expected to feel homesick for Hawkins, of all fucking places, but in the end he’s not sure that’s even it. He doesn’t want the town, he wants Steve. Still regrets leaving him, even though he knows that if he and the guys hadn’t taken this chance there would have been resentments and what ifs lingering in the air. As it is, Jeff, Gareth, and Grant are tolerant but probably sick of his constant pining and the love song lyrics he keeps pitching. 

He has noticed the sounds of snack wrappers over the phone. He’s also noticed how often it sounds like Steve is talking with his mouth full or partly full, and. After all they’d gone through together with Vecna and all the Upside Down shit, both of them almost dying more than once before it was all said and done, it’s nice to hear Steve getting to be normal. Steve always sounds so happy whenever he can catch him on the line instead of leaving a message, too, which warms his heart, and on the occasions Eddie calls him back and Steve is home to pick up, the guy always sounds like it’s Christmas morning come early. That either of them (anyone in the Party, really) can be so relaxed after the whole mess is goddamn miraculous. And, privately, he does think Steve would look good with more meat on his bones. Handsome and stocky and strong and, mmm…

Eddie is just a lovesick gay man in the prime of his life, he can’t help that sometimes that line of thinking leads all the way from naughty thoughts all the way to touching himself with Steve’s name heavy on his tongue. 

So, yeah, the second the band gets a long enough break, Eddie is on a flight back to Indiana. He wants it to be a surprise, so he takes a cab all the way from Indy to Loch Nora, tipping the driver handsomely because he has money now. That he’s earned, and by doing something he loves too, how wild is that?

Almost as wild as when he lets himself into the house and feed his knees go weak at finding Steve beached on the living room couch, a mix tape of Corroded Coffin songs clearly recorded from the radio playing on the stereo and a large pizza box open on the cushion next to him, the pizza three quarters finished. There’s sauce and grease smeared around Steve’s mouth and it looks like he’s racing the tape to try and finish first, his belly so heavy and packed on his lap and—

He’s not wearing pants, and with his stomach rounded out and dropped between his spread thighs Eddie can’t even tell if he’s wearing underwear from his vantage point. The polo he’s got is straining to contain him, popped threads trailing loose down from the hem where it rests above his deepened belly button and vivid stretch marks. 

The sight punches a gasp out of Eddie, and Steve looks up with the next slice halfway to his mouth. 

“Eddie?” There’s amazement in Steve’s voice, and excitement too, but just enough self-consciousness and trepidation that Eddie is across the room in a second, Steve filling his vision more like approaching a celestial body—eclipsing everything else. (Steve is wearing underwear, but why is it even hotter that Eddie had to get closer just to tell?) And then Eddie is leaning over him, hoping with his heart in his throat that this isn’t too much, and gently nudging Steve’s pizza laden hand to finish its journey. 

“Don’t stop on my account, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and Steve moans into his next bite, a sound that shoots straight from Eddie’s ears to between his legs. 

Steve must have been eating ever since he’d left town to look like this, and there’s something so… It’s like he’d left a hole that Steve has been trying to fill, and Eddie wants nothing more than to be here for him now. 

Later, once the tape has ended and they’ve both been sated (Steve in more ways than one, practically gasping for breath from the exertion and the bloat of his swollen gut) they talk about how much they’ve missed each other. How much they’d both regretted not becoming an us before Eddie left, despite the way they’ve still managed to keep in touch more than some official couples do over long distances. Unwilling to make that mistake again, Eddie gets dramatically on one knee before Steve and hefts the curve of his lower belly in both hands in supplication, kissing the crest of his stomach in between his words as he asks Steve to be his boyfriend. 

“Even though I’ve eaten myself out of all my jeans?” Steve asks breathlessly, his cheeks warm but a hand tangled in Eddie’s curls, fingers flexing gently with every kiss to his stretched-taut skin. “I kind of… The only thing that fits me are my sweatpants, and those are in the dryer. I was just waiting for the load to finish, and I got—”

“Hungry?” Eddie guesses with a grin. 

“A snack,” Steve finishes sheepishly, and isn’t that something. “I need to go shopping before work tomorrow, and I figured, if I’m already full, they’ll fit better. And, uh.. For longer.”

Eddie chuckles. “Well, if I’m your boyfriend I could come, you know. Help you pick things out, make sure they look—” he gives Steve’s stuffed belly a gentle wobble “—as fucking hot on you as you deserve.”

Steve is already nodding before he even finishes speaking, eyes gone a little dazed from his belly being manhandled in a way he’s never felt before—because, before, he’d always stuffed himself alone. “Yeah. Yes, I—uuurp—want you to. Wanted you this whole time, Eds, you have no idea.”

They seal it with a kiss, and Eddie fetches the now dry sweatpants and helps pull them up over his boyfriend’s hard-soft belly and infinitely grabable ass, noting how even this pair is straining to contain as much man as the two of them have managed to wiggle and squish in there. Eddie has to drive the BMW because Steve is starting to feel sleepy from his “snack”… and, even though Eddie has to crank the driver’s seat all the way up from freakin’ Mexico, he’s not totally sure Steve would’ve fit behind the wheel anyway. 

He already has plans to try and talk Steve out of Hawkins. The kids are graduating soon anyway, they can wait until after the ceremony, and Robin is already off in college, she’ll follow Steve anywhere the second she has her degree. Eddie has money now, between the government payout after the Spring Break from hell and his new career that’s stretching out before him like a dream, he can support Steve and his new appetite, easy.  

Because the only thing that could make Eddie’s life more perfect is beside him in the passenger seat, half snoozing and half massaging his belly (Eddie helps, during red lights and straightaways) to quell the gurgles from digesting an entire greasy pizza, in sweatpants that are unquestionably on their way out. 

Permanent tag list: @hotluncheddie

#wg steddie #chubby steve harrington #scoops words #ask #rockstar eddie munson #uh in case any of my new followers didn’t quite know what they were getting into… hi here’s this. i do this a lot. #i have 52 right now but let’s see if i’m still playing with a full deck by tomorrow lol

[izzy-b-hands]

"Izzy! You've come to see my work," Stede works to keep his voice even as he clings onto the ladder. "Impressed?"

He watches Izzy peer over the side of the ship, brow furrowed.

"Can I ask what it is you did?" Izzy frowns.

"It's obvious!"

Izzy nods, then shakes his head. "Gonna need a hint."

"Well, I had some props that would have helped," Stede says. "Here's a hint: art."

"Did...did you try to repaint the side of the ship?"

Stede nods. "Lost the paint and brush though."

"I'd imagine," Izzy remarks dryly. "Love, did you consider waiting till we'd stopped moving?"

"I had, but then I thought if I was careful I could do most of it now, and that leaves us all more time to explore at the next port!"

Izzy sighs. "That's...wait. You're soaked through; how long have you been out here?"

"Only a few hours," Stede smiles to hide his chattering teeth. The waves are a stinging sort of cold today, but it doesn't sting so badly now that he's cold enough to feel numbed.

"For fuck's sake," Izzy scoffs and sheds his vest. His sword and belt go next; Stede can hear the metal of the blade smacking the deck and the rounded hilt rolling with the motion of the ship. "Edward!"

Stede hears a faint "What?!" from Ed.

"We need blankets and tea!"

"We have some already!"

Izzy rolls his eyes. "Hang on. Don't stop hanging on, I suppose."

"I can't feel my fingers," Stede says, staring at them pale and locked around the rope of the ladder. "I'm not going anywhere for now."

"New tea and clean blankets and towels, Ed! Now!"

"Why?"

Stede fails to stifle a giggle.

"Is it not enough that I'm shouting about it? To suggest there's due cause for you to hurry the fuck up with it and help?"

"You shout about lots of things! Most things, actually!"

Stede leans into the ship, avoiding the wet dripping paint as he hides his laughter.

"Forget it," Izzy mutters. "I'll come get you, and make more tea, and get a warm bath ready, and-"

He scoffs and grumbles his way to Stede, then works Stede's fingers off the ladder to wrap around his waist instead. "Don't let go."

The cold sinks in worse once he's away from the constant thrashing of the sea, over the railing and shaking on the deck.

"I've got-" Ed walks up and drops the clean towels in his hands. "What the fuck happened here?"

"Ship maintenance," Stede supplies. "Painting is done!"

He pretends not to notice Izzy gently shaking his head in response. As far as he's concerned, at least a decent portion of it is done, and that's a success.

A success that's making him shiver fiercely enough to hurt, but still. Success.

"Honestly," Izzy grumbles as he pulls off his shirt and wraps it around Stede. "Could have gotten yourself killed."

"It does look nice," Ed notes as he peers over the railing. "We won't have many touch ups to do."

"Ed," Izzy sighs.

"What? He did well!"

"He'll catch his death!"

"Both things can be true!"

Stede reaches for the abandoned towels, only to have his hand gently smacked away while Ed and Izzy pile them on.

"Lucius is in our room; I'll have him run a bath," Ed says. "I'll get tea and have Roach make something warm. Soup? Soup."

"As soon as I'm dry and warm I'll be fine," Stede mumbles, but from under the thick towels he can't seem to be heard.

"Out of the wet clothes first, then into a robe and more blankets," Izzy adds, seemingly talking to himself as much as them. "Maybe ask Roach if there's anything he can do for his hands; look at his knuckles-"

Eventually they lift him up and lead him into what he presumes is their quarters, but he can't see beyond the towels tossed over his head in a caring panic.

"I'm just wet and cold," Stede protests as he finally manages to free himself from most of the towels, leaving them on the floor. "This is a bit dramatic, really. Excessive, even."

Ed shakes his head. "Not really. How many robes do we have clean?"

"I can only wear one at a time!" Stede laughs. "Honestly-"

"They're all clean," Izzy interrupts. "Where the fuck is Lucius?"

"Taking in the scene," Lucius says awkwardly from the nearby chair. "Are you panicking so much over him you didn't notice me?"

"No," Izzy blushes.

"Aww," Lucius smiles. "Adorable. Anyway, they're right. It's cold and going to get colder soon, and cold can absolutely kill a person. I've watched you nearly die a few times now, don't really want to watch you add another near death experience to the collection."

Stede frowns, or tries to despite his chattering teeth. "I really think-"

"I'll get a warm bath ready," Lucius interrupts. "Anything else we need?"

"Soup and something for his hands from Roach," Ed replies. "I'll get the robes from the auxiliary wardrobe, and Iz, can you get him out of the wet clothes?"

"This is getting very silly," Stede fusses. "I hope you both know. I can undress myself!"

"Your fingers are still curled over from holding the ladder," Izzy notes.

"Ah," Stede looks to his hands. "Did not realize that. Well..."

"You're not getting a choice here," Izzy continues. "We're looking after you until you're warm and looking better."

"I would enjoy it, were it me," Lucius says as he stands and strides towards the door. "Just my two cents!"

"I would too," Ed says. "Also, Izzy's right. You need looking after, and we love you, so we're looking after you."

He's heard them say that they love him many times before now, but he still blushes to hear it again.

"There we go," Ed smiles. "Now, I'll be back with robes, and let Izzy help you."

"Is he going to throw all the robes over me?" Stede asks as Ed heads into the wardrobe. "He is, isn't he?"

A towel drops back over his head from Izzy's hand, which feels like answer enough.

--

"Fine," Stede grumbles. "I do feel better."

He's held down on his chair by the many robes tossed over him, his hands barely free so he can eat the (extremely good) soup Roach made.

At his feet, Izzy is still persistently trying to warm them, rubbing gently with one of the few dry towels left.

Ed is at the opposite end, playing with his hair as he brushes it.

"That said, you could both stop and have some soup with me."

Both sets of hands pause at once, and he has to fight off a giggle. No one is immune to the scent of Roach's cooking, especially the soups like this one.

"Only if you're really feeling better," Ed leans down and kisses his head. "Then I suppose I could be swayed to sit for some soup."

"Don't even start," Stede continues to Izzy. "I know you haven't eaten much. And this has dumplings in. Roach's handmade dumplings, that I know you love..."

Izzy sets aside the towel. "A break might not be bad. But if you start to feel cold at any point-"

"I will ask for some stockings or socks, and you can get me some to wear instead of killing your knees while rubbing my feet," Stede interrupts. "Lovely though that has been, thank you."

They help him move to the middle of the couch, joining him on each open side and reaching for the small tureen of soup on the table in front of them.

"I should paint the ship more often," he continues. "Look at what it ends in! Good food, being cozy with you two..."

He knows what he's starting, and he giggles and lifts another bit of dumpling to his mouth while they sigh and snuggle in and beg him to do anything but that.

#text post #steddyhands #stizzy #to be fair stede did get a lot done and you know how? Mary and Doug's painting advice #they figured it would be done when the ship was drier and docked but ya know #stede doesn't let things such as common sense stand in the way of success and i support him because ive Been There lmao #finally got this wip done holy shit lmaooo #long post

[cajunandfire]

For the Drabble thingy:

7. "You look like you need a hug" in a waking up in the infirmary after being wounded on a mission situation?

"You look like you need a hug" from this fic drabble ask.

-

He wakes, blinking his eyes open before screwing them shut in response to the bright lights around him. He panics immediately, if only for a brief moment, the response ingrained into him due to his upbringing at the asylum. There's a faint ringing in his ears and a dryness in his mouth. He pushes himself to open his eyes again and as the fixtures finally come into view, he cues into where he is. He's at home, his home, in the infirmary.

Without much thought, he tries to shift his seating to get more comfortable but winces terribly as the pain blooms throughout his ribs and his shoulder. He grits his teeth together as he pushes through the jarring sensation.

He remembers now, having left Mumbai in a fury of bullets. The auto rickshaw he managed to steal proved to be a less than sufficient shield against the group of trigger-happy local security.

Almost as if on cue, the door to the infirmary slides open and Diana enters with a small tray. On it are a glass of water, a mug of soup and two sandwiches, no short of all the trimmings. A good meal for someone on the mend.

"You're awake," she says softly as she walks in.

"You're here," he breathlessly responds, perhaps a bit too astonished to see her. He fully expected to hear her voice, but not to see her in person.

"I am," she sets the tray down on a cabinet by him. "You were quite poorly when I intercepted you at the airport. I was worried."

"I don't remember that."

"Well you're in a much better spot now. You just need to rest... and don't worry about rushing back to work. I need to look into a few new syndicate leaders and secure you some new tools."

He nods in response, looking down at his feet.

She crosses her arms, standing at his bedside for a quote moment. "Perhaps I should go pack up, I don't want to overstay my welcome."

He furrows his brow. "What makes you say that?*

"I...," she fumbles with her words, "this is your space, 47. I should respect that."

He scowls, unable to hold back his emotion. "My space," he huffs.

"Is something the matter? Is the house not up to your expectations? We can redecorate-"

"It's not the house, Diana."

"It's not?"

He shakes his head. "I'm all alone here. I'm lonely."

"Oh."

He was no stranger to living alone but after all these years, he had figured she would have spent more time with him. Perhaps it was because they still hadn't talked about what happened between them. Her parents, the Olive Grove, the demise of Arthur Edwards, and their time apart; it all felt like a lifetime ago now. They had simply picked up from where they had left off, carrying on as they once had. He wanted more for them, especially with the ICA now long gone.

"I can stay longer, if you'd like," she softly proposes.

"I would like that very much."

She gives him a small smile. "Can I get you anything else?"

His eyes search her face, before they fall to the ground. There's a sadness he can't quite hide from her.

"It looks like maybe you could use a hug." She offers. "If that's alright, of course."

He looks back up at her, nodding slowly as he motions his uninjured arm open.

She's gentle with him, mindful of his wounds as she softly fits against him, her chin resting on his healthy shoulder. He relishes in the feeling of having her close. Her blouse is silky soft and she's warm against his bare, bandaged chest. She smells good too, and so he burrows his nose into the crook of her neck. He doesn't let go, holding her for a long moment.

When they separate, she gives him a knowing look, resting her hand on one of his as she gives it a good squeeze. She had left him alone for a bit too long.

"I'd like to eat upstairs with you."

"Are you sure? Can you make it up the stairs?"

"I can," he grunts as he sits up, "with your help."

They share a smile as she positions herself to better help him off the bed. He'd have no problem making it up there, as long as he had her by his side.

#rated gen #diana/47 #hitman #hitman fanfiction #diana burnwood #agent 47 #hitman 3 #hitman fanfic #hitman fandom #fanfiction #ao3 #hitman drabble fic ask requests

[unusual-raccoon]

Modern!Osferth Headcanons

(Plus bonus drabble)

Guess who's rewatching The Last Kingdom for the 63rd time? I'll give you a hint - it's me! Guess who also had the brilliant idea at midnight for a modern babysitter!Osferth x Uhtred idea? Also me.

So, without further adieu, here are some modern!Osferth rambles/headcanons:

Osferth is still devout in his faith. It keeps him sane in a way, it's been a touchstone for most of his life. He's in between jobs and living alone.

He doesn't have much in the way of family. His father got his mother knocked up when she was young, and his father was married.

His mother was sickly and died when he was young.

He spent a lot of time in orphanages/churches under the care of nuns (Has been praying the gay away ever since) until he was taken in by his uncle.

His uncle Leofric, worked as a Prison Officer in London, got stabbed in the neck and killed during a riot when Osferth was only fifteen.

He has a sizable chunk of change in his name from a wealthy father he never knew. (He refuses to touch a dime).

Osferth spent a lot time in soup kitchens (eating & volunteering), spent many a year cutting his own hair to save money (forgive his bowl cuts), and just overall scraping by on odd jobs and the like.

He reconnected with his half-siblings as an adult, or tried to. He and Edward don't really get along (he thinks Edward is a terrible father - not that being a bastard gave him much ground to stand on). He and Aethelflaed absolutely clicked right away.

He is the bestest uncle to Aelfwynn!

Very good with kids, he is a big baby himself at heart, but also super independent because he's used to doing things on his own.

Aethelflaed is super supportive of Osferth (she just think's he's neat) and runs the "Osferth needs a DILF" fanclub

Have I mentioned he is very good w kids, loves trashy romance novels, can cook quite well, is modest about it (secretly thinks he'd be a kick ass housewife)

--- (How he's gotten involved with Uhtred)---

he met Gisela at the soup kitchen - it's a hike for him, but nothing compares to the loving atmosphere.

Was secretly intimidated by her.

Accidentally thought he had fallen in love w her when she showed him pictures of her babies and they made meals together and she asked him about his life - then he realized he has not known motherly affection in a long timeeee ;_;

Gisela would tell him about her lovely little family and how Stiorra was a nightmare to potty train in comparison to her brother

Gisela would show him pictures of the family and he would 'ooh' and 'aah' over pictures of the babies - promptly reminded he is gay when he saw a picture of her husband.

He'd been devastated when he discovered she had passed. She had been to the soup kitchen in a few weeks and he'd sent a few texts to see if she was well, but had merely chalked it up to being a mom of two youngsters.

He misses the funeral service, but figures it was private and reserved for family only.

Osferth, himself, imagined he landed somewhere between a work friend and gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Still, he kept her in his prayers every night.

They hold a small gathering in the soup kitchen amongst other volunteers that have heard the news of Gisela's passing.

He mourns in his own way, and figures he should be better at it by now.

Still, he manages.

Until he sees Gisela's family walk into the soup kitchen...

Bonus Drabble:

Uhtred is a young, freshly widowed (fuck cancer) single dad to two beautiful children. Young Uhtred (Junior) is four and Stiorra is two. He misses his wife dearly and as a result ends up revisiting many places that remind him of Gisela.

He ends up at a soup kitchen where she often volunteered, the soup kitchen was supported by a local church and while Uhtred had his gripes about Christianity, his wife never did. Gisela loved all people, sometimes with a warm embrace, sometimes with a stern rap of her little knuckles.

The place is small and cramped and he recalls the scent of whatever's being doled into bowls because it used to stick to Gisela's clothes. It's warm in the air and heavy in his lungs, like thyme and bay leaves and sweet carrots and his heart aches.

There's a man - well, a boy who doesn't look older than 17, gangly, awkward, flaxen hair that spirals around his head like a halo, bowed as he chats with an older woman while he pours a heaping ladle's worth of soup into her bowl. The boy's face is familiar, vaguely. There's a spot next to him behind the counter where Gisela should've been.

A woman on line lets him ahead with a sympathetic face - the kids are with him, Stiorra held on his hip, her arms around his neck, and Junior holding his hand. He feels mortified, guilty.

Uhtred tries to back away, feeling terribly out of place and mourning every inch of the woman he loved. When the boy behind the counter spots him, his eyes are blue, startlingly blue - it's like a peek of the sky through a blanket of fog. A soft, angular face like looks like it belongs in a Renaissance painting with high cheeks and sharp cheekbones and pink rips.

Someone else waves them over, Junior gets a bowl, Stiorra does too, the woman that serves them tries to give one to Uhtred but he politely declines.

They sit, they eat. He blows on the little spoon for Stiorra and offers a small smile when she demandingly tugs on his hair, squirming, doughy little fist swinging for the spoon. Junior is able to handle eating on his own, like a big boy, (mostly).

Uhtred is cleaning the kids up and preparing to leave when he noticed someone had come over.

"Um, excuse me, sir," A timid voice begins, high and boyish, pale long fingers wring the sleeves of an aged brown sweatshirt, "I don't mean to - a-are you Uhtred?"

Uhtred stares warily at the boy, at his flaxen hair and ears that have since turned pink.

"Yes," He answers flatly, and he instantly feels cruel for the way the young man winces.

The nuance of conversation bypasses the children and Junior's hand springs up with a wave, as he says, "Me too!"

The boy smiles a timid, growing thing - less afraid.

"You volunteer here?" Uhtred asks though he knows the answer. Gisela had spoken of the friend she had made at the soup kitchen, and realizes why the boy's face seemed familiar. He'd never been bothered by it, his Gisela was a lovely woman and charmed many.

"Um, yes, sir, I...do." The boy answers, he swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing along the pale, elegant stretch of his throat.

He casts considerate blue eyes over to the children, to Junior who babbles about wanting to visit Thyra and Beocca, and to Stiorra who is dozing against Uhtred's shoulder...

"I," The boy begins, slim, pale hands listless as he tugs on a loose thread in the sleeve of his sweatshirt, those high sharp cheekbones that appeared chiseled from marble, redden, his lips, his very pink lips twitch with words unspoken, "My deepest condolences."

Gods, how many time had he heard that same sentiment over the weeks since his wife's passing? How many people had meant it? Uhtred's nostrils flare with every breath he struggles to take in and out with the fissure of pain that splits his chest.

He clears his throat roughly. He blinks away tears that makes the earnest blue eyes of the boy standing across from him dance like sapphires.

"Thank you," He says, it's a genuine thing that bubbles up without him meaning for it too. Many people loved Gisela, it was an easy thing to do, but it finally felt as though someone knew. Knew the agony of losing her. Like the sun had been torn from the sky.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, it's Hild. It could be a thousand things, a lapsed permit or zoning issue, the company has had enough hiccups, let alone after the death of his wife.

"I need to-" Uhtred motions to his phone, the boy nods politely.

"Of course," He says instantly in understanding.

He's still holding Stiorra when he stands, it was late and raining and it's too loud inside the hall.

"I can watch them," The boy offers, sort of perking up like a moping flower kissed by sunlight - it only becomes obvious then  how tall he is. Rightfully, he should be distrustful. He struggles, but his phone buzzes in his hand another time and Uhtred reluctantly hands his daughter over. He watches as the boy gingerly supports her weight, Stiorra's open mouth drooling on the boy's shoulder. He sways gently with Stiorra in his arms, bending and shifting like a reed in the wind.

"Uhtred?" He hears the boy call gently, "do you think you could help me keep an eye on your sister?"

"I can!" Junior answers eagerly.

"Clever boy," Uhtred can picture his son's wide smile, "I can be so forgetful - Oh goodness, where has she gone?"

"Right there," Junior begins to giggle, "Where? Uhtred are you trying to trick me?"

"There!" Junior squeals in laughter that Uhtred hadn't heard in weeks. It's a balm for his soul.

Uhtred answers Hild's incoming call, the phone pressed to his ear.

"How are you holding up?" Is her first question, he strives to be noncommittal with just about everyone but Hild. So, when he answers, he does so honestly, openly. He can hear the tightness in her throat.

"Did you want me to order something? I can be over in," there's rustle over the speaker, "twenty."

He smiles, he loves her all the more for the effort.

"Not tonight, but soon," He swears. He knows, despite everything he's going through, there are still people in his corner, his sister, Beocca, Hild: his relentless supporters.

"I know you're going to ignore me because you always do-"

"-I do not"

"But, have you considered hiring a sitter?"

"Hild," He sighs, he'd abhorred the idea for a time. His own fragmented upbringing left a general distrust of strangers that was easy to default to under duress.

They bicker for a bit, back and forth was their way and the normalcy alleviates some of the ache in his chest.

He wants to reject the idea of needing help, of shouldering responsibilities alone, of being anyone's burden. He rubs at his eyes, a cool sheen of rainwater on his skin.

Inside the soup kitchen, the scent of thyme and bay leaves and sweet carrots is in the air, the warmth in the room fells buttery in the comfort it provides. He can hear his son's voice, laughing, can hear other laughter too.

Stiorra's asleep on the stranger's shoulder. Little hands drowsily clinging to the brown fabric of the sweatshirt.

Hild's voice rattles in his head.

The boy's smile is wide, unbidden, so very youthful. He see's Uhtred and his smile dims, a coy curl of his lips lingers, like an echo, throat bobbing, tongue catching on pink lips, eyes like sapphires still dance.

"Papa!" Junior yelps, delighted, clinging to Uhtred's leg in an instant, "I counted more than Oz!"

"He did, I'm afraid - you're too clever for me." The boy answers, a sheepish way about him, he sways like a reed, right on over to Uhtred's side. Stiorra is very carefully handed over.

"Did you?" Uhtred asks, "How high?"

Junior makes a pensive little face, beside him, the boy, Oz, mouthes fifteen exaggeratedly.

"Oh! All the way up to fifteen!"

"Fifteen?" Uhtred gasps, "Auntie Hild isn't going to believe it."

The children had already been ready to leave before Hild had called and it doesn't take much to tug the lapels of his coat around Stiorra and hold out his hand for Junior.

The boy offers a polite smile, pink mouth pressed together, the scent of thyme and bay leaves and sweet carrots hanging on his sweatshirt, a patch of drool on his shoulder where Stiorra had slept.

"Well, um, goodnight." He says eventually, crouches down to bid a separate farewell to Junior. He rummages through the pocket of his sweatshirt, and pulls out a biscuit wrapped in wax paper.

"I nicked this from the kitchens," He admits, Junior looks affronted, scandalized, but the boy laughs, "It was supposed to be my treat for after, but," Junior's eyes go terribly wide, hopeful, "You did count to fifteen - so, I suppose, you've earned it."

"He can't, he's-" Uhtred begins, but that gangly boy looks up at him from the floor with smiling sapphire eyes and pink lips and says "It's gluten-free."

Uhtred feels...odd.

"Are you allergic as well?" He asks as Junior asks endlessly if he can eat his treat now.

The boy flushes, "Er, no, I-" He rises to his full his height smoothly, hands pushed off the faded knees of his jeans, "I grabbed it after I saw you come in, Gis-" His jaw tightened, tendons flutter under the pressure, "Another volunteer mentioned how someone in her family also had Celiac's..."

The odd feeling persists, its pressure, its hands stemming the flow of blood the open wound the passing of wife had left in him.

"Anyway, I-I only wanted to pay my respects," the boy sighs, flaxen head hanging before he offers a small, sad smile.

"Wait." Uhtred calls, his voice carves through the air.

The stranger turns towards him again, fluorescent lights catch on the delicate braid of a golden chain just barely visible around his neck, tendons jump in neck and the chain dances like motes of sunlight.

"What's your name, boy?"

Those pink lips part in a gentle smile.

"Osferth, sir." He answers.

"Osferth," He repeats sagely.

Hild's voice rattles in his head. Uhtred extends his hand and the boy examines it before shaking hands with him. The touch is soft and lingers in his palm like silk.

"Good to finally meet you."

This was just a silly little headcanon/drabble (1.8k still counts as a drabble, right?) idea, but like, idk, i might be tempted to add more?

#my writing #my drabbles #the last kingdom #osferth #tlk osferth #uhtred of bebbanburg #uhtred ragnarsson #my headcanons #modern au

[whumpsick]

Whumpuary Day 3-4

Prompt for January 3-4 is "Get away from me" / Collapse / Choking. I played a little fast and loose with the definition of choking, but no ragrets.

Steddyhands Whumpuary continues! All of this is set in the handwavey co-captains period of OFMD season 1, unless I decide otherwise, in which case I'll say something.

Izzy had been denying he was sick for close to a week. His cough was bad enough that no one really understood why he was still denying it. By day six he could barely get a full sentence out without dissolving into a hacking mess. Roach had coincidentally started keeping a pot of warm honey lemon tea on the stove around the clock on day two, and the sole concession Izzy made to his condition was keeping a mug of it in his hand at all times. 

He was inspecting rigging, clinging to his mug of tea, when he tried to say something to Pete and broke off in another coughing fit. This one seemed especially bad, but when Pete attempted to thump him on the back he snapped “Get away from me!” and stepped to the middle of the deck in convulsions. Stede came up from below just in time to see a final fit shake the first mate’s small frame before he fell to his knees and collapsed onto the deck. 

Stede shrieked and rushed to Izzy’s side. “Someone get Ed!” he shouted to no one in particular. He rolled Izzy gently onto his back.

“Fuck off Bonnet.” There was some relief to hearing that. If Izzy was still cussing him out, he wasn’t that poorly off. But he did need to stop working, to be somewhere warm, to be — to be eating soup, or whatever. 

“Oh for the love of –” and there was Ed, thank goodness. “Iz, I fucking told you to take it easy and look what you’ve done now.”

“I’ll be fine, just give me a fucking –”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Never had Stede heard Edward sound like such a mother hen. Not that his usual idea of a mother hen said ‘fuck’ quite so much. “Stede, come on, take his legs.” 

Edward hauled Izzy up from behind under his arms and Stede rushed to take hold of his ankles. Together they rushed Izzy into their cabin, ignoring his feeble protests. Edward steered them to the bed and Stede suppressed a protest at the thought of Izzy’s boots on the bed, even for a moment. Instead he quickly removed them, and helped Ed strip their first mate down to his smalls. 

“Edward, I’m fine, this is completely unnecessary,” Izzy was still protesting, but his eyes were closed and he offered no resistance to their undressing. Edward placed a palm over his forehead and Stede watched Izzy’s face slacken with relief at the touch even as Edward frowned. 

“You’re burning up, Iz,” he murmured. “Could you get some cold water and rags, love?” 

“Of course,” Stede felt a little relieved just to be given a task. When he returned, Edward had removed his own jacket and was sitting with Izzy’s head in his lap. Edward accepted a cool towel from Sted with murmured thanks and carefully applied it to his first mate’s forehead.

“Scared the fucking shit out of us, love,” Edward told Izzy, whose eyes were closed. “Too fucking old to push yourself like this anymore.” 

To Stede’s surprise, Izzy turned onto his side and threw an arm over Ed’s thigh. He muttered curses into his pant leg, quieting when Ed stroked his hair. As worried as Stede was, his heart warmed at the sight. 

***

Izzy’s whole body ached. It felt like every time he dropped off to sleep, he started coughing again. Someone helped him drink some hot, sweet tea, which seemed to soothe his throat. He finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

***

He rose gently back to consciousness, at first aware of sunlight, just on the other side of his eyelids. Then the body aches, concentrated at every joint and radiating out to the rest of his body. Then the quiet voices somewhere nearby. He stirred in an attempt to alleviate the pain and noticed a change in the cadence of the voices. 

“How’s our Israel this morning?” Stede asked, approaching the bed. The word our lodged in Izzy’s chest and warmed it, despite the twist it also caused in his stomach. He pulled the blankets up higher and groaned.

“Is that a good noise or a bad noise?” Stede asked. Izzy was not planning to reply, but the question was directed at Edward anyway.

“Sounds like a ‘still feeling shitty’ noise.” Edward’s palm found his forehead again and he sighed at the coolness of his hand. “Still feverish, too. Looks like you’re on bedrest today, Iz.” 

Izzy frowned and made an unhappy noise, then stifled a cough. 

“If you can’t form words, Israel, I’m afraid Edward is right. Edward and I can supervise the crew just fine until you’re better.”

Izzy made another unhappy noise, but he turned back over and snuggled deeper into the blankets anyway. He felt bad enough that he couldn’t make himself care very much about whether they ran the ship aground or did something else stupid today. The air outside the blankets felt unreasonably cold, and his joints still ached something fierce. 

He felt a body sit down next to him on the bed and rub his back in small circles through the blankets. “I’ll see Roach about getting some more tea,” Stede said.

#whumpuary 2024 #whump #sick fick #steddyhands #ofmd

[wellpresseddaisy]

I just finished eating an excellent dinner and wanted to share the recipe. It's extremely flexible depending on your time/spoons. It can be veg or not, depending on your preferences. I make it vegetarian.

Chik'n pot pie filling over mashed potatoes (2 servings)

Sauce

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons flour

1 cup warm no chicken broth (I use the Edward & Sons bullion cubes)

1/4 cup milk or cream (I use a low-fat milk)

Melt the butter in a small pot. Add the flour and whisk together. Whisk until the mixture bubbles. Add the warm broth and keep whisking. Once the sauce has thickened, add the milk and season (I use rosemary, sage, and a bit of thyme). Once thick, take the pot off the burner and set aside.

If you don't want to make white sauce from scratch, there are mixes available. You can probably also use a cream of mushroom, celery, or chicken soup if you'd prefer. I haven't tried it, but you need about 1 1/4 to 1 1/2 cups of sauce. Season to taste.

Veggies

This is super flexible category. I use:

1 medium onion

3 largeish carrots (steamed separately)

3 ribs celery

2/3 cup Lima beans (frozen - cook separately)

1/3 cup petite peas (frozen - cook separately)

Melt about 1 tablespoon of butter. Saute the onion until translucent. Add the celery and cook until softened. Add the other cooked veggies. Add the sauce and heat together on low heat. Add a bit more milk and stir if it seems to be thickening too much.

Protein

I've used Sweet Earth Mindful Chik'n (probably the best chicken analog), diced quorn fillet, and quartered quorn nuggets (cronchy) in this.

You can use one of those or your favorite plain chicken. Or packaged cooked chicken. Just cook everything through before you toss it in with the veggies.

Potatoes

I made my mashed potatoes from scratch, but you don't have to. Steam n' mash, boxed mashed, refrigerated mashed, or whatever kind of mashed potato you prefer is the right one for you.

If you're making from scratch, about 1lb of potato makes a good amount for 2 very hungry people. You don't even need to peel them unless you prefer them peeled. Wash, large dice, stick in a pot with water and boil until a fork sticks in easily. Drain and mash with a tablespoon of butter or so, a quarter cup ish of milk, and salt to taste.

Options

Don't like chicken? Use beef broth and some kind of beef or beef analog.

Don't like potato? Make or purchase a pie crust (watch purchased ones for sugar - you want something more savory) for a double crust pie. Line a casserole with one pie crust, dump in your filling, and seal the top crust. Cut a couple of vent holes. Bake at um, I think 375 ish for 25 to 35 minutes? It's been a while since I chucked it in an oven. Your crust should be baked through.

You can also use this as a filling for puff pastry and everyone will think you're fancy.

Rice or noodles would also probably work as a starch.

Add any veggies you like that aren't listed.

Use this as a blueprint.

#recipes #daisy cooks #comfort food #I don't have pics because we ate everything

[justasimplesinner]

Hey, I’ve just spent my day admiring your blog... and seeing as requests are open I was wondering what you thought about the dork squad having a much younger, super caring fem s/o. Would it change anything in how they act with them publicly, intimately? Idk it’s vague so please go wild! I’m so down for anything you write!

i'm gonna make this more gender neutral so everyone can enjoy darl, hope you dont mind! gays and theys deserve to read some fanfiction too!

and yet again, gonna need to skip jervis

Jonathan with a very caring s/o hcs:

he is... not used to being taken care of. hell, he's not even used to taking care of himself. and quite honestly, you're the best fucking thing that ever happened to him. not that he'd ever admit it tho smh

you're just always so... gentle. and you pay so much attention to him and his needs. you never push. you always know when, where and how to soothe him. you always bring him food and coffee and insist on making him drink water. you massage his shoulders whenever he's been working for too long. it feels... weird. surreal. he will probably never get used to it

sometimes, he gets really flustered by you. here you are, a little ray of fucking sunshine, making sure he has a scarf and a warm hat on him, fixing it all for him, styling, patting his cheek like you were his parent. you have to fucking stand on your toes to even reach his neck properly, and yet he feels so small with you. and the amount of respect he harbors for you is immeasurable

Jon has never felt the need to ever explain himself to someone, never felt shame at getting caught redhanded in doing something illegal or whatever the fuck, but all it takes is a single look from you and he's spilling the beans, even looking bashful while doing it. you just have that effect on him

he is not going to lie, he does get self-conscious because of the age gap. he's an old cynic, you're young and so full of love, and not only does your relationship sometimes look like the parent-child dynamic in the most unexpected ways (i mean cmon, the rogues were shocked to see how you've tamed him), but sometimes it's just... hard to keep up. and it gets annoying, always being stared at - for a very different reason this time - whenever he walks hand in hand with you, and the whispers really get to him sometimes. even he can't comprehend what the hell are you doing with an old fuck like him

honestly? the first few times it happened, he had ceased showing you any and all affection in public completely. he didn't hold your arm/hand/waist, he walked a small distance away from you, he used the same cold tone he used for everyone else. it wasn't just because he himself was embarassed (and he hasn't given a shit for public opinion in years), but he was afraid that the whispers might get to you. maybe even... make you realize how you're wasting your life with him. he will need some reassurance from you to even consider showing your relationship to the public. he doesn't give a shit that people are going to point fingers at him, he gives a shit that they will do so at you and he'd hate it if you started developing some insecurities because of that or started considering... leaving him. he knows you probably should but he... so doesn't fucking want you to. it might be selfish, but he so doesn't want to fucking let you go. ever.

Edward with a very caring s/o hcs:

this man is just one big fucking baby, you two will get along very well. you complete each other. ying yang and shit. and he honestly needs you in his life. he needs someone to take care of him, he needs someone to love him like you do. it might not seem so at first glance, but he is practically unable to do that himself. he will never take care of himself like you care for him, he will never love himself like you love him

when you just came into his life and started cooking him decent meals, spoiling him with affection, listening to him, just overall taking care of him, he felt the need to cling to you like his life depended on it. you had him hooked immediately

but there's also this little thing...s. like... parental issues... trust issues... y'know, the usual. it's just... you felt so much like a parent sometimes, and he's used to parents aka the people that were supposed to love him abusing their power over him and belittling him. so, accepting the fact that he loved you and you might love him was a very long and tiring process. and then one time you just hugged him to you after supplying him with the best soup he's ever fucking had, he just curled into a ball in your arms, telling you that he loved you and... asking you not to hate him because of that. it was the most fucking heartbreaking thing because it actually felt like holding a hurt, abused and neglected child in your arms

has called you 'Mom' on more than one occassion, regardless of your gender (he'd never call you Dad. it feels like an insult to him) and got very embarassed because of it. honestly, he often gets hella embarassed whenever you do something for him, like fix his collar or pat his cheek. but every time he sees you like, folding his clothes maybe, just doing normal, domestic things and taking care of him, he's got this dopey smile on his red face as he all but stares at you with love-filled eyes

it does feel... weird sometimes. he feels kind of... creepy. you're younger than him, and yet you're the mother-hen, you're the mature one (though he won't admit that, ever) and it almost makes him feel incompetent. because he literally needs you to take care of him since he so often can't even do that himself. he doesn't blame you at all, of course. at first he did, and he threw a huge tantrum over it, many insults were directed at you but your god-like patience made you just suffer through it, comfort him and have a serious talk about the whole thing

and don't even get me started on the stares/whispers directed at you two in public. they really fucking get to him and they make him feel so self-conscious, and are making him doubt your whole relationship. but most of all, he's fucking terrified you will leave him because of that. because of what the people are saying. because he's older and has problems with keeping up sometimes. but every last one of his doubts is swept away whenever you just slide your hand into his or hug him around the waist. fuck it, you kiss him in public, you hug him in public, you call him 'darling' in public - you're not ashamed of your love for him at all, so why would he doubt you? he still does tho, he's so just fucking insecure this man

#riddler #edward nigma #edward nygma #the riddler #jonathan crane #scarecrow #the scarecrow #my writing #headcannons #angst #fluff #the overneath

[the-most-pathetic-edge-marquis]

i would run away with you, if i could

@big-idiot-wolf-boys your tags on that moodboard did this

They rattle into the truck stop at four in the morning—the Chevy is running out of gas, and Edward is whispering Bella back awake at the edges of her mind, punching new holes through her chest every five minutes.

She refills the gas first, (shaking hands, crumpled bills smoothed on her jeans, leaning against the cold metal and trying not to collapse), and pulls into the overnight parking lot not even remotely expecting to be able to sleep. She drapes one blanket over Jacob, and another over herself, wincing at how deep the cold has settled into her bones. She cracks the window to stare at the stars, distant and smudged behind the lights of truck stop—

And it all melts into a night of dreams too faded to remember.

She wakes in the morning curled against Jacob, too warm to care that snow has started outside the car. Her heart aches at the awkward moment of disentangling, but it’s dulled by the fact that, for once, there were no nightmares.

They eat waffles and slightly-burnt bacon, and Jacob teases Bella into trying a cup of coffee. She drowns it in cream and sugar—he booms out a laugh, and she sticks her tongue out at him in return, flicking a crumpled creamer package across the table, which he catches with ease. (By the end of the trip, she will drink so much coffee, some of it days old and little better than mud, that her low caffeine tolerance will be a thing of the past.)

They buy a map and slam it down on the dash of the truck, tracing roads—they want to get out of the state, but past that neither of them has a plan. “Where have you always wanted to go?” Bella asks Jacob, because she lived in Arizona and vacationed in California, while Jacob has spent his entire life in La Push— “Shit,” he says, “Um...shit, Bells, I really don’t know.” She laughs without meaning to and throws her hands into the air and decides fine, let’s get out of Washington and we can decide where to go from there.

Jacob drives this time, snowy roads hissing past and his hands steady on the wheel. Somewhere later, trying to stay awake on a dark and lonely road, Bella will learn to love music again, but for now it still hurts too much—so she leans against the window with her battered copy of Pride and Prejudice, and—

“Hey,” Jacob says, “why don’t you read some of that to me?”

She stumbles over romantic phrases, aches at every reminder of the love she was allowed for a single shining instant—sometimes her voice breaks, and sometimes she is silent, wishing viciously that she could erase all her underlinings and dog-ears and the memories of sunlight caught in the pages like flypaper. But she keeps reading, as trees flick past behind curtains of snow, and...

She’s warm. Even with her cheek pressed against cold glass, there’s a blanket wrapped around her, and hot air that still smells faintly like tobacco trickling from the vents. A terrible breakfast that she was actually hungry for is settled comfortably in her stomach. Every once in a while, Jacob snorts mockingly, like he can’t quite help himself, or booms out a laugh at the banter between Jane and Elizabeth, and...

It hurts, but not the same way. Instead of a hole in her chest, it’s an ache. Like a sore muscle, or...or like a paper cut.

Small and agonizing and infuriating, but...manageable.

Healing.

They stop at a Walmart and spend more of Bella’s college fund—a cooler and bags of ice, celery and apples and peanut butter, cans of soup and beans and meat—that rattle so loud when Jacob leaps onto the back of the cart and rides it precariously down the isle that Bella claps her hands over her mouth and considers melting of embarrassment then and there—and then because they’re teenagers, a massive bucket of frosted animal cookies, and some day-old, slightly smashed donuts from a sale rack. They wander into the outdoor section for sleeping bags and dish soap, snag baby wipes and hand sanitizer, and Bella stops by the shelves of pads—Jacob makes a face, and then helps her load the cart.

He drags a protesting Bella into the book section—“You’re getting something that isn’t a romance novel, c’mon. Ever read Jurassic Park? Or the Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, how about that, we’re kind of hitchiking, right? Um...they’ve got a lot of Stephen King novels...this guy John Grisham has written a lot...”

They keep driving, and when they pass the Welcome to Oregon! sign they pull over at the next grocery store and Bella calls Charlie, gripping the pay phone so tight it feels like she could crack it. She whispers she’s sorry as she hangs up—and Jacob wraps his arms around her afterwards as she sobs and sobs and can’t stop shaking, and he wonders how he got lucky enough to have a friend who would do all of this for him.

Some of the nights they drive through, one of them sleeping as best they can in the passenger seat during the day, and trading off when the other can’t keep their eyes open any longer. They wince and cramp and complain—Jacob gets stiffer, mumbles ow more often as he wakes, but Bella goes on rants complete with waving hands.

Some nights they pull into empty trailheads and park the truck, stretching out sleeping bags in the back, staring up at the stars and hoping it won’t snow on them. (It’s the first one of these when Jacob tells her, thousands of miles from Sam and his orders and the pack he needed to protect. He walks into the woods whispering I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s still me, I swear it’s safe, I just—and Bella buries her shaking hands in warm red fur and breathes out awe.)

One night they check into a motel and shower for the first time in days. They fall asleep stretched out on a mattress, with the TV flickering softly because both of them are used to highway lights when they sleep, now. There’s only one bed—but they’re used to this to, by now. Waking up leaned against each other, to brushing arms and bouncing legs and clinging tight for support. When Bella opens her eyes to it the next morning, gray behind thick curtains and the hum of the heater, her heart aches but doesn’t break—and for the first time, she realizes that the hole in her chest feels...full.

It’s not the same as it was. It never will be. But...it’s scarred over, that empty gaping wound. Knotted and tough and ugly, maybe, but there.

She’s still there.

She uses the phone in the room to call Charlie again, before they go—to tell him they’re both still okay, that she’s sorry she can’t come home, but she loves him, she does—

The old pickup rattles across state lines, through cities and coastlines and stretches of woods. They watch geysers burst in national parks, stand on California beaches, take cheesy pictures in Los Angeles—and by then money is running out, so they unfold their ever-growing collection of maps, and Bella finds the street in Phoenix where a childhood home is standing empty...

#i wrote this in a haze #seriously what happened #i turned on sleep on the floor by the lumineers #and just blacked out #someone help me #anyways #they get to phoenix and jake gets a job at a mechanics place #and bella goes back to working at that plant nursery mentioned in midnight sun #and theyre happy and healing together #and then one day like...victoria shows up #or maybe alice because she saw bella's future just...disappear #and went to forks and was like 'hey is bella dead' #and then charlie is like what no she's just on a road trip #somewhere #idk #plot happens #i should probably start posting my fics on ao3 lmao #is this original content? #bella swan #jacob black #still team jacob

[bisexual-inuyasha]

Xingese Gold

Prompts: pining/hands/nature. “Please just hate me already.”

Wrap your arms and hold me still

I don't wanna think about what I will

Speak in tones that I can't hear

And tell me how no one knows anything in here

-- Jade Bird “What Am I Here For”

A young boy with black hair and dark eyes sat in his mother’s field. His face was serious, mouth twisted into a frown. He was a very stern child, hair pulled severely back into a bun.

For most kids his age, the object of their concentration would be something colorful and loud. Or maybe even ants crawling along the dirt or the dried out carcass of a worm. For this child, scrawny and tired, it was the flowers. His fingers--nimble, gentle, fleeting like tiny birds--brushed over the golden strands. Petals remained safely caged behind spindly stamen. His pants were soaked at the knees, his bare feet covered in broken grass and mud. 

His mother had taught him about these flowers. It couldn’t have been more than a month ago, after a similar heavy bout of rains. The lesson came after the worst news in his young life. She had died only a few days later, protecting him from one of his brothers from another clan. Forty one siblings would be easier to kill than forty two. He’d written the name down in a book, tucked that book into his shirt, and watched his mother be buried in the only silk his clan could muster. It had not been a good season.

She had called these flowers Xingese gold. According to her, they were the only flowers of their kind in all the world. Other places had yellow, red and white. But only the Yao clan from Xing had golden spider lilies. They were proof, she’d said, that he was meant to ascend to the throne. Only the Emperor could wear gold, after all.

He glanced around the field and  rocked back on the balls of his feet to get a better look. When he was sure the coast was clear, he plucked a flower and tucked it into the middle pages.

The list of the names in the book grew longer as more and more clans fell to assassination attempts. His mother’s children, his half-siblings, resented and revered him as their downfall and their only possible salvation. For many years, he had no true friends.

And then Lan Fan found him, visiting the now overgrown field, plucking Xingese gold. And she swore, for the price of a single flower, she would protect him. Her hands were clean and her clothes neat when he took him to the humble house she lived in. Her grandfather’s face was hard. His lessons were harder. But his kindness reminded Ling of a childhood wrapped and buried in silk. And with the old man’s guidance, and Lan Fan’s friendship, Ling’s body hardened into a weapon.

His personality sharpened like a knife, quick and cutting and so unassuming.

But it was his instincts that set him apart. He lived with his finger on the pulse, twisting around the existence of others like a hesitant snake. Curious and fleeting, never lingering long, taking only what he needed.

And this is how Ling Yao became a teenager who crossed the desert, determined to find the key to immortality. 

**Amestris, before the end of the world.**

Ling lay on hot tiles, tapping his toes against the burning roof. He was waiting for the right time to drop through the open window. This golden haired alchemist was well known around this country for his search for the philosopher’s stone. The philosopher’s stone was well known for being the only alchemical way to achieve immortality. If Ling believed in fate, he’d almost think they were meant to find each other. 

That wouldn’t do right now.

Ed had all the cards. Every scrap of information Ling wanted existed behind those golden eyes. Whatever Ed didn’t know about the philosopher’s stone, he knew how to find. Ling sensed that maybe, this stone and Ed’s life, were intrinsically linked. Linked in a way far more certain than fate.

Al left the room. The metal man had taken to leaving when he could tell Ed needed to rest. It was less lonely for him to spend those hours exploring the city. Or at least that was the reason Al gave. But it didn’t take the dragon’s pulse to see that Edward Elric was thinning out.

Not physically. His body was fit as ever, though no taller for having increased his intake. But Edward himself seemed more and more distant. Al may be afraid of disappearing inside his armor, but Ed was disappearing into himself. The golden hair alchemist was becoming lost in a maze of problems and responsibilities that seemed to grow new walls and corridors every day. Ling had his own knots to untangle. He couldn’t help lead Edward out of his.

“I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance to talk with you.” Ling slid through the window, grinning. 

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” Ed’s metal arm was over his eyes. Ling had noticed he did this when he was too warm. The metal had to be cool against his skin.

“Do what? You can’t even see me.” Ling sidled down onto the couch. Ed’s bed was clear across the room. He could have sworn the set up was different when the boys had first settled into this room, but he wouldn’t complain. “Lan Fan and Fu want me to stay hidden for a couple of days, until Bradley loses interest.”

“What, did you get bored?” Ed snickered. “Or did they just run out of food?”

Ling patted his tummy forlornly. “Do you mean to say you have food? I do feel a little faint, now that you mention it.” He went limp, feigning unconsciousness. His stomach growled for good effect.

 Ed’s footsteps padded on the hardwood floors. The metal clunk of his foot was muffled by the sock he wore over it, but it was still an unusual gait. Distinct, and comforting. It had been a signal to Ling that he was safe, since Gluttony. Since he’d listened for those footsteps in the dark, and the blood. Ling opened his eyes and stared at the moonlit ceiling. Just the thought of Gluttony made him feel slimy. Filled his nose with the scent of blood. Suddenly his appetite was gone.

He still accepted the bowl of scallion chicken soup when Ed handed it to him and took a large spoonful. “Cold.”

“Yeah, well, that is what an icebox does.” Ed pulled his hand through his hair. “Still good though.” 

Ling took another large spoonful. His stomach clenched. He put the food down. He tried not to look revolted but Ed was watching him all the same. “Good, but maybe not what I’m hungry for tonight.” 

“Hm.” Ed tapped his fingers against his chair. His mouth was tense, body full of restless energy. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Do you ever think about how we’re just… kids?”

Ling waited for the horror to cross Ed’s face at what would usually be a difficult confession, but tonight seemed to be a night of honesty. 

“I haven’t been a kid since before I met Lan Fan. I don’t contemplate those kinds of things much any more.” Ling leaned forward to rest his chin on his hand. Ed was still in his black tanktop and work pants. He’d taken to sleeping in them more often than not. “What makes your mind so heavy today?”

Ed didn’t answer for a long moment. Outside, Ling could hear the never sleeping cars of Amestris trotting along the cobble streets. Ling followed the line where Ed’s hair met his jawline. It looked so different outside of the braid.

“I saw Al’s body. It’s just. So young.” Ed stood, pacing. Ling listened to the pad-thunk-scrape-pad-thunk of Ed’s steps. “We’re all so young. I can see it in the Colonel’s eyes when he gives me orders. I can feel it when Riza talks to me and there’s all this… this sorrow. Like she’s stealing something from me. Something I’ll never get back. And some part of me knows she’s right.”

Ling could taste the metallic stain of blood on his tongue. His fingernails still had some of Gluttony stuck in the beds. When he closed his eyes, he could still see Envy’s souls calling out to him, begging him to free them. “I’m tired, Ed. Have you been sleeping?” 

Ed’s eyes narrowed. His arms crossed. In a small, miffed voice he admitted that no, he hadn’t really been sleeping. “Don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“You’re too young to be contemplating loss of youth.” Ling grinned. It was full of too many teeth. “Come on, lighten up Ed. You probably just need a nap.”

“I don’t want to nap. I just. Want to feel like I’m going somewhere.” Ed flopped back into his seat. Ling’s response seemed to have deflated him. “I’m just trying to get back to where I was before I lost Al’s body. But what do I do then? Most people spend this time figuring that out, but I’ve just determined I don’t want to stay a State Alchemist.”

“That’s a good start.” Link chuckled, and despite his best effort, it was not as lighthearted as he usually managed. “Being able to decide you don’t want to do something is a luxury some of us don’t have.”

This was an unusual visit. Since Ling and Ed’s day spent in the belly of Gluttony, Ling had gone to see Ed whenever the sun went down and the smell of blood filled his nose. Usually, Ed gave away his leftovers and they snarked back and forth at each other until Ling fell asleep on the couch. The next morning, Ling would sneak away through the window he snuck in from.

Ling’s chest felt tight. The room was too hot. He didn’t want to think about lost childhood, lost time. He didn’t want to think about fate and choosing his destiny. Ed’s problems weren’t his problems. Ed was upset he hadn’t been utilizing his time choosing what to do after he inevitably succeeded in his goal of finding Al’s body.

If Ling didn’t succeed in becoming emperor, all of his clan's people would die. And whoever became emperor could kill a lot more than that. His success depended on a goal so outlandish that most people dismissed it as a childish fantasy. Success meant a long life of being more responsible for more people than he could count in ten lifetimes. 

A heavy touch landed on his shoulder. Ed must have been talking to him, but he hadn’t heard anything at all. 

“Are you ok, Ling?” Ed’s earlier anxiety was replaced by worry. Now that Ling had been pulled out from his thoughts, he could feel Ed’s other hand on his knee. Anchors to the present. 

Ling smiled. He opened his mouth to assure Ed he was fine and maybe he’d take a nap since Ed wouldn’t, but Ed was already shaking his head.

“You don’t have to do that.” Ed let go of Ling’s shoulder and leaned back against the couch. He laid his head back, staring up at the window Ling came in. “I don’t have anyone I can actually talk to either, you know. Everyone expects something of me.”

“I expect something from you, too.” Ling leaned back beside Ed. Their shoulders bumped into each other on the couch, skin against skin. The smell of blood receded. Ling’s stomach growled again.

“No, you want something from me. That’s not the same as expecting something of me.”

Ling turned to look at the alchemist, surprised. “Explain.”

“Winry expects me to keep her and Al safe, to keep all my promises and then return home. Al, of course, expects me to get his body back. And I will. I want to. He should expect it of me. The Colonel and Hawkeye expect me to be an amazing alchemist, but they also expect me to be ok. Compared to all of that…” Ed sighed. “Compared to that, telling you about the philosopher’s stone is just a conversation. Just me telling you about Alchemy and my research.”

“So you’re saying you would have told me about the philosopher’s stone without me blowing up Gluttony’s head?”

Ed scoffed. “Don’t pretend you didn’t feel like a badass.”

“I was terrified. I'd like to see you stick your whole arm in that thing’s mouth.” They both laughed. Though truly, Ling was terrified of Gluttony. And Envy. All of the Homunculi who had too many souls. He thought Ed probably was, too.

“Well, you certainly looked confident. And fast, too. You’ll have to teach me some moves. Maybe I'll finally beat Al in a fight.”

They didn’t talk for so long that Ling drifted into sleep. His side pressed against Ed’s. Their legs touched hip to knee. Ling could feel the jutting edge of the automail through Ed’s jeans.  To his surprise, Ed’s head leaned into his, stirring him. Ling turned to see if Ed was asleep and was greeted with a face full of golden hair.

Ling moved carefully. Ed was fast asleep. He didn’t even seem to notice Ling’s arm move to circle around his shoulders. 

The memory of the dark, and the blood, and the souls crying out dimmed. Quieter, until Ling could almost convince himself those monsters had just been a bad dream. He ran his fingers through Ed’s hair and considered.

They’d grown closer, since their run in with Gluttony and the desperate run from Father’s base below Central. Since his introduction to Ling, both Envy and Wrath had been relentless in hunting him down. And still, he came here. Still, he waited out the nights with an anchor that told him the darkness was safe.

“You know, I’m going to use that stone eventually.” Ling kept his voice low. He didn’t actually want to confess anything to Ed. Not while the shorter man was sleeping so soundly. “No matter how it was made, I can’t let all my people die.”

Ed didn’t stir. Ling hummed. A thought twisted through his chest. “It would probably be better if you hated me now instead of later. But I just can’t bring myself to warn you. I’m a selfish, selfish man.”

Ling drifted off again eventually. It was hard to sleep on the couch without ending up awkwardly wrapped around Ed or falling off onto the hard wood.

When he woke in the morning, he was surprised to find Ed still leaning on his shoulder, fast asleep. The sun flooded the window and suddenly Ling was back in Xing, in his mother’s field. Strands of gold spilled between his fingertips.

“Xingese gold…” Ling murmured.

“What?” Ed yawned and sat up. “God, your breath stinks.”

Ling snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

Ling’s face burned. Every time he’d done this before, Ed had slept in his own bed. They’d come dangerously close to cuddling. With Ling’s increasing dependency on his visits with Ed, he wasn’t sure how to interpret the new developments. 

“What’s Xingese gold?” Ed stood and stretched. 

Ling smiled, remembering his mother sitting among the flowers. He pulled his book from his pocket. “I’ll show you.” 

The flower was faded and fragile. Ling didn’t dare move the flower off the paper. “Only my clan in Xing can grow this specific shade. My mother called it Xingese gold.”

“That’s… random.” Ed shrugged. 

“Just a dream, that’s all.” Ling stretched his grin wide again. “Though, your hair is the exact same shade.”

Ed’s cheeks tinged pink. “Hey, about last night…”

“No one has to know Edward Elric thought I looked cool when I fought the homunculus.” Ling patted Ed’s head, a motion he knew the short alchemist would hate. Ed fumed, but didn’t shout like Ling expected.

“Just so you know, Ling. If you accept that stone, I’ll fight it out of you.” Ed turned, picking up a new set of clothes for the day. “And if it kills you, it won’t make it to Xing to rule with your body.”

The anxiety in Ling’s chest burst. Fear, anger, worry splashed around his insides, coating his thoughts with an existential dread. Ed had heard him last night. Had heard him and rejected hating him.

Ling climbed into the window. 

Edward didn’t look back to see him leave.

Besides, no matter how Ling felt about what Ed had said, they both knew he’d be back when the darkness came.

#Ed/Ling #EdLing #Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood #m/m #rarepair

[worseandworser]

it’s cold (keep me company)

Ship: royed

Rating: T

Warnings/tags: post-canon BH, fluff, domestic, possibly the cutest thing i’ve ever written, Ed is 19yo here

"It's cold."

It takes Roy a full second to understand he has said it out loud. The only other occupant of the inner office, Jean Havoc, pauses with his hand on the door handle and shifts his gaze to the same window Roy has been staring fixedly at for the past minutes.

"Yeah," says Havoc, in an oddly somber tone matching his oddly somber expression. "It's cold."

With that, he leaves; the door clicks shut behind him and Roy picks up the last document he is supposed to sign. The day is almost over, it's better to hurry and be done with it instead of lingering and risking the wrath of a storm to come.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He parks his car a block away from home and judging by the darkening sky, he will regret it tomorrow. However, in the past month, Roy has been making an effort to live in the moment, and his current priority is getting his hands on a bottle of wine from the store just around the corner. Leave the worries for the morning after.

His street is quiet even on the busiest days. Apart from the residential buildings, it only has a small restaurant-café-bar, a tobacco store selling newspapers and used books, and a grocery store about the size of Roy's office in the HQ. Today, probably because of the weather, the first two are closed, and Roy is overcome by a small amount of panic. It only eases once he sees the bright-yellow Open sign, once he is making his way through the aisles filled with all sorts of food and beverages. Roy knows the alcohol shelf like the back of his hand and he settles for a bottle of neither-fancy-nor-low-quality red wine from a western winery, one he had tried on his own in the past.

Hopefully, his company will enjoy it in the present.

He pays and leaves with a bounce in his step, only furthering his suspicion that there is something strange about himself, if he says things without meaning to and then feels such glee over coming home after what has been a pretty ordinary day. The most uncommon thing about it is this uncouth wind.

And, he reckons, the man he faces as soon as he steps foot in his apartment.

Lazy and unhurriedly, Edward raises his eyes from a book to look at him.

"Hey."

The fireplace crackles loudly, its light painting the scene in a gentle orange hue and causing the shadows to waver, to flicker, to dance across the barren walls in an off-beat pattern. Roy's living room has always been rather empty and Edward sits in the middle of the floor, all gold and silver like some kind of precious ornament — his smile is warm, his hair is braided, and the red blanket around his shoulders makes him look like a ghost from the past.

When the words make it past Roy's lips, they taste stale, as if he's taken too long to say them. "Hey." The corners of his lips twitch, flicker for a second before he catches up with his body's need to smile and fulfills it. "How was your day?"

"I thought of making quiche," Edward says, the deflection awkward enough to make Roy swallow dry. "It's cold though."

Before he can ask what one thing has to do with the other, Edward places a hand on his left thigh.

Roy hangs his coat on the rack and leaves his shoes by the door, then makes his way to the fireplace so he can warm-up before going to get a proper change of clothes. Edward's gaze follows him through each step, and Roy basks in every second of it, makes a show of rolling up his shirt's cuffs and outstretching his fingers towards the fire, of leaning against the wall as naturally as it comes to him and the tired slump of his shoulders.

What a shame that when he looks, Edward is staring at the paper bag. The bottle-shaped one Roy left on the shelf above the fireplace less than a minute ago.

"It's alright," Roy reassures him. "You don't have to cook. I'm not paying you to do house chores."

"You're not paying me at all," Edward says, eyes never leaving the bottle. "Neither letting me pay for—"

"I think there is canned soup in the pantry," Roy cuts him off. "Unless we ate all of it on that day you were feeling lazy."

Finally, Edward turns to him again. As his bones realign under the precious weight of a glare, Roy smirks.

"Well shit," Edward starts, "why don't you do it for a change, then."

After a few passive-aggressive instructions, Roy departs to the kitchen to make do with pasta and some leftover tomato sauce. Even he can't manage to fuck up boiling noodles.

He leaves the food cooking after he decides he is absolutely done with the wool of his uniform pants, and that Edward is in a safe distance to either turn the stove off or yell for Roy to do so if the situation calls for it. His limbs feel sluggish, and as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom his steps are uneven as if one leg is heavier than the other.

He changes clothes, puts on something softer, darker, more human — the old slacks and cotton shirts he never expected to wear around anybody else, but after weeks living with Edward, it was only natural to succumb to a sense of domesticity. To look in the mirror, comb fingers through his hair, and think that's it in a manner that lacks the finality of giving up on appearances because it's not really about that. Roy doesn't know what it is though; he is not scared of it, just genuinely disinterested in the rationale behind it. Some things can just be, devoid of names or explanations. Edward has taught him that.

(Well, maybe he is scared. A little bit.)

Nonetheless, he goes downstairs to face his mistake — taking too long upstairs — and his punishment — watching as Edward waltzes off-beat across the kitchen: draining the water of the pasta, then setting up their plates with a caution Roy once thought beyond him, and offering Roy two identical meals that look and smell homey. Everytime Edward takes a step, he trembles. Roy still has a heart and functional hands, so he carries everything by himself.

"It's alright," he tells Edward, who looks almost heartbroken by the idea of letting anyone cater to him.

But instead of going to the table, Edward leads him back to the living room.

All in all, the place is oddly inviting. Warm, pleasantly lit, and the wine bottle almost strategically placed on top of the shelf. The sound of thunder comes from the distance and suddenly Roy remembers—

"It's cold," he says. "Indeed, it's better if we eat here." He thinks for a moment and hands the plates and cutlery to Edward. "Hold these for a second."

Their night calls for an impromptu redecoration. Roy pushes the couch across the room — which is easy, he has no coffee table nor lamps nor a carpet — as it is only fair that they sit comfortably next to the heat of the fireplace. Edward has the gall to frown, and Roy is certain the only reason he doesn't protest is because he can see Roy doing it for purely selfish reasons.

Roy still has to go back to the kitchen once to get them glasses and the corkscrew, and then, once he gets rid of the cork and pours them both a generous amount of wine, he settles down next to Edward.

Truth is, food tastes better with company. Wine too, Roy reckons, watching from the corner of his eye as Edward takes a careful sip, then the stretch of his arm as he sets the glass on the floor, and the flowy movement of his hair when he moves back. Sitting cross-legged on the cushions and pushing a blond strand behind his ear, Edward becomes a disarrayed grace: unconditionally ethereal yet completely human. He is quiet, focused on his food, perhaps too focused and Roy can feel a knee against his thigh but he doesn't want to comment. Surprisingly, Edward is fond of silence.

When Roy offered his home to him — wrong phrasing: when Roy offered him a place to stay temporarily — he had been ready to relinquish the peace and quiet. Edward, abrasive and careless, seems like the type who is as loud as they come and Roy figured he could welcome the change of pace because he had no other choice. Edward is jobless, for some reason unwilling to leave Central, and the least Roy can do is put a roof above his head. But what had sounded like an impulsive decision turned out to be this. Homemade meals, a couch pushed to the middle of the living room, and silence — occasionally superseded by banter or stimulating conversations because not even when he is rambling Edward manages to be boring. Edward is the perfect roommate, the more so for his culinary abilities, and if Roy forgets to ask about job and house hunting it's simply for the sake of keeping harmony.

Though he can admit to himself what he can't say to anybody else: truth is, food tastes better with company.

Edward, with his brilliance and his beauty, is the best company he could ask for.

So they eat. So Roy is painfully aware of Edward's knee against his thigh. So their fingers brush when Roy collects his plate to put it away in the sink. So Edward tears his eyes away from the book as soon as Roy steps inside the room again.

And Roy is scared. He is terrified. He wants to stretch both of Edward's legs on top of his and place a soothing hand on the juncture of metal and flesh.

He grabs the bottle to refill his glass, then flops down on the opposite end of the couch.

A thought crosses his mind: he has no idea when getting what he wants suddenly became so difficult. But that is incorrect. It was never easy — he just didn't know what he wanted before.

keep reading

#royed #safe royed #fma

[aadmelioraa]

Merry + Bright 

for @tsukkinami​‘s TLK Monthly Challenge: Osferth, Boxing Day, Lights, Affectionate (aka, Holiday Fluff with the Cookham Crew)

“D’ya know where my keys are, Osferth?” Finan shouts from the next room over.

Osferth trips over a pile of laundry that, judging by the number of black t-shirts, belongs to Sihtric and falls backward.

“Jesus, lad.” Finan bounds into the room and pulls him to his feet.

“What on earth is that?” he asks, gesturing to the box that Osferth is clutching to his chest.

“Nothing, just some things I need to drop off at the church. Father Pyrlig is collecting donations.”

Finan lifts his chin to peer into the box. “That’s the sweater I gave ya last Christmas.”

He’s right. It’s a particularly ugly sweater. “Yeah, well…I grew out of it.”

Finan laughs. “I won’t take offense. But ya’ve quite a lot of clothing there, ya sure ya won’t be wandering naked come laundry time?”

“I have more than enough clothes, thank you.” Osferth follows Finan back into the room he and Uhtred shared. “Do you have anything you’d like to donate?”

“D’ya think they’d accept my warm wishes, particularly for any young ladies in need?”

Osferth grimaces and wraps a scarf around his neck. “I don’t know that anyone would find that particularly helpful.”

read the rest below or on ao3

“Pity. I have a few hats in that drawer there, I only really wear the one.”

Osferth gingerly hands Finan the worn black beanie he’s not often without this time of year and adds the remaining hats to his donation box. Finan pulls the hat down over his ears with a grin.

“Now you’re telling me that you’re helping Father Pyrlig out of the goodness of your heart, and not, say, a desire to get closer to the cute girl with the braids I’ve seen ya making eyes at?”

Osferth meticulously folds the top flaps of the box over each other, making sure the envelope of cash tips from his restaurant job doesn’t get lost in the mess of textiles. “I’ve no idea who you mean.”

Finan laughs and shakes his head.

To be honest, he isn't too far off—except that Osferth and Willa have been dating for weeks now. He’s planning to bring her to the house and introduce her to everyone next term. For now, he’ll let Finan think he had the upper hand even though Finan himself is pining over a girl he’d spoken to about twice.

“You’re headed to the church now then?” Finan’s coat makes a slight jangling noise as he pulls it on. “Ah, found my keys.”

“Yes, they’re serving dinner in about half an hour.” Osferth glances at Finan from the corner of his eye as he puts on his own coat. “Eadith will probably be there, she’s been helping Prylig organize the donations.”

Finan pulls the corners of his mouth down and nods casually as if that information is virtually meaningless to him. Osferth chuckles into his scarf as they make their way down the narrow hall and into the kitchen.

“Where are you two headed?” Eahlswith asks from her perch on the counter. She’s licking icing off a spatula while Sihtric decorates yet another batch of sugar cookies. He’s bent over the slightly lopsided kitchen table wearing a thrift store apron, meticulously applying sprinkles. Sihtric, for what it is worth, is the only member of the house with anything resembling a normal, stable love life.

“Church supper,” Finan answers as if it had been his idea. “Sihtric, are ya going to take a break from that? You've been baking for half the day now.”

“He’s got to finish decorating before the icing dries,” Eahlswith explains, rolling her eyes, as Sihtric mumbles, “I’ve only got thirty seconds per cookie to make it look really good.”

Osferth snatches an un-iced cookie off the tray and pushes the whole thing in his mouth before Sihtric can stop him. “I didn’t take one of your fancy ones!” he says defensively as Sihtric throws a dirty look in his direction and picks up the piping bag.

“We’ll see ya soon, then?” Finan says to Eahlswith.

“We may still be here when you get back,” she sighs, picking up her phone. Sihtric waves a hand at them distractedly as they step outside.

The winter chill is refreshing after the stuffy sugar-filled air of the kitchen. Osferth shoves his hands in his pockets and bumps Finan with his shoulder as he catches a glimpse of Uhtred on his way towards them.

“Boys!” Uhtred calls with a grin. “I was just coming to find you. Finan, Eadith was asking about you.”

“Was she?” Finan asks, slightly more flustered than he probably would have liked to appear.

“Well, she asked where my mates were, I can only assume she meant you.”

Finan mutters something unintelligible under his breath as Uhtred and Osferth exchange an amused glance.

“I didn't know that you were allowed in church, Uhtred,” Osferth says, stomping one boot against the ground to keep warm. “Didn’t Father Beocca ban you for stealing the communion wine?”

“Yes, but in my defense, it hadn’t been blessed yet,” Uhtred grins. “I got roped into helping Hild clean, then she sent me to find you two…and where is Sihtric?”

“Finishing his cookie decorating,” Osferth says.

“He may be several more hours,” Finan adds. “There were nine types of sprinkles on the table when we left—they seem to multiply every time I turn ‘round.”

“The man has hidden talents,” Uhtred shrugs, heading down the street. “I’ll meet you back at the church, I have to drop something off at Gisela’s first.”

It’s Finan and Osferth’s turn to exchange a glance. Whenever Uhtred has to “drop something off at Gisela’s” they usually don’t see him until the next morning.

Uhtred ignores them, merely calling over his shoulder that he’ll return soon.

The snow begins to fall by the time they arrive at the church and carefully make their way down the side entrance into the basement.

Young priest Father Beocca and his wife Thyra (Uhtred’s older sister) had begun the Boxing Day dinner tradition four years ago on a whim. They’d invited all the students who remained in town during the holidays to dinner at their house on the 26th and in return asked for donations to local families in need, but by last year it had become such a popular event that they’d had to begin hosting it at the church. This year, several students had returned for the day after spending Christmas at home. It’s always a casual but comforting affair.

The basement room, which smells like freshly baked bread and Beocca’s famous lentil soup, is crowded with folding chairs and students who have gathered in small groups to sort donations into the designated bins. Osferth drops his box (and Finan) with Eadith and makes his way over to Willa and Thyra who are preparing the buffet. Willa gives him a quiet smile which he reciprocates as subtly as possible.

“Sihtric will be here with the cookies soon,” Osferth explains, hoping it isn’t too much of a lie.

Thyra smiles cheerfully and hands him a stack of mismatched bowls. “Set those out, won’t you?”

Osferth does, making note of how many more students were in attendance this year. The energy in the church basement is anything but cold and dim—Father Prylig has set up an artificial tree in one corner, and Hild and Mildrith are stringing some colorful lights up above the door.

“Better late than never, right?” Aethelflaed asks, appearing beside him.

Osferth glances down at the cheese board she’s holding. “You don't think that’s overdoing it a bit for this ragtag group?” he asks affectionately.

She laughs and set the platter down. “Maybe, but I didn't want the leftovers from Mum’s Christmas party to go to waste.” She begins to arrange toothpicks for serving, her brow furrowing just slightly. “I’m sorry you couldn’t make it, by the way. Maybe next year?”

It’s an awkward situation, trying to connect with a half-sibling you’d only known about for the past few months, but she’s doing her best.

“Yeah, maybe next year,” Osferth agrees.

She gives him a small smile and glanced across the room. He follows her gaze to where Aldhelm and Edward are arranging half a dozen mismatched tables into two long lines. Edward hasn’t quite adjusted to the idea of a half-sibling yet, so things are a little more awkward between them.

“He’ll come around,” Aethelflaed says confidently. Osferth wishes he shared her optimism, but he won't dampen her spirits.

“Oh, here—“ Aethelflaed offers him a small package wrapped in brown paper. “I was going to give it to you yesterday, but…” she trails off, a bit nervous—he hasn't seen her nervous before.

“It’s just something silly. You can open it later,” she adds, with a look towards Edward who now has his back to them.

“Thanks,” Osferth says, smiling widely, as he slips the gift into his pocket. “I didn’t get you anything—“

“Don’t worry about it,” Aethelflaed replies, eyes now fixed on Aldhelm who’s making his way over. “Next year.”

Aldhelm nods a greeting to Osferth and then begins to ask where to find tablecloths, which to Osferth appears to be a thinly veiled pretext to talk to Aethelflaed. She didn’t seem to mind.

“Your housemate is making quite a mess of the donations.” Hild is on his left now with a stack of napkins.

“Yes, but better that than the food,” Osferth points out.

Hild chuckles quietly. Finan has an unfortunate talent for making even the simplest dishes inedible.

“I see you and Willa are still keeping things a secret,” she adds, one eyebrow arched.

Hild is the only person who knows they are dating, and it was entirely because she’d accidentally walked in on them making out one day after choir practice. Osferth isn’t worried she’ll tell anyone, but the fact that two days later he ran into her on the way out of Willa’s hall one morning is an extra layer of security. Hild and Iseult, Willa’s RA, aren't “officially” dating yet either.

The tables are ready, the food all laid out. Brida, Thyra and Uhtred’s sister (who, to be honest, scares Osferth a bit) yells for everyone to make a plate.

“Thanks,” Osferth murmurs to Willa as she pulls a book off the chair next to hers.

“I think Thyra is on to us,” she whispers back, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

Thyra is indeed beaming at them from the other end of the table.

“She’s a lot smarter than Finan,” Osferth whispers back, and Willa laughs.

Sihtric bursts into the room now, carefully balancing two large trays of sugar cookies. Eahlswith enters on his heels with another tray.

“Finally!” Finan shouts.

“He’d still be decorating if I hadn’t taken away his sanding sugar,” Eahlswith says to Thyra, somewhat apologetic. “Yesterday I didn’t even know what sanding sugar was.” She sounds like she wishes she could go back.

Sihtric oversees the display of his cookies with great pride, then he and Eahlswith manage to squeeze two more chairs around one of the tables.

Thirty minutes later nearly everyone’s plate is empty. Every year Thyra tells Beocca he’s made too much food and every year she’s proven wrong. Finan, as usual, starts the singing, and nearly everyone has joined in by the time Uhtred and Gisela join them.

It’s getting late, and everyone will probably head back to Uhtred’s house to drink after cleaning up, so Osferth helps clean up his table, thanks Beocca, and heads back to the house, taking a few bags of trash out on his way.

He lingers a block away, scarf pulled up around his ears, where Willa meets him.

“Hey,” she grins, and rises up on her toes to kiss him. Snowflakes catch and melt on her eyelashes, making her brown eyes sparkle even more.

He interlaces his fingers with hers as they make their way back to the house, carefully sidestepping patches of ice and hard ridges of snow.

“Everyone will probably head back this way soon,” he says, glancing behind them as if Finan and Uhtred would be barreling down the street any moment.

“I figured,” she says, lightly squeezing his hand. “It’s not the worst day for them to find out you have a girlfriend, right?”

Osferth grins. “No, definitely not.”

When, an hour later, Finan finds out, he exclaims “I knew it!”

Osferth lets him have this one.

#tlk monthly #tlk december #the last kingdom #tlk fic #tlk osferth #tlk finan #tlk uhtred #tlk aethelflaed #tlk hild #tlk sihtric #tlk eahlswith #kat writes #my edits

[cookiem1996]

The Scottish Stranger

AN: Hey everyone! So I guess I have a weakness for the Zowena ship. I’m a simp for these women and they deserve happiness! This fic takes place right after the events of Part 4 of Sabrina and will have some flashbacks. This story is a ‘what if Rowena and Zelda met back at the Academy as teens’ scenario and this will have more chapters! As for where it leaves off for SPN in the present, let’s say this takes place right after Rowena had her second off screen death by Lucifer once again. Also, a trigger warning: there may be some uncomfortable pedophilia (from the high priest of the past) and in the future, some mention of child/sexual abuse. Hope you guys enjoy and let me know if you want more Zowena content!

Chapter One: Macleod

“Why do you stay in prison when the door is so wide open?”- Rumi

Lost.

Zelda Phiona Spellman (Blackwood to some) truly was lost without her seventeen year old niece.

She was also lost without that beautiful cocoa skinned woman: Mambo Marie Lafleur.

The centuries-old witch still could not believe she had been lied to.

‘Baron Samedi? How was this possible?’

Zelda found herself in this hole again, this deep cavernous hole and the walls were closing in on her. She recalled the Eldritch Terror who attacked her mind: the Darkness. Oh, how it knew all her hidden fears.

Once again, Zelda is under attack. She’s lost everything-well almost. She still had her sister to think about and her marriage. She needed to be there for her little sister just as Hilda has been there for Zelda.

Yet, here Zelda sat feeling so alone. She stares up at the dim ceiling in her office as she leaned back in her leather chair. Zelda could not help the waterworks that continued to build up and irritate her eyes.

She wondered if she could summon the loa, hoping she/he would present her with comfort.

Foolish thought. A loa’s job is never done.

Sabrina, she would be forever missed. She was a huge part of the family and it wasn’t the same without her.

Zelda laughed to herself thinking: ‘Perhaps I’ll have less headaches.’

Honestly, those headaches were worth it. Now, it was empty in the mortuary- in the Academy even.

Sabrina always stuck out like a sore thumb at the Academy ever since her first day; it kept things interesting.

That thought brought the centuries-old witch back to the day when there was a frumpy-looking small young girl at the doorstep of the Academy. This was back when Zelda herself attended as a student. Not many could forget that day; this girl stuck out as well, but just like Sabrina, as people got used to the unique witch, she disappeared...

Academy of Unseen Arts-Way Back when

Zelda has to definitely be the most popular witch the Academy has housed-just at sixteen! Sure, there was Constance, Mallory, and Faustus, but Zelda, she reeked elegance; a lot of the students wanted to be her.

Her beautiful waves were this perfect golden red, her eyes a sea blue, and a powerful jaw. Her popularity partially stemmed from her bother Edward Spellman being in the run for Top Boy.

Nonetheless, she was made for power.

Rain poured outside of the Academy, nullifying outdoor activities and kept the students inside for the night. Torrents of raindrops splattered against the windows, illuminated by the flashes of lightning. No one in Greendale was going anywhere during this storm.

Zelda sits by the window not fearing of the trumpets of thunder that seem to almost vibrate against the glass.

Despite what most think popularity entails, Zelda is probably the most studious person one could ever know. Her dreams of becoming a professor in this school (eventually high priestess should the Dark Lord permit it) resonated in her mind as she works.

Not one soul in the Academy was prepared when the large doors received a meek knock.

Zelda tore her attention from her work and arched a light brow. She noticed even the others were surprised.

Professor Brinkley, the current herbology teacher answered the door with a flourish.

There, soaking from pellets of rainwater was a small girl. Her head was covered by a dark hood, although peeking from it were curls of red. Emerald, cat-shaped eyes wandered up to the haggard herbology teacher.

“May I assist you, young lady?” The teacher questioned in a hushed tone.

The girl held on to her cape, shivering.

“P-p-please,” came her soft response in a Scottish brogue, “I am in need of shelter.”

Professor Brinkley raises his brow. He couldn’t help but pity the young girl. She was an outsider, yes, but he could tell she was indeed like them, a witch.

“Come then...”, he implores her. “Step inside and we shall get you warm. Any child of the night deserves warmth and comfort.”

Zelda leans over from her perch to get a better look. Her lips parted in surprise as the smaller girl steps in. The stranger pulls her hood back revealing more of her mass of red locks.

The girl was pale, cheeks lightly dabbed with freckles here and there. Her lips were small, but adorable with how they were shaped into this pout.

Zelda found this girl enchanting. Her studies were tucked in the back of her mind as she watched the Scottish stranger. She barely focused on all the whispers and murmurs around her. Her blue eyes focused on the timid movements the stranger made.

“Where did she come from?”, Constance pipes up. She approaches the girl cocking her head to the side. “Hey, what’s your name?”

With that, everyone else in the main room crowded around the girl, overwhelming her. The girl stepped back slightly, but was practically rooted to her spot. They all hounded her with questions.

Zelda frowned as she slid off her seat. She cleared her throat earning stares from the crowd.

Even as a sixteen year old, she held the air of a refined older woman.

“Enough.”, she starts in a stern tone. “You’re frightening her. Give her space.”

The crowd dispersed then. They watched Zelda carefully as she made her way to the girl. The girl glances up at Zelda in surprise. The way Zelda towered over her didn’t feel in the slightest intimidating.

“I’m sorry about them. As curious as we all are, it is no excuse to make you feel overwhelmed.”, Zelda spoke earnestly to the girl.

Professor Brinkley shut the heavy doors after inspecting what the storm brought outside. The roads were flooded. Any longer and that poor witch would have rowed here on a boat. He realized how Zelda weeded through the crowd like it was nothing.

Before Zelda could say anymore, the teacher places a hand on her shoulder.

“Now, now, Sister Zelda. We should let the girl settle in, shall we? It is clear to us she isn’t a part of this coven, but she must be a child of night brought to us from the Dark Lord. He had brought her into the right place. I’ll show you to the washroom to get cleaned up and into clean clothing. You must be cold.”

Professor Brinkley leads the small girl ahead to the foot of the stairs. Zelda noticed how the girl observes the statue of Baphomet with curiosity and then a twinge of fear. The girl quickly reels her gaze away as she starts to ascend the staircase.

‘If she were truly a child of night,’ Zelda thinks. ‘Why does she cower at the idol of the Dark Lord? Perhaps, she’s been misguided. Professor Brinkley senses she’s a witch. When I looked upon her, she...I could sense a power emanating from her.’

“Hey sister? Sister?”

Zelda’s thoughts are interrupted by her older brother.

“I asked if she said anything to you.” Edward repeated to her. “Are you well?”

Zelda snaps out of her daze as she nods.

“I am.”

Edward inspects his younger sister.

“Well, did she say anything to you?”, he asks.

Zelda shakes her head and gathers her books.

“Whoever she is, there’s something different about her.”

She goes to move forward, but her brother pulls her back gently to stop her.

“In what way?” He questions-more to himself than her.

Zelda shrugs. “I do not know, but I intend to find out.”

Dinner Time

The dining hall is silent save for the cymbals of thunder clashing with the lightning outside. The room is dim with candlelight, but one could see the exchanged glances of curiosity between the students. They were all thinking about the same thing: the girl.

Father Mephisto ate his meal calmly. He knew everyone still wondered about the red-haired teenaged stranger. He broke the silence with his bold voice,

“Where is the girl, Sister Irene?”

Sister Irene, secretary and disciple of the Church of Night, sets her soup spoon down and pats her lips with a napkin.

“She is getting ready. The warm water for her bath took its time. This storm has not helped with the plumbing.”

Father Mephisto scoffs softly as he bores his dark stare toward the bigger-framed woman.

“We do have spells for that, do we not?”, he inquires.

Sister Irene bows her head. “Yes, your Excellency. We didn’t want to frighten the girl.”

“Frighten her?” The high priest’s voice raises.

He laughs boorishly. “She’s a child of night, is she not?”

Father Mephisto turns his gaze over to Professor Brinkley. “Isn’t that right, Brother Brinkley?”

The wiry professor gulps and nods “A lost one.” He replies softly “Her name is not in the book.”

There was a collective sound of silverware dropping on porcelain plates. Zelda’s silverware, however, remained in her clutch. Her eyes widen in shock.

‘I was right. Not a true child of night.’, she thinks.

Father Mephisto, like Zelda, stayed still in his composure.

“She told you her name?”, he asks.

Professor Brinkley nods. His eyes barely meet with his superior.

“She did. I reached out with the other covens astrally about their books. No pages have her name in blood.”

Zelda had hoped this didn’t mean she would be tossed back into the rain. This poor girl seemed lost for sure. She was also eager to know her name. A name to that beautiful face...

“Well, wherever she comes from, she may have been misled. A girl born with powers is indeed a special witch. Of course, we are all born to advance our natural talents by our Dark Lord, but there are some who are granted these greater abilities-ones we do not understand. Nevertheless, if she makes her stay here more permanent, she will need to pledge her loyalty to the Dark Lord. He may grant her more than she ever dreamed of.”, Father Mephisto concludes.

Zelda’s held breath releases into relief. A witch born away from the Path of Night? How was that possible? The witches she’s known all her life possessed smaller abilities, but the true source would always come from the Dark Lord. Those who did not sign lived their lives as a hermit with simple parlor tricks at their behest. This girl has to be special.

Zelda could feel the power brimming in those emerald green eyes-a power unlike anything she’s felt. Her attention then feel to the girl who was just now making her presence known in the dining room.

Zelda’s throat went dry as she observed the stranger. Even cleaned up, she still held this grace-this mystery.

The girl’s red curls were tamed, her face touched with light makeup. The nurses fashioned her into this deep green velvet gown with a laced white collar. This dress brought out her sparkling eyes for sure, Zelda couldn’t even look away. Never has Zelda, in all her youth, been stupefied by a girl. Sure, she’s already had her sexual awakening around the on and off escapades with Faustus Blackwood, but it seemed she was having another sort of awakening. This was her first girl crush.

Father Mephisto stood up and took a look at the stranger. His dark eyes roamed up and down taking in the sixteen year old Scottish girl with carnality.

It disgusted Zelda how he unapologetically would size up the young girls in the Academy. She knew the man craved the flesh of the maiden. His wife, having been aged lost his interest. He is under this spell now-the Scottish girl his new source.

“Welcome.” Father Mephisto greets. “I am Father Mephisto, head of the Academy you stand in and high priest of the Church of Night.”

Father Mephisto sits back down, dark eyes never leaving the stranger. He lifts his hand, crooking his finger in a ‘come hither’ motion.

“Come closer, child. Let’s get a better look at you.”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Watchful eyes followed the ginger girl as she slowly approaches the high priest.

Zelda’s lips curl in disgust as the high priest gently touches the girl’s arms, long fingernails dragging along the fabric of her sleeves. Zelda could feel the discomfort from the girl. The girl’s green eyes wandered away and her breathing hitched.

The high priest smirks and tilts his head. He reaches up and turns her cheek.

“There’s no need to fear me.” He chuckles. “Now tell me, what is your name?”

The girl visibly gulps and takes a steady breath.

“Rowena Macleod.”, she answers like the coo of a dove.

‘Rowena. What a beautiful name.’ Zelda ponders dreamily, marveling at the name. She wanted to get to know her more.

“What a pretty name.” Father Mephisto comments.“Scottish. What are you doing here do far from home?”

Rowena’s gaze drops to the ground. It’s as is the question troubles her.

“I had to get away.”, she speaks again. “I want to learn more about my abilities.”

A lost witch for sure. Zelda was more than willing to show her the way.

“Away from your family?” The priest presses on. “Did they shelter your abilities?”

Rowena messed with her fingernails and chewed on her inner lip. Zelda wished Father Mephisto would stop pestering her especially when she appeared uncomfortable.

“They did.”, she replies nonetheless. “Mainly my father. My mum passed when I was six years young.”

Father Mephisto’s expression hardened. “Well, Sister Rowena, if you wish to learn about yourself and your abilities, you are more than welcome to stay. The Dark Lord will shelter any willing witch or warlock. He will open those beautiful green eyes to the true path-the Path of Night.”

Rowena appeared hesitant, which was understandable. Father Mephisto wasn’t exactly the greatest example for a young witch’s mentor.

The Scottish girl eventually concedes “I thank ya for yer hospitality.”

“Of course, my lovely. Now, join us for dinner, please.”

Rowena glances back at the others. They all quickly look back to their plates. Zelda stood up and pulled a chair out unoccupied next to her.

“Here.”, Zelda offers in an assuring voice. “You can sit right here.”

Rowena’s reluctant expression softens as she makes her way right by the offered seat. Zelda stands behind the chair. She waits for her to get settled before pushing it in for her.

“Thank ya.” Rowena says.

Zelda gives her this small smile. “You’re welcome.”

Zelda’ peers look at her in surprise. Since when is she this nice? When has she ever smiled?

She was truly enamored.

After dinner...

Zelda ushers Rowena over to the dorms. There’s silence between them. Zelda cannot find words to say.

Both of the girls would glance at each other every once in a while- a little dance of looks as one would look away quickly lest they be noticed by the other.

“This will be your quarters.” Zelda breaks the silence as they appear by an empty room. “My room is just across the way should you need anything. I room with Agnes. If I’m not there, don’t hesitate to reach out to Agnes should you need anything.”

Rowena steps into the empty room. Zelda leans against the door frame as she watches Rowena smooth the edges of the bed.

“Thank ya. If I’m to be honest...” Rowena turns to face Zelda “This has to be the fanciest room I’ve stayed in.”

Zelda raises both brows. “Is that so?”

Rowena sits on the bed. Her face relaxes from the soft texture.

“I’ve slept on a board covered in straw for most of my life.”, Rowena explains. “Unlike ya, I was never privileged.”

Zelda scoffs at this. She hated that word. Sure, she didn’t grow up poor, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have her troubles.

“And how would you know I am privileged?”, Zelda rebuffs.

“The way ya speak, the way ya dress, and all of this. Ya get to stay in this nice place, a place where ya even get to learn more about yer powers. I say that’s pretty lucky.” Rowena replies while laying back on the bed.

“I bet yer family home is perfect as well.”

Zelda’s brows furrowed and her nostrils flare.

“You don’t know a thing about me. How dare you stroll in here and think you have everything pegged. You are lucky Professor Brinkley even let you in. He took a look at you and pitied you.”, Zelda spat.

If anyone knew Zelda, once you set her off, there was no turning back.

It was Rowena’s turn to scoff now. She sits up to glare deep into those precious blue eyes in front of her.

“Perhaps I’ve got somethin’ pegged right. Yer a spoiled brat. I don’t need anyone’s pity. Any kind person would let someone in. Oh wait, this is real life. Ha...maybe yer right. At least I don’t have to live with the fact I get things handed to me.”

Rowena’s temper was evenly matched with Zelda’s. Zelda wanted to hex her right now, insult her further, yet there was something about this fiery redhead that just piqued her interest even more. A challenge wouldn’t hurt, one that would teach her a lesson.

“You’ll regret that, I assure you. I retract the kindness I extended to you.”, Zelda sneered.

Rowena’s eyes lit in what seemed to be a blend of mirth and anger.

“Kindness? More like pity.”,Rowena retorts. “Well, goodnight spoiled brat.”

Zelda stomps one foot and crosses her arms. That earned a serpent-like smirk from the red headed beauty.

“That is Zelda to you.”

Rowena shrugs “Same thing.’’

Zelda grips the doorknob tightly. “Goodnight Rowena.” She grits through her teeth. She then slams the door.

Rowena barely flinches. “Goodnight Zelda.”, she murmurs.

This Scottish girl sighs as she lays back down. She stares up at the ceiling inquisitively. There was something about that Zelda.

Zelda was so gorgeous, filled with a hidden fire. It made Rowena smirk to think she got to this prim and proper girl.

It couldn’t hurt to tease her more.

To be continued...

#zowena #zelda spellman #rowena macleod #spn #caos

[izzy-b-hands]

Keep trying and failing yet another new OFMD fic idea of the Revenge being crewed by all of six ppl after Ed maroons everyone else (i know in theory some of his old crew might be around to help, but it being just him, Ivan, Fang, Izzy, Jim, and Frenchie is much funnier.)

The whole thing being Ed only volleying between angry and violent during raids to sad and locked in his quarters otherwise, not eating or sleeping well

Leading to Izzy pissing Jim off because he's pacing constantly and here Jim I made cookies see if he'll take these, no it has to be you because he chucked the bowl of soup at me I tried to give him earlier and i think it's because I was the one to give it to him-

so Jim breaks into the locked quarters with cookies and is like. pls. Ed. Kraken. Edward. Blackbeard, I'll use whatever name you want just fucking eat something before i kill your first mate

Frenchie meanwhile is enjoying the rest of the leftovers from Izzy's million previous attempts to get Ed to eat with Fang and Ivan (they all agree he isn't a bad cook really. He needs to season things more and he's no Roach, but then again no one is so they gotta have reasonable expectations of this frustrated fearful man who keeps crying while trying to make Ed a quiche)

But then, Jim doesn't return.

Izzy is out immediately to Ed's room, yet another dish in his hand (its snake, and Ed likes snake and he made it using Ed's own recipe, so maybe, maybe he'll eat this)

only to find Jim and Ed sitting on the floor together, sobbing because they miss their boyfriends.

But, they're both eating, and the cookies are nearly gone

Izzy sits and doesn't intend to stay but they get talking and fuck he's so tired and he bursts out a confession of caring and love to Ed

Who's started in on the snake and stares for a minute before being like. oh fuck fr? Jack said you had a thing for me years ago but I figured he was fucking with me

Cut to all three of them crying now over the many Emotions filling the room, snacking away because sometimes food just Helps. It can be a warm hug when u feel utter shit.

Fang wanders in shortly after with bread and marmalade to check on them, only to wind up sobbing in Ed's arms while Ed apologizes for what he made Fang do to his dog

Frenchie doesn't intend to do more than check in on them too, lute on his back and a plate of pastries in one hand and holy fuck Iz these are actually really go- oh god why is everyone crying

(edit to add that for Frenchie it's because he misses Wee John. So much it kind of hurts. He didn't think he could miss someone like that and unrelated he has this song he wrote abt how a room can feel so empty with one even if before it only held two ppl-)

cut again to poor Ivan as the final participant of the group cry and nibble session, bearing a few more plates of food (including the quiche, which isn't perfect but like. Izzy tried lmao)

He's not even crying over anything in particular, he's just been really fucking overwhelmed since Ed got back and needed the release of emotions

It's v sweet cuz they end up full and snuggly and emotionally exhausted, napping on the floor surrounded by plates

Which is why they run aground, but it's fine because it's the same one Stede managed to get the dinghy stuck in with the rest of the marooned crew, so happy coincidence!

#tw disordered eating #to be safe #i have three WIPS of this one idea so im typing this to just. get it Out because I doubt any of them are gonna get done lmao #soon as the six of them see everyone else tho u know they're all gonna burst into tears again #while offering stede and the rescued crew leftover quiche through their tears