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minervadashwood · 8 months

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Daryl Dixon x NB!Reader (afab, plus-size) 🏹 Daryl x Reader x Rick 🛡️

The Cop and the Criminal - Chapter 26

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Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Taglist

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Summary:It's a sleepover.

This chapter contains: smut, angst, fluff

Word count: 3.3K

Enjoy!

“Rick,” you gasped, your breath shuddering. He pressed you against the wall, and you gazed up at him. His eyes had that dominant gleam you’d witnessed at the hurricane shelter. Unlike Daryl, Rick’s gaze--and the intent behind it--brought out your full submission. With Daryl you might tease or play coquettish, but with Rick you could only give in to that smoldering gaze. Whatever he wanted, you would do.

He nuzzled your scent gland opposite Daryl’s mark. “You’re gonna be mine, aren’t ya, Bunny?” He kissed your scent gland and spoke again. “All I can think about right now is you. How you smell, how you’ll taste, how you’ll feel when I finally get my knot in you.”

You whimpered, going limp, and Rick had to grip you by the hips and hold you in place. “A-are you sure?” you asked.

Daryl stood in the middle of the hallway, gun bags hanging from each shoulder. Easily smelling your arousal, it beckoned to him, especially after the evening he’d had. First, spending the day keeping Merle in check, and then witnessing that awful scene on the way home.

Hurriedly, he unlocked the door to the weapon room and dropped the guns inside. Locking it again, he took long strides to reach you, crowding into Rick’s space and hovering.

“Daryl?” you said, letting go of Rick’s shirt and taking Daryl’s hand. You urged him even closer, and Rick made room for him. Daryl dipped his head and kissed you slowly. All day he’d thought of coming home to you, and now he needed to touch you, to feel your warmth and comfort.

Your eyes flitted from him to Rick, and Daryl easily recognized the look in Rick’s eyes: a hunger that no food or drink could satisfy. Was Rick ready for that next step with you? Was it time for Daryl to step away?

Yet, you held tightly to Daryl’s hand, so he didn’t budge.

“Rick,” you said, “do you want to take this to the nest?”

Daryl watched as Rick drew you closer to him, urging you away from the wall and into his body.

You glanced at Daryl, and he gave you a small nod and followed you and Rick into the nest, your hand still holding his.

In the bedroom, you slipped away from Rick and hugged Daryl fully. He nuzzled your neck, letting your touch and scent wash over him. Needing to forget whaten he’d witnessed earlier, Daryl held you close, his body molding around yours. He scented you and the room, and your fragrance coalesced with his. Then Rick’s own musk filtered through the air, filling Daryl with confidence. The other man was pack, just as Merle was, as Ro was, and the realization let Daryl loosen his hold on you.

Rick was already behind you, his nose tracing your scent gland on the other side of your neck, his hands curled around your soft hips, his pelvis pressed against your backside.

“Bubbie,” Daryl whispered, “I’m gonna go fer now. Ya stay here with Rick, an’ I’ll come back later.”

Rick’s head shot up. “Daryl, you don’t--”

At the same time you tugged on his hand, and said, “This is your nest, too.”

Shaking his head, Daryl stepped away. Later, he would have time with you, he knew, and now that he’d calmed down and held you for a moment, other matters were more urgent.

With Carl in the apartment, he needed to lock up the guns properly. And all the guns they’d used today needed to be cleaned, the ammunition needed to be organized and put away. He wanted to clean his crossbow, too, and take stock of his bolts. After his drive home, the world seemed more dangerous than it had before. If there was some new strain of drug that made people act like that, he needed to be prepared, ready to protect you and the rest of his pack.

He kissed your temple and backed away. “Later,” he told you. “Promise.”

As Daryl closed the door behind him, you turned around in Rick’s arms.

Rick’s brow furrowed with concern. “Is he okay with this? Want me to go talk to him?”

You shook your head. “He needs space, sometimes. And he’s a lot calmer now than when he got home.” You bit your bottom lip.

Rick wrapped his arms around your waist. “What about you, Bunny? Are you okay?”

You nodded, gazing up at him. “He’ll come back. He promised. Daryl never breaks a promise.”

Rick smiled down at you, your trust in Daryl compelling Rick to be as dependable as your other mate, and to hopefully reach that level of understanding and trust with you that you and Daryl already had.

Rick guided you to the edge of the bed and sat you down, lowering himself just enough to be eye level with you. The images from earlier, of the cannibal and the firing line, threatened to surface, but he willed them away. You were his focus now; nothing else mattered.

He cradled your jaw, eyes flitting from your eyes to your slightly parted lips. He leaned closer until his nose brushed yours.

“Please, Alpha,” you breathed.

“Please what?” he teased, earning a flash of annoyance in your gaze.

“Kiss me.”

He growled, your forceful pleading undoing him quickly. “Oh, Bunny,” he murmured, and did as you asked. He cradled the back of your head with both hands and kissed you. Right away you put your arms around his neck, drawing yourself closer to him. Why had he waited so long for this? He could have had you weeks ago, could have spent all his nights kissing you and holding you.

He leaned forward, urging you to lay back on the bed. You complied and he followed, moving his hands to gently lay you down, never breaking your kiss. He lifted you so that you slid back, away from the edge, making room for him between your legs. Deepening the kiss, Rick lost himself in you: so plush and warm, tasting like sin and the finest wine.

You moaned softly and wrapped your legs around him, your thick thighs pressing around his hips, their wonderful softness cradling him just right. He moaned in response, and his hips involuntarily grinded his pelvis against you. Your legs drew him closer, and your hands were grabbing at his shirt, fumbling with his snap buttons. You broke the kiss in frustration, causing Rick to whimper at the loss.

“Too many clothes,” you explained, your eyes furrowed in determination as you finally figured out how to unbutton his shirt. You made quick work of it then, and sat up fully, dragging the flannel overshirt off his shoulders and immediately grabbing at his t-shirt until he gave in and lifted it over head.

“Your turn,” he growled, grabbing your giant t-shirt and pulling it off of you in one smooth motion. He gaped at your bralette and what it contained. Was he a breast man? He never thought of himself as such, but now he could be.

“Take it off,” he ordered, but when you fumbled with it, he yanked it off himself, ripping it in the process.

“Fuck,” you breathed, your newly revealed breasts rising and falling with your rapid breathing.

“I’ll get you a new one. Ten of them. I don’t care.” Then Rick was on you, grabbing a breast in each hand, pushing them together and ducking his head to kiss them in turn.

“Mmmm, Rick,” you mumbled, falling back onto the mattress and arching your back into his palms.

He continued palming one breast, but he released the other and zeroed in on your taut nipple. He pinched it gently, and you responded instantly, letting out a little moan and lifting your hips off the bed. Experimenting, Rick pinched and rolled and teased the bud, alternating his movements until you just whimpered more and more. Then, keeping his hand focused on your nipple, he took the other into his mouth, his eyes shuddering closed as he laved and sucked.

His cock was aching painfully, and with you writhing beneath him, it was only getting worse. Still, he gave his full attention to your beasts, letting full minutes pass as he teased and sucked, eventually switching places with his mouth and hand.

Over time, you grew impatient, and Rick realized this when he opened his eyes to see your hand slipped into your pants and angling toward your clit.

He slowly stopped his ministrations and stood up. You were a mess below him: disheveled hair, swollen nipples, the peaks of your breasts covered with this saliva. The room was filled with the scent of your arousal, and Rick had to take a long, deep breath to calm his inner alpha.

But then he was on you again. He grabbed the waistband of your sweatpants and pulled them down your legs, along with your underwear. Immediately he was on his knees again, pulling you to the edge of the bed and draping your lovely thighs over his shoulders.

“Rick, you don’t have to--”

“Yes. I do.” With both hands he spread you open, revealing your beautiful and wet cunt. Without wasting any more time, he dove in, dragging his tongue up your slit and then giving your clit a few experimental licks. You groaned, deep in your chest, the sound low-pitched and sexy. Then your hands were buried in his hair, and Rick again lost himself to you.

Your taste was better than he imagined, your fragrance intoxicating. He focused on your clit, listening to you as you yanked on his hair and kept angling yourself toward his mouth. When you were vibrating with pleasure, he slipped his forefinger inside you. The wet heat of your pussy made him groan, and he added another finger, thrusting and feeling his way inside your body.

He knew he’d found the right spot when you pulled on his hair and nearly lifted yourself off the mattress. Rick’s heart was almost full to bursting, knowing he made you feel this good, knowing that he could give you a fraction of the pleasure you’d already given him just by letting him this close to you, by opening yourself to him, accepting him as your mate.

“So close, Rick. Please !”

He didn’t let up, and suddenly your walls were clenching around his fingers, and you were stifling your moans with one hand, moving your hips in shallow, slow movements, working with his hand and mouth to ride out your pleasure.

Rick crawled up your body, lowering himself and kissing you with all he had.

“You’re mine,” He said into your mouth. “And I’m yours, Y/N.”

You cupped his jaw with both hands. “I know, Alpha, I know.”

Rick pressed his forehead into the crook of your shoulder. He hadn’t even knotted you and he was well and truly lost to you. Nothing he’d had with Lori could compare with this. Indeed, he could not imagine anyone else feeling this way. Except maybe Daryl.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, holding him close and soothing him. “Are you okay, Rick? We don’t have to do anything else.”

He rose up and shook his head. “Don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m trying not to question it.”

“Then don’t,” you replied, running your hand through his hair. “You deserve to be happy, and if I can make you happy, then let me.”

Rick nodded. “Let’s finish what we started then.”

You beamed up at him.

Rick stood up once more, ridding himself of the rest of his clothing, then he was back in the bed with you.

He grabbed the headboard with one hand, keeping himself above you, with the other hand he guided himself to your entrance. Holding himself still, he found your eyes, and you reached for him, smoothing your hands over his shoulders and looking at him with soft affection.

He smiled at you and guided himself inside of you, going as slowly as he was able and groaning louder with each passing second. He wouldn’t last long, he knew, after denying himself for months, he was like an inexperienced teenager again.

But you moved before he did. Your hips rose off the bed, encouraging him, and Rick was wrapped up entirely in you: your body, your face, your voice, your eyes. You held his gaze, and Rick stared back at you, finding his rhythm, and thrusting. You squeezed his shoulders, and Rick shuddered.

“Can’t hold out much longer,” he gasped.

Your reply was another low moan as you broke eye contact and your eyes rolled back. “Me neither,” you breathed.

He felt you clamping around him again, and Rick’s thrusts grew sloppy, but then his knot slammed into place just as you gasped and gripped him, your short fingernails digging into his skin.

He came at the same time you did, releasing himself into you and seeing flashes of you pregnant with his pups as he slowly came down from his orgasm.

He kissed you gently, wanting to crawl inside you and stay forever. Lying down with you on top of him, Rick studied your face, your round cheeks, glistening eyes, tired smile. Pressing his lips to the top of your head, he murmured, “My precious little Bunny. Never letting you out of my sight again.”

You huffed a sigh and rested your head on his chest, running your hand through the dark hair there. “You’re going to give up a career in police work to follow me around campus? I have finals in a week. I won’t be pretty.”

“You know what I mean,” Rick placated, but he rather liked the idea of being with you all day, every day.

“I do,” you replied, pressing a kiss to his chest and burrowing deeper into him.

You mindlessly traced shapes in Rick’s chest hair as he ran his hands up and down your back. Some time later, you lifted up your head, sensing Daryl’s approach. He’d been waiting, you knew, but not impatiently, while you’d been with Rick.

Rick sat up with you, slipping out of you and kissing your forehead.

Quietly, the door opened, and you turned your head to Daryl, who nodded at Rick and then smiled bashfully at you.

“Shower,” you asked him, and Daryl nodded.

Rick bodily lifted you off his lap and set you on the floor. “Guess my turn’s over, huh?”

“Got Carl settled in the pull-out sofa. Left a lamp on for ‘im.” Daryl said. “Y’all might as well stay the night.”

“Please say you will,” you begged Rick.

He nodded. “If Daryl’s okay with it.” Rick gave you a little shove. “Go on with him now. See you in a bit.”

Your knees threatened to give out. For the fourth time this evening you were getting passed from one Alpha to the other, like some tradeoff your mates were negotiating in silence. Gingerly, you found your way to Daryl, not making any effort to hide your nudity, and led the way into the en suite. Daryl closed the door behind you.

Then, he undressed quickly, tossing his clothes to the floor and then wrapping his arms around you from behind, nuzzling his mark on your shoulder and growling.

You melted into him, sated and wanton all at once, and Daryl wordlessly guided you into the shower and turned on the water. Steam rose around you and water slicked both your bodies.

Again, Daryl was behind you, his palms roaming over your stomach, your sides, then your breasts. His hands were like hungry beasts that couldn’t get enough of you. Bracing your arms on the wall of the shower, you threw your head back and let him manhandle you, his touch and the steaming water heating your skin and making you breathless.

Daryl urged you to bend over, then he nipped at your ear. “Tell me yer alrigh’, ‘Mega,” he growled.

“I’m alright, Alpha,” you said.

At your words, Daryl spread you wide, his cock hard and pressed to your ass, then he guided it into your pussy and started moving right away. You were still aroused from Rick’s knot, so it wasn’t long before you were mewling and clenching around Daryl’s cock. He continued thrusting, using one hand on your hip to hold you steady while the other clutched at you, still roaming and squeezing. He’d be careful not to knot you, you knew--a dangerous joining in a bathtub to say the least--but you still craved him, welcomed him.

A few thrusts more and you came, reaching a hand back to touch any part of Daryl you could reach. He finished, and pulled out of you, finally turning you around to face him. He pushed your wet hair away from your face, then reached behind you for the soap.

You washed each other under the spray of water, and when you were done, Daryl wrapped you in a Theirs towel and kissed your nose.

When he turned away, you saw his scars. You’d grown used to the sight of them since they were an intrinsic part of your mate’s physique, but looking at him now, you realized that you’d forgotten how Daryl felt about them. He was ashamed of all his scars, especially the ones on his back. You remembered, too, that you were the only person who’d ever seen them. Not even Merle knew what their father had done to Daryl.

You reached for him, gently running your hand over his warm, rigid skin. “Is this why you left?” you asked, drawing closer.

He looked at you over his shoulder, his wet, blonde hair falling over his eyes as he shook his head once. “Had other stuff to do.”

But you knew better, you’d felt the tiniest spike of panic when you’d asked. “It’s okay,” you whispered, brushing the hair from his eyes. “We don’t all have to be together at the same time.”

He gazed at you, jaw clenched as what seemed like a million thoughts flitted through his eyes.

“It ain’t that,” he finally answered. “What we saw…that man…with you an’ the pup here. Jus’ had to make sure y’all’re safe.”

“But we are, Daryl.”

He took a deep breath and released it slowly through his nose. “Can’t help feelin’ like somethin’s comin’ an’ I won’ be ready fer it.”

“Everything’s fine,” you soothed. “You’re safe, I’m safe. Ro and Merle are safe. You’ve been working too hard and not resting enough.”

Daryl sighed. “Ya think so?”

You nodded, relieved. Daryl rarely took it to heart when you told him to rest or relax, but it seemed like this time he was listening.

“Let’s go to bed early. Want me to bring you a change of clothes?”

Daryl nodded.

Back in the nest, Rick had brought snacks from the kitchen and had apparently raided Daryl’s dresser for a pair of shorts to wear. You sat between your alphas as they recounted their day at the shooting range and about Ro getting drunk and handsy with Merle. When it was time to sleep, you were sandwiched between them, your head on Rick’s chest and Daryl curled around you, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist.

Daryl was about to turn off the light, but before he did, Rick’s gaze caught his. Rick had been all smiles and laughter before, but now his expression was tense, his eyes alert.

So, he felt it, too, Daryl realized. That sense of impending doom. It wasn’t just in Daryl’s head, as you had surmised, but the premonition was an almost tangible thing that Daryl couldn’t quite hold on to.

But he wanted to. Whatever was coming, he wanted to grab it in his fist and crush it before it became a real threat. But this was no prowling animal in the woods or a random bar fight.

He gave Rick a slight nod of acknowledgement. Daryl’s only solace, for now, was that whatever it was, he and Rick would work together to protect you. That your other alpha was nearby made Daryl all the more confident in your safety.

He flicked the light off and held you close in the darkness, finally letting himself drift to sleep.

Next chapter.

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nosebleedy69 · 2 years

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So the next chapter is in process but I might not get it out this month either. I do not like being behind but I have had not a single day to relax over the last two or three weeks, and my schedule ahead is looking grim as well. I’m too tired after 8 hour long days of work. When I have had days off, outside of just staying on top of my chores, certain people have been piling on more suddenly urgent chores, unwanted responsibilities and events I would rather eat roadkill then go to.

I am Exhausted. Mentally and emotionally, to the point no matter how much sleep I get I feel physically exhausted as well. I’m not gonna lie, I don’t know how much more of this I can take, I barely get a single hour or two everyday to sit down and just relax. A few days ago I was lucky to get a whole four hours, in between someone suddenly taking the other half of my day from me by force. I can barely focus on anything now without feeling like I need to lie down return to the earth.

I know, I am complaining and making excuses, but that is why I’m here. I cannot talk to anyone else about this without them pulling out the typical cards of “Oh well back in my day-” “Other people have it worse-” and “Welcome to being an adult-”, completely dismissing me and my legit struggles, just because I’m not also being tortured in the tower of London. I can in fact have problems and suffer without having it worse then whatever example everyone else comes up with.

I’m just slowly occurring resentful feelings towards everyone physical in my life for not respecting my need for peace, and its making me feel hateful. I really really just want to be left alone for day and the lack of this is wearing my filters down, to the point I’m mostly likely gonna do something I regret if people don’t back the fuck off.

The exhaustion TM, has also sapped my ability to write. The thing I love, taken from me by others constant need to bother me. When I want to write, all I have is the energy to stare at the open document and try to will my ideas into existence, which in turn makes me doubt myself and my abilities, making me feel hopeless and awful.

Long story short; I have had No Time, Nor Energy to write right now due to things outside of my control.

Good news is I have a double day off coming up around thanksgiving and if I am lucky, ONE of those days may actually be peaceful enough that I can actually get some writing done. Here’s hoping someone doesn’t appear to fuck it up.

I am purposefully vague in some areas of this post because I still feel cagey about talking about my real life online, but I really need to get this off my chest, and I guess that is what this writing up date is now. Uh, sorry about that.

Anyway expect a few more weeks before the next chapter is up, and thank you for sticking with me.

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prose-for-hire · 3 years

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Wish upon a (dead) star

Pairing: Willow x fem!reader; Vamp!Willow x fem!vamp!reader

Request: Can you please write a Willow x female reader story where in Dopplegangland its revealed that wishverse!Willow is dating wishverse!reader (either by the wishverse reader showing up too or just by vampire Willow mentioning it) and it makes Willow and the reader realize they like girls, specifically each other? I know you’re working on a lot so take as much time as you need if you decide to do it 😃

Requested by: Anonymous

Warning: There is a brief part where it switches to reader being the vampire - blood mention. Violence.

A/N: I loved this request like absolutely LOVED it. I know you said take your time, but I’m still sorry this took so long !! 💖

You had never really thought much about your sexuality. It just wasn’t something that had ever made you question anything. Not until that day.

It was nearing Summer, the grass was being mowed outside and you could smell the very faint aroma of bleach. The janitor was cleaning some poor students remains from the halls again. It smelled distinctly of the summer arriving in Sunnydale.

You looked outside, it appeared like a normal day. The light breeze making the branches cast pretty shadows against the window pane. The sky was clear, a beautiful blue that made your heart feel lighter. Like you could begin to relax. The demons often started to slack off around this time of year too – might the shorter nights. Doesn’t really give them much chance for evil plots.

The bell rang and you slid all of your books back into your bag and slung it over your shoulder. It was the end of the day and everyone was filtering through the exits. But, rather than soaking up the sun you had plans.

You would be trapped in hell. Or, above hell’s mouth anyway. In the Sunnydale library. The weather was hot but the temperature in the library was sweltering. The AC didn’t appear to be working and everyone was sweaty and angry looking. You hadn’t arrived yet, you were taking the long route along the corridors. Soaking up the sun in a wholly unnecessary walk of the school grounds before you made your way to whittle some research books down or read an inscription on a stake or something.

You took a sharp turn, passing the janitor’s closet.

You heard something. Struggling. You frowned, but still pushed on the door, revealing Willow. Wiping her mouth after draining the janitor. You made a sharp intake of breath, rooted to the spot.

You became encased in her eye. Her lips curled into a devilish smile as she took in your entire form. You felt naked under her gaze. As if she had claimed you and explored every part of you before now (and yet still always wanted more).

She smiled at you although it came out as a grimace. Vampire. She was a vampire. Her eyes had been dark, almost blackened but when she saw you her face lit up a little in recognition. Her mate.

She tugged your arm into the closet, there was blood running down the side of her face.

“My girl” She purred into your ear, nipping at it as she always did. Your eyes widened you became dizzy from those words. Suddenly putty in her hands. She was used to this though.

She met your lips hungrily, crashing into you. Her need translated so easily against your lips. The way she easily slid her tongue into your mouth. Tasting you. Telling you that even your mouth was hers. She pressed you flush against her body. Her hand snaking up and weaving into your hair, pulling you in further. Her lips urgent, a passion that would never die.

She was in every sense of yours. You could feel her so intimately. Smell that distinct Willow smell. Even the lingering metallic taste on her tongue drew you in…

With that thought, you pull away suddenly, having been caught up in the moment for longer than anyone that had been so convinced they were straight could get away with.

“Willow! What’re you doing?!” You shouted; your eyes as big as dinner plates. She pouted at your words, disappointed. Eyes still scanning your form.

“Aw no, you’re wrong too... We’ll have to fix that” She nodded, her smile turning into the grimace again. Her face shifted. Forehead ridged and unforgiving, fangs protruding from her mouth painfully. You screamed and backed away, just shy of her grasp.

You turned and ran as fast as you could. Sweating out pure adrenaline as you quickened your pace. Making sure she wasn’t on your heels. You skidded into the library, screaming that Willow’s dead. That she was a vampire and… managing to not mention that you could still feel her lips on yours.

As you were shouting this, your Willow listened before stepping into your vision properly. In a different outfit, one that was more her. Relief washed over you and you didn’t think twice. You just launched yourself at her. Wrapping your arms around her and nearly scooping her off her feet.

“I was so scared I lost you” You whispered in her ear from your place by her ear.

“You always have me!” She insisted with a little whispered giggle that made your heart skip a beat.

You were so pleased that she was okay. That she wasn’t hurt. It meant so much to you. As you released her from the hug you had both been wrapped up in happily, something dawned on you. Realisation struck.

It hit you in the gut. This sudden thought you couldn’t escape. You liked that feeling. Any feeling so long as it was with her. Kissing Willow had felt so real. It made you feel alive, despite the fact that your dead friend had helped you discover this. You desperately wanted to be back with her lips on yours.

You liked women. You were in love with women. Well, a woman.

Just as you had this thought, Evil Willow appeared trying to attack you. Or… kiss you. You weren’t entirely sure which. You and Willow backed away and tried to hide. But she kicked you to the floor, taking your by the throat. Willow screamed and the vampire turned and scanned her eyes over her other self. She really was disappointed in the outfit.

As she paused, you grabbed a cross from the counter and thrust it in her face making her hiss and recoil from it. With this, Giles took his chance and hit her over the head. Sending vampire willow to the ground. Passed out. You helped Giles drag her over to the cage and lock her in.

Willow would have helped but she was still recovering from her vampire self trying to kill her. You sat beside her on the step as she recovered, sliding a hand around her shoulders. You rubbed her upper arm soothingly.

She turned to face you and your faces were so close. Your nose touched hers and you could feel her breath warm on your face. You wished to lean in further and caress her lips with your own. A much sweeter kiss than you had shared with her vampire counterpart.

Her eyes lowered to your mouth and you thought this could truly be happening. That she was about to kiss you. But instead she reached with her hand for the side of your face.

“Oh, uh, you have some…” Willow reached and wiped the corner of your mouth, “...lipstick”

You became so caught in the gesture you barely heard her words. Her skin against your mouth, that soft touch. You closed your eyes slowly, savouring the feeling.

That was, until you comprehended why she was doing it. Your eyes widened. You hadn’t been wearing any lipstick. It had been… the other Willow.

You moved backwards at her words, sliding from her touch. You opened your mouth to try and make some kind of excuse that she had never even asked for but you were luckily interrupted.

At this moment, Xander and Buffy ran in. They had retreated from from the Bronze after what they had seen. They had come back for reinforcements and to break the horrible news.

“Y/n’s dead!” Buffy shouted, her voice desperately sad. The tone in mourning.

“We tried to help but she’s a vamp-” Xander said, looking at the ground in horror at what he had witnessed. You had been turned and you definitely weren’t a carebear with fangs either.

“Guys… it’s okay, I’m here”

“Not now, Y/n, we’re talking about-”

Everyone’s eyes brightened and Buffy and Xander took it in turns to hug you tight. You had never been more grateful to have such caring friends.

Giles filled them in on what he suspected had happened and that they should either make sure they got back to their dimension or Buffy needed to slay them. You and willow glanced at each other uneasily, you weren’t so sure if you could watch them die. Even if you knew you probably weren’t going to get on with your vampire self.

“Well, dead-and-not-yet-buried has demands”

“What?”

“She wants a spell, to return her to her dimension and… Willow-”

“-Or she starts snackin’ on the Bronze… and we’re not talking buffalo wings here”

“Well, ah, that may be difficult as she is currently out cold on the floor over there” Giles gestured with his head as Xander and Buffy turned to look. There she was, another copy of Willow. It was so spooky.

Eventually, a plan was made. You had argued against it but became outnumbered. The plan was, Willow would dress up as the one vampire you wanted and hopefully convince her to leave the Bronze alone.

You worried - you didn’t want Willow to be harmed. You had seen what her counterpart was like you could only imagine what the vampire version of you would be like. You shivered at the thought.

“Please… be safe” You asked, your fingers trailing against the skin on her arm. You were trying not to scan her body in her new outfit. You wouldn’t want her to feel uncomfortable, she was already feeling strange. She insisted she would be fine and everyone else headed out. Leaving you in the library.

You were pacing as Willow tried to convince vampire you that she was also a vampire. You were scared for her safety. This revelation had come at a time where you needed to be with her, to explore your feelings. But instead you were thinking about her even more. Because you could lose her in every sense if she made one wrong move. You tried to distract yourself but it was no use.

You wondered what it could possibly feel like to be that way. A vampire…

You were there, in the Bronze surrounded by terrified humans. You were holding them hostage with the help of an ex-vengeance demon and some minions you had picked up on your travels. You wanted a spell to take you back to your dimension but only so long as you were reunited with her.

And then there she was. Finally, your love had been returned to you. You smirked at Willow hoping she would be pleased with you for the way you never stopped looking for her.

She walked towards you and you couldn’t help drinking in her form. Wishing to take her as yours. Right there. You adored her so. If you could breathe, she would have knocked the breath from your body.

You were so busy enjoying her walking up to you that you couldn’t sense that she was human. You pulled her into you and crashed your lips to hers. The usual greeting. She hesitated for a fraction of a second but then she kissed back just the way she always would. You smirked into the kiss until she was ripped from your arms again.

You hated being separated from her. You turned, snarling at the human that dared interrupt such feeling. It stirred the dead heart in your chest.

“She’s human! Look at her!” Anya insisted, pointing accusingly.

“Would a human be able to do this?” Willow panicked immediately and asked this before screaming as loud as she could. To which everyone replied yes.

“You’re not my girlfriend! You are some cheap imitation!” You seethed, glaring. Burning holes into this human. You wanted your lover to return.

“What happened to you?! With the creeping and the threatening and the grr…?” Willow asked, making claws with her hands as she said the last part. It made you tilt your head to scan her face. It really was strange that this sweet human could be your mate. She had too much goodness in her.

You wished to scare her. You grabbed the nearest human and took a bite, savouring every drop and wiping your mouth with your hands. This just served to smear more blood around your face.

“When you wish upon a dead star, your nightmares come true” You smirked, blood still leaking from the corners of your mouth as her face paled at the way you held enjoyment in the fear all around.

Luckily for Willow, her scream had raised the alarm and Buffy, Xander and Angel came as soon as they could. There was a brutal fight where most of the vampires were dusted.

Willow held a stake to your unbeating heart but she just couldn’t do it. They would have to capture you as well. Allow you to be reunited with your Willow and take you back to the wishverse.

You (the real you) and your friends were staring into the cage. Willow and the others had brought back… you. Well, you if you were evil. Also, it appeared that your fashion sense had died with you.

Both vampire Willow and you were now locked safely in the cage in the library. Just long enough for Giles to recite what was needed to send them back to their dimension.

They came to and smirked at each other. Faces contorted in a way that you weren’t even sure you could match despite her being you. They recognised that it was the other’s mate (the real ones) and they instantly pulled each other close. Lips crashing against each other, the kiss deepening so much everybody felt as if they needed some kind of privacy.

“I think… I’m kinda… a lot gay.” You said, eyes widening as vampire you started to stick her tongue down Willow’s throat.

“Me too” the Willow that was stood beside you nodded. Her voice just above a whisper.

Evil Willow moved a fraction to look at their doubles through the bar. She looked between you and your Willow and rolled her eyes, muttering something close to ‘bored now’. As if it was so obvious that you both liked women.

That was before she grasped vampire you into another obscene kiss that you and Willow looked away from… and looked into each other’s eyes.

Your eyes widened and you both felt a heat rising in your cheeks, eventually opting to drop to the ground. Even though you did this, you couldn’t bear to truly be apart.

You both silently reached for the other, clasping hands. Your hands were entwined as one. A silent show of solidarity. Your minds spinning so fast you couldn’t focus on a single thought. The only constant thing, the only real thing you could hold on to was each other.

The love that you shared.

#Willow #Willow rosenberg #Willow rosenberg x reader #Willow x reader #Willow Rosenberg x you #Willow rosenberg imagine #Willow imagine #Willow x you #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #buffy the vampire slayer imagines #btvs #btvs x reader #btvs imagine #btvs x you #vampire #vampire reader #female reader #female

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Christmas Specials: Fishcake

CW: Some hint of dehumanization and references to Bahram’s depression/past breakdown at the end, some brief emeto references, but really this is just fluff. Oh, also brief unintentional ableism that Miah calls out.

---

BAHRAM’S NOTES

December 24th, 20XX 11:15 pm Mer in Residence: 71 Days

Miah showed up tonight with a Christmas present for me, and now I feel like a giant dick for not having anything to give her.

Christmas just isn’t a thing in my family. I mean, I have cousins who go overboard with it, kind of a fitting in thing, but my family never did. Baba does some kind of fast, but for Maman it’s just another day and for me it’s always meant mostly a day where I played video games all day because I didn’t have to be at school or work.

Oh, I need to call Baba and Maman tomorrow, note to self. She always gets worried about me right around the end of the year, what with how they figured out I was quitting school and everything.

I guess getting a phone call from a hospital leaves a bloody impression.

Anyway, Miah comes in with this big shopping bag in her hand, waving at me all bright and sunny and cheerful. She set the bag down long enough to berate me for - she assumed - having not taken my medicine on time.

For the record, she was right, but I didn’t tell her that.

Nearly drowning in saltwater made my lungs apparently terribly angry with me, so for the next eight days I’m on a run of antibiotics to handle a lovely case of bacterial pneumonia. Would’ve been far handier to get pneumonia right away, but instead I ended up in Urgent Care yesterday, paying 200 dollars and waiting two hours to see a doctor for less than ten minutes.

Dr. L says she’ll reimburse me the cost, but still.

Miah asked me how I was feeling, I said I felt fine, really, and then of course I had an awful coughing fit just to prove myself a wonderful liar. The coughing’s the worst part - every time I really get going, it’s like being underwater all over again. I can feel my lungs fighting to inflate, to take the air in, and I can hear how hard I’m working to get enough air to stop coughing at all. Miah can’t hear it, but she can see it all right, and she looked worried.

I signed, “I’m fine, it’ll stop, the doctor says it will,” and she frowned at me, but let it go, I guess. While she had her face turned away to greet the mer, I opened the pill bottle and dry-swallowed the meds really fast. Sometimes there are benefits to Miah not being able to hear things.

The mer - Kima, I can call him by his name in these notes, the ones only I see - was already at the side of the tank, watching us. He’s perked up a bit lately, since I started giving him live fish on the days Dr. L isn’t around and Miah brought him all these enrichment things. We’re doing what we can, but I know it’s still not enough.

Enough would be figuring out where his bloody family is and getting him back to them, but I just… I can’t even begin to explain, even to myself, the logistical nightmare of hauling a six-foot-long mer back to the ocean and finding someone who would take him back up north where his family likely is in the middle of bloody fucking December.

It’s the right thing to do, yeah.

But it’d just be too hard to pull off, not without losing… my whole taped-together life, yeah? Plus I’m still dealing with trying to figure out who exactly is my real employer at this point - who’s paying Dr. L - and what they want from the mer’s… thing he can do.

Miah glanced over at him and signed, “Don’t worry, I have something for you, too,” and Kima just looked back at her, head cocked to the side. She looked over at me and signed, “It’s a fish-cake.”

I have to admit, it took me a second to even begin to respond. My hands just… hung in mid-air, before finally I asked, “A what?”

“A fishcake. It’s like a fruitcake, but so much worse.” She leaned down to dig around in the big bag and pulled out a box, pausing to add, “I had to wrap it and box it or the car would have smelled horrible for days,” before she picked up and laid the box on my desk, opened it, took out something wrapped in layers of plastic, and unwrapped that, painstakingly slowly.

I glanced over at the mer, who watched with total fascination. Maybe he’d caught the sign for fish, he’s incredibly food-motivated. Which makes sense, of course, probably with his pod he’d spend a lot of his day eating and hunting for more, but

Bahram. Focus.

She was right - as soon as the plastic came off, I could smell it.

“How can you handle that? Isn’t your sense of smell… really good?” Ah, yes, I am always so proud of myself when I forget a sign for a word I want to say and have to sort of cobble together the spirit of it with other signs.

She looked at me with this sort of dry are you kidding me expression, then signed, “I’m deaf, B, not a superhero,” in a way that made me feel about ten inches tall.

“Sorry. That’s an awful smell, though.”

And it was. I like fish as much as the next man, but this was foul. She grinned at me and picked up the tupperware the fishcake was in using towels to protect her hands from picking the smell up too, I guess, and went over to the ladder up to the platform. Her back was already to me, so I couldn’t ask her the question I had, or tell her not to do that one-handed. Instead, I just sort of… got up and hovered uselessly while she climbed up without looking back, and then followed her up there.

The platform makes me… nervous, now. I stay closer to the ladder, farther from the water. I hope the mer, that Kima doesn’t think I don’t want to be close to him or something.

Miah took the lid off the tupperware and waited. Soon enough the mer popped up near us, interested in what we were doing on the platform.

I watched those nasal slits open wide when he smelled the fish. And I watched how his eyes went big and shiny with excitement. Whatever Miah had put in the foul thing, he wanted it.

She dumped it into the water - I didn’t see much, other than a sort of loaf-shape and a sense of texture I never want to think about again - and Kima tore into it. It was the grossest thing I’ve ever seen, and I have actually watched Kima eat raw fish that was living seconds before. I had to look away - and so did Miah, but she was laughing. She can’t hear herself, only feel the vibration in her own throat. Her laughs kind of sound almost honking, choked-off, just totally un-self-conscious noises she’s barely aware of.

I should tell her that I like the way she laughs.

Oh, I absolutely should not do that.

Maybe I should, though.

She grinned at me, still laughing, and signed, “This is disgusting!”

“It is,” I signed back, “And it’s your fault, don’t forget that!”

She was still laughing when Kima looked back up at us, fish bits smeared around his mouth, and she signed, “Merry Christmas, K-I-M-A,” to him. He stared back, signed yes, and then dove back under the water, present utterly devoured, leaving only gross little particles I will probably have to hose off the sides of the tank on cleaning day when the filters can’t quite pick them up.

Miah looked at me, and I just thought, you know, she’s really pretty even under the sun lamps, and nobody is pretty in that light. Then she signed, after this moment of stillness, “I bought you a present, too.”

“Me?” I pointed back at myself, blinking, surprised. “I don’t do Christmas, M, I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “I know. But I still bought a present. Can I show you?”

“Um, sure.” I get nauseous when I’m nervous. For a second, climbing back down the ladder, I thought I’d just get sick all over myself. I was badly designed, my defense mechanism is just to vomit on myself to scare predators away, clearly my body thinks pretty women are dangerous and I have to embarrass myself until they stop looking at me.

Finally, though, we were back at my desk. The smell… lingered. I’ve since burned the candle Miah got me, and the sulfur from the matches and the scent of the candle itself have largely done away with it, but when we got back, it was still powerful.

She didn’t pull anything out of the bag, instead she just took a small card out of her back pocket and handed it to me.

I looked down at it. “Alborz?” I realized I’d spoken out loud, looking down, and looked back up quickly so I could repeat it in sign, so she could see. “A-L-B-O-R-Z? A gift card to a restaurant?”

She nodded, quickly, signing so fast I was having trouble keeping up. I guess… was she nervous, too? “It’s food like you grew up with, yes?”

“Yeah, more or less. I mean nothing is better than my mother’s food. But why-”

She reached out and grabbed my arm with one hand to stop me, leaned in so close that the smell of this super subtle perfume she wears was stronger, for a second, than the smell of fish. “B,” She signed, with heavy, slow emphasis, “Think about why I bought you this.”

I just looked at her. I didn’t get it at all, and told her so.

I’m so bloody dense.

She sighed, throwing her hands up in the air with an eye-roll and a smile, and then signed, “When are you taking me there?”

She had to repeat the signs three times before I realized she was asking me on a date.

So anyway, I don’t think I’ll sleep a wink tonight, and also I think I celebrate Christmas now.

Date-mas.

That was an awful joke. I’m leaving it there just to properly shame myself if I ever reread this.

---

@astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @slaintetowhump @moose-teeth @misspelledwitch @whumpfigure @whumptywhumpdump @boxboysandotherwhump @whumpywhumpwhump @yet-another-heathen @fanmanga1357-blog @justabitofwhump

#mer whump #christmas specials #signs of the sea #depression tw #breakdown mention tw #emeto references #mer whumpee #fluff #angst and fluff #all comfort no hurt #referenced drowning #bahram anvari #miah kirsse

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fallintitan · 2 years

Text

whadda hel. chaper 2 of the night

i know i’m scared too...this never happens

[ao3 link]

He must actually black out, because he comes to outside in the truck’s seat.

“Fuck’s sake, Barker boy. Don’t do things like that.” Taia flicks his shoulder and scolds him. “You wanna keep yourself inconspicuous? That’s not the way to do it.”

He rubs his eyes hard. He doesn’t remember getting out here but he would actually very much believe that Taia lugged him out here themselves. The sunlight filters down through the dusty front window and highlights motes in the streaks. To be honest, he feels awful. Apparently, a shock like that while already in a poor state of health and mind will do that to a person.

“Sorry,” he manages to say.

Taia sighs. “I know things are rough right now,” they offer. “You’re going through withdrawal of one staple and the addition of another, more time-consuming one. Those don’t exactly mix together well, do they?” He shakes his head and immediately regrets it when his vision starts swimming. “Please, I’m begging you, if you’re gonna get sick, lean out of the truck. I’d never hear the end of it from Sarah if…” They shudder. “Point is, you have Sarah and me, at the very least, and we have your back.” They rub his shoulder soothingly. “I’m sure some fellas at the Militia would vouch for you as well.”

“Thanks,” he tries to say, but all that comes out is a slurred sound.

“Sit out here. Lie down on the seat if you want. I’m going to fetch the kitties and get an appointment set up. I get that you’re embarrassed and under the weather, so I’m not gonna make you go back in with me. Stay inconspicuous.” They point sternly at him. When they get a slight head-nod in response, they turn to leave.

Once again, he’s alone-- and it’s his own damn fault. He wonders how Taia managed to stay upbeat and on top of things so reliably. He doesn’t question it, though: he’s grateful for whatever it is and he’d rather not lose it.

He tips his head back against the worn headrest. The sun coming through the windows feels genuinely nice, in the way that the hot shower had. He tries to relax. Maybe Whiskey will be quiet on the way back. Maybe Taia will drive slower. Hell, maybe he’ll just doze off and miss most of the havoc. He’d be quite happy with that.

Barker forces his eyes closed. He does not think about the wanted posters advertising a reward for his death. He tries to calm the paranoia that has risen over the past however-many minutes. Ignoring it does no good. The ever-present feeling of being watched creeps into his mind and obliterates any chances he has at resting.

He sits forward--slowly and carefully. He really would feel awful if Taia and Sarah had to clean up after him just because he sat up too quickly. You’re overthinking things again, his brain points out.

The problem is that he has no idea of how to stop doing it.

Stopping alcohol was one thing: he simply didn’t drink it anymore. Did it endanger his life to do so? Absolutely. Were there lasting effects? Yes, there are. He guesses kicking a nasty habit is different than changing the way he thinks.

What would Taia and Briggs tell him to do? They’d tell him not to worry, and when he kept worrying, they would walk him through it like they had before. If he’s paranoid, look around to reassure himself that he’s safe. If he feels trapped, make sure there’s an escape nearby. He certainly has one of those, via the truck’s door, but he doubts he’d make it far if he had to run.

He heaves a sigh and groans. One thing at a time. The biggest issue here is that he still feels like he’s being watched from somewhere by someone. Initially, he assumes it’s Taia looking out the office’s window to make sure he’s conscious. When they come trotting out of the place with the crate in their hands, he notices it doesn’t creep away.

He’s still being watched.

Taia hurries to the truck. As soon as they open their door, they’re shoving his head down towards his knees. “Duck down,” they whisper urgently. “Stay down. Pretend you’re not here.” They resume arranging things, putting the coat back over the crate to hopefully keep Whiskey quiet, haphazardly draping part of it over his head. He does notice the rushed way they start the truck and pull out, tires nearly squealing on the pavement as they peel out.

“Well, that’s not good,” they say after a few minutes of driving in silence. “You can sit up now, by the way. Maybe keep the hood of your coat over your head, though.” He looks at them questioningly and with just a smidge of anxiety.

“Someone was peeping into the truck from behind,” Taia says quietly. “Showed an awful lot of interest in one of the wanted posters before they saw you.” They thunk their head back against the seat dramatically, making the truck jolt. “It seems they’re still hard at work trying to wrangle you in. The lot of them must hold some hard grudges.”

He goes to agree just to get them to look back at the road before what they said settled in. He was being watched. It’s not just his addled brain telling him things--it’s warning him.

“I know,” Taia interrupts his thinking, “that this does not sound…good. At all. In fact, this is very not good. You could even say that this is bad.” He puts his face in his hands to keep from digging his fingers into his thighs through his jeans. “But Briggs and I are one step ahead. She’s been noticing more activity picking up in Angel City and the nearby areas, so this was sort of expected.” They look to him and probably expect some sort of minute relief to show through his facade, but find none. “Regardless. Like I said, Briggs and I are persistent little fiends. We have something worked out if worse comes to worse.”

He doesn’t say anything. The sudden weight on his shoulders crushes his lungs through his ribs and leaves him breathing unevenly. Barker bites the inside of his cheek because he’s a goddamned Militia officer and Pilot and he’s not going to let a little stress get to his head so easily. It just proves what you’ve always been thinking. Nobody forgets. Not even you. How do you think he would feel about this information?

Taia cuts into his thinking with a gentle tap on his arm. “Hey. Don’t go there. Don’t ever let yourself dwell in that state of mind if you can avoid it. I’ll drag you out of it like I dragged your unconscious ass out of the clinic. Things are rough, but you’re not doomed.” They rub his shoulder firmly. “I take it you just want to get home, then?”

He nods sullenly.

Taia chitters away the rest of the drive back to the apartment complex. They probably figure he needs something else to focus on, which he’s grateful for, but nothing they talk about penetrates the fog in his head.

He goes to automatically slip out of the truck when they stop, but that feeling of being watched kicks in again and his mind is suddenly in overdrive trying to perceive a threat that’s not there.

Taia nudges his calf with their foot. “Let me go in first. Rather be safe than sorry, yeah?” He doesn’t answer. They grab the crate and its contents and plod up the rusty front stairs to his place.

Numbly, he sticks his key in the lock to unlock the door and walk in, but Taia scoots in front of him before he can do so. “Just checking.”

Once the apartment is given a good and thorough once-over, they invite him all the way inside. He feels like he should be somewhat offended at being told to stay out of his own place by someone else but he really can’t muster anything at the moment.

“Go,” they usher him towards his room, gently putting the crate in his hands. “I’ll stay and be on the lookout. You just try to settle your mind for a while. Yell if you need anything.”

He nearly forgets to open the crate’s door when he finally collapses--no other word for it--on the mattress. It’s a last-minute thought that he does mindlessly. Immediately, Whiskey is rushing out and retrieving her kittens from the god-forsaken crate and placing them in the crook of Barker’s elbow. It’s a good enough distraction, to sit and count as each one is brought back to him. Once all six are out, Whiskey curls around them and rests her head on his forearm. He can faintly feel her purring (which is astonishing, because she honestly likely ran herself hoarse earlier) and her head is a comfortable, grounding weight on his arm.

He knows Taia and Briggs are looking out for him. Whiskey is letting him know that she’s got his back too.

#mav's writing #whiskey kitty

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quicksiluers · 3 years

Text

Here’s a dumb story of Grant not talking to Sherman all day and Sherman has no idea why and is stressing way too much about it and Grant is super embarrassed by it when they actually talk about it. (it’s needlessly long so I apoligize in advance) (I also posted it on ao3 if it’s easier to read there)

With special appearances byyyy Rawlins, McPherson and Comstock cause why the hell not

“And this play we saw, it had to be one of the worst things I had ever seen.”

McPherson raised a brow, a playful smirk on his lips, “Sherman, if it’s not some professional play, you always think it’s the worst thing you’ve seen.”

Sherman frowned, ignoring the low chuckle coming from Grant beside him, “It’s not my fault all these actors out here are awful.”

“Maybe you’re being too harsh?” Grant asked, rolling his cigar between his fingers, “You’re standards seem...high.”

“Should I set my standards low?” The redhead pushed back, glancing back and forth between the two generals, “If that is their job, they should at least try to be good at it.”

Snorting, McPherson shook his head and waved the older man off, “Out here I’ll just take what I can get.”

The wood in the fireplace beside them cracked, the embers filtering up through the chimney. A small chill settled through the room, the winter air creeping through the walls. Sherman ignored it, occasionally rubbing his hands together for a small bit of friction. A little cold wasn’t going to bother him when McPherson and Grant were around.

Memphis was a city he had spent far too much time in. The people were a pain to deal with, the press even worse, and the weather had been awful the past week. Somehow he found himself missing those summer months outside in the Mississippi heat.

“I’ll take anything over those balls they invite us to,” Grant grumbled, stuffing the cigar in his mouth, “Those are tedious.”

“At least the food is good,” McPherson argued, crossing his arms, “I’ve only been to a few and that’s usually the best part.”

“That’s the only good part.”

Sherman laughed, “Mac when you go to as many of those things as Grant and I have, you’ll understand how absolutely god awful they are.”

The younger general’s brows pinched together, his thick beard hiding a small pout, “Well if I was invited to more of them…”

“Trust me when I say you don’t want that invite,” Sherman jabbed his thumb over in Grant’s direction, “Grant finds a way to scurry off half the time when we’re at them, he’s a genius at finding the easy escape.”

Laughter filled the room. The redhead covered his mouth, trying to control himself. He wished he had that talent, it would come in handy in a number of situations.

“Plus, those absolutely awful people you have to deal with,” Sherman continued, “The politicians and the men who claim to be with the Union when it’s incredibly easy to tell they are two-timing snakes.”

“I”m shocked you can tell the two groups apart,” McPherson teased, kicking Sherman’s boot, “You seem to describe them the same way.”

“They essentially are.”

A small movement caught his eye and Sherman turned, watching as Grant pushed back from the table. The cigar was set firmly in his mouth, his expression clouded. Their eyes met briefly before Grant looked down at his pocket watch, the beat-up item resting in his palm.

“It’s getting late. I have some work to do,” Grant snapped the watch shut, nodding to the two of them.

“Rawlins can’t do it for you?” McPherson asked, moving to stand up before the older the general waved him down, “What could be so press-”

“Everything is always pressing with Washington Mac.”

“It can’t wait until morning?” Sherman questioned, eyebrow raised. If there was something urgent, Rawlins would have crashed the party without an invitation. The young aide had a knack for coming in at the worst times.

Grant glanced at him and Sherman was taken aback by the coldness of the stare.

“I would prefer it be finished tonight,” he replied, quickly looking away from Sherman. With a small nod and a muttered goodbye, the leading general gathered his things and made his way across the room. As he left, either from the wind or maybe his own strength, the door slammed shut.

Silence hung between Sherman and McPherson as they sat in the room, eyes glued to the door. McPherson scratched the side of his face, eyebrows pulled together, “That seemed abrupt.”

Sherman couldn’t help but agree. Grant could be blunt, but that sort of abruptness wasn’t like him. Especially towards him. The coldness of Grant’s glance unsettled him as well. Had they mentioned something they shouldn’t have?

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair, “Must be something important, you know how they get on his back for anything over there.”

McPherson nodded slowly, the puzzled expression still on his face, “I suppose…”

“If Washington had to deal with me, they wouldn’t get an answer until I felt like giving them a goddamn answer.”

“And that is why,” McPherson pointed with a laugh, “they don’t have to deal with you.”

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

The morning was brisk with a light flurry in the air. None of it stopped the people from roaming up and down the streets, either greeting him with a polite smile or an angry sneer. Sherman tried his best to ignore both.

The stairs underneath him creaked as he climbed up, bypassing a flushed-looking staff officer. Probably the young man’s first day at the job, he knew the look of someone given too much information in one meeting. He was sure it made the boy’s head spin.

Striding through the other aides, Sherman entered his office and grabbed the papers and envelopes off his desk.

“Anything important come in colonel?” Sherman turned, the young man glancing up from the hand full of other papers he was shuffling through, “Don’t tell me I have to look through all that crap.”

“Oh no sir,” the colonel, Williams, replied. He shook the papers lightly, “Just some complaints from the city folk, which I’ve mostly gone through and divided up.”

“And?”

“And most of it is not all that important or interesting,” he shrugged, pushing up his glasses, “the normal complaints and requests that are usually dismissed or denied.”

“Lovely,” Sherman muttered, walking around his desk and sitting in the chair behind it.

Shuffling through the mail, there was a few telegrams from Blair and McPherson he would have to review. Some requests for leaves, an invitation or two for another party one of the wealthy city folk was putting on. He’d have to come up for an excuse on those. There was no chance in hell he’d get caught up in those parties again, especially if Grant managed to sneak off. Half the reason he went was because the younger general would be around.

“Nothing from General Grant this morning?” Sherman questioned, flipping through the papers again. There was a letter from Ellen he would have to read. And it looked like John had sent him something as well.

“No sir, nothing that came across your or mine’s desk.”

Odd. Grant made it a habit to leave him a note or something in the morning. Maybe whatever he was finishing up last night didn’t leave him time to have anything sent over.

Sherman leaned his chair, pulling a cigar from his breast pocket. Ellen had tried to tell him not to smoke so much in the morning, but he couldn’t help it. With the damn cold, he needed to warm up somehow. It wasn’t as if the building was producing any heat to give him comfort.

Colonel Williams sat silently off to the side of the room at his small desk, eyes flicking back and forth over the pile of papers before him. The young man was useful, he knew exactly what Sherman did and didn’t want to see and brought only the important things to his attention. He also had a knack for reading his moods, which was something all his other aides seemed to lack.

“I’m sorry sir,” the colonel said, crossing the room, “It seems that General Grant did send something, it just came from General Rawlins. I apologize,” he placed the single sheet down on Sherman’s desk, his eyebrows pinched together.

“Is there something wrong with it?” Sherman asked, grabbing the sheet.

“No sir, just…I guess I’m used to General Grant writing to you personally.”

The redhead shrugged, “When he gets caught up, Rawlins sometimes takes care of it.”

His eyes trailed over the words, General Sherman, General Grant is unable to accompany you to dinner later this evening. He apologizes in advance. - Your Obt. Servt. Brig. Gen. J. Rawlins.

Oh. That was sudden.

Sherman frowned, chewing on the butt of his cigar. It was incredibly unlike Grant to cancel a meeting, especially this one in particular. It was just going to be the two of them, talking over potential strategies and plans for the upcoming campaign season. Putting together a framework of what going forward would entail and what Washington may or may not above.

Dread crept over him as his eyes went over the note again.

Maybe Grant decided he didn’t need Sherman to come up with a strategy. He was a man of action and came up with his own movements frequently, which Sherman would follow. Even when they didn’t agree. But they always talked things over, even if Grant didn’t take his input.

What if Grant didn’t need him to make plans? The brunette didn’t really need Sherman’s input at all. Maybe Grant somehow realized and is thinking of moving on, maybe-

He let out a small breath, the smoke blowing in Williams’s face. The colonel coughed but Sherman was lost in his spiraling thoughts. Stop thinking like that. Just try to go by Grant’s headquarters later. There was no need to make this a bigger deal than it had to be.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Sherman replied, trying to wave the smoke away, “I’ll be sure to handle it.”

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“What do you mean he isn’t here?”

Cyrus B. Comstock raised an eyebrow, annoyance creeping up into his face, “Do you need me to write it down for you General Sherman?”

He could almost feel his eye twitch. Cyrus was newer to Grant’s staff, an engineer from the east, but they had gotten along well around Vicksburg. A no-nonsense sort of man, probably from dealing with all the catfighting over in the eastern army. He appreciated that sort of attitude, just not at this exact moment.

“General Grant is usually here during the day,” Sherman retorted, trying to keep himself calm, “Did something come up to call him away?”

“Rawlins said that they had some errands to run,” Comstock shrugged. He placed his stack of books down on the desk before him, hand resting on his hip, “They didn’t say when they would be back.”

Rawlins. Always Rawlins. The boy was practically glued to Grant’s side. Sherman didn’t know how Grant stood it. If Colonel Williams followed him around like a puppy, he’d lock every door behind him.

Sighing, Sherman carded his hand through his hair. It wasn’t fair to be annoyed at Rawlins. He just needed to know everything was ok. The cancellation was just…so unlike Grant. He had to know what he said or did to bother him.

“How was General Grant this morning?”

“How was he?” Comstock repeated.

Now the younger man was getting on his nerves, “Yes, did he seem…fine?”

“He seemed like his normal self,” Comstock’s eyebrows pinched together again, confused, “Why? Is he supposed to be upset?”

This was going nowhere. The annoyance mixed with panic was making every nerve feel like it was on edge. This room was stuffy anyway. “No, I just…never mind, I’ll talk to him later.”

Sherman stormed out, passing by the other busy body aides Grant had working.

Everything was fine. He would just talk to Grant later, find out what was keeping him so busy. It had to be something extremely important. Probably telegrams from Washington, acting like chickens with their heads cut off.

Surely that had to be it.

He stuffed a cigar in his mouth, chomping down on the end. The tobacco ground against his teeth. There was something he was missing. What had brought this on? It wasn’t like there weren’t any secrets between them, but Sherman felt like Grant was always open and happy to see him. He had given him that chair at Chattanooga for god’s sake!

It must have been something he did. The sheer thought of that made the panic grow.

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“I think you’re overthinking this Sherman.”

“Am I?” He asked hotly, the floorboards squeaking as he paced back and forth, “Grant doesn’t just cancel something we’ve been talking about for weeks. There has to be a reason…”

McPherson rolled his eyes, chin resting in the palm of his hand. The younger general’s desk was neatly organized, papers stacked to perfection. Just like McPherson, always organized and ready to go. Calm, cool, and looking at him like he was crazy.

Maybe he was.

“Grant is probably just busy with other things and can’t make it,” McPherson explained, watching the redhead tug at his beard fiercely, “it probably isn’t more complicated than that.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

McPherson sat up a bit, crossing his arms over his chest, “I wouldn’t understand? Sherman, I was on his staff for a good portion of time. I think I know a little about how Grant operates.”

Sherman glanced at him, stopping in the middle of the floor. His fingers pulled at his beard again, his irritation building up. He had racked his mind over their conversation over and over. There was nothing he noticed that may have irked Grant, everything seemed so perfectly normal until he left.

Sighing, he dragged his hand through his hair, his other hand resting on his hip, “It was hard to schedule it as is, god knows how long we’ll stay in the same place together. And it came in this morning too, which seems…”

“Abrupt?” McPherson finished with a small smirk.

The redhead frowned slightly at that, “Yes. It seemed very sudden.”

“Like how Grant left last night abruptly?” McPherson continued, “when he said he had important things to work on for Washington?”

“He would have finished that by now,” Sherman countered, continuing his pacing, “And if he didn’t, I’m sure he would have told Rawlins what needed to be done.”

“You know Grant likes to do that stuff himself, with it going straight to the president and all.”

“Did I say something last night?” He changed the topic quickly, tired of McPherson’s counterpoints. They made sense of course, but there had to be more. Surely there was something else behind this. He must have done something to bother the younger general.

The brunette frowned, looking up the ceiling for a moment, “Last night?” he muttered, taking a moment to think about it. He shook his head, “Nothing that stands out.”

“Nothing that would offend him?”

The younger man cracked a smile, a small laugh escaping him, “Offend him? Now I do think you’re overthinking this.”

This was going nowhere. He just needed to talk to Grant, that’s all. Clear the air, find exactly why he couldn’t meet him tonight. It wasn’t too much to ask for. Just an explanation.

That was perfectly reasonable, wasn’t it?

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The candlelight in his office dimmed, casting small shadows across his desk. Beyond the window, he watched the last streams of sunlight disappear into the night sky. Winter was the worst time, with the short days and what seemed like everlasting nights. Plus the cold air that would nip at his bones, even with his warmer clothing on, was not pleasant.

Sheman puffed on the cigar resting between his lips, leaning back in his chair. Since he came back to his office, he hadn’t moved from the spot. Every single thought in his mind was racing, trying to solve this riddle. Was it a riddle? Was he making something out of nothing? Wouldn’t be the first time.

But dammit, maybe he just really wanted to have dinner with Grant.

The younger general was busier than ever. Between his new command of all the armies from the Appalachian Mountains to the Mississippi River, Grant barely seemed to have time for himself. The fact that they were able to get together last night was a miracle. He had joined last minute and like a flash, he was gone again.

Plus that rumor of him getting the rank of full lieutenant general seemed to hang over his head. The idea of losing him to the eastern theater gnawed at Sherman. That theater was a disaster. The politicians got their hands into the army’s business far too often and the men there couldn’t do anything worth a damn. And even when they did score a victory, they seemed to somehow let it slip through their hands.

Out here in the west is where the war would be won. There was no doubt of that in Sherman’s mind and he wanted to reiterate that again to Grant in their meeting. But now he wouldn’t get the chance.

It wasn’t as if Grant was going to disappear off the face of the earth. He just wanted...what did he want?

Maybe he just wanted to spend time with Grant before he was dragged off hundreds of miles away from him.

Sherman frowned, sliding down in his chair a bit as he felt his cheeks flush. What he wanted didn’t matter. It was up to Grant and for some reason, the younger man didn’t want to see him.

Which was fine. Totally fine. Nothing wrong with that at all.

A light knock echoed through the room. “Come in.”

The door creaked open and Sherman looked up, meeting the confused and slightly concerned expression of Colonel Williams. He waved the young man in, sitting up in his chair. Pull yourself together dammit.

Williams saluted before walking in, a folded piece of paper in his hands, “Sir, a message arrived from General Rawlins for you. It came in only a short time ago.”

Sherman perked up at that, rising in his seat. What could it mean? He quickly took the slip from Williams’s hands, his eyes scanning over the short message.

When you have a moment, would you please come over to General Grant’s headquarters to speak with me? There is a matter here I would like to discuss with you. Your Obt. Servt. - Brig. Gen. J. Rawlins.

Incredibly cryptic, which was very un-Rawlins-like. His frown deepened, reading over the message again. What would he need to discuss?

Sherman stuffed the paper into his breast pocket, next to the cigars, and rose from his chair. “Thank you, Colonel. If anyone needs me, advise them that I will be with General Rawlins.”

He left the young man behind before he could answer, his nerves on end. It had to be related to Grant. Rawlins would surely know what caused him to cancel. If Rawlins didn’t know, then Sherman would never find out without going to the source. And that scared him like hell.

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John Rawlins looked like absolute shit. Sherman knew he has been sick, Grant mentioned it offhandedly, but it still shocked him to see. The younger man’s back was to him, hacking into a handkerchief.

Rawlins wiped his mouth, stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket. He turned and Sherman took in his sunken cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. It looked like he hadn’t slept for days. “General Sherman, can you close the door?”

Puzzled, Sherman obliged him and gently shut the door behind him.

“Did you say something to Grant?” Rawlins asked directly, leveling a smaller glare at the taller man.

His stomach dropped. So it was something he said. Goddammit, but what was it? “If I did, I don’t know what made him upset.”

“Upset?” Rawlins repeated, hands resting on his hips, “He’s not upset, he’s just been...so goddamn moody the entire day.”

“Moody how?” Sherman asked, stepping closer to the brunette. So he wasn’t upset?

“Like he hasn’t spoken a word all day.”

“Well you know that isn’t uncommon for Grant,” he replied, “Sometimes he can go hours without talking.”

“Yes, but he hasn’t spoken to anyone all day. Including myself, which is an issue when you’re supposed to be his chief of staff,” Rawlins responded with a hint of annoyance, “he’s been in this mood since he returned last night and you and General McPherson were the only ones to see him. And in combination with that letter from his fathe-”

“Well, why isn’t General McPherson here?” Sherman interrupted, irritation rising, “Have you asked him?”

“I know General McPherson wouldn’t say something to somehow offend General Grant.”

Sherman’s anger flared up, planting his hands on his hips, “So you just ASSUMED I said something that’s made Grant moody all day?”

Rawlins glared at him and pointed his finger, “Either something you said or something that happened in that room.”

Sherman’s cheeks flushed at that, the anger boiling up, “Well if you and Grant were together all da-”

“We weren’t together all day.” Rawlins cut him off, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I just told Comstock to tell people that so they would leave Grant alone.”

“Unbelievable!” He tried not to shout, but he couldn’t hold it back. All the pent-up anxiety and anger were going to make him lose his mind, “I just wanted to figure out why Grant canceled out goddamn dinner and you go and make Comstock, and I’m sure all the other aides I may have asked, lie! Perfect! Fantastic!”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Rawlins muttered, rolling his eyes, “That’s another reason why I knew it was you because the ONLY thing Grant requested from me all day was to send that note to you and for the life of my don’t know why.”

The words stopped him cold. In an instant, the anger was overtaken but the anxiety. It was something he did to bother Grant. He couldn’t stand it, knowing he had made Grant feel like...whatever he was feeling like.

“Well, where is he?” Sherman asked, taking a small breath. His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest.

Rawlins stared at him hard, his frown deepening. Sherman was beginning to think he was going to have to plead to the other man to know. Grant had a knack of slinking off when he didn’t want to be found.

A hard knock on the door broke the silence. Rawlins’s shoulders seemed to drop slightly as if a weight had been lifted, “Come in!”

Come in? They were in the middle of a conversation! His annoyance spiked, who the hell did Rawlins think he wa-

The door behind him creaked open and Sherman turned, eye’s widening slightly when he saw Grant’s familiar tired face. The younger general looked up and their eyes met, and he seemed to freeze for a minute.

“Rawlins...” Grant grumbled, stepping into the room more. His eyes jumped from Sherman to Rawlins, who had a small smirk tugging on his lips. The young man seemed very proud of himself.

“Now that you’re both here,” Rawlins clapped, “you can discuss whatever the hell is going on between the two of you.”

Sherman felt his face heat up and he saw Grant’s eyebrows pinch together, his frown deepening. “Rawlins, there isn-”

“Don’t you say there isn’t,” the young man interrupted, brushing past Sherman to stand in front of Grant, “because clearly there is and it’s been a pain all day.”

The two brunettes glared at one another, neither wanting to give ground. Grant’s eyes flickered over to Sherman. There was something beyond the look that he couldn’t place.

Grant sighed, holding up his hands, “Fine.”

“Good, now if you’ll excuse me,” Rawlins looked back at Sherman and then to Grant, “I’m going to get something to eat. Deal with...,” he waved his hand between the two of them, “whatever the hell is going on here. Please.”

Before Sherman could say anything, the young man slipped out of the room, closing the door with enough force to make his point.

Then it was just the two of them, standing a few feet from one another. There was an awkwardness, Grant fiddling around with a cigar in his hand. Looking anywhere that wasn’t at Sherman. It was going to drive him mad.

“Grant...” Sherman trailed off, unsure of what to say. Which was rarely a thing that happened. But he didn’t know what he was apologizing for, hell he didn’t even know why Grant had ignored him all day.

The general walked past him, sitting on the edge of the desk in the middle of the room. He continued to fiddle with the cigar, suddenly interested in the tips of his boots. Why was he acting like this? Grant never acted like this. Sure he was silent a majority of the time, but there was still a presence there. People knew he was commanding the room. But this didn’t feel like that at all.

“I didn’t realize this was what Rawlins asked me to come here for...,” Grant muttered with a shake of his head, “Should have known.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” Sherman shrugged, trying to break the ice, “I just assumed he was having me come in to yell at me.”

The younger general chuckled, finally looking up at him. There was a flush to his cheeks that surprised Sherman, giving him pause. Maybe Grant wasn’t feeling good? That would explain some things. But why not come out and say that.

Grant waved his hand to the empty space next to him on the desk, inviting him over, “That is something he tends to do.”

Walking across the room, Sherman sat on the edge of the desk, a small space between him and Grant. He sighed, combing his hand through his beard, “Grant, I don’t know what I said or did but I’m sor-”

Grant held up his hand, Sherman shutting up immediately. He watched the other man as he rolled the cigar between his fingers, the flush on his cheeks getting darker. Did he have a fever?

“It’s nothing you need to apologize for, I was just...,” Grant stopped himself, scratching the back of his neck, “It’s childish really.”

“I mean, clearly I said something.”

“It wasn’t really anything.”

“Well, it upset you enough that you didn’t want to see me all day.”

Grant sighed, fiddling around with the cigar again. The flush had gotten darker and Sherman couldn’t wrap his head around it. He had never seen Grant like this, everything about this situation was completely foreign to him. Grant didn’t get embarrassed, he didn’t get frazzled. In the midst of battle, he was incredibly cool under pressure.

Sherman watched him, trying to understand. Maybe he was sick. It could be making him act out of character. That had to be it.

On impulse, he reached out his hand and placed it on Grant’s forehead, making the younger man jump. It did feel a bit warm but nothing that would indicate a fever...

“Wh-what are you doing?” Grant spluttered, grabbing Sherman’s wrist and pulling it away, his eyebrows pinched together, looking at him with confusion.

He was reaching his breaking point. Why couldn’t he just tell him for god’s sake?

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re sick or something because I can’t understand what the hell is going on,” Sherman declared, waving his free hand dramatically, “I’ve been trying to figure it out all day! Just...,” he deflated, trying to compose himself, “just tell me what I did so we can move on.”

Grant stared at him, the normally stoic expression clouded with embarrassment. Sherman felt a gentle squeeze on his wrist, a small warmth coming over him before the other man let go. Grant’s hands sat on his lap, his fingers twisting the fabric of his pants.

“I don’t ‘scurry’ away.”

The voice was barely above a whisper, Grant looking straight at the wall, away from him. Sherman blinked, trying to understand.

“You don’t what?”

Sighing, Grant looked at him, a small pout on his face. The red on his cheeks hadn’t faded away, they had intensified if anything. “You said I ‘scurry’ away at parties...I don’t I just...,” he carded his hand through his hair, messing up the small style he had to it, “I just don’t like being around that many people.”

Sherman blinked, staring at him. And then he blinked again. The information whirled around in his head, “You don’t... ‘scurry’ away,” he repeated, slowly putting the pieces together.

The younger general nodded, watching him like a hawk. As if he expected some sort of reaction from Sherman, though he wasn’t sure what. It obviously hit some chord with Grant. He couldn’t imagine why, everyone knew Grant wasn’t into the big social scenes.

“No,” Grant replied curtly, “I...,” he paused, running his hand through his hair again, “It’s dumb, I made it something it didn’t have to be.”

On the one hand, Sherman was more confused than ever. He had no idea that Grant had this side. Julia had mentioned it in passing once or twice, her little teasing making Grant blush, but he had chalked that up to their cutesy romance. He was the shyest fellow you ever saw, she told him one night over dinner. But also extremely determined, it was something Julia appreciated about her husband. And it was an aspect that Sherman also appreciated.

On the other hand...there was this flop strand of Grant’s hair hanging over his forehead that Sherman wanted to reach out and push back. His hair always seemed so put together. And those clear blue eyes were looking at him, the flush on Grant's cheeks making the color come out more. All frazzled like this, the younger general was...extremely cute.

Oh for god’s sake, listen to yourself. Sherman crushed that feeling down immediately, grabbing a cigar from his pocket so Grant wouldn’t notice his own flustered face. Acting like some fucking damsel.

“I didn’t realize that bothered you,” he stuffed the cigar in his mouth, the smoke calming him down.

“It’s...,” Grant stopped, tapping his fingers against his knee. He pushed off from the desk, back to Sherman, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “We can just move past it.”

“Obviously not,” Sherman countered, “If it’s something that bothers you, I’d like to know why.”

He could see the tension in Grant’s back, slightly rocking back on heels now and again. There couldn’t be anything like this between them, not when they were about to move into what they hoped was the final months of the war. The planning, everything hinged on them working together.

“You would?” Grant answered with a mutter, nodding a bit. Like he was coming to terms with something. He turned toward Sherman, his shoulders deflating slightly. He looked tired, worn out.

“Yeah, I would.”

“I didn’t mean to take my...annoyance out on you. It just happened to be the combination of what you said and…,” Grant paused, gesturing with his hand slightly, “a letter I received from my father. It had...more to do with him than you but he’s not here so…”

Jesse Root Grant. Sherman had met the man once or twice when he came to visit Grant in camp. The older man would be warm in greeting but there was a look in his eye that always unsettled him. Like he had an agenda while visiting.

He also happened to be an ass. Causing more problems than what they were worth, publishing Grant’s letters in the papers. Then all those journalist half-wits would pull from them and disparage Grant in the miserable little articles.

The pieces all fell into place for Sherman. It just happened to be a wrong comment, the wrong time. The nervous weight he had carried around all day lifted from his shoulders.

“Your father does have that charming personality,” Sherman remarked, pulling out his cigar, “All that talk and scheming, can’t see how that could affect anyone poorly,” he smirked, waving a hand in Grant’s direction, “such as yourself.”

For a moment there was no reaction. Grant stared back with that blank expression of his and Sherman thought this time he had taken it a step too far.

Slowly, a smile tugged onto the young general’s face. Then a chuckle and Grant put his mouth over his face, trying to hide his laugher. It was a rare sound that Sherman delighted in and his smile grew wider.

“Real ol’ shame for the papers when Jesse stopped blasting your letters for headlines, then they had to do actual work for a story to come up with.”

Their laughter bounced around the room, the tension evaporating. Grant’s face was flushed again, shaking his head as he came over and stood before him. He wiped at his eyes, a small smile on his face, “It was a sorry day for them.”

“Really made them scurry off,” Sherman jested, kicking the toe of Grant’s boot with his own, “Probably wailing in the streets too!”

Composing himself, Grant took a deep breath, that wave of calm Sherman knew so well seemingly coming over him. But the smile didn’t disappear, “Yes, scurrying off I’m sure. Heading for other camps, picking up their rumors too.”

“But really, your father is an ass.”

Grant bit his bottom lip slightly, incredibly unfair to Sherman, keeping his smile from growing. “He can be...a handful. Stubborn.”

“Impossible. He seemed extremely reasonable when he visited.” The sarcasm was oozing from the words, but he couldn't help it. The man was a pain in Grant’s side.

“You should him when he’s in a good mood.”

“Charming I’m sure.”

They shared a small laugh, silence settling over them. Sherman’s eyes looked Grant over, the tension seemingly gone. More at ease, like he normally was around camp.

Grant pulled out his pocket watch, clicking it open to the clockface. His thumb brushed over it, “Did you eat before coming here?”

Sherman almost jumped at the question but he calmed himself, trying to keep that aloof personality in place. He didn’t want to seem too eager, “As a matter of fact, I thought I had plans...but it seemed like the scheduled time for them changed a bit.”

Snapping the watch closed, Grant tucked it back into his breast pocket, “Funny...I seemed to have the same issue.”

“Well then, it seems we’re two fine men who’ve been stood up,” Sherman jested, trying to keep a serious face. He pushed off from the desk, toe to toe with Grant, “it would almost seem practical if we had dinner together.”

Those blue eyes stared up at him, a small twinkle in Grant’s eye, and goddammit if those ridiculous thoughts didn’t come back into his head. His brain never knew when to shut up.

“It would seem so,” Grant conceded, staring at him for a long moment before stepping back. He bounced on the balls of his toes slightly, “Shall we?”

Walking out into the chilled Memphis air, the two walked side by side, arms brushing together.

Grant lit up a cigar, puffing on it briefly before blowing out the smoke, “I am sorry Sherman, I shouldn’t let something like that…”

The redhead waved him off, “Water under the bridge. Your father has a big mouth. It gets under your skin.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“Well, the next time you get something from him,” Sherman bumped him with his elbow, a small grin on his face, “and it says something idiotic, let me read it and we find a way to laugh about it.”

Grant smiled, “I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“Or you can burn it.”

“Everything doesn’t have to be burned Sherman.”

“Makes it easier to ignore though.”

#my fic #ulysses s grant #william tecumseh sherman #this is really dumb but whatever i had fun #and yes writing a flustered grant was tons of fun #i had to stop shoving other random aides in here #but i like writing about grant's staff lol

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seizethecarpe · 3 years

Text

Drown || Dave and Mina

Timing: Current, after Dave and Solomon had an encounter with a wolf. Summary: There is a monster in this lake. Warnings: ...None.

Dave was snacking on Trout. His arm was tightly bandaged, carefully smothered in antiseptic where that rabid werewolf had bitten right through his skin and into his muscle, and he held that arm firmly out of the water as he waded in the water knee high. He was looking for a Vodnik to replace the one he’d lost on the last hunt. Damn tree creature, damned werewolf. There was a shit ton of money lying on this job and Dave still had to have funds to pay for Marley’s investigation alongside the van repairs that were getting on the urgent side. He was feeling real peckish but felt he could ignore it as he moved deeper and deeper into the waters. There was a gentle ripple in the water, so small no huma might notice the tiny pressure changes in it. But Dave did. Something small as a vodnik, he was sure. Hunger nibbling at his thoughts, Dave forgot to care about keeping his injured arm above water and he sunk into the depths, slicing through the water after the figure he could sense in there. By the time he knew she wasn’t a vodnik. He didn’t care. He needed to eat.

The search for Mina to find a more suitable water source than a bloody pool wasn’t exactly a quest that she was taking seriously, at this point. She wasn’t going to say that she liked the pool; that would be embarrassing and not true. She just liked the company, liked being around people, liked feeling somewhat comfortable. But she was still a water nymph, a creature of nature, so she did still need to get out every now and then and soak somewhere. So, Mina had gone out for a few hours and just sunk down to the bottom of the lake that she’d found, just breathing for a bit. She allowed her scales to cover her body under her clothes, not fully shifting but enough that she was comfortable. She stayed like that, almost napping, for over an hour. She’d been planning on moving to get out when she sensed something, someone, coming towards her. Heading up, Mina broke the surface before the other person did. When she saw who it was, she couldn’t help but be just a bit confused. “Dave?” He looked hurt. She couldn’t keep the concern out of her voice as she asked, “Are you alright?”

His name cut through the bloody haze in Dave’s mind. He stopped short, staring at the you woman. “Mina?” Dave repeated, the words not sitting right on his tongue. He paused, looking at her. “The hell are you doing out here?” His eyes flicked over the scales of her skin, her exposed throat, her face. His mouth was beginning to salivate, starving despite the trout he’d just abandoned not even twenty feet away. “It’s not safe. There’s something in this water killing folks.” He couldn’t get his eyes to meet hers, his hand gestures erratically punctuating his words. Although what the danger was, he wasn’t sure. The thought had escaped his mind as he took in the small crease of concern between her eyebrows. There was definitely something. He had a gut feeling for it, a gnawing, awful certainty that ate at him. He was looking at her too long. It dawned on Dave, slowly, that she had to be the danger. She had to be the beast he was hunting, deceiving him with her appearance so he’d assume he was an acquaintance. He could tell, in his gut, that he needed to tear her open to prove himself right. Once he’d had the thought, it became all consuming (as if it hadn’t been before.) “You’re a liar,” he said harshly, before lunging at her with his jaw open, canines dripping with drool.

“There’s always something in the water that’s killing people,” Mina said with a slight frown, trying to meet Dave’s eyes. He looked different that she last saw him, though perhaps that was from the lack of a high stress environment. Still, Dave seemed quite stressed. She felt something like dread in her stomach as he looked at her, called her a liar. “No, Dave, no. I’m not a--” But then he lunged, and it was all she could do to keep his teeth from ripping into her throat. Mina just barely managed to hold him back, one hand catching around the neck while the other pushed away. “Hey!” This wasn’t good. Something wasn’t right. What was wrong with him? “Stop! Please, Dave, listen to me, please! I’m not-- What did I lie about?” She should leave. She was in danger, and she should leave, but she couldn’t. Something was wrong. Dave was a kind man, a good man. He was a person. She believed he was a person. Something was wrong.

Please, Dave, listen to me. He paused again, staring at her, blinking. Water dripped from her features, her octopus eyes wide and terrified. Had he done that? He swam back a little, giving her some distance. “I don’t-” he began, inhaling sharply. She smelled like fresher water than this pond had to offer, sweeter than most meat but with a hint of iron one wouldn’t normally expect. His mind zeroed in on the smell of her flesh, subconsciously licking his lips. “You’re not her,” he growled. It was the only explanation his brain could parse for the feeling in his gut, but then he inhaled again, and he didn’t need to parse anything anymore. He grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him. There was only one thought, a single word that was as loud as the beat of his heart. The only reason to exist. The only purpose she had. He was starving, and in a pond full of trout, she was his only option.

“I’m not-- of course I’m me,” Mina said, voice panicked. She needed to try and get through to him. “Please, Dave, please. I’m Mina! You’re Dave! You’re--” a gasp cut of her words as he pulled her in, and she knew she had to get away from him. She had to get away. Whatever was going on with him wasn’t listening to reason. His grip was like iron but lacking the burn of it. Still, she couldn’t pull away. So, Mina brought up her foot and planted it in Dave’s chest, trying to fight him off. She needed to get away from him, now. There was nothing else that could be done. He’d kill her if she didn’t, wouldn’t he? She could see it in his eyes. She wondered if he could see the fear in hers. She wondered if he cared. A part of her, the part that was beginning to think that the kind man she met before had been a facade, didn’t believe that he cared at all.

“No,” Dave growled. Her high voice could not pierce the waves of need rising up in him, the unthinkable, demonic desire that Dave did not even know he had. It felt as natural and unquestionable to him as his rage. Dave grunted, the kick knocking the air out of his lungs and knocking him underwater with a heavy splash. Thick clouds of algae swamped his vision, clinging to his skin and his clothes. His arm had begun to bleed again, the jagged tear of the bite stinging as the bandage began to unravel. With a bark, Dave breached the surface, shaking water from his hair as he lunged at her again, teeth bared as he tried to drag her underwater. Seeing red, seeing flesh, Mina was as valuable as the fish to him.

The iron in blood was always less harmful to Mina while she was in the water. She ducked beneath the surface, the cloud of Dave’s blood drifting over her, the scent of it filling her, as he lunged at her, completely disregarding his own wellbeing in his pursuit. He wasn’t going to stop, she realized, the feeling of it making her sick to her stomach and distracting her long enough for him the jump her, pushing her down further. Had she been anything other than what she was, the thrashing would have knocked all the air from her lungs. As it was, when she took in water, she could still breathe. She’d never properly been grateful to be a nix until that moment. She pushed away Dave’s gnashing teeth as much as she could. Think. He was injured, even if he was ignoring it. A weakness, something to be exploited, something to go after. She reached out with her free hand and dug her claws into the bandaged area. She would have apologized if she thought he could hear her. But the man that she’d met was gone. Whoever was in his place was more predator than person.

Dave snarled and bellowed in large bubbles that were impossible to hear, seething red with rage. If before he only wanted to eat her, now his thoughts were to rip her stomach out and make her watch as her intestines got tangled in the weeds and the fish. Let her suffer so she could taste all the more tender. Slime started spilling from his skin in hopes of making her let go, but instead of pulling away he barrelled into her again, his skull aimed right at her belly, dragging her down more deeply into the depths of the pond where the silt and algae filtered out too much of the natural light, until he could knock her into the bottom, and loosened her grip He twisted around her, pushing her face towards the murky pond bottom. Silt clouded the thick water as he got one arm around her chest, then the other. She’d drown faster if he squeezed the air out of her, like syrup out of a candy gusher.

Silt being filtered through gills was probably the same as getting dust up one’s nose, and Mina choked a bit as she breathed through it. She couldn’t see, could only feel as she was knocked about and grabbed, arms tightening around her chest enough to bruise, to break bones. Her face was being pushed into the lakebed. There was nowhere further down for her to go. She knew that she could kick off the bottom, attempt to push herself up, but Dave was stronger than her. Brute force wasn’t her strong suit to begin with. She reached back, lashing out with her claws in hopes of finding purchase against his flesh. His skin felt slick, covered in some sort of mucus. Selkie secreted mucus, she remembered. What else did she remember? Their skins were important. That didn’t matter here. What mattered was living. She could kill him. She just needed to figure out how to-- No, no killing. She didn’t want to kill him. She just needed to find a way to get free. She curled in on herself and dug her claws into the arms around her chest. Let go, she wanted to scream.

Dave pushed her harder into the lakebed as he jerked away from her claws, more red bleeding profusely from his arms where she’d grabbed her. The pain was a sideshow to the main meal, the unshakable desire to eat, flooding all of his senses. Even with the silt, he could feel her coughing and moving, knew just where she was. Prey, if he could stand the effort. Most of his meals didn’t fight back like that. Most of his meals weren’t… sentient. The thought made him pause. With no air to breath, he couldn’t smell her. It was just Mina, and him staring at her with his jaw open and uncertain.

There was an increase in pressure, an increase in pain as Mina felt bones crack with every push further into the sand and silt. There was nowhere else for her to go. She was lucky that she could breathe, that the gills on the side of her neck still managed to filter in oxygen through the water and debris. She managed to turn her head a bit, managing to lock eyes with Dave. He still mostly looked like Dave. He didn’t seem as angry, as focused. He seemed confused. He could join her in that state; she was quite confused as well, and in pain, and trying very hard not to cry from a combination of both of these things. She needed to use this opportunity to push him away, to make sure that he couldn’t attack her or anyone else ever again, but she had a hard time separating the man in front of her from the man that had been so kind and concerned about her, especially during the Sandman and Bloody Mary incident. She didn’t want to hurt him, not really. So, she stared back at him, her heart pounding in her throat. Mina was afraid of what would come next.

Bile rose in the back of Dave’s throat. Her wide eyes cut right through him, shame flooding his lungs. She hadn’t drowned, but only because she couldn’t. Dave could feel the tiny ripples of water pumped through her gills now he was paying attention. There was a monstrous desire under the shame, only temporarily quieted by his shame and horror. It still hungered for her flesh. Dave didn’t dare open his mouth to apologise or raise his hands to sign, for fear he might bite her or grab her instead. His teeth grit, Dave looked away from her, twisted in the water, and sped away.

It didn’t make any sense. He’d gotten caught in the heat of the hunt, mistaken a girl for a grindylow, driven worse but whatever this stomach bug. It had just been a mistake. That was almost impossible to believe about himself. The alternate was even further beyond belief. He just needed to eat. That would fix everything.

It needed to.

Still on the lake floor, Mina sat up, uncurling herself as Dave left her there. She brushed the rocks that had embedded themselves into her face away and watched as small wisps of her own blood floated around her. She hurt. Some of her ribs were definitely broken. She was just lucky that he’d never taken a bite out of her. She had no doubt that she’d be missing a limb or two if he had. What was wrong with him? Something was wrong with him, but she didn’t know what, and she was officially too scared to ask. But Mina was also afraid as to where he went, worried that now that he wasn’t focused on her that he’d turn his attentions elsewhere. She began to make her way to the surface, to the shore, but ended up groaning as she tried to walk out of the lake. Everything hurt. She wasn’t going to be able to go after him. She didn’t even know where he went. Moving to lay in the shallows as she caught her breath, Mina could only hope that Dave hadn’t gone after anyone else.

#para #chatzy #wickedswriting #mina #:----)

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themusicplayedherlife · 4 years

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pairing: bucky barnes x reader characters: bucky barnes, reader, steve rogers, natasha romanoff, wanda maximoff, OC: lori jang word count: 4k+ warnings: angst, talks about abuse, talks about manipulation, 18+ situations summary: you might be an empath, but sometimes, even your powers fail you.

part of sleepover prompt w/ @forevans: dancing with a whimsical pride go and read her masterpiece and say hello

“You’re a fucking asshole,” are hard words to tune out. Not because they’re crude or hurtful, but because of how childish they sounded coming from your mouth. They were words spouted out before storming off, nose flaring and eyes flashing with anger because you didn’t get your way. Anger, that after hours of thinking and reflecting, you realize was uncalled for.

He had said some hurtful things. They were words that friends shouldn’t be allowed to say to each other, but you two have never been just friends. There was a thin line that you two walked on, occasionally leaning too far right or too far left as you tried to balance the nature of your relationship. And you were angry that he wasn’t willing to acknowledge that maybe the love he had for you was more than just the friendly kind.

You peek at your hands, the ones he would hold in his larger ones, fingers tracing the small scars on the back of it, close to your knuckles, gently. Slowly. Lovingly.

Would a man who didn’t love you touch you the way he would?

“You should sleep,” Steve suddenly speaks up, shooting you a worried glance from the pilot seat. “You’ve barely slept since we started this mission—”

You press the palm of your hand on your knee to stop it from bouncing. “I’m fine.”

Your two day mission had turned into a month and a half mission with scarce contact with the rest of the Avengers and only ever filtering through Natasha if deemed urgent and important. In a hurry, you managed to create hasty undercover identities as you mentally thanked Tony and Natasha for making sure the jet was stocked with Nano Masks for emergencies such as yours.

After managing to get your hands on intel and copies of incriminating weapon schematics, and spending most of your stored energy on fighting off bad guys, you’re finally on your way back, mind full of scenarios and words that could possibly mend or break your relationship with Bucky.

The jet’s console hums continuously and it’s as loud as Steve’s breathing. He keeps tapping his fingers on the armrest of his seat and your leg continues to bounce in place—you were still hours away from the compound, but with every minute you get closer it sends waves of anxiety through your body.

His eyes bore into your profile unnervingly, and finally, in that stern, caring voice of his he says, “I’m here for you if you want to talk.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat harshly, and the way his eyes drop to the console has you swimming in guilt. “I’m sorry,” you follow softly and his eyes meet yours.

“It’s okay,” he assures you, eyes gentle and caring. “Whatever happened between you and Bucky must’ve been—“

You bristle, hands clenching tightly press down on the fabric of your barely worn jeans—new civvies you had picked up to support your new identities—as you look away. “What did he tell you?”

He winces under the weight of your loaded voice. “Nothing, but he was... acting strangely—wired. When I asked what was wrong, he ignored me. I just assumed something happened, I’m sorry if I—“

Disappointment weighs in your stomach, the sick twisting and turning adding itself to loaded regrets. What had you hoped he would tell Steve? That he regretted it? That he was going to miss you? That you were right? You don’t know. “Well, you’ve assumed right.”

His eyebrows furrow, lips pursing, debating something in his head, until finally, he unsurprisingly asks, “What happened?”

You suck in a shaky breath, unsure if laying your feelings bare once more is a smart move, especially to Steve who cares a lot about Bucky. But his earnest eyes manage to coax it out of you. You trace an ugly, faint scar on your upper arm, ignoring the phantom of pain you coax out of it. “I told him... I love him and… and that I knew he loved me too.”

“You’re delusional,” he had said to your confession.

Maybe you were; but at that moment, you didn’t want to believe you could be. “I’m not. I know what I see, Bucky.”

His face was rigid, like the Winter Soldier, not like the soft and healing Bucky you have come to know. “And what’s that, sweetheart? What exactly do you see?”

He was challenging you, hoping you’d back down, but you wouldn’t. He should’ve known better. “It’s in the way you talk, the way your voice lowers an octave when you say my name; the way you look at me.” It was all true, but for some reason, with every observation you uttered, his expression kept growing darker, hurt, pained. “If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t get all soft, wouldn’t pout your lips every time you want to kiss me, your fingers wouldn’t twitch when you want to touch me. You wouldn’t look after me—search for me just because you want to see me.”

He closed the distance between you, nose flaring, eyes harsh and cold. “You and I—we’re just friends. Just because we have a good fuck every once in a while doesn’t mean that there are feelings involved. You need to understand that I could never love you.” Yet, as he said those words something in his eyes changed, a spark that always made your heart melt appeared and with it your heated words were drained from you—he saw. And that warmth was gone as soon as it appeared.

“Bucky—“

Anger boiled from deep within, harsh heat radiated from his large body and hit you wave after wave, but you stood your ground. You knew what you saw, you felt it, the love he had for you—more than just a friend would. So why? Why was he fighting it? Fighting you? “You think you know everything about me? About my feelings?” he asked, voice low in a growl. “You don’t know shit. I’ve had enough people tell me what to do and what to think. I don’t need you of all people telling me what to feel, either.”

Did he—he did, didn't he?

The chest plate of your tactical gear was practically pressed against his as you questioned in offense and disbelief, heart desperately trying to keep calm under the crushing weight of his words, his feelings no longer overpowering yours. “Are you seriously comparing me to them?”

“I am,” he said without pause, never flinching, not even when you winced.

How? How could he—“You’re full of shit, Barnes.”

He sneered. “And you’re a manipulative bitch.”

A manipulative bitch.

That’s what he called you.

It was a slap to the face, and it stung—more than you ever thought words could hurt. Not only had he compared you to his handlers, those awful people that hurt and took everything away from individuals, but he called you manipulative. The one thing you always feared being. And if he said it, then he must have been right, right? He doesn’t waste words, choosing them carefully and putting all of his emotions into them.

It took all of your strength—every single ounce of it to meet his gaze without crying, without wavering to say, “And I was wrong about you. You’re not the man I thought you were, the man Steve says you are. You’re a fucking asshole, James Barnes.”

That night, for the first time since Bucky joined the Avengers, you left on a mission without saying goodbye to him and it honestly felt like the world was burning at your feet.

Steve sucks in a breath of his own, surprise coloring his face. He’s quick to shove it down and adapt a more sympathetic expression, one that has you reeling in embarrassment. “He’s not ready yet,” Steve says, gentle and concerned like a parent. “He shouldn’t have said what he did, and I’m going to have a talk with him about it, but he’s not ready yet.”

You picture soft, blue eyes staring at you as if you’ve hung the moon and the stars for him. His gentleness when it came to touching you, even though you could hold your own against the best of them. His attentiveness—spoiling you shitless with your favorite foods, movies, and activities after coming back from a mission he wasn’t on.

“Careful, doll. I’ll get it for you,” he’d say, standing up to get whatever it is you wanted.

“Sweetheart, want some of this?” he’d ask, offering you whatever it was he thought you’d might like.

“I know,” you lie. That’s not the reason why he doesn’t want to be with you.

“He’s come a long way. A lot of it because of you, you know?”

You purse your lips, running a hand through your hair. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he whispers. “He was happy in Wakanda, more at ease, and I… I removed him from that space.” He pauses, jaw clenching and fingers closing into a tight fist, sorrow lacing his words. You want to reach out and reassure him, give him strength. But you can’t. “The compound was new, unfamiliar, had him on edge again as if he were running—he hid and isolated himself away from everyone. But you…” He trails off softly, grip loosening and eyes smiling at you with such a deep rooted warmth and admiration that you don’t deserve. “You showed him kindness when all he saw was doubt and suspicion from others. You lent him a warm hand and helped him out of it.”

“You’re just saying that.” Your voice cracks, and you hate the knot forming in your throat.

He reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m not. I know I never thanked you for it, but you’ve been the reason he smiles more often, why he’s more open—you have been the catalyst for greater things.”

“Then why—why would he—“

“Because I don’t think he understands how he feels. After Hydra, he’s finally the one choosing how to think and feel for himself, has someone who cares and loves him as deeply as you do, and with your powers… well, it confuses him, more than he probably lets on, doll.”

I’ve had enough people tell me what to do and what to think, and I don’t need you of all people telling me what to feel, either.

Old wounds throb—flashes of whips and anger lashing at you as myriad of images and voice merge together into one mess—change, change it! Feel! Monster! Good for nothing! Can’t do anything right! I want him to love me. Can you do that? Hate. Fear. No. No! NO!

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

You started it, didn’t you? You were the one that approached him first, tricked him to have some kind of feelings for you—treated him like a wounded animal and you, it’s tamer. You took advantage of his vulnerability, not helped him.

It started with a hand on the shoulder to holding hands. A slight caress of the cheek to cupping his jaw. A brief hug to warm, tight hugs that lasted minutes. A kiss on the cheek to a kiss on the lips.

You did this.

Steve calls your name, fingers slide to your wrist, tugging, trying to ground you—you, emotionally unstable you. You, who feels what others can not; you, who feels more than they can; who hides a part of yourself because you’re too afraid of what it can do—you.

You pull your hand from Steve’s grasp, his soft touch and eyes suddenly burning you. You don’t deserve his sympathy. “No, he’s right, Steve. I manipulated him,” you say with a wince, fingers digging into your scar.

You did.

He traced the faint scar on your hip slowly and firmly, and you jerked away from him. “Don’t,” you whispered into the low lit bedroom, refusing to meet his curious gaze. “Why not?” “I don’t like them. They remind me too much of my time with—“ you choked, voice faltering at the reminder of your parents. It was proper discipline, they would say, striking you with anything they could get their hands on any time you displeased one of their guests. When you wouldn’t follow their demands. The fingers that were tracing your scar trailed to your neck, slipping under your chin to lift your gaze. His gaze hard, wrecked, and his lips pressed against your eye—you were crying. “With who, baby?” he coaxed, thumb swiping to wipe away stray tears rolling down your cheek. “My parents,” you admitted weakly.

His gaze was lit, fire in those molten jewels of his, with an anger you had never seen in him before. “They hurt you?” His fingers traced another scar, just below your jawline, easily hidden, but welted enough to feel.

“I didn’t have a regular childhood,” you admitted, shuddering when the tip of his thumbs grazed your perk nipples, following another scar. “They made me believe that what they were doing was normal, that me being paraded to their friends, killing innocent people for them, them hitting me, their ugly words, what they believed in—all of it—was gospel. “It took Clint and Natasha, ah, forcibly removing me away from them to realize it was all manipulation,” you managed to say between sweet moans, his velvet lips trailing the large crossed gashes on your rib cage— tears pricked and you didn’t even know if it was because of him or the emotions taking over. “I don’t—I don’t want to be like them, Bucky. I don’t want to be a monster.” His fingers, warm and harsh, found their way between your legs, twisting and plunging at a slow, steady pace to make you cry for him, to have you writhing with want and need under his touch. “Sh, baby. You’re not them. You’re nothing like them. You’re sweeter, kinder—wonderful. The best damn thing in this world.” He licked away stray tears as you panted and whimpered, meeting his fingers with every thrust of your hips. “Come for me, darlin’. Let me prove to you how beautiful you are.”

Your chest swelled and an overwhelming sensation took over you. Stars burst and ruptured and realigned, fingers curled into flesh and soft lips pressed against yours—love. Undeniable love formed and cocooned itself around your space, floating and caressing until you came down from your high. It felt all too real, and all too much.

His hands traveled upward, fingers grazing every mark and bump on your body. His own body hovered over yours and in the slowest and sweetest motion, he entered you, filling you up with every piece of him and love.

But you were just projecting, weren’t you? Manipulating his feelings to feel what you felt. To love you like you love him. To deny you the truth you knew all along—

“I am a monster,” you say with a gasp, clenching your fists tight.

Steve is quick to detach himself from his seat, kneeling beside you and cradling your body against his, and you melt into him, sobbing into his flimsy, white shirt. “That’s not true. That’s not true at all. You are anything but a monster, you hear? You’re kind, sweet, and wonderful. Don’t let his words sprouted from anger get to you, because I’m sure right now he’s kicking himself over saying such hurtful things to you. Give him time, and he’ll come ‘round, I promise.”

His words, reminiscent of Bucky’s only manage to make you feel worse. You stuff your face into the crook of his neck, willing the pain to go away, and cling onto the small hope that Steve Rogers wouldn’t lie to you.

Steve helps you out of the quinjet, taking your hand in his in case you fall. With your energy drained after not getting any sleep and using most of your reserve for the mission, Steve is right to worry that you might faint if he doesn’t keep a hold on you.

Natasha is waiting for you both at the bottom of the ramp and greets you with a witty remark on your appearance. You don’t respond with your usual exuberance, and it has her sneaking a glance, that you catch, at Steve. He doesn’t say anything either, just shakes his head and instead debriefs her on your mission on the way up to the shared living quarters reserved for the Avengers, keeping the details to a minimum until you all reconvene later for the official debriefing.

The doors part, and for a moment you brace yourself to find Bucky sitting on one of the couches decorating the lounge, only to relax when it’s Wanda you see occupying one of them. But an unfamiliar voice has you back on edge.

Wanda’s lips are pulled into a tight smile, eyes drifting everywhere and hardly paying attention to the brunette sitting across from her and talking her ear off. Her eyes land on you and she stands up, effectively cutting off the brunette in her rambling. She calls your name and Steve’s, and the brunette whips around to look at you. “You’re home! Welcome back!”

“Thanks, Wanda,” Steve says, blue eyes on the pretty brunette with gray eyes scrambling to her feet and patting her skirt down to seem presentable. “And this is…?”

“Lori!” she sputters out in awe. “My name is Lori Jang.”

“New recruit?” you ask and she smiles sweetly—it’s too sweet and it makes your stomach churn—as she shakes her head.

“Hey, doll, I’m ready—”

You pause, eyes snapping from Lori to Bucky and your breath hitches, a smile spreading onto your face at the sight of him. He’s wearing a familiar light blue pantsuit, the white button up shirt underneath having the first few buttons undone. His hair is slicked back into a low bun and his once gruff beard is trimmed. He looks beautiful. You knew he would. The moment you saw that suit, you knew you had to get it for Bucky, and with butterflies in your stomach you had handed the cashier your card, hoping that the first time he wore it would be for you.

How did he know you were returning today?

A swarm of nerves and delight build up inside of you, taking you off guard—its strong and naive. No. Innocent. It’s innocent. And it’s not yours, it’s not Steve’s or the girls, then—

A squeal breaks you out of your thoughts, flowing yellow and a deep, dark orange blurring passed you to get to Bucky—Lori.

Hers. It’s hers.

His blue eyes don’t blink, they stay on you, even when her small body collides against him to wrap her arms around him. She’s none the wiser, tightening her hold on him even as he stares at you. Only you. There’s an unreadable expression on his face, covering the small smile he had worn when he first entered the room—it’s the same expression from that day.

Your smile slips, crashing to the floor with a harsh resounding sound as she cups his jaw in her petite hands and kisses him—it’s quick, but it happens slow enough for it to continuously loop in your mind. Oh. Fuck. Fuck. No. No. You need to leave. You need to get out, now! You need air—you need—you need—fuck!

“Sestra?” Natasha whispers at the same time a firm touch lands on your back for a brief moment before a large frame is blocking your view of him and her.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice echoes in the quiet room, demanding and firm.

Wanda is by your side and Natasha is holding your hand and you still need to leave. You need to get out. This isn’t—this wasn’t supposed to happen—not yet—he wasn't—he couldn’t! Oh my god. You really are delusional. He had been right. You were so stupid. So damn stupid!

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is unsure, hesitant. “Did you just get in?”

Confusion. Fear. Who?

“Yes. What is—what’s going on?” He asks at the same time Wanda tries to make you budge, but you can’t move. You’re frozen in place.

“Right. I, uh, this is Lori, my girlfriend. Lori, this is Steve, my best friend.”

Excitement. Dread. Who damn it?!

“Bucky has told me so much about you, Captain! Thank you so much for your service.”

There’s a twitch in his back muscles. “Thank you.”

Anger. Pain. It’s coming from everywhere.

Bucky says your name, and it sends a wedge in your heart, because it’s devoid of any affection. There’s no tenderness, or joy in his voice, just flatness. You did this, a voice reminds you. I did. I did do this.

“Yeah?” You say at the same time Natasha pulls your arm and you shake her off, stepping out from behind Steve.

Hesitance. Jealousy.

“Lori, this is…” he trails off, once more hesitant and unsure, and it’s the only emotion he’s shown towards you, and it’s probably the only you’ll ever get for the dumb mistakes you’ve made, and the assumptions you allowed to take over your mind. This is your fault.

Can you even say you’re his friend? When he obviously doesn’t even know if he should call you that—a friend?

“His friend,” you answer for him anyway, willing to keep your voice leveled. “I’m his friend,” you say with a smile that’s been shattered and glued back together hastily.

Relief. Anxiousness.

She smiles sweetly again, and it hurts. It’s pure and untainted, so unaffected by the monsters under the bed, and you already know she’s perfect for him. She’s nothing like you, nothing like this world you live in. She’s small and tiny, no battle scars on her petite body, confident enough to wear cute, yellow mini skirts and orange halter tops with thin straps. She doesn’t have to hide marks like you, or Natasha, or Wanda, or Sharon. She’s unmarred, and she will always remain that way—unlike you. It’s too late for you.

Emotions. Emotions. Emotions!

Too much. Too much!

Pain. Pain. Pain!

They swarm, hitting you from every angle. It doesn’t stop! Make it stop!—worry, suspicion, anger, sympathy, pity, and… and love. It’s too much and too suffocating, and you need to leave. You need to get the hell out of there and escape!

Steve calls your name softly, hands warm and steadying you. Natasha and Wanda say something, to her, to him, to you? You don’t know. You don’t know anymore.

Something tugs at your brain, fingers caressing and energy flowing—red. An exclaim leaves Wanda’s mouth and your heart stops when all you manage to feel is sympathy; she’s in your mind. Pulling, tugging, stringing until she’s draining it all away, sucking every emotion hitting you and you can finally breathe. But she can’t mend your broken heart.

And that, that is what has you steadying on wobbly feet as your desire to leave remains.

“Please excuse me, I—I need to rest for a bit,” you tell them, smile unwavering but wanting to wilt away. “Have fun on your date.” You don’t give them a chance to answer, moving passed them to head into the hallway and away from them—away from him.

Love.

It’s strong, and rosy, and you try not to focus on it as it follows after you, tries to weave into the crevices of your mind because you don’t know where it belongs, to who it belongs to. And you don’t want to know.

Not anymore.

You throw yourself into your room, closing the door behind you. Leaning against it, you slide down and allow the first sob to escape your lips. Eyes stinging, you wrap your arms around yourself, head banging harshly against the wooden material.

“I’m an idiot,” you whisper to yourself.

You were never the type of girl for him. You were too rough and pushy, manipulative at times—a monster. You weren’t going to pretend any more, Bucky could never fall in love with you. You were only ever meant to be a stepping stone to something better, and now that he’s found better, you will force yourself to push your feelings away for his and your sake.

Gathering your resolve, you pull out your phone and bring up your message log with Bucky and type out a quick message before allowing yourself to cry loudly and mourn a love that could never be.

Just friends. You promise. I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.

But you two will never be just friends.

Love.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #reader #reader insert #marvel imagine #one-shot

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lumau · 4 years

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Gentlewings

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Yay! Finally more Juprafel content! Here is a fanfic for you that I’ve written for the Mogtober 2020 prompt for day 5 (favorite side character).

Notes: I’m still pre-Hollowpox, so some things might not line up anymore later on. I wanted to write down one (of my many) ideas on how Jupiter met Israfel for the first time. What I enjoyed was to specifically not focus on Israfel's addictive singing, but on what else might connect him to Jupiter, what his personality could be and his background. I have (many) theories about him and the “not-actually-angels”, as a lot is still left in the air (pun intended) after Wundersmith. I made up quite a few things about them, which will very likely be inaccurate. I realise the angels from Grave Importance influenced me and especially the story around Amitiel and Zophiel. I just really got something for corrupted angels, I guess. :D

There will be some flirty stuff (it’s Jupiter North after all!), but you can totally read this as the beginning of a special friendship if you’re not into shipping.

And if you are, though, I already plan to write a follow up story for Mogtober day 9 which will likely have more of a romancy note to it. And there will be the matching illustration I made, so stay tuned for that!

Oh, and a shout out to those who were there for the first posts on this blog – there will be a moment of recognition for you if you make it to the end! :)

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Gentlewings

When he received the Stealth’s request to join forces with them on a special mission that would involve the visit of a very fancy and exclusive soirée, it all sounded exciting and like the perfect job for him. Three hours in though, Jupiter felt the nagging of a headache and, even worse, extremely bored. It turned out he had not been recruited because of his impeccable looks, his charisma or his ability to turn every party into a roaring success, but because of him being a Witness.

To his outrage, they had not even let him wear his famously snazzy pastel mint coloured evening suit. However, no one could stop him from giving the all black stealth uniform at least a small personal touch by adding a floral pink pocket square and his favourite lavender dress shoes. They had to agree to this mildly rebellious act begrudgingly. His ginger mane and beard already made it impossible for Jupiter to be actually stealthy anyways, and their human and wunimal resources (HWR) for this job were so limited, they couldn‘t risk losing his cooperation.

As he was supposed to, Jupiter let his gaze slowly wander over the crowd from the outskirts of the dim lounge. Once again, he could not detect any sign of disturbances in the general atmosphere of the party. Most of those attending were slightly on edge and rather wished they were somewhere else, as he could clearly see in their auras and the web of Gossamer threads, but that was nothing unusual at a political event and what he had expected due to the delicate nature of the gathering.

Scattered across the room was a small number of extremely posh diplomats and their guests. The intention of WunSoc in inviting the COG (Celestial Observation Group) was to stay on good terms with them, an urgent necessity after the recent issues they had gotten into when both groups were faced with being involved in those interspecies murder cases.

Jupiter had never before been in a room with several Celestial Beings at once, and he could do without that experience. Part of the preparation for the job had been a thorough briefing about their kind, and only a few chosen senior Stealth officers with special mental training had been found suitable. Watching the interactions in the room through his lens had been captivating at first, but now it started to tire Jupiter out. Humans were already so complicated on their own, but the unique trait of the Celestials, absorbing and influencing the emotions of those around them, turned the whole room into a blurry melting pot. As Jupiter curiously observed, the clowd-like puffs of emotions were drawn towards the winged folks, but sometimes their own state of mind also seemed to drift over to their opponents, engulfing and influencing them.

Fascinating, but clearly highly dangerous and for Jupiter, who’s visual filters were lowered on his watch post, quite exhausting. He had been instructed to notify the chief officer immediately, should the atmosphere in the lounge take a risky turn or should he detect any hostile intentions. So far everyone was peacefully engaging in small talk though.

Mentally turning his filters back up, Jupiter closed his eyes for a second and stifled a yawn. He checked his fob watch – 15 minutes till the end of his shift, finally. A smile crossed his face. Through the eyes of a ‘normal’, the sight of the room was actually outrageously beautiful. The dim light made the Celestials‘ skin, wings and gowns shimmer in varying metallic shades, and their faces wore mild, austere looks as if nothing could ever disturb their composed aloofness. The briefing had warned about their ethereal beauty and mental influence, but seeing it in person was something else. Jupiter could feel a little pinch of longing in his stomach. The worst part of the job was that he had to keep at the sidelines of the party – not a particularly fun party, but still.

Something caught his attention in the corner of his eye, something sparkly in the shadows of an alcove. He focused and could make out the shape of a person surrounded by a sizzling cloud of gloomy energy. Tensing he tried to see what was going on. He did need light to make full use of his knack, but it was bright enough for him to tell that someone was not having a good time over there. Were they hostile though? There was some anger, for sure, but diffused with other emotions like anxiety and sadness, and a very strong sense of being out of place. Definitely not someone planning to overthrow the Wundrous Society or cause a civil war between sky and ground.

Pushing away from the wall he had been leaning against, Jupiter started to stroll over to where he had seen the golden shimmer in the darkness. Jupiter’s curiosity was piqued. His face lit up. For the sake of the safety of the Free State, he had to investigate, right?

“Excuse me, is everything okay?” he addressed the stranger, approaching, but before he could take another step, their head shot up and without warning Jupiter was hit by such a sudden wave of anger, it felt like a fist to his stomach. He gasped and stopped dead in his tracks. There was a cloud of chaos emanating from the Celestial, speckled with hundreds of tiny flame-like shards that were swarming towards him like angry wasps. Jupiter felt the irresistible urge to turn around and get out of there immediately. Then he remembered to breathe. One slow, deep breath. And another. Like he had been taught when he had first learned to control his vision. And another. And he could see past the darting flames and feel his body again. Nothing was physically attacking him. He just needed to focus.

Taking one more deep breath, he concentrated and said in a calm and measured voice, sporting his warmest smile, as if nothing had just happened: “I saw you sitting here alone and was wondering if you needed anything.”

It took the Celestial a moment to find their composure, but the storm-like cloud around them was calming down. Jupiter suddenly felt a desire to go to the bar and get them a strong drink. Blinking, he could see that this prompt had not appeared out of nowhere, but it was actually drifting over to him from inside the alcove. “Sneaky!” he thought slightly amused, “This should get interesting.”

“Look,” he said, “I’ll get you a drink, if you stop glowering. Just give me a minute, alright?” He winked and was about to turn away, when a low, deeply melodic voice spoke. “We have been warned about you, Captain North.”

Jupiter’s heart made a little jump and he could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. That voice… it was the most perfect sound in the universe. He could see it sending little rippling waves through the Gossamer. Someone with a voice like that shouldn’t even be able to exist in this realm. It seemed somehow… indecent.

Jupiter noticed that he was staring at the Celestial open-mouthed and shook himself out of it by running a hand through his hair. “I’m flattered! What have you been warned about? My sharp wits? My gingerness? Or about me being very handsome?”

To his own surprise, the hint of a smile crept across the dark face. Jupiter noticed once again a golden shimmer. “All of those might have been mentioned,” the Celestial replied, standing up, “but we were mainly told to not engage with you due to your special ability of seeing the truth.”

“Yep, that’s me!”, Jupiter smiled, obviously pleased. “As you already know so much about me, may I ask for your name?” There was a stirring and a soft rustle of feathers, as the Celestial stepped smoothly out of the dark corner. Now Jupiter could see where the reflections came from. The dark skin was rippled in tiny rivers of gold, and the folded wings were speckled with what looked like a million golden stars. It was difficult to not feel awed by such otherworldly beauty.

“Pleased to meet you, Captain North. My name is Israfel.” “Israfel, it’s my pleasure. And please call me Jupiter, I’m currently not working.” “Are you not? I thought you were on watch duty? That’s what I was told, at least.” Jupiter made a mental note about an alarming lack of secrecy in the preparation of this mission. “My shift has ended”, he checked his fob watch, “one minute ago exactly. My replacement is just taking her place over there.” He had spotted Barren, the Bulldogwun that was taking over for him across the room and gave her a little wave, that she answered with a grim nod. While she didn’t have his vision, her sense of smell was so finely tuned that she could perceive a lot of what he saw. He felt sympathy for her. It was hard work for either of them to use their senses in a room full of people.

“So, Israfel. Will you be having that drink with me regardless of those warnings?” Jupiter tilted his head with his most inviting smile. There was a short silence. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for either of us to be seen together. Let’s meet outside on the balcony in a minute. I’ll have a double-shot of Whiskey.” Without waiting for a reply, Israfel moved towards the balcony and left Jupiter standing, a slightly sheepish grin on his face, feeling utterly pleased at this exciting turn of events.

Jupiter had to work his magic on the bartender, as this was in fact an alcohol free event. They couldn‘t risk anyone letting their guards down tonight. Shortly afterwards he stepped out onto the wide balcony, in one hand a flute of pink champagne and the Whiskey in the other.

Israfel stood at the balustrade overlooking the nightly Nevermoor, wings mantled as if to stretch them after having them tucked for too long. A light breeze ruffled the feathers that reflected the light of the lanterns and they seemed to glow warmly. Jupiter urged himself to continue moving, as he’d also happily just stood there, observing this almost surreal scene, forever.

“One Whiskey for the gentle--- erm...” Jupiter stopped, his mind running into a dead end. Israfel took the glass from his hand and drank. “It’s okay, you can say gentleman. Although my kind does not abide by your human roles of gender, your masculine forms would be most suitable for me.” He downed the rest of the glass and set it down onto the balustrade.

They stood in silence for a moment, taking in the view of the sleeping city. “It must not be easy for you to live around all of this.” Israfel gestured towards the dim lights below. “Hmm?” “As you probably know, my kind absorbs others' emotions. Living amongst all these people... I just couldn’t. And I suppose it must be similar for you, seeing everything, always.” He gave Jupiter a quizzing look, “How do you do it?” “I see you’re not into small talk, are you?” Jupiter chuckled amused, “Tell me more about this emotions thingy then. How does it work?”

Israfel looked a little annoyed by his evasiveness, but still answered. “It’s fairly simple. We take in others’ emotions and they become part of us. Good emotions nurture and heal us, while negative emotions pull us down and can be quite a pain. We depend on the emotions of others, but too much of them or especially bad ones can even cause harm. Human emotions are complicated. Amongst ourselves, we can control what we take in. That’s why we always live in pairs or groups and rather stay away from humans.”

“Wait,” Jupiter interrupted, “what you’re saying is you’re practically feeding on emotions? And you would die if you were left alone?” “Not quite, no. Our bodies need food and drink, and we can survive without others’ emotions. But our spirit would wither, and after some time, we would be left empty.” “Fascinating!” Jupiter proclaimed, “But also quite dreadful, the thought of dying internally.”

Now it made somewhat more sense to him, Jupiter thought. The Celestial Beings were all utterly beautiful and could charm and manipulate people with their voices, and although they were rarely ever seen in Nevermoor, practically everyone admired the angels of legends which they resembled. It was quite a refined hunting technique, coming to think of it, for a being that thrived of affection to reflect the fond dreams and wishes of their prey. But Jupiter wasn’t judging.

“So back in there earlier, at that dull party”, he motioned towards the lounge, “were you just a little hangry then?” Israfel startled, and burst into a snorting laugh, that Jupiter hadn’t thought he’d be capable of, as it seemed way too profane. “Maybe. Now I’m better though.”

Jupiter could see that. The dark cloud had not vanished, but there were other things in the Celestial’s aura. The alcohol, silver shimmer of excitement, little flashes of curiosity and a string of… affection? Focusing closely for a moment, Jupiter could see a very faint, thin rosy ribbon wafting in the air and connecting the two of them underneath their rib cages. ‘Huh!’ he thought, ‘Makes sense. Not hangry anymore.’

Israfel’s voice made him look up again. “Actually, I was kind of stood up. I’m not part of the COG. Cassiel brought me along as his companion. I didn’t want to come, it’s always such a pain being cooped up in a room on the ground, no space to stretch my wings without knocking anything over… Those boring conversations and not even a proper drink to be had.”

Jupiter could see some of the tiny flames reappear and the cloud around Israfel’s head grew darker again as he talked himself back into a rage. ‘Quite an intense one, he is’ Jupiter thought somewhat approvingly. “And as soon as we get here, Cassiel immediately disappears for a special meeting or something that he wouldn’t tell me about, leaving me all by myself in a room full of strangers. Not as if he hadn’t been depriving me all those last weeks anyways.” Israfel slapped his hand on the balustrade and left it there curled into a fist, staring down sulkily at the empty street below.

“Sounds like you’ve had quite a night,” Jupiter remarked compassionately, wilfully blocking the raging flames from his vision. “Are you and Cassiel… close?” “Yes. No. Well, not in the sense that your kind speaks of it. We don’t form such emotionally entangled bonds as you humans do. We provide for each other. It’s a form of communal organisation.” Jupiter tried to imagine what that could look like and wasn’t sure he understood. An organised relationship to provide for each other's needs of affection? 9 a.m., 5 minute hug before work; 6 p.m., make 3 compliments each? When he looked at Israfel’s aura though, what he saw resembled pretty much what he’d expect to see in someone who had been hurt by a loved one. He stopped his inner monologue to turn back to the grim looking Celestial. His wings were drooping now and he seemed so utterly miserable, Jupiter could only just stop himself from giving him a big squeezing hug, once again, a wish that was not just of his own making.

“Hah!”, Jupiter suddenly burst out, “Gentlewings!” “What?” Israfel looked up at him in bewilderment. “Oops, did I say that out loud? I just realised, earlier I should have said ‘One Whiskey for the gentlewings’, cause… well, you…” he trailed off. Israfel shook his head in disbelief, but was unable to help a smile creeping onto his face. “I can’t even.” “But thanks, anyways.” “What for?” “That you’re trying to cheer me up. I appreciate it.”

“Captain North!” a voice rang across the balcony, making both of them startle and turn. “Inspector Lamar?” Jupiter started walking over to the stealth officer standing in the doorway. “We have been looking for you, the guests are leaving and Inspector Barren would like a word with you before we wrap up.” Inspector Lamar saw past Jupiter where Israfel was still standing at the balustrade and cast him a questioning look, “Is everything alright, Captain?” “Right as rain, Inspector, right as rain. I was just checking in on one of our guests who felt a little queasy. You know, not much room for wing stretching and so on in there, got a little claustrophobic, poor chap.” He gave Inspector Lamar a conspiratorial smile. “I’ll find Barren in a minute, I’m just going to make sure that Celestial is feeling better before he finds his way back to the others.” The Inspector didn’t seem fully convinced by his words, but nodded and turned to re-enter the lounge.

Israfel strolled over to Jupiter, a worried look on his face. Jupiter gave him a reassuring smile. “No need to frown, they just informed me that I’m wanted by my colleague and that the party is finally ending. The guests are leaving, so you should probably go and find Cassiel as well.” “Oh, right,” Israfel sighed and nodded, “thanks for helping me out earlier. You made that evening a lot more bearable.” Jupiter beamed at him and couldn’t help but feel very pleased with himself. If he didn’t know his knack was being a Witness, he’d have sworn it was picking the most interesting people in every crowd, finding the odd one out, those who wouldn’t conform, and befriending them. He knew right away that Israfel was different from the other Celestials, and was convinced he’d only merely scratched the surface of his personality. He could feel the promise of unexpected adventures in the air.

Leaning casually against the door frame of the lounge, Jupiter ran a hand through his long ginger hair. “If you’d like something better than a just bearable evening… You know I run the Hotel Deucalion, and Frank, my party planner, who is a vampire dwarf by the way, only one in Nevermoor, he’s always coming up with something brilliant for our weekly party night. Should you want to join this Saturday… you might even have some fun?” Israfel’s face showed surprise, as if him having fun at a party seemed quite an abstract idea. He considered the thought for a moment, and Jupiter was pleased to see the shimmer of excitement intensifying around him. But then something crossed his mind, his face fell and the silver glow subsided. “Listen, thanks for asking, but your kind and my kind can't ever become closely acquainted. We become dependent on your emotions, and our ways of influencing you mentally would mean you could never truly trust me. It's an impossible endeavour, really."

Jupiter smirked. He was Captain Jupiter Amantius North, member of the Wundrous Society and League of Explorers, first to climb Mt Ridiculous, discoverer of 17 previously undiscovered realms, to just name a few of his many (partially self-given) titles, and for a good reason – he could never resist an impossible challenge.

"Shall we say Saturday, 8 p.m. then? I will meet you in the Deucalion lobby. Unless, of course, you’d rather come via the rooftop terrace? Oh, and don’t worry – all of my staff and my esteemed guests are very discreet. No need to fear a public political scandal should we get utterly drunk and end up dancing together on the buffet tables." He winked and turned to move away quickly, leaving Israfel standing dumbstruck, before he had the chance to say anything in return.

Jupiter could feel his heart pounding with excitement and glee, a wide smile drawn on his face, as he briskly walked through the now almost dark lounge, ignoring the shadows of the events of this past evening that were emanating all around him. He could still see a hint of the rosy ribbon that connected him to Israfel when he looked down. What an intensely fascinating person he met tonight! He was hooked.

#mogtober2020 #fanfiction #nevermoor #juprafel #jupiter north #angel israfel #wundersmith #cassiel disappears - again #casrafel is a thing now too #because relationship anarchy for the win #and nonbinary gender stuff #because why not

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celosiaa · 4 years

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steady, love (chapter 5)

Summary:

Martin is not doing well.

Jon is there with him through every step.

(because I became obsessed ™ with the idea of Martin dealing with the physical and emotional aftermath of leaving the Lonely)

Chapters 1-6 are up on ao3 under the same username!

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

WARNING: martin's sick! and I describe it a little more in detail here. no vomiting or anything, mostly just coughing.

After fumbling with the doorknob around the large grocery bags in his arms, Jon is not surprised to find that Martin has presumably retreated upstairs for the time being. Closing his eyes, he allows himself a deep, centering sigh.

A bit of separation ought to do us both some good.

The contents of the bags shift awkwardly in his hold, forcing him to prop them up at a strange angle. He crosses the room quickly and sets them down on the kitchen table with a heavy THUD.

Sunlight filters in through the kitchen window, highlighted now in the absence of electrical lighting. From this angle, Jon can see ribbons of dust framed in the sunbeams, undoubtedly landing to coat every surface in the small kitchen. He sniffs reflexively.

Time to get to work.

He flicks on the lights and throws open the windows, willing the stifling air out of the cottage. After taking out the cleaning supplies he’d purchased and wiping down every kitchen surface, he turns next to the array of vegetables.

Where do I start? How does soup…work?

He ponders this for a few minutes, setting all the potential ingredients on the countertop and rearranging them periodically in an attempt to draw some method from his memory. With some doubt, he decides to chop the onions, celery, and carrots first. Luckily, he is not left to flounder for long— in a single moment, he finds that he Knows exactly what to do. His hands begin to work with the rhythm of a seasoned chef, his movements fluid and sure.

Soon after, the aromatic soup bubbling on the stovetop floods the cottage with a kind of lived-in presence previously unknown to it. As he works, Jon smiles to himself, beginning to hum some half-forgotten tune. He pops the baguette in the oven to warm it.

At last, Watcher, you give me something useful to work with.

While he waits on their meal to finish, he takes out the mountain of medicines he’d purchased and lines them up on the countertop. Placing his hands on his hips, he stares at them intently, unsure of his next move.

Should I go up there?

He might be asleep.

…or he’s climbed out the window.

As if on cue, a creaking stair from behind him causes him to turn around quickly. There stands Martin, pillow creases on his left cheek, smashing down hair that had been standing on end and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Their eyes meet, and both freeze for several seconds, staring at each other, neither willing to shatter the uncomfortable silence. Eventually, Martin breaks eye contact, pulling a chair out from the table and slumping into it unceremoniously. He props his head on his hand, staring into the middle distance.

Jon’s heart fills with hope as Martin sits down, and he hurriedly sets the table for two, ladling out generous portions of soup and placing the sliced baguette on the table. Taking his seat, he sets a glass of water in front of Martin, back ramrod straight, and anxiously studies the man before him.

Martin looks up then, meeting Jon’s eyes, expression giving nothing away. Jon worries at his bottom lip. He wants to say something, anything to break this awful silence.

They inhale simultaneously.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’m sor—”

They pause, mouths hanging open momentarily, before Jon continues, words pouring out of him in a rush.

“You were perfectly in the right, Martin. You—”

“I shouldn’t have snapped. I—heh—I can’t really understand what this—” he waves his hands vaguely. “—feels like, to you, but…I should have given you a chance to explain. It’s only fair.”

At this, Jon drops his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable.

“It’s alright, Martin. And…I’m still sorry,” he replies in a soft voice.

A corner of Martin’s mouth turns up, and he chuckles briefly.

“I can tell,” he says, motioning at the colorful spread in front of them.

“Y-yes, well…I did sort of plan this before my actions necessitated apologies. I hope it’s alright.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely, dear.”

Dear.

Martin’s words draw heat into Jon’s cheeks, and he grins into his soup. It is quite good, actually—full of flavor that Martin praises enthusiastically, though his senses are undoubtedly a bit muddled by congestion.

They eat in contented silence for while. Jon’s heart bounds when Martin starts to get up for seconds, bowl in hand. Snatching it from him quickly, Jon delightedly fetches him another steaming bowl full. As he places it in front of him, Martin smiles fondly, and thin grey wisps travel out with his breath.

“We should probably talk about that,” Jon says, taking Martin’s glass and watching the rising plumes.

“Yeah, maybe,” Martin laughs, which turns hastily into coughing— substantially deeper-sounding than they had been earlier.

“And that,” Jon says pointedly, filling Martin’s glass with water.

“It’s not that bad,” Martin replies, even as his eyes begin to stream.

Jon huffs sharply.

“Well, you’re going to take something for it anyway, now that you’ve eaten. Here—”

He shakes two fever-reducers into Martin’s hand, which he swallows obediently. Jon then turns to flick the kettle on and leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely in front of him.

“How do you feel?”

Martin has the audacity to simply shrug as he takes a bite. When Jon sighs loudly in frustration, Martin looks up, setting his spoon down and swallowing.

“Alright, alright. I’m…better than this morning, I think. Least I’ve got my voice back a bit.”

“Fever’s still there, though. A bit higher, even.”

At this, Martin chuckles again, shaking his head and stirring his soup. Jon holds his hands out to his sides palms up in questioning.

“What?”

“You’re fussing!”

“I most certainly am not! I’m being perfectly reasonable, thank you.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Hmf.”

Jon turns back to making tea, pouring a mug for each of them, adding plenty of honey to Martin’s for good measure. As he sets them down on the table, he continues his line of questioning.

“And the…Lonely stuff, then? What should we do about it?”

At this, Martin lets out a heavy sigh, congestion crackling audibly in his chest as he does.

“Dunno. Seems to come out more when you’re being sweet, though.”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up into his hair.

“And I wouldn’t complain about having more of that,” he continues with a sunny smile, tipping his head onto his hand again, eyes full of amusement.

Jon returns his gaze with a sidelong glare, and watches as Martin’s shoulders begin to shake in silent giggles. His own face melts into a smile, even as he tries to stop it from doing so.

Oh.

I think…I might love him.

Somehow, the thought does not alarm him.

Walking over to Martin slowly, he runs a hand over his hair where it still sticks up.

“Don’t push it,” he says tenderly, planting a soft kiss onto Martin’s scorching forehead.

Satisfied with the beet-red flush he’s pulled onto Martin’s cheeks, Jon sits down in the adjacent chair, taking Martin’s hand in his. They enjoy the peace and quiet for hours, sipping at their tea and simply taking joy in each other’s company.

The fog rolls out of Martin in billows.

Jon awakens with a start, sitting up immediately, causing his head to rush.

What…?

Something had woken him, but listening now, he hears nothing but the house creaking around him. Running a hand over his face, he tries to wrestle his sleep-laden thoughts into something resembling competence.

Something is…

He turns sharply to the right side of the bed, finding it empty. Alarm rings through his head as he passes a hand over the Martin-shaped indentation on the sheets—already gone cold. Breath quickening, he runs through worst-case scenarios in his mind, preparing to fight whatever had found them here, grabbing the knife he keeps at the bedside. He slinks out of bed with cat-like grace.

From downstairs, he hears Martin’s deep hacking, urgently trying to clear his lungs.

Fuck.

Jon drops the knife to the floor, flooded with relief that he will not have to fight anything other than illness tonight. Dropping back onto the edge of the bed, he doubles over, allowing his heart a moment to slow as it pounds in his ears. Martin’s fit continues for nearly a minute before mercifully ceasing.

He must be miserable.

Jon winces in sympathy before standing again, pulling on his dressing gown as he heads down the stairs.

Upon entering the living room, he finds Martin once again on the sofa, curled up as tightly as his long legs will allow. Jon can see his shoulders shaking as he desperately tries to hold back the coughs bubbling up in his chest, his face pressed into a tissue. He turns away from Jon as he enters his peripheral vision, shaking his head rapidly.

“Martin? What’s—”

He’s cut off abruptly by sneezing, loud and wet, that morphs quickly back into rattling coughs. Jon’s chest aches as he watches, hearing whatever nastiness occupies Martin’s lungs refusing to loosen. With a determined grimace, Jon steps over to him, placing a hand on his back, and begins rubbing circles with a gentle pressure.

Unfortunately, this does not seem to help, and Martin continues his half-drowned hacking with no respite in sight.

Biting his lip, Jon makes his decision and begins pounding the heel of his hand over the ribs protecting Martin’s lower lungs.

At last, this seems to break some congestion free, deepening Martin’s cough before he finally manages to get something up. Looking into the tissue for a moment with disgust, Martin balls it up and throws it into the bin he’s dragged near the sofa, sniffling exhaustedly. He drops his head to rest on his hands.

Jon walks around the coffee table to sit beside him, resuming the slow circles on his back.

3͙̋̎9͓͂ͫ̆.̣̖̿6̩

Christ.

“I’m sorry, Jon. I’m so sorry, it’s disgusting.” he rasps, voice wobbling with effort.

“Don’t—don’t apologize, Martin. You’ve done nothing wrong,” Jon replies in the gentlest tone he can manage, continuing his ministrations for several moments in silence.

He looks up when he feels Martin’s shoulders beginning to shake, thinking he needs to cough again.

To his dismay, Jon sees hot tears threatening to spill over Martin’s cheeks.

“Oh, Martin, no.”

At his words, Martin immediately chokes out a sob, hiding his face in his hands, now unable to stop them from coming. He gasps and heaves as Jon continues rubbing circles on his upper back, eventually coming to kneel in front of him, one hand resting on his knee as the sobs give way to shaking.

“Look at me, darling. Look at me.”

Jon gently pries Martin’s hands away from his face, fever-glassed eyes meeting bright green.

“Listen to me. I want to look after you. I want to. Please…please let me.”

Martin’s breath hitches, tears spilling out again, and Jon pulls his head to rest on his shoulder, stroking a hand through his faded curls.

They stay just like that for a few minutes, before Jon curls back up on the sofa next to him, hand still moving through his hair as he drifts off.

After several hours of fitful rest, Jon had managed to coax Martin into some breakfast and medication before dragging him back to bed for some proper sleep. Basira and he had planned to speak at noon via the phone box in town, and he had told Martin as such.

Jon had left a note for him near the bed anyway. Just in case the fever stole his memory.

He has just made it to the outskirts of the village, where sits the phone box. It’s a bit dilapidated, peeling paint showing some hastily covered old graffiti beneath. Jon smirks.

Martin would love this.

Stepping inside and closing the door, Jon dials Basira’s phone. She answers almost immediately.

“Jon? Is that you?”

“Y-yes, hello Basira.”

She exhales a long sigh of relief.

“You made it then. Thank God, I was starting to get worried.”

Jon can’t help but smile at this.

“Yes, we’re here. I don’t think we were followed, so we should be relatively safe for the time being.”

“Good. That’s good.”

They pause as Jon carefully considers his words.

“Have you…have you found Daisy?” he asks in as soft a tone as he can muster.

Basira sighs heavily. When she replies, her voice is lower, each word measured.

“I’ve got some leads. But…I don’t want to go after her in earnest until I find out whether or not there’s any way she could…be the old Daisy again. The real one. I’ve been talking to some ‘experts,’ as it were.”

“Experts? Wouldn’t that be us?”

Basira huffs out a laugh. “You know, there are other people in the world outside of the Institute, Jon.”

“No, there aren’t.”

She fully chuckles at this, before they slip into a brief, but comfortable silence.

“And you? How are you doing?” she asks, her question heavy with implication that Jon chooses to ignore.

“We’re fine, we’re…managing.”

“Are you, though?”

Jon sighs at this, knowing he has never successfully hidden anything of import from Basira, and he was unlikely to be able to start today.

“The Eye is…getting hungry. Harder to control.”

“Thought as much. You’ve been feeding on innocents again, then?” she asks waspishly.

“N-NO! No, Basira, I’ve been able to resist. I just…don’t know what to do going forward.”

“I’ll send you some statements then. Should tide you over until…well, until the next horrible thing happens, I suppose.”

Jon feels he could cry with relief.

“Thank you, Basira. Really, thank you. You’ve got the address then?”

“…yeah. I’ve actually been there before, you know. With Daisy.”

Her voice grows muffled with emotion.

“It’s a lovely little spot.”

“It is.”

Their grief hangs in the air like a curtain for a few moments, and they decide to let it be.

Breathe it in, and let it go.

Just let it go.

Basira clears her throat and continues, voice stronger.

“Is Martin alright? Is he…still Martin?”

“Yes, yes he’s been…more Martin than I’ve seen him be in a while. Which is saying something, given that he’s quite ill at the moment.”

“Ill? Ill how?” she says, her voice ticking up in concern.

“It’s…complicated. Some kind of dreadful chest cold or flu or something, certainly. But…sometimes, when he feels—”

Jon cuts off, embarrassed.

“Sometimes he breathes out this…fog. It looks like the fog that was in the Lonely, so he thinks it’s a sign of the Lonely leaving him. That it’s a good thing.”

“And what do you think?”

Jon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I think he might be right, but…I also think it might be what’s making him ill. He’s…gotten much worse, even just since yesterday.”

“Hmm.”

Another silence falls, both pondering.

“Well. Something else I can look into, I suppose. You’re at the phone box in the village, right?”

Jon chuckles, looking around at the smudged glass.

“Of course.”

“Right. Let’s plan to talk again in a few days. Half past one on Thursday okay? I’ll rush you the statements in the meantime.”

“That sounds perfect, Basira. Thank you. And…”

He cuts off, softening his voice.

“Good luck. I hope you can find a way to get her back. And…that we’ll see each other again, soon.”

Basira sniffs audibly, leaning away from the speaker for a moment.

“Right. Be careful, Jon. I mean it. Call if Martin gets worse.”

The receiver clicks.

Jon gets back to the cottage just in time for Martin’s next round of Dr. Sims-prescribed medication, his hair tossed wild by the Highland winds. The downstairs lights are still off, just as he had left them.

I hope he managed some decent sleep, at least.

He grabs the meds from the kitchen counter along with a fresh glass of water, and ascends the stairs on tiptoe. Swinging the bedroom door open, he finds Martin sprawled across the bed, mouth open and propped up on every pillow they had managed to find. Jon smirks fondly. He then sets the meds and the glass of water on the nightstand as he sits on the edge of the bed.

3̗͒ͩ9̬̖̊̔.̳̰̓3.

Jon frowns the moment he places his hand on Martin’s flushed neck. It’s down from earlier, but not by much, and still on the border of worrying.

Dammit, I’ve got to wake him.

Stroking his arm, Jon calls his name softly.

“Martin. Hey, Martin.”

He brushes the damp fringe back from Martin’s brow.

At this, Martin lifts his eyelids halfway, heavy with sleep. After a moment, he turns his gaze to Jon before groaning and scrubbing at his eyes.

Poor thing.

Jon holds out the pills and the water glass to him.

“Do you think you can take these?”

Martin stares blankly at them for a moment, as though mesmerized by their colors, before reaching out with shaky hands. He pops the pills in his mouth successfully, but as he reaches for the glass, his hands shake so badly that Jon is forced to keep a hand over his as Martin tips his head back to swallow.

His breaths are shallow and crackling when Jon takes back the glass, and sweat begins to bead his brow. Grimacing for a moment, Jon rubs his shoulder briefly before standing.

“I’ll be right back.”

He walks quickly to the bathroom, finding a clean washcloth and dampening it with the coldest water he can coax from the tap. Deep, rattling coughs echo from the bedroom as he does, and he shakes his head frustratedly.

Why isn’t any of this helping?

As he returns, Martin has reached the bitter and unsatisfying end of his fit, his chest still crackling with each inhale in spite of his efforts to clear it.

“Christ, Martin. You sound awful.”

But Martin has squeezed his eyes shut again, leaning back against the pillows in exhaustion and rubbing painfully at his chest. Jon perches near his elbow and begins gently sweeping the cold cloth over his face, eliciting a contented sigh from Martin as soon as the coolness hits his skin. Jon moves lower, stroking his neck soothingly before depositing the cloth on his forehead.

As he does so, Martin reaches up, grabbing his hand lightly.

“What is it?”

Martin does not reply, merely gazing at his hand with half-lidded eyes as he begins to massage it, much in the same way he had done the previous morning on their drive to the village.

Oh, Martin.

Jon smiles and runs his free hand through Martin’s hair. Martin’s fingers work over the length of each of Jon’s, before Jon’s gentle motions relax him enough that he falls asleep halfway through his ministrations.

Chuckling fondly, Jon lifts the towel from Martin’s brow just long enough to plant a few lingering kisses there before replacing it.

“Sleep well, darling,” he whispers, moving the tissue box within his reach on the bed and patting his arm before slipping out the door.

#tma #tma fic #sickfic #jonmartin #tw illness #my writing

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neighborhoodmoonchild · 4 years

Text

Every Part.

Prompt(s):

84. “Yeah, well, I shut everybody out. Don’t take it personally, it’s just easier that way.”

Pairing(s): BestFriend!Namjoon x Reader

Genre(s): Angst, Fluff (maybe just a little)

Summary: Joon hasn’t seen his best friend Y/N in a while, even skipping their daily morning coffee dates. Deciding to check on her, he finds there may be more than a supposed ‘cold’ keeping them apart. How do you love someone that’s too afraid to be loved?

Warning(s): some allusion to toxic relationships (romantic and platonic), fear of being vulnerable, depression, ptsd

Word Count: 3k

It wasn’t like you to skip out on daily morning coffee. In fact, you had been quite vocal about it being the only thing to get you through the day; the dismal clouds parting above your head as the caffeine descends your throat and warms your veins in a way that can only be described as pure euphoria. Then, there was also Namjoon’s more than satisfactory company, to which he would counter is better than any warm drink could ever be and you didn’t have the heart to convince him otherwise.

These were two things, two whole things, that gave you reason to get up in the morning despite the ache in your soul and the dull stab in your heart. So why were you making yourself more miserable by denying yourself even that smallest bit of sanctuary?

It’s an easy question to ask and a frustratingly difficult one to answer. In retrospect, shouldn’t you be elated to have a wonderful escape, though minute as it was, from the never ending war of thoughts in your mind? Namjoon is your best friend, admittedly only friend, and he’d never wronged you in any way, shape, or form. In fact, he always understands your silent breakdowns and internal battles, never once questioning or judging. And yet, here you are, not only punishing yourself, but punishing him as well.

A light buzz interrupted your thoughts, pressing pause on the inner monologue to turn over in your disheveled bed. Pushing the covers away from your face, you grab the device discarded on the bedside table. Thinking back, you should’ve just turned the thing off if you didn’t want to talk to him, but even after ignoring him for the last six calls and messages, you couldn’t find it in yourself to completely cut him off.

Even in the darkest recesses of your mind, tainted by evil thoughts, a piece of you reached forward, searching for the tiny light of Namjoon despite the protests from the negative space. He is reminiscent the sun, whether you hate or love it each day, it’s always there, just like him.

Joonie💜:

-I know you don’t feel up to anything today, but please take care of yourself. I’m a call or text away if you need anything❤️

In spite of yourself, you crack the slightest smile at the message. Being the first one you’d opened in the last 3 hours, you were both relieved and regretful. You know Joon would never impose or push you to share the thoughts and feelings that plague your soul. You’d simply waved his concern off with a small fib of a cold keeping you from your daily routine.

A part of you knows his earlier messages may convey his suspicions of the sudden ailment, but seeing this last one, he’s either finally accepted it or just doesn’t want to pry. It’s the knowledge of the false truth, as simple as it may seem, that sends a swirl of upset through your gut.

You and Joon are as close as close can be and one thing you promised each other was to always be honest. Truth is incredibly important to Joon, important to you as well, and yet, the urge to indulge in this cardinal sin of your friendship won over.

It felt like an awful pattern, one you have been desperate to be free from. No matter how hard you try move on from the past, the negative thoughts, the toxicity of it all, it seems like it always follows, attracted as if centered in your own gravitational pull.

It was the smallest thing that set it off, a grain of sand in a vast ocean that sent tidal waves the size of skyscrapers crashing into your resolve. A simple brush of a hand pulling forth images of past events once thought forgotten. A black and white silent film of horrors replaying over and over again no matter how many times you tried to turn it off.

A glimpse of your father leaving you and your mother in tears, a flash of your first real boyfriend breaking your heart, a shot of your once best friend using those darkest secrets against you. Every person you’d ever been close to in life had found a way to inflict pain. The constant sting of the knife as you let your walls down only made them rebuild higher each time.

It was pure accident you’d managed to let Namjoon in in the first place, and he rooted so well behind those walls you’d thought it would all be different this time. No one had ever stayed this long, been real and honest this long, made you truly happy this long.

And no matter how many times you told the monster in your head that ‘he’s different,’ ‘he’d never do that to you,’ ‘he really cares,’ it reminded you just how many times those same things had been uttered of others. A father would never do that, yet he did. The seemingly love of your life was different from him, and yet he wasn’t. Your best friend truly cares, but she really didn’t. You’ve always been proven wrong; painfully and wholly wrong.

Instead of waiting around for Namjoon to prove himself just like them, deciding to cut your losses before the blow could build felt like the better alternative. To see him turn into the mold of everyone who hurt you before, you decided, would be worse than pushing away and cutting all ties. Instead of waiting for the impending heartbreak to crash into you, you’d drive into it head on and get it over with.

The worst part is the lie. Not the little white lie of a cold, but the lie that he believes you’ll come back to him. That this ‘cold’ will run it’s course and you’ll both be back to the way it was. You’d meet at the coffee shop on Main and he’d walk you home and spend the rest of the day chatting and laughing like normal; everything would be okay. He was none the wiser that those days were over; that you’d be gone from his life without any explanation.

It hurt. More than anything you’d ever felt before.

The last rays of sunshine filtered through the blinds hanging dully in the windows for mere seconds before disappearing behind the dark cast of the night sky.

You still hadn’t left the bed.

Just as you were about to close your eyes and give in to the sweet release of sleep, a knock reverberated throughout the tiny apartment. Your phone had long since died and you felt no urge to revive it, the forewarning of a late night visit unbeknownst to you. Eyes focused on the ceiling, you waited for the silence to span enough time to signal their leave, but the knocks only repeated, almost urgent this time.

The lack of food, water, and movement from the day spent wallowing in bed hazed your mind, and after what felt like the hundredth knock, you rose stiffly from the covers. Joints hissing and cracking as you engaged in the first bit of physical activity in the past 24 hours, you almost tipped over as the blood quickly rushed to your head, making it spin.

Not being able to form any fluent or cohesive thoughts, you wandered aimlessly through the dark apartment until reaching the door handle. You didn’t even bother peeking through the peephole, simply pulling the door until it jerked back from the still-latched chain and squinted out into the bright hallway.

Your eyes immediately adjusted to stare into the dark pair of eyes of the person you’d vowed to quit cold turkey. As he took you in, his face paled, features dropping as if he was staring into the face of death.

“I know you want to be alone right now, but please, don’t shut me out.”

His voice was hoarse, choked with emotions your fogged brain couldn’t comprehend. Refusing to lift the latch and allow him entrance, you stood still, not sure how to react, as your brain slowly processed what was happening.

Namjoon didn’t make any move to force himself inside, to push you to let him in. Instead, he kept your gaze focused on him as he assessed you. Wrinkled sweats and a hoodie that looked like they’d been slept in for multiple days wrapped messily around your small frame. Your hair a tangled, matted nest told him you hadn’t had a proper shower in a while. The skin around your eyes dark purple and sunken in, flesh a pale, sickly hue that scared him.

Namjoon was no fool, he knew what a cold looked like on you, and this was not right. In his gut, he knew since that day, that something had snapped within you.

It started out innocent enough, as he walked you home from the bookstore you’d frequented together. He had carefully brushed his hand against yours, heart aching to slip your fingers into his and hold on tight. Joon hadn’t truly realized his feelings had crossed from platonic to romantic until it hit like a freight train an hour prior.

Standing in the window of the store reaching skywards for a book that caught your eye, he’d graciously grabbed the book for you with a laugh, admiring your effort even though it was much too high. When he chanced a look down at you as he handed off the object of your struggle, he caught that gleam in your eye as you smirked at him. The light of the setting sun formed a soft orange halo that enveloped every curve and dip of your body in a radiant glow.

He was entranced, watching your fingers flip through the pages cautiously, face warmed by the sun, cheeks tinged an adorable light pink. You looked like an angel sent directly from the heavens above and it stole his breath away.

Namjoon’s friendship with you is his most prized possession. In that moment his heart yearned for more, but his mind told him that if he pushed too hard, he’d lose you. In the simplest of hand brushes, he thought he’d be able to convey to you in a subtle, careful way what he was feeling in that moment, hoping and praying deep down you felt the same.

It all shattered when he saw that gleam in your eyes dim, flushed cheeks devoid of their once healthy glow, as if you’d been touched by a ghost. His heart broke into a million little pieces, sensing deep down he had likely dismantled everything you’d ever built together with the most innocent of gestures.

A needle brought down the entire haystack.

At first, your excuse of illness didn’t perturb him. It wasn’t until day three that he knew his instincts were right; that something more serious was going on. When you ghosted him all day, he thought, for a brief moment, you might be gone. It sent him into a frenzy that led to racing up the steps of your building panicked, pounding harshly on your door until he could confirm with his own eyes you were here. That you were okay.

Only, that wasn’t what was confirmed to him at all once he saw you. Your body may physically be here, but it looked like your soul, your whole being, had dissipated and left nothing but a walking husk in its wake. If anything, seeing you right now only made him all the more terrified.

Namjoon may be your closest friend, but that did not make him privy to your darkest thoughts. One didn’t, however, need to be explicitly told of the sorrows you’d endured, but need only to experience how you interacted with the world around you.

He saw it in the little things, like how you’d shut down after seeing a happy family in public.

Or how the mentions of finding a boyfriend from his friends when he’d managed to get you to hang out would cause you to excuse yourself and avoid contact afterwards.

Most importantly, it was in the way that no matter how close the two of you seemed to get, he was never allowed into the deepest parts of your mind, to let him share the burden or see the truth that lay inside of you.

He had all the warning signs, yet his heart was selfish and greedy, wanting a piece of you he knew you kept locked away, and it was that longing for more that took it all away.

Namjoon would take it back if he could.

“Yeah, well, I shut everybody out. Don’t take it personally, it’s just easier that way.”

The words slipped out before you had the mind to just shut the door and pretend it never happened. Your throat was dry, coarse, and it translated into the rough tone of your voice. You didn’t even recognize it as your own as it rang through the still air.

Eyes glued to the dirty carpeting of the landing, you couldn’t find the strength to look him in the eyes again. The longer you stood there, mere inches of wood separating you, the harder it got to hold your resolve. It was easy to keep away when he wasn’t there to remind you of all of the reasons to stay and fight.

The silence was deafening, neither party knowing the right thing to say, if there even was anything ‘right’ to say in the first place. If you couldn’t be honest with yourself, how could you ever expect to be honest with Namjoon?

Running away, leaving, abandoning things. That was the only course of action you’d ever bore witness to when it came to relationships. If it was so easy for your father, your boyfriend, your best friend, to leave you, why was it so difficult for you to leave Namjoon?

The salty taste in your mouth gave way to the tears that flowed freely down your face, even though you hadn’t given them consent to do so. You didn’t want him to see you like this, so broken at your own undoing.

As much as a part of you wanted to blame Joon, to say that this was his fault, you knew it wasn’t. As much as you wanted to blame the past, the monstrous characters that shaped your negative outlook on the world, you didn’t.

It must have been, and always will be, your fault.

If everyone in your life leaves, the only constant factor, is you. There must be something wrong with you that forces people out, makes it easier for them to walk away.

Like the second a bomb goes off, the realization that all the pain you’d endured: the wars waged in your mind, the destruction of yourself and the life you tried to salvage, could all be self-inflicted tore apart every fiber of your being with the initial blast.

For so long you’d chalked the misfortune up to bad luck; ill-fate. You were a victim of circumstance. Yet now all you could see was yourself at the root of every disaster.

Suddenly drowning a the sea of self-deprecating thoughts, the weight of your body felt like a ton of bricks with which you no longer had the strength to support.

Falling to your knees, you didn’t realize you had, at some point, subconsciously unlatched the door, until warm, strong arms caught you in your dissent.

They held you as you cried; a loud, ugly cry, that had your inner-self cringing. It couldn’t be helped, though, and you no longer cared as you let the sobs wrack every part of you. The only thing anchoring you being the man you tried so desperately to push away.

His soft ‘shs’ combined with the soft glide of his hand in your hair calmed you despite the circumstances. You were a complete and utter mess.

And yet, Namjoon was still here.

After the stress you’d put him through, the lies, the ghosting, the cold shoulder, he remained constant, steady throughout the storm. He didn’t walk away when things got difficult, he didn’t blame you, he didn’t hurt you.

He is here, holding you, telling you it’s going to be okay.

The small part of you, the dark piece tainted by the negativity, had quietly retreated within you. The tiny hand reaching out for Namjoon’s light had prevailed. That film inside your brain burned away like acid as a new one began production. One in bright, saturated color; full of all the wonderful things you’ve experienced life with Namjoon.

Coffee dates, movie nights, grocery runs at 3 a.m.

Bad jokes, boisterous laughter, warm blankets.

Tight hugs, pinky promises, your best friend.

“I’m right here. I’ll always be right here,” he whispers through tears. He’s holding you tightly, despite the part of his mind screaming at him that this is what got him into trouble in the first place. His deep, innate need to protect you, to hold you, won over any worries he had of pushing you further away. When he felt your arms wrap tightly around him, face nuzzling into his chest, he knew he’d made the right choice.

In the end, it wasn’t space that would heal your heart, but closeness. You’d been so scared of him leaving, you tried to force him away, when he wanted nothing more than to keep you close.

Finally, you realized that Namjoon was the only person who has ever stayed. He’d had plenty of time to walk away, been given a multitude of opportunities to excuse himself from your life, yet he never did.

He rode out everything you’d thrown at him.

As you both sat there, tear-streaked messes holding each other as if your lives depended on it, you knew that this storm had passed. Despite any damage it had caused, with Namjoon by your side, it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be repaired.

Letting a person in when you’ve been broken so many times is not easy and it never will be. A part of you will always be wary that one day something will change, that you might eventually wake up and be on your own again. It is a part of dealing with the trauma you’ve faced.

While Namjoon can never ‘fix’ the ‘broken’ parts of you, he will be there to show you new, beautiful parts of yourself that have long gone overlooked. To be the shoulder you can cry on, the ear you can confide to, the heart you can someday love without reserve.

It’s never been about putting the pieces back together, tearing the walls down, or proving the past wrong.

Namjoon’s only wish is to be there for you in any way you let him, to be himself, and live life with the person he cares about the most.

So, he’ll be there through every pitfall, every tear, every laugh, every smile, because to Namjoon, every part of you is worth sticking around for. Always.

“Thanks for not leaving.”

106 notes · View notes

domesticated-feral · 4 years

Text

Steo Week 2020, Day 3

Title: Stuck in the Elevator (Rivals edition!)

Prompts: Forced Proximity Rating: Teen Warning: Small usage of profanity WC: 1820

You can also read it on my AO3

Summary:

“How are you so sure? I don’t want to die in this elevator with you,” “Why? Is it ‘cause you hate me?” “You hate me! Not the other way around!”

Stiles worked a job as a news reporter. Reporting crime and city mishaps in the golden city of San Francisco. He worked for the San Francisco Chronicle and it was just another workday. He quickly grabs his usual order of a medium flat white from the coffee shop below his apartment and walks to his workplace.

He arrives just in time and clocks in straight at eight and quickly walks to his desk. He sets his coffee down and slips his backpack off onto the chair. He takes his phone out, placing it on the desk as he sits down.

“G’morning, Stiles,” His best friend and workmate, Scott McCall greeted.

“Mornin’ Scottie,” Stiles said, as he turned his computer on.

Amongst the many work emails, he found one from his boss, sent just three minutes ago.

“Did you know about the meeting that we have in like half an hour?” Stiles asks Scott.

“Just read it, it sounds pretty urgent,” Scott said.

“Yeah, oh and do you need anything from the art department? I’m heading there to pick up some prints,” Stiles asks, standing up from his seat.

“No, not that I know of,” Scott muttered as he dug into answering his work emails.

Stiles turns around and heads to the elevators to go down to the art department. From the 8th floor, going to the 3rd floor would be nothing. Except it stopped at 6th and the corporate’s top reporter, Raeken stepped in.

“Stilinski,” Theodore sneered.

“Well, fine morning isn’t it, Raeken,” Stiles muttered.

He was also headed towards the art department, he didn’t push any buttons. The elevator continues downwards until it abruptly stops, scaring Stiles so hard that he felt himself jump out and back into his skin.

“Oh shit!” Stiles coughed.

The elevator’s lights turn off and so does its air conditioning. A small emergency light turns on and Stiles knows that he was stuck in the elevator with his rival.

Theo quickly presses the help button, but help was probably going to arrive in more than an hour. Stiles leans against the elevator walls and sighs.

“I’m going to miss the meeting and I guess this is ‘adios’ to my career,” Stiles muttered.

“You are one of the top reporters here, so am I, corporate won’t fire us, they don’t have the wits to fire their best reporters, Stilinski,” Theo said.

“You’re not supposed to give wordings of hope, you hate me!” Stiles said.

“Strong word of choice, I’d like to think as we never got along,” Theo remarked.

“You reported stories that our boss had given me to report!” Stiles whined, unprofessional, but he was still salty about it.

“The world of media is quick and ever-changing, you need to work quicker than it if you want to survive here,” Theo said, trying to call someone on his cell.

“There’s no cell signal available, don’t bother trying,” Stiles said.

Theo pockets his phone and they stand in silence for a while.

“Being the top reporter of the San Francisco Chronicle, how does it feel like?” Stiles asks, breaking the silence.

“Well, it’s exciting, to say the least, they send you out on stories that are dangerous, exhilarating and packed with action,” Theo described.

“What was the most memorable story you’ve covered?” Stiles asked.

“Hmm, I gotta say, the throne goes to the story about-” he stopped to think for a while- “about the lions getting loose from their enclosure in the San Francisco Zoo,” he finished.

“Not the bank heist that happened with a fully armed squad of robbers?” Stiles asks.

“Bank robberies are sorta lame to me,” Theo said.

“But they were dressed in cowboy apparel and rode armored tanks,” Stiles said.

“Still, not as unusual as lions getting loose,” Theo stood with his answer.

“They didn’t even kill anyone!” Stiles said, “Are you implying that top crime reporter Theo Raeken likes domestic, un-actiony stories rather than action-filled crime stories?”

“I am saying that I do like reporting action and crime stories, but I like heartfelt and wholesome content more,” Theo said.

“Ooh, Theo Raeken, this is a side of the cube no one has ever seen of you before,” Stiles teased.

Theo chuckles, “no one knows Theo Raeken more than himself.”

“True, true, now, when the hell is someone getting out of this metal cube suspended by wires?” Stiles said, pushing the help button.

Stiles leans back and sits down on the floor, his legs were somewhat tired. He feels his pockets for his phone and then remembers, he left it on his desk. He heard a small sound like a cat’s claw being protracted or something. He looked up to see Theo's hand, his fingernails were long and sharp.

"What are you doing and how the hell did you do that?" Stiles said, in awe and confusion.

Theo tries to pry open the elevator door using his fingernails, and strength. He grunts as he tries to open it, the door only opened for half an inch. He decides that it was going to take more effort to try and open the door instead of waiting, so he retracts his nails back.

"Theo, what the holy hell was that all about?" Stiles asked.

"Well, I suppose I have to tell you now," Theo said, raking his hand through his hair, "I'm a chimera, don't tell anyone this, I'd like to keep a clear name."

"Chimera as in supernatural chimera?" Stiles asked.

"Not exactly, I was created genetically by a team of psychopathic doctors,” Theo said.

“So, what kind of chimera are you?” Stiles asks.

“Are you interrogating me to write an exposé?” Theo asks.

“No, I’m just curious, I have a couple of supernatural friends,” Stiles said.

“In that case, I’m a werewolf/werecoyote chimera,” Theo answered his question.

“My best friend is a werewolf, and my ex was a were coyote, my other ex was a banshee and my other-other ex was a werewolf as well,” Stiles blurted out, his brain to mouth filter was just not working today.

“TMI much?” Theo mumbles.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to info dump on you,” Stiles apologizes.

The elevator moved, it was like it fell down the shaft for a second, Stiles’ heart jumped up from his chest to up to his throat.

Theo spams the help button, “it’s unlikely to die here, but I would like to get out as soon as possible.”

“We might die, no chance is ever completely 0, I don’t want to die,” Stiles panicked.

“Listen, Stiles, you and I are not, and I say, are not dying here,” Theo said, crouching down and holding Stiles’ shoulders.

“But what if we do? I can’t die, not today, I have so many things I didn’t do,” Stiles said through quick, shallow breaths.

“Stiles, calm down, breath with me, we are not dying, not here, not today, you hear me?” Theo said, keeping eye contact with Stiles.

“Look, if we die-”

“We are not going to die, Stiles!”

“How are you so sure? I don’t want to die in this elevator with you,” Stiles said, his breathing erratic.

“Why? Is it ‘cause you hate me?” Theo asks.

“You hate me! Not the other way around!” Stiles accused, his mind diverting to another subject.

“I don’t hate you, where did you get that idea from?” Theo asked.

“You took my stories and rewrote it, and you also stole my spotlight by doing so!” Stiles said.

“Ok, I have to admit that I did that, but it was out of my hands, corporate wanted me to do it, not you,” Theo said.

“Yeah, yeah, blame it on the corporate heads, good job, Theo,” Stiles said.

“Ok, you’re alright now,” Theo said, standing back up.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, “being stuck in this elevator is not alright.”

“I meant your panic attack, your use of sarcasm must mean you’re fine now,” Theo remarked.

“Ey, I’m not that sarcastic!” Stiles defended himself.

“Lies,” Theo scoffed, “your interview was full of sarcastic remarks, I don’t even know how you got this job.”

Stiles frowned at Theo while Theo smirks back at Stiles. The elevator was slowly warming up, Stiles really wished that there were emergency air conditioners just like emergency lights.

Theo feels the warmth as well and he unbuttons the top button of his shirt, hoping it would help keep cool. Stiles fans his face with his hand, sweat beads adorned his forehead and nose.

‘I wish I brought my phone, how long have I been in here for?’ Stiles thinks, ‘Wait, he brought his phone, I guess I’ll ask him.’

“What’s the time?” Stiles asks.

“It’s been 10 minutes since we’ve been stuck in here, in other words, it’s 8:14,” Theo said, looking at his wristwatch.

“Statistically, it can take up to 30 minutes to an hour and a half, maybe two to get saved, unless the building’s closed,” Stiles stated.

“And if the building is closed?” Theo asked.

“It can take up to 8 or 9 hours,” Stiles said.

Theo sits down on the other side of the elevator and takes his phone out. He mindlessly looked at the home screen, nothing much to do.

“Can’t you open the door a little bit more? since you’re a chimera and all,” Stiles asked.

“I can, but most of the elevator door is blocked by a wall,” Theo muttered.

“Most of it, that means, there is a small percentage that isn’t, therefore, Theo, open the damn door,” Stiles ordered Theo.

“I’m not taking your orders, Stiles,” Theo protested.

“You will take my order of opening the door,” Stiles firmly said.

Theo glares at Stiles’ unbreaking stare, before standing up and standing in front of the elevator door. Before Theo could open the door, the elevator door is pried open from the other side, the entrance was half blocked by the wall, and the other half was open to another floor.

“Fina- fucking- ly,” Stiles whispered.

The building was dark as well, maybe a power cut through the building. Two firefighters help Stiles and Theo out, pulling them since the top half was not blocked by a wall.

The floor was filling up with smoke, it wasn’t just a power cut, it was a fire. The firefighters take them out and paramedics come to check them.

“How the hell is there a fire?” Stiles asks Scott who quickly ran up to them.

“Believe it or not, a microwave in the break room exploded,” Scott said, “we don’t know how, but it started a fire that is spreading, but is held within two floors, the smoke went everywhere though. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine, I was stuck in the elevator, with him, for almost 20 minutes, 20 grueling minutes,” Stiles said.

“And nothing changed between the two of you?” Scott asked.

“I still hate him, just mildly less,” Stiles said, looking at Theo.

#steoweek #steoweek2020 #steo #stiles stilinski #theo raeken #myfic

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twitchesandstitches · 3 years

Note

I am kinda curious to see Tia interact with either Viomira or Ricca Mosley during one of these cycles, and what would happen.

“I heard that Miss Tia wasn’t feeling well,” said Ricca Mosley, walking carefully across the rickety drawbridges connecting the islets of land on the swampy region they’d been called to.

Viomira shook her head, thick hair swishing about on her shoulders. “She gets sick easy, I think, but that’s not the problem.”

Mosley kept going; she was a tall and curvaceous woman, built on broadly the same door-smashing lines as Viomira herself, but unlike the elf woman, she had declined to put on clothing suited towards a swampy region. She was starting to regret it, and struggling to keep the mud from taking a high-heeled shoe right off her foot. “Then, what is?”

“Um.” Viomira blushed deeply. “She goes through… cycles. Like heats. And ruts.”

“You make her sound like a beast.”

“She acts like it, sometimes.” Viomira’s tone was strange and thoughtful, a longing tone at the edges of her words. Her eyelashes fluttered, and her painted lips settled into a soft smile at the thought.

Mosley swallowed. She thought of the… bulk of the horde heroine she insisted on calling Miss Tia in a show of deference (as the mega corp she worked for operated on the lands of Tia’s clan, and thus she was their immediate superior, and she was nothing if not concerned with proper hierarchy, to Tia’s own amusement), and her face colored brightly.

Beside them, the water bubbled and rose. Pink light began to shine, writhing and twisting like longing hands moving towards them.

“We’re just… checking on her,” Viomira said, an urgency in her voice, as if she needed to find her now. And Mosley recalled that Viomira tended to be suddenly unavailable at regular intervals, and suspected that she knew the reason why.

Behind them, the water parted. A massive, humanoid and extremely feminine shape arose, and as an enormous tail curled away and rose up, both women noticed a strong and beguiling smell, and a potent need coursing towards them, a longing hunger crying at them to be sated.

Both women turned, the presence right behind them too intense to ignore.

The sun was filtered through the thick canopy of the forested wetland about them, and it gave a strange quality to the massive body now before them, slowly striding towards them. Skin, as black as latex, shimmered and sparkled faintly where the water sluiced off its massive form. ‘Curvaceous’ was a minor thing for such a tremendous body as this; breasts jiggled faintly in a crude bikini, dipping down nearly to her thighs, so massive that they were their own presence, teardrop-shaped and projecting out nearly as much as the giantess herself was tall.

And she was tall. As she approached, her sheer mass providing its own presence, both the women on the land barely came up to above her knees, overwhelmed by just how huge she was.

Her broad body, a fertile and plump shape made even broader by incredibly massive hips nearly twice as wide as the rest of her, approached with a patient slowness belied by the intensity boiled from the figure. Her black skin was marked by a number of nubby crests and dorsal projections along her back and shoulders, running down a massive tail twisting furiously behind her, all of them venting heat. Barely visible panels in her skin opened up, like biological air conditioners, and continuously pumped out excess plumes of heat as she came closer, so that she was surrounded by an aura of neon lights: pinks and blues, greens and purples, mixing together in a frantic glow as she drew closer, and closer.

They could smell her as she drew closer, and they felt the hunger, the passionate need, swelling out from her as she patiently crawled up the sides of the islet. Enormous thighs, so thick that their powerful muscles were hard to see clenching as they propelled her up, flexed minutely when she stepped upwards.

Her neck was long and thick, serpentine. Her face, framed within a mass of pink tentacles and sheets of pseudo-hair that descended down to the waters, beamed in relief and delight at them. Her eyes looked different, Mosley thought through a haze of intense attraction that made it difficult to think. A bit glazed over, dulled.

Tia came closer. The shorts girding her thighs and massive backside flexed, strained by a massive weight they couldn’t make out. Her smell was potent, alluring, and Mosley swallowed again, wavering on the spot. Oh, oh. She was… gorgeous. She couldn’t shake the sudden idea that Miss Tia would be the ideal father of her children, and a nagging thought came across her; an awareness of her own fertility, her own capability to carry Miss Tia’s offspring or eggs or even her duplicates, however her breeding impulses shook out…

Goodness. The thoughts crossing her mind, at the thought of the approaching monster-woman’s massive breasts and improbably sexual bulk, were so… lewd.

Tia stepped fully onto the land, waves of fertile energy pulsing out from them; both Viomira and Mosley could feel her transformative powers altering them, somehow, though there was no visible change they could see. Inside, their wombs were supercharged, insides subtly altered to most effectively receive Tia’s seed, the speed of gestation increased, their bodies adapting for the likely weight of inhuman levels of pregnancy.

Mosley felt her mouth water and her stance loosen as Tia drew closer, her evident need coursing at them like a siren’s call. Finally a massive foot stopped gently near her, and she looked up the massive shape of a monstrously huge thigh, and she felt an urge to scale it, or hug it, or squeeze herself into the semi-scaly skin just to see how it felt.

“Girls~!” Tia said brightly, leaning down slightly. Her breasts rose above them and descended, and both of them took a step back from the sloshing weights settling into the mud. “You came for me?”

Viomira stepped forward and hugged her, sinking her arms around the closest breast she could find. She nearly vanished into it, it was so soft and squishy. “Oh, I got your message about your annual cycle, and I couldn’t possibly stay away!”

Mosley weakly said, “I… suppose I can understand why…”

Tia turned to look at her, her expression brightening. There was a faint tearing sound. Mosley wondered what it was, and she saw scraps of clothing falling away from Tia’s thighs, torn apart by a monstrous weight.

Hopefully, Tia held her arms out, eyes wide with a desperation, a hopeful longing; it was a strange combination, but Mosley just didn’t have it in her to dismiss it. “Please, oh please let me love you both!”

Carefully, a bit timid, Mosley took one proffered hand; it was big enough to pick up her midsection, the fingers clumsy and suckered, but it was also very soft and gently shaped. Viomira simply swerved herself into the other hand, with an excited need that matched Tia’s, though coming from the opposite side, so to speak. Not to give, but to receive.

With a happy roar, Tia picked them both up. Her hair tentacles extended outwards, wrapping around their bodies, and with her sensitivity ramped up by the influence of Tia’s presence, Mosley moaned softly as the fluid tendril wrapped around the base of her large breasts, curling around her shoulder and into the base of her hair.

Destructive energies flooded out; it was the same power that could unmake castles or annihilate the most fearsome weapons, and it seemed Tia had the destruction of clothing in mind. Their outfits unfolding; fabric dissolved into a mass of threads that fell away, underwear came apart in much the same way, and their buttons and zippers, falling into the muck, made faint splashing noises. The air was cool, but Tia’s body, suddenly pressed so firmly against them as she slid them downwards, was so warm. Viomira panted and slid against Tia’s slick skin, and Mosley’s head spun. Goodness! How could someone’s body be so… perfectly erotic, so monstrously delightful?

Tia turned them about, so that they were both bent over, and so Mosley got only a glimpse of Tia’s current flavor in genitalia; a cluster of tentacles emerging from between her legs. A different kind from her hair tendrils, they were black as the rest of her and enormously thick, some as big across as Tia’s thighs: well over four feet wide, and as some curled out across Mosley’s stomach to brace between her breasts, longer than she was tall.

That was going inside her? A part of her mind not presently addled by lust thought: how?

She swallowed in mingled bewilderment and awe as one such tentacle slithered near her face. The head of it swelled out, though not much compared to the heft of the rest, brightening to green colors and faintly glowing. The whole thing was big enough for her to use as a mattress, and as it pressed against her in examination, she realized it was far softer and flexible than she’d expected. Her body sank into it. It was a lot more pliable than she expected.

Tia’s hair tendrils extended around her and Viomira, gracing their bodies. Up and down they slid, hot and delicate with little loving touches. On their sides, tracing little randomized patterns up to their breasts and onto their bellies. While it was plain that Tia’s desire was to simply rut with wild abandon, she still thought to rev them up.

Tia held them with her hands, gently and the suckers on her fingers and palms pressing at them, kissing at their breasts and arms. Little suppering smooches, pressing deeply and wetly. Viomira and Mosley, almost as a pair, sighed and gasped with each kiss.

It went on; not for long, and the fires were soon set ablaze in the both of them, and Mosley found herself sliding urgently, her body seemingly moving on its own, demanding to be filled.

Tia made a soft roaring noise in response.

Mosley gasped as something massive filled her. Slick and hot, with such suddenness that it was a shock. Genital tentacles, several of them, slid into her, and she made soft noises as the little nubs lining their sides moved against her insides just right to be pleasurable.

Goodness they were so big! They were bigger than she was!

Tia’s hips rose and fell, sliding her tentacles in and out of Viomira and Mosley, squeezing them with greater passion and enthusiasm. In and out; hips slamming up and down, into them.

Mosley’s eyes rolled back into her head as waves of pleasure inhibited conscious thought, and inside her, the tentacles did not ejaculate, but oozed reproductive fluids, pooling deeper into her in ways impossible for more conventional methods. She barely noticed her stomach beginning to swell, but it felt amazing, a slow, lovely burn, a sense of mounting satisfaction.

Tia wasn’t done yet, of course. She cried out, a mix of frustration and longing, and she kept sliding, in and out.

And she continued to do so, for hours.

She established a rhythm. She pulled and pushed the women, as she thrusted with increasingly powerful and deep strokes, grooming and loving them with the softest of touches, all coupled with decidedly inhuman purrs and rumbles. Her breasts swung up and down, blocking out the sunlight for the two women.

Viomira vibrated with delight, her sexual cravings fully awakened by the potent heat of Tia. Her brown belly swelled outwards, reaching towards the ground, roundness surprisingly firm with how packed it was with both reproductive fluids and the distended bulges Tia’s alien genitalia made in her body.

Mosley rode the ones inside her, gripping them tightly with her thighs, letting them drive in and out, sliding even deeper into her and expanding to get even bigger, each swell of growth coupled with an explosion of heat inside her, and her belly packing more into itself.

Both women, in their particular ways, adored what Tia did with them, doing their best to keep up with their loving leviathan; their stamina didn’t last that long, though, and even though Viomira was much more experienced at this, soon enough she simply lay back and rode the tide, and Mosley clung on for dear life, clenching like she was trying to force as much of Tia’s astounding monster-dicks into herself as possible.

There was no thought, for either of them. Just the insatiable pleasure of the moment.

Their bellies grew bigger as the hours went by, and Tia’s lust began to be satisfied.

And when she was done, and she pulled them up into proper cuddles as she lay down, their bellies were massively distended, and firm, already beginning to resolve into a mixture of eggs and chimeric young.

Tia planted heavy kisses on the both of their faces, beaming contentedly.

Mosley and Viomira were already passed out by this point, but subconsciously, they appreciated the gesture.

#replies #fics #twitchy!ocs #other people's ocs #twitchy!tiashar #queued #heimkoheimkofan

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obsidiancreates · 5 years

Text

Preparing A Party For The Glitchiest Birthday Boy

(Yes, this is two days late. What are you gonna do about it, report me to Jackieboy?)

(I realized right at the end that I should add this disclaimer: Not trying to make them or their actions seem okay or soft or cute of anything. This is what they view as nice and being good friends and having a good time, and it’s written from their perspectives. It’s all obviously fucked up, but they view it as fine and normal.)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Jimmy gnawed on a bone and stared at the wall, deep in thought.

“Wil, I just wanted to remind you not to go online today-” Dark walked into the room while looking at a phone, and when he lifted his head to see Jimmy he had to stifle a groan. His shell cracked ever so slightly, just enough that one of the mirrored images could be seen rolling its eyes. “Where did you get that?”

Jimmy snapped out of his trace. “Huh?” He took the bone out of his mouth and looked at it. “Oh, I found it in Ghost’s purse.”

“... What is it from.” It may have been a question in nature, but the way Dark said it most certainly replaced the question mark with a period.

“Don’t know! Could be human, could be from a monster, an alien, it’s anyone’s guess.”

Dark just stared with disgust. “Where’s Wilford?”

“He’s out getting Anti’s cake.”

“Anti’s cake?”

“It’s his birthday!” Jimmy stabbed the bone into his leg repeatedly as they talked. It was too dull to pierce, luckily. Dark was sick of blood getting all over the carpets. “I’m trying to think of a good present. Do you think a knife would be too expected?” Jimmy snapped his fingers. “Oh! Maybe a needle felt dying Jack! Homemade means I don’t have to spend any money!”

“You’re a disaster,” Dark deadpanned.

“I know!” Jimmy threw the bone onto the couch, and Dark made an audible noise of disgust. “Hmm, I need to get my stuff from home... could you kill me real quick?”

Dark didn’t even speak, he just reached out with his aura and snapped Jimmy’s neck.

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Wilford tsked. “Is this your whole selection?”

“Yes, although we can do custom cakes. We need a few days though.”

Wilford sighed. “How red is your red velvet?”

The girl behind the counter stared at him. “The... normal amount?”

“Can you make it even redder?” Wilford leaned on one elbow, raised his eyebrows, and wiggled his mustache.

The girl behind the counter, Marie according to her nametag, looked slightly confused and uncomfortable. “Um... I don’t think so.”

Wilford frowned. “Well shoot,” he mumbled. “What about frosting? DO you have any that looks like blood?”

Marie seemed to be inching away from the counter. “I guess... what um, what for?”

“Oh, my friend just likes blood,” Wilford said, waving his hand in dismissal. “How about- hey, where’d you go?”

The swinging door to the back room was doing exactly that, swinging. Wilford shrugged. “Well, if you want something done you’ve got to do it yourself!”

He set off for the grocery store, humming.

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

Jimmy was surprisingly quiet as he worked, stabbed the tufts of wool to shape them. It was a relief, really. Dark was sat comfortably in his favorite chair, going through the Markiplier tag on Tumblr.

He supposed he should be grateful that the glitch shared his birthday with the anniversary of that awful series. It would keep Wilford busy, hopefully keeping any incidents to a minimum. Wilford was always hard to handle when he remembered some of his past life.

And... maybe, maybe, some small part of him disliked seeing Wilford upset.

Maybe.

A half-finished needle felt doll was shoved over Dark’s phone. “Does this look like he’s dead enough?” Jimmy pointed at the red line on the throat. “Or should I make it look like this is dripping?”

“I couldn’t care less.” Dark pushed the doll away and focused back on scanning the tag. He made a mental note to have Google block Wilford from social media privileges for the next few days.

“Come on! Be helpful!”

“To you? Absolutely not.”

“You and Anti go way back! What, you won’t even get him a card?”

“Pre-canon doesn’t count, Casket.” Dark made the ringing around him more intense to drive the murderer away.

Jimmy ignored it. “Whatever. You’re the rudest of us all.”

“I am the only one who hasn’t actually murdered anyone.”

“You’ve killed me tons of times!”

Dark scoffed. “Those don’t count. You don’t stay dead.”

Jimmy crossed his arms. “It’s still murder! The police back home say so!” He scowled. “Besides, you didn’t either,” he muttered, quiet enough that Dark didn’t hear. He looked down at the half-finished doll in his hand. “Should I dip this in some Septic blood?” he thought aloud.

“As long as you don’t get it on my carpet or walls, I don’t care.”

Jimmy ran out the door. Dark cracked his neck. “Finally.”

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Anti held up the knew puppet to the light. “I͡f y̶ou̡ ̨c͘ha͏ng̷e y̴o̶u͠r l͜o͞o̶k ͞agaìn,̴ ͟Bro̢dy͟,͢ I'm ͟g̶oin͠g aft̶e̡r yo҉ur ͘ḱi̡ḑs̨ ̡ag̡ain,” he mumbled.

He had to knit a whole new puppet, of course, after Chase got his hair cut. He’d tried cutting the hair of his other one, but it just didn’t look right. He needed his puppets to be perfect matches if he wanted them to have any kind of power.

It wasn’t the worst way to spend his birthday. Sure, he’d rather be attacking the Septics brutally, but the timing would be just too predictable. They’d be prepared, and he didn’t want to have to struggle with anything on his birthday.

He hadn’t heard from Wilford or Jimmy at all, but he didn’t mind. Really, he didn’t. He had his phone close in case he wanted to set the community on fire. Not because he was waiting for a call or text. Not at all.

He tied some strings to the puppet and flicked it in the head. He glitched over to his monitors and saw Chase rub the back of his head and look around, confused. Anti grinned. Well, at least he had some entertainment.

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

Wilford plunked the grocery bags down on the counter. “GOOGLE!”

Google made his way to the kitchen, grumbling. He scowled at Wilford, who grinned right back. “What?”

“Okay Google, pull up a cake recipe!”

Google glared at Wilford but did as he was told. Wilford started (messily) measuring the ingredients.

Google watched as various ingredients began thoroughly coating the counters. His core ached with the knowledge that he would be the one who had to clean it all up. “You could just make one appear,” he said, struggling to maintain his monotone voice.

Wilford gasped. “But then there’s no love in it!” He smiled as he mixed the dry ingredients together. “I used to do this all the time! Back in the day I was a master of cake making! I would make it, and then-”

The smile slowly faded.

“And- and then...”

Google didn’t say anything. He just watched as Wilford stared into the bowl, his eyes moving all around the room, like he was searching for something.

“He decorated them... I- I can’t remember his name...”

Google stiffened. Dark had made it very clear that he was to be alerted if Wilford had an “incident”. Google waited, seeing if it would escalate.

“D-Dames? Dam- Damien?” Wilford blinked. “Damien?”

Google was about to message Dark when Jimmy burst into the room. “Wil! Which Septic would Anti want blood from the most?!”

Wilford kept staring for a moment. Jimmy waved Knifey in front of Wilford’s face. “Helloooo? This is urgent! It’s for Anti’s present!”

Wilford blinked, stared at Jimmy, and then grinned. “Jimmy! When did you walk in?”

“Just a second ago! Quick, which Septic would Anti most want the blood of?!”

“Hmm...” Wilford stroked his mustache, then tapped on it, then went back to stroking it. “That doctor! Or the silent one! Of maybe the one with the hat!”

“THAT’S NOT HELPFUL AT ALL!” Jimmy ran out of the room, spouting off “heck”s and “darn”s the whole way.

Google smirked. Jimmy’s inability to curse always made him feel smug, same as with Bing’s safesearch filter.

Wilford went back to baking. “What was I talking about before? Ah, nevermind. There’s cake to be made!”

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

Anti took a break from watching the Septics and went to look at the community tag. “O̢h̷ hell ͘y͠e͡a̴h.̢ I'm so fuçk͡in͟'͜ c̸o͏ol,͝” he said to himself as he scrolled through the fanart. “Oh͟,̀ that̴'̀s ͝g̷oo̡d͘!͝ I'm uśing tha͏t͝. W͝o̷w͘,̨ t̡hey͝'̨ve͘ g̡oţ some g͘r̕e̴at i̷dea̸s..̵.͠”

It was fortunate he took the break when he did. Otherwise the surprise of his present would have been completely ruined.

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

Jimmy no-clipped through the wall, into where he was pretty sure the lab was. Anti had shown him around the place once before, right before he tried to murder the hero one. Good times...

Jimmy looked around. Yup, he got it right! Bright lights, cold title, hospital beds...

A slightly blue mouse sitting on a desk in one of the corners started squeaking at him, quickly and furiously.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

The mouse squeaked even more.

Jimmy ignored it. No time!

He moved to the back room, where Anti had told him Jack was kept. He got his own room. Seemed like overkill to Jimmy, but it did make sneaking up to him easier.

The magic spells protecting the room did nothing to keep Jimmy out. They’d been made with Anti in mind, after all.

Jimmy walked up to the bed where the comatose Jacksepticeye laid, unmoving and unresponsive. “Not here to kill you,” Jimmy said as he got Knifey out, “That would be a terrible birthday present. Anti really wants to do that himself.” Jimmy tapped his chin. “Where to get the blood from...”

The neck? That was part of Anti’s whole style... but maybe somewhere less risky, after all for once Jimmy wanted the person he was stabbing to live...

He shrugged, went for a part of the abdomen that usually bled the least in his experience, and just hoped for the best.

He coated the doll thoroughly, until it was fully red and dripping. “Perfect!” He cleared his throat. ‘HEY SEPTIC WEIRDOS! I JUST STABBED JACK IN THE ABDOMEN!”

He heard some distant crashing, shouting, and then all five of them burst into the room at once. He grinned at them. “Don’t worry, I didn’t try to kill him! I just needed some blood!”

Chase shot him. Jimmy re-spawned immediately and went in for a few stabs.

He only managed to get some more blood from Schneep and Jameson. Jackie and Marvin kept killing him before he could get them. Schneep ran for Jack as soon as he could, despite the others trying to hold him back, so he was an easy target. Jameson tried to attack him with a cane sword (where the heck did he even get one of those?), and Jimmy managed to cut his hand.

“Well, that was fun! Bye!” Jimmy waved at them with the bloody doll and no-clipped through the wall again. He stole a car and quickly drove back to the Iplier household, somehow, despite them being across the ocean and hours away.

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

Wilford took the cake out right as Jimmy burst back into the house. “I GOT THE BLOOD!”

Wilford peered at the doll. “Wow! That’s a fantastic likeness!”

“I know! I’m very proud of it!” Jimmy beamed. He looked at the cake. “Ooooh, that’s really red!”

“I was think green frosting, your thoughts?”

Jimmy licked some blood off of Knifey. “Kinda Christmas-y.”

“Well, he did have that whole Overnightwatch thing. He loved that!”

“True! Add some black too! OH! Let’s do black eyes!”

“Genius!” Wilford got right to mixing up the frosting colors. “Want to help?”

“Can I eat the leftover frosting?”

“Sure!”

Jimmy wasted no time furiously mixing the colors, and then slathering the cake with frosting. He set the doll on the counter, much to the annoyance of Google.

Soon they had a fully-decorated cake. Green frosting, black eyes, black sprinkles, and as an extra touch, a knife with fake blood (really just translucent writing frosting).

“It’s perfect!” Wilford gazed at their creation with adoration.

Jimmy whipped his phone out and texted Anti. “Let’s move it to the living room!”

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

Anti glitched into the Iplier’s living room. “Ìs͟ Dar̵k̵ ́actuall͡y̨ ̴c̡ove̕re̛d i͞n̵ ͜gl̨itt̸er̴?́ ̕B̕eca͏ųse ̕if̶ s̴o thi̶s ̵i͜s ̛t̛he ̧best͢... b̨i̵rt͝hd͞a҉y̵... “

He stared at the cake on the coffee table, the small box next to it, and his two friends standing on either side.

“Surprise!” they shouted. Jimmy threw some of that sharp plastic confetti at him while Wilford went with shooting a glitter bomb out of a grenade launcher.

“.̨.. ͡wha̶t̡ the ͠f͡u̕c͜k̀?̨” was all Anti could think to say. He didn’t mean it in a bad way though.

“Come open the present!” Jimmy grabbed his arm and pulled him closer. He slammed the box into Anti’s hand.

Anti tore the wrapping paper off and pulled out-

“Is ̢t̡h́i͞s͟ ҉a ́de͠ad ̵J̢a̸c͜k?̨”

“Covered in his blood! I didn’t kill him, but I did also get some blood from the doctor and the old-timey one! Do you like it?”

“L̨i̢ke͟ i̢t? It's ҉p̢erf͠ȩct.” Anti grinned deviously. “I̶ ̵ca̶n'̛t ͢w͝a̛i̴t ̶to p̸o̶s̛t a͟ ̡pictur̀e ǫf̸ ̡i͜t̕ and̨ śe̸t͘ th̛e ̨f҉a̵n͝s on ̶f̡i̢r̀e̛!”

“YES! I DID GOOD!”

Anti looked down at the cake. “Are̶ t͟hos̀e̴ m͜y͡ ҉ęy̷es̶?”

“They are! and the inside is bright red! Red velvet flavor!” Wilford gestured to the knife. “Go ahead!”

Anti cut a piece and ate it off the knife instead of getting a fork and plate.

Jimmy took that as a queue to dive in his his hands.

Wilford got a plate without actually grabbing one and shoveled it in.

They finished the whole cake in mere minutes. Then they all ran out to the yard, buzzing from the sugar. Anti tackled Jimmy and killed him, cackling. Now this was his kind of birthday!

#Antisepticeye #Jimmy Casket #Wilford Warfstache #Jacksepticeye #VenturianTale #Markiplier #The Murder Trio #The Murder Trio and Dark #Darkiplier #Googleplier #Googleiplier #tw blood #blood tw #blood warning #stabbing tw #tw stabbing #fanfic #My attempts at fanfic

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technicallycleverdetective · 5 years

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Prompt for @izgu6ljena: Person A of your OTP getting married to someone who isn't Person B, and B running out during the middle of the service with tears streaming down their cheeks.

Fabrizio was not comfortable in suits. He owned only two and they emerged from the wardrobe rarely enough that only his close family knew. Well, his close family and one other person. That was the reason why he’d been forced to hire one, just to escape the affectionate teasing that would surely have come his way, assuming Ermal wasn’t too distracted to acknowledge Fabrizio’s presence at all.

He pulled at the collar, forgetting that he’d already opened two buttons to help him breathe. They did nothing to ease the tightness in his chest.

He took a deep breath and felt his ribs contract again, a sound in his throat that sounded dangerously like a sob, but no-one was close enough to hear it. He bit his lip. He could keep it together for an hour. This was an important day for Ermal and he’d invited Fabrizio as a friend, to share in the joy of the occasion, not to ruin it with his ridiculous fantasies.

The situation had reversed so unexpectedly. Fabrizio didn’t know what had happened, but he knew that Ermal was happy. Of course he was. He’d told Fabrizio at the time that he was devastated, that he’d never wanted it to end, that he still wanted her back. They were writing their song, still in the first flush of tentative friendship with no idea of where it would all lead, but apparently Ermal’s thoughts remained unaltered. She’d changed her mind and then it was as if the whole year and a half had meant nothing.

It wasn’t as if Ermal hadn’t made things clear from the beginning. She was the love of his life and Fabrizio was a bit of fun, light relief. She was the one he couldn’t live without. The woman who could effectively click her fingers and he would drop what he and Fabrizio had and…

The church bells were pealing with a single, rhythmic tone. A couple of late guests he didn’t recognise were running up the steps, the woman clutching her hat. They smiled at him and he gave a self-conscious nod. It was time to go. He walked into the church and found himself in a hallway around a garden, Roman columns decorated with black and white mosaic, and a grey font just outside the door of the main church. The ceiling soared high above the old wooden pews and every window was made of stained glass, casting colours all around the space. It was an old, hallowed, austere hall.

Ermal was already standing up there, in front of an ornate white marble altar with red carpet leading down the aisle, wandering a little aimlessly back and forth. He saw Fabrizio and grinned, waving like a child in a school Nativity. His suit was similar to Fabrizio’s, except he had a waistcoat and a neat shirt, and a necklace. He was glad to see the necklace. It was some small sign that it was still his Ermal. He hadn’t lost him completely. Except he wasn’t his Ermal anymore. He’d have to get used to thinking like that.

He walked up the aisle and tried to ignore that little voice in his head screaming, ‘It should have been me, it should have been me.’

“Bizio!”

Ermal jumped down the last step to hug him and Fabrizio held him tightly, savouring the smell of his skin and the ticklish feeling of his hair against his face. This was ridiculous. Ermal wasn’t going to war. They would still be friends. He already knew, however, that this represented a break from which there was no coming back. Ermal would feel awkward about the past they’d shared, or else Fabrizio would be unable to move on, and one of them would walk away in the end. So while he still had this privilege, he would make the most of it.

He pulled back and, without thinking, held Ermal’s face between his hands. He did it all the time, but not now, it wasn’t appropriate anymore. Ermal was still smiling like he didn’t see anything wrong and perhaps he didn’t. Fabrizio had always been tactile even before they got together. Was this just a friendly gesture in his mind?

“Nervous?” Fabrizio asked.

Ermal smiled wider and shook his head, and Fabrizio let go and stepped back. He needed to go to his seat. If he stayed here, he’d just keep touching Ermal and it wasn’t right in front of all these people. He found his way to a pew and sat down. He didn’t know the people beside him, although he recognised Ermal’s family ahead of him. His mother, sister and niece were in the front row. His brother was up at the altar now. Fabrizio hadn’t noticed him before. He looked around the crowd. The only faces he knew were Marco and Andrea, side by side at the church door, watching the road.

Before Fabrizio was quite ready, the organ began to play. Everyone turned to face the door, except Fabrizio. He kept watching Ermal. He saw that bright smile which was so familiar, and until recently had been so often directed towards him. Even now, Ermal was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen and Fabrizio had an awful feeling that he always would be, no matter what.

The voice screamed louder, ‘It should have been me.’

He’d always known this about Ermal. His ‘single man’ veneer was razor thin. Not so far below the surface, he’d always wanted to just fall in love and settle down with someone. And Fabrizio had thoroughly persuaded him that he wasn’t the man to provide that, with his vehement anti-marriage sentiments. It was true that he didn’t like marriage. He didn’t like the ceremony, he feared being trapped in an unhappy relationship held together by legal handcuffs, but right now the idea of making a lifelong commitment to Ermal seemed very attractive.

The music had stopped and the minister was addressing the congregation with a cheerful smile. He looked as if he loved taking weddings. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

‘Too late,’ the voice taunted. ‘You lost your chance.’

Perhaps that was why Ermal had kept his heart safe from him and never let things get too serious between them. If Fabrizio had been more open with his feelings, or kept his mouth shut more, could he be the one standing up there now? The thoughts of what could have been were torturous.

“Ermal, will you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, in sickness and health, for richer for poorer, till death do you part?”

There was a slight pause, enough for a rustle of anticipation in the audience, enough for Fabrizio to fervently pray to hear a “No.” “I do.”

He felt like he’d been stabbed. The pain was so real that he glanced down to look for an injury, but his body was intact.

“Will you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband…”

He had heard enough. Accepting this invitation had been such a terrible mistake. What had he thought would happen? Did he believe his mere presence would be enough to change Ermal’s mind back, when it hadn’t stopped him from doing this in the first place? Did he hope to stand up and stop the wedding like he was in a terrible drama?

‘Foolish arrogant idiot,’ the voice snapped. ‘You deserve to be alone.’

He stood and rushed into the aisle, running blind as his hands covered his face to catch the tide of tears. It didn’t matter in that moment that he was ruining everything, that everyone was staring at him, that he had given away the extent of his feelings at the worst possible time and lost whatever scraps of Ermal’s friendship could have been salvaged. He just needed to get out of there or he was going to scream.

“Bizio!”

Part of him wanted Ermal to let him go, another part wanted him to follow, and the two warred viciously. In the meantime Fabrizio was outside the church, running for the great stone gates that would take him to the streets and an escape, but he didn’t get that far. He fell to his knees in the car park and started to cry uncontrollably, huge gulping sobs that left him barely able to breathe. This was the worst heartbreak he’d ever felt. It was like being ripped to shreds from the inside.

“Bizio!”

Ermal’s voice was much closer now, right behind him, and then he was shaking him. Fabrizio jolted forward and gasped, the car park changing in an instant to a dark room. He scrambled around, feeling bedclothes, seeing curtains, a bedside cabinet, a silhouette with distinctive bushy hair. His sight was blurry and when he blinked, he felt that his eyes were wet.

“Ermal?” He gripped the first piece of skin he could find and he was real, he was warm, he was here. “Did that happen?”

“Did what happen?”

“Are you married?” Fabrizio asked urgently.

Ermal frowned, but Fabrizio must have looked truly panicked because he answered quickly. “No, of course not. Did you have a dream that I was married?”

“I…”

Slowly, but surely, the lines between reality and fantasy were beginning to be redrawn and Fabrizio had never been so glad to discover that he’d been dreaming.

“It must have been that show putting ideas in your head” Ermal remarked, resting his head on Fabrizio’s chest. Show? What show? Oh yes, the reality show about those couples getting married on the same day as their first meeting. That had only been on as background noise for cuddling. Fabrizio hadn’t realised that it had filtered into his brain. He ran a hand through the soft curls and realised that he could do that for as long as he wanted, whenever he pleased. The thought made him want to laugh.

“Who was I marrying?” Ermal asked, a mischievous note in his voice, drawing circles on Fabrizio’s skin as he spoke.

In his addled state, he nearly answered without thinking, but reality fully reasserted itself just in time and he pulled up short. “No-one. I…I didn’t focus much on them. I only saw you.”

“Aw!” Ermal lifted his head and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry, I haven’t married anyone behind your back.”

“Thank you.”

He received a light kiss on the lips and then Ermal lay back down, cuddling him close. He was asleep within minutes. Fabrizio did not return to sleep. He was half-afraid of waking up in a different world again, one where Ermal was not by his side, even though he knew that was ridiculous.

‘Do you want to marry me?’ the voice whispered tentatively.

His sudden wish to stand at an altar had been the result of panic, not a reasoned thought process. He didn’t want to get married. He never had. But Ermal did, or would. Maybe his subconscious was trying to give him a warning that the current arrangement couldn’t last forever. Ermal deserved a full-time partner and if Fabrizio couldn’t do that for him, he’d find someone else who would.

Maybe one day, when they were in a more romantic setting and had more time than the four hours allocated before Ermal’s flight back to Milan, the right moment would present itself. For now, he put a kiss in his boyfriend’s hair and held him close, finally allowing himself to drift back to a peaceful slumber.

#writing #be kind if you read :)

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