#but this evening one of my housemates stayed behind while I did everyone’s dishes as per

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

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Chapter 26: Jon

When Jon’s grandmother passed away peacefully in her sleep, not long after his twenty-fourth birthday, he quickly discovered that her life insurance and savings weren’t enough to cover all the bills that needed to be covered and put the house he’d grown up in on the market. He only vaguely remembers the whole procedure, as he was in something of a state of shock at the time, but he does remember accepting the first offer presented to him despite the realtor’s comments that he could “probably hold out for a bit more” if he wanted. Thus, he’s the only one not really startled at the speed with which he, Martin, and Tim find out that they’ve got the house.

To be clear: He’s not startled at the speed. He is, however, startled that they got it. Surely someone must have been willing to pay more for it, been better qualified. But no. They learn their offer has been accepted less than a week after the Primes’ disastrous encounter with Basira’s partner and the closing is scheduled for the following Friday. Martin theorizes that their position at the Magnus Institute gave them some extra clout. Tim jokes that it’s his charismatic personality. Jon frets that Elias might have had something to do with it for nefarious purposes.

Sasha finally does some research and tells them that it’s being sold by a pair of siblings barely out of their teens whose parents died unexpectedly and probably just need the money fast.

Martin doesn’t have much, just the little he managed to bring with him to the Institute when first escaping Jane Prentiss and the few things he’s re-acquired since then, and Jon’s things are still packed up from when he declined to renew the lease on his flat in August, so it’s mostly just Tim who needs to decide what he’s keeping and what he’s ready to part with or needs to replace. It takes them the better part of two Saturdays, but they manage to get everything boxed and sorted in time to move out the last full weekend of September.

The moving-in process is surprisingly fun. Sasha and the Primes even come to help (Tim suggests the latter so that Martin Prime knows his way around the house from the get-go, which is actually really sensible) and they make a party of it. Tim insists on setting up the sound system first, then gets everyone to contribute a certain number of songs to a playlist on some app he has on his phone. He puts it on shuffle and lets it play while they work together on the various rooms.

“Oh, my God,” Sasha moans after the eighth song that she evidently didn’t pick comes on. “Do any of you listen to a single band that’s put out an album since 1984?”

“Yes,” Martin says indignantly, his cheeks coloring slightly.

“Remasters don’t count.”

Martin Prime grins. “None of mine have come up, either.”

“What did you put on?” Sasha asks suspiciously.

She gets her answer a few minutes later when, after shuffle coughs up a Spice Girls song they all tease her mercilessly about, an honest to God sea shanty comes on. Tim and Jon laugh at Sasha’s dramatic, despairing groan, but it’s hard not to respond to the Martins’ enthusiasm as they—surprisingly—harmonize along with the recording while they set up the living room.

They’re almost done assembling the new bed Tim bullied Jon into buying (“You’re not in uni anymore, you don’t need to be sleeping on a futon, and anyway, when was this made, the Thatcher premiership?” “Brown, and shut up, Tim.”), which is the last piece of furniture they need to put together, when there’s a sound from the front door—two firm, solid knocks, audible all the way upstairs. Jon nearly drops the screwdriver as his heart kicks against his ribs. It’s stupid, and he knows it’s stupid, but two knocks like that always makes him think of that book.

Tim makes a noise in the back of his throat. “God, hope the music isn’t too loud.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Martin says, but he sounds uncertain. “I-I mean, it’s been ages.”

Jon pushes himself to his feet. “I’ll check.”

He hurries out of the bedroom before anyone can comment on the clear break in his voice. He is, and there is no way to deny it to himself, legitimately afraid of what might be outside. The likelihood of it being a being of another entity is slim, but…well, there was Mr. Spider, and Jane Prentiss knocked on Martin’s door more than a few times to keep him off-balance, so there’s always the chance. It’s something he feels he can deal with, though, so he heads out to face it.

He does not, however, expect to open the door and be faced with what is either a small child or a casserole dish with tennis shoes.

“Hello,” a tiny voice says brightly from behind the dish. There’s a bit of shifting, and then two big brown eyes and a mass of curls appear over the rim. “I’ve brought you a cake.”

Jon will deny to his dying day that those words freeze his blood in his veins and make his heart stutter to a stop, but since this might actually be his dying day, he’ll be lying if he tries. His lips part, but no sound comes out.

“And a casserole, too,” the child continues, completely oblivious to Jon’s unwarranted panic attack. “That’s not as much fun, though, but Nan says it’s important to eat good, hearty food when you’ve been doing lots of work and that cake shouldn’t be a whole meal. I think there’s no point in being a grown-up if you can’t eat whatever you want, but…” The child heaves an enormous, dramatic sigh that seems too large for such a small body. “My Nan’s very, very old, and you don’t get to be old if you don’t do something right, so she must know what she’s talking about. Anyway, we made the casserole with lots and lots of cheese and she said that was okay, so at least it’s a little better.”

“Ah—thank you?” Jon manages. “H-here, let me…take that.”

He manages to extract the casserole dish, which certainly feels as if it’s laden with cheese; it weighs the proverbial ton. Quite possibly a literal one. It’s solid enough to anchor Jon to reality, though, and he studies his benefactor. The child can’t be more than seven or eight, at the most, with a round face and limbs hidden in an oversized, threadbare sweater that looks like it’s been handed down through more than a few generations. Dangling from one arm is a wicker basket that does indeed appear to contain a cake.

“It’s a chocolate cake with marshmallow frosting,” the child says. “I tried to write ‘Welcome to the neighborhood’ on it, but I didn’t put the tip on the piping bag right and it came off, so now it’s just a mess, but it’ll taste just as good, I promise. My Nan makes the best cakes.”

Jon smiles in spite of himself. “I don’t think I have enough hands to take it from you now. Would you mind bringing it into the kitchen for me?”

“Oh, sure!” The child practically hops over the threshold. “I always wanted to see what this house was like on the inside. Tibby used to babysit for me sometimes, but she always came over to our house, never me coming over here. Nan says it’s better that way, and Tibby always said it was laid out exactly like all the other houses, but it’s not the same as seeing it for yourself. Firsthand knowledge is best, that’s what I think. What do you think?”

“I—I think I agree with you,” Jon says. He also feels a bit like he’s staring at his younger self. “I assume you live in one of the other houses on the row?”

“Two doors down,” the child agrees cheerfully. “With the window boxes. My Nan likes to garden a bit, but she can’t bend over so much anymore, so Toby set up the window boxes for her a couple years ago.”

“And, uh, who is…Toby?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. Toby McGill. He and Tibby—that’s his sister Tabitha, but everyone calls her Tibby—they were the ones selling this house after their parents died. He’s at Surrey University now and he says he’s going to stay out there when it’s all said and done, and Tibby got a job on a boat.” The child sounds deeply impressed. “I want to be a sailor someday, too. Can you imagine getting to see the whole wide world by water and getting paid for it, too? I’d never want to leave. I told Tibby she has to save a spot on the crew for me and she laughed and promised, so I can’t wait. I’m going as soon as I grow up. I’m not going to university. You don’t need to go to university for everything, you know. I know Nan really wants me to go ‘cause Mum didn’t and neither did Dad and she doesn’t want me turning out like them, but you can turn out well even if you don’t go to university, can’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Jon says gravely. He casts an involuntary glance in the direction of the stairs, thinking of Martin. “One of my housemates didn’t go to university, and he’s one of the most brilliant people I know.”

“How many of you live here, anyway?”

“Just three of us.” Jon has no idea how much this child has seen and how many people he knows are in the house at the moment.

“Oh. There used to be three of us in my house, too.” The child scuffs a toe against the carpet just before they step into the kitchen. “And then there was going to be four, but Mum died and the baby did, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly, feeling a pang. “I grew up with my grandmother, too.”

The child looks up at Jon and smiles, in such a way that Jon can’t help but smile back. “And you turned out okay.”

“Debatable,” Jon says. He sets the casserole dish on the counter. “I’m Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”

“I’m Charlie. Charlie Cane.” The child smiles up at him and hands over the basket. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. Tell your grandmother we said thank you. I don’t know that any of us will have the energy to cook tonight. We’ll bring back the dishes tomorrow.”

“There’s no hurry. Nan doesn’t go anywhere.” Charlie flashes Jon a grin that’s missing two teeth, then turns and waves to the doorway. Jon glances up to see Martin, looking somewhere between worried and amused. “Hi! I’m Charlie Cane. Welcome to the neighborhood. Do you live here, too?”

“Um…yes. I’m Martin Blackwood. It’s…nice to meet you?” Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Charlie and his grandmother made us a casserole,” Jon says, gesturing at the counter. “And a cake.”

“That’s very nice of you. Thank you.” Martin smiles at Charlie and winks, although Jon doesn’t quite understand why.

“Welcome.” Charlie’s beaming smile could probably light the house for a week. “I’d best go before Nan thinks I’m doing something stupid again. See you later!”

He’s out the front door before Jon can respond, or even blink. He looks back to Martin, who isn’t even trying to hide his amusement. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, Jon. We were just wondering if you were okay. You were gone for a while.”

Jon gestures vaguely at the front door. “I don’t think that child has many people to talk to. Or at least not many people who will listen to him.”

Martin snorts. “I think you’ve got yourself a new best friend.”

Jon almost wants to say something flippant like Just what I need, but thinking on it, he actually doesn’t mind all that much. “Considering how much I would have given to have an adult pay that kind of attention to me when I was his age, I think I can handle that.”

Martin reaches over and pulls Jon into a hug. Jon lets himself be comforted for a moment, then extricates himself gently and smiles. “Come on. Let’s see if the others are ready to eat.”

As it turns out, the others finished putting together the bed and even made it while Jon talked to Charlie, so they’re all too happy to come into the kitchen for a hearty meal. It’s exactly as cheese-laden as Charlie promised. Jon recounts his conversation, to general amusement, although something flickers briefly across Martin Prime’s face and Jon Prime shoots Jon an understanding and slightly frightened look when he repeats Charlie’s opening words. If anyone else notices, they give no sign of it.

Tim lets the music keep playing while they eat. Jon mostly tunes it out, no pun intended, and he rather suspects the others do too. But just as they’re scraping their plates clean—the food is delicious, and Tim declares he’s going to try and charm Charlie’s grandmother out of the recipe—Martin Prime suddenly tilts his head to one side, as if trying to catch a sound. A smile twitches at his lips, and he stands up and holds out a hand to Jon Prime. “May I?”

Jon Prime looks startled for a split-second, then smiles—no, grins—and places his hand in Martin Prime’s. He lets Martin Prime pull him away from the table and into his arms, and the two of them start slow-dancing.

Jon pauses, fork suspended over his plate, and watches them. Jon Prime lets Martin Prime lead him in a simple box step, one arm draped casually over Martin Prime’s shoulder, while Martin Prime’s hand rests firmly at his waist; their other fingers are laced together in a way that would make it difficult to telegraph intended moves if they didn’t—probably—know each other so well. The space between them is so little it’s a wonder they don’t constantly trip over each other’s feet, and before long their foreheads touch. The song is gentle and plaintive, encouragement from one partner to the other to trust and relax and allow the first to take care of the second, a promise that the second person won’t be considered weak or lesser if they allow themselves to be comforted.

I promise you’ll be safe here in my arms…

Martin Prime lifts his arm and spins Jon Prime around gently, and when Jon Prime comes back into the closed frame, he leans his head against the shoulder where his hand isn’t resting and closes his eyes. Martin Prime pulls him closer and rests his cheek alongside Jon Prime’s as they continue dancing. It’s one of the most intimate and romantic things Jon has ever seen, and he almost has to look away from it.

Almost. Not quite. Something keeps him drawn, and there’s a tiny part of Jon’s brain that suggests it probably isn’t just the pleasure at seeing someone who’s basically him safe and happy and in love mixed with the vague sense of longing for something like that—maybe not that exactly, but something like it. It may also be that watching the Primes slow dancing means he doesn’t have to look at anyone else.

The song plays itself out. Martin Prime turns his head slightly; Jon Prime turns his at the same time, and their lips meet gently in the middle. This time Jon does look away. He’s never quite been able to figure out how he feels about kissing, to be honest; it’s one of the things that sent his and Georgie’s relationship down in flames, was the fact that he always acted like you think I’ve got poison in my lip gloss, according to her. But he finds himself wondering for a moment what Martin’s lips would feel like against his, if they’d be as soft and warm as the rest of him. If it might make a difference to kiss Martin instead of Georgie, or Meredith, or Kelly. And that’s not a question he’s comfortable asking himself just then, let alone trying to answer.

The scrape of a chair breaks his attention, and he looks up to see the Primes sitting down like nothing happened, although they’re still holding hands. Tim clears his throat. “Who wants cake?”

The cake is, as promised, a bit of a mess—it looks like someone tried to tease out the blob created by the icing tip popping off with a toothpick or something, but the resultant design looks like the pictures someone showed Jon once of a web woven by a spider that had been fed caffeine, and the fact that the icing is bright red doesn’t help—but it is absolutely delicious.

Afterward, Tim and Jon store the leftovers while Martin and Sasha start on the dishes. Jon Prime glances at the kitchen clock and touches Martin Prime on the shoulder. “We should probably go. The later it gets, the more likely that…someone might cruise by the Institute, and I’d rather not risk that.”

Martin Prime squeezes Jon Prime’s hand gently, and Jon swallows on the sudden surge of nausea. They haven’t seen anything of Detective Tonner, and Basira didn’t say anything about her when she showed up last week to switch out the tapes, but the memory of the Primes’ faces when they stumbled back to Tim’s place to change and return his car is a hard one to shake. Even though Jon Prime swears he and Daisy eventually became friends, it’s the eventually that sticks out, and Jon isn’t sure what he’ll do if Daisy turns up at the Institute. It’s also obvious that the Primes are more afraid of her than they’re letting on.

Tim opens his mouth, probably to invite them to spend the night or something, but Sasha beats him to it. “Can you wait a few minutes? I’d rather not walk to the tube station by myself, if it comes to that, and I think you said there’s an entrance to the tunnels near there.”

Jon Prime frowns slightly. “I…don’t think I did, but there is.”

“We’ll walk with you, Sasha,” Martin Prime assures her.

Tim sighs theatrically. “I feel a little better, which is a relative statement not to be taken as approval.”

“Your objection is duly noted.” Sasha hands Martin a plate to dry.

All too soon, everything is cleaned up, just as the playlist comes to an end, and there’s really no way of stalling them further. There’s a round of hugs and see-you-Mondays, and then Sasha and the Primes head out the door, leaving Jon, Martin, and Tim alone in their new house.

It’s not that late, comparatively, so Jon suggests a card game. They’ve played most nights since Sasha went back to sleeping in her own flat; they’ve played a couple of games of Rummy or Go Fish, and Tim once tried to teach Jon and Martin a game he learned from his grandparents that uses a forty-card deck (Martin picked it up quickly, Jon did not), but most of the time they play Crazy Eights. Tim declares that they’re going to keep playing until either he or Jon or both manage to overtake Martin’s score, which is clearly going to be an impossible task, as he’s up by nearly a thousand points and consistently wins at least three or four games a night. Still, they give it a valiant effort. After Martin manages to go out while both Tim and Jon still have an eight each in their hand, though, they decide to call it quits for one night.

“Someday I’ll figure out how you keep doing that,” Jon says, shuffling the deck lightly before putting it back in the box.

Martin shrugs. “Practice, I guess? I used to play with my granddad a lot when I was younger. We kept a running total, too, and I think I was up three thousand points or so when he died.”

Tim gives a low whistle. “How old were you?”

“Nine. We’d been playing pretty regularly since I was five. At least one game every time I went to visit.”

Jon thinks back to the conversation he and Martin had in Tim’s kitchen the morning after Prentiss’s attack. “Is this the grandfather who had the cherry trees?”

“You remembered.” Martin looks pleased. “Yeah, he was my mum’s dad. I never met my dad’s family, that I remember anyway.” He pauses. “You, uh, you told Charlie you were raised by your grandmother. Was that…?”

Jon didn’t know Martin was there, but he’s kind of glad he doesn’t have to figure out how to bring it up. “My father’s mother. She was…formidable. My father died when I was two, from an accidental fall, and my mother died a couple years later. Surgery complications.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says softly. “That must have been hard on you.”

“Harder on my grandmother, I think. I was barely old enough to remember them.” All Jon remembers of his father is his laugh, and he’s fairly certain that most of his memories of his mother come from his aunt.

Tim leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “Is she still around? Your grandmother?”

Jon shakes his head. “She died just before I started working at the Institute. What about yours, Tim?”

“My dad’s dad is the only grandparent still around. I think.” Tim worries at his lower lip with his teeth for a moment. “I’d like to think someone would call me if something happened, but I don’t know.”

Martin hums sympathetically. “Is he…in a home?”

“Not as far as I know. Last I heard, he was still living with my parents. Moved in when Granny died, just after I left for university.” Tim sighs. “We’re not…close. After Danny…”

Jon reaches over and touches Tim’s arm gently. “It must be hard on them, losing a son. No parent expects to outlive their child.”

“That’s just it. Mum refuses to believe he’s dead.” Tim smiles weakly. “No body, you know? Dad isn’t sure, but he also thinks I know more than I’ve told them. Grandfather all but accused me of having a hand in Danny’s disappearance.”

“What?” Jon blinks, shocked. “How could anyone think you’d—you would never.”

“I know, but…well, Dad’s family was always a bit conservative, blue collar and all that, and I’m…well, me. I think that’s why Dad encouraged my hiking and camping and all that. Hoped it would knock some ‘sense’ into me,” Tim says with a wry twist of his lips. “Once I came out as bi, though, I think they decided there was no hope left for me. It just got worse after Danny died.”

Martin’s expressive face closes down, and Jon’s stomach lurches. This is the most they’ve talked about their families in…ever, he thinks, but from the little bits of information Martin—and Martin Prime, for that matter—have let slip, Jon has formed a very unfavorable impression of Martin’s mother. He’s always kind of had a hazy idea that Tim’s family situation was better, especially after he heard the pride in his voice when he talked about Danny when giving his statement, and finding out that it wasn’t much better than theirs…

“How old were you?” he asks, not sure why. “When you—told them.”

“Seventeen. There was a guy I’d been seeing—nothing serious, really, but we had fun together—and we went out for Valentine’s Day. My parents were confused because they knew my girlfriend and I had just broken up before Christmas and I hadn’t mentioned another girl, so I told them about Steve.” Tim gets quiet for a second. “Mum cried. Dad just…told me to stop upsetting my mother and never brought it up again. Not until Grandfather started in on me.”

Jon swallows. “You’ve a great deal more courage than I have. I—I never admitted to my grandmother that I ever had any interest in boys, let alone dated one.”

“Only one? You’re missing out.” Tim’s grin is a pale echo of his usual one, but it is at least genuine. “How ‘bout you, Martin?”

“A few.” Martin relaxes with a visible effort that makes Jon’s heart ache. “Been out since I was fourteen. Mum reacted…about as well as she reacted any other time I told her something she didn’t like or did something she wasn’t expecting. I never brought anyone home to meet her or…really talked to her about my dating, and she only ever brought it up in relation to herself. Like saying it was a good thing there wasn’t any risk of me passing on any of my numerous undesirable traits to a helpless child.”

“I don’t think your mum understands what ‘bisexual’ means,” Tim points out.

“Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. I’m gay.” Martin grimaces. “I’m also ace, so no risk there anyway, but…”

Jon wants to say any child would be fortunate to count you as a father or I can’t think of a single undesirable trait about you, but what actually comes out is, “Ace?”

“Uh, asexual. It’s—I don’t…get attracted like that. Romance, sure, aesthetic stuff and all that, but not…” Martin gestures vaguely. “Tried it anyway, for a couple of guys I was with, but i-it didn’t go well.”

Jon’s world view shifts abruptly on its axis. Tim, though, looks suddenly worried. “Are you okay? They didn’t—”

“No, no,” Martin says quickly. “It wasn’t—I just don’t like it. That’s all.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Never bothered telling Mum that part. She wouldn’t…I’ve done enough damage.”

Tim pulls Martin into a quick one-armed hug, and Jon reaches across the table to squeeze his hand as gently as he can, but they change the subject after that.

They end up sitting up for a while in their new living room, relaxing. Tim props his feet up in the recliner and works on a crossword; Jon curls up at one end of the sofa with a book he’s been meaning to read for years that Jon Prime assures him he’ll love; Martin sits at the other end and knits. It about bowled Jon over completely when he learned that Martin made most of the sweaters he wears, but the sight and sound of him working away has become increasingly familiar in the last few weeks, especially after the Primes and the rest of the crew collaborated to get him an array of needles and knitting wool in all colors of the rainbow for his birthday. Jon usually finds the gentle clicking of the needles soothing, but tonight it’s just a hair distracting, and he keeps glancing up from the page to watch Martin’s fingers as they expertly manipulate the yarn or Tim tap the eraser of his pencil thoughtfully against his jaw while he contemplates an answer. He’s not even quite sure what he’s looking at.

Finally, Tim lays down his puzzle with a sigh. “I think I’m gonna turn in,” he says, sounding oddly reluctant. “Long day and all that.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna—” Martin works a couple more stitches and folds up his project. “Probably a good stopping place for tonight.”

Jon considers saying he’s going to stay in the living room and finish the chapter he’s on, but if he’s being completely honest, he’s been on the same page for however long it’s been and hasn’t taken in a single word. Silently, he slides the scrap of paper he’s currently using as a bookmark back between the pages and closes the book. “Well. Good night, then.”

“’Night, Jon.”

The bedrooms are all upstairs, two on one side and one on the other with the bathroom handy, and the three of them wish each other goodnight again before disappearing into their rooms. Jon closes the door and looks around the room, his room.

There’s not much to it, to be honest. A nightstand, a dresser, a battered desk he’s had since he was a child, a lamp and the bed. He sets the book on top of the desk and changes into his comfortable sleep clothes, then crawls into the bed and pulls the covers up over his shoulders.

It’s…odd. No, not odd. Jon can’t quite think of the right word for it. But the sheets feel unfamiliar against his skin, and they don’t smell right, either, probably because they’re new. The mattress that felt perfectly comfortable when he tested it out in the store doesn’t seem to afford the same comfort now, and he wonders if the floor model has simply had much of the stiffness tested out of it over time. Even the pillows, which he did retain from his old bedroom setup, seem determined to thwart his attempts to find a comfortable position.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, arm draped over his midsection. He won’t fall asleep like this, he’s always been a side-sleeper, but his mind is a seething roil of emotions and he needs to get his thoughts under control before he can even have a hope of getting comfortable enough to sleep, he guesses.

Asexual. Jon probes at the word, at what it describes. I don’t get attracted like that. I just don’t like it. Honestly, until meeting Georgie, Jon had no idea that sort of attraction really existed; he thought it was just something out of the lurid romance novels his grandmother favored and he’d read once or twice in sheer desperation. It was something she’d wanted, though, so he’d tried a few times, but his efforts hadn’t satisfied her and he never really saw what all the fuss was about. He can take it or leave it, preferably the latter.

He never knew there was a word for it.

Suddenly, he wants to talk to Martin about it, about how he realized, how he knew. Where he found the word. If there are many more like—well, like them, he supposes. If that’s one of the reasons he was reluctant to tell Jon how he felt. He wants to ask about Martin’s experiences, if they were bad just because his body didn’t want them or for some other reason. A part of him also wants to cry from sheer relief. He isn’t broken. There’s nothing wrong with him. Well, not in that respect, anyway.

He sighs heavily and rolls onto his side again, plumping the pillows and curling one arm around them. They’re too flat, he thinks idly, too soft and yielding. Which is odd, because that’s never bothered him before. He can’t seem to get warm, either, which is also bizarre because it’s been an unusually mild day for late September and he’s under the duvet he’s had for years, which suddenly seems too light and insubstantial. The room is too quiet and still. It all feels…wrong, somehow.

Jon closes his eyes and stubbornly tries to force sleep, to no avail. The sense of wrongness pervades his being, curling through him and keeping him tethered to consciousness. He runs through the list of problems he seems to be having and tries to come up with which one might be keeping him awake. The only thing he can think of is the unfamiliar mattress. Everything else is exactly the way it was in his old flat.

And when was the last time you slept there? The thought hits him all of a sudden, and his eyes snap open. He forgot. The last time he slept in his apartment was the night before Jane Prentiss attacked the Institute. Ever since then, he’s been sleeping in Tim’s living room…or in Tim’s bed. With the others.

That’s all it is. He isn’t used to the silence of being alone. He’s not used to not knowing, right away, exactly where Tim and Martin are and if they’re safe. He’ll just go and check on them, see that they’re safe, and he’ll be able to get to sleep just fine.

He throws back the covers, slides his glasses back on, and heads into the hallway. Jon somehow ended up in the room by the bathroom, while Tim and Martin are on the other side of the hallway. Martin’s room is first, though, so Jon heads there. He’s as careful as he can be. Martin is probably asleep by now. He definitely seemed tired while they were still in the living room, and Jon wonders if he lingered because the other two were still sitting down there. It makes him feel slightly guilty, like he should have called it a night earlier so Martin can get some sleep. And after all, they did have a very emotionally draining conversation, which probably exhausted him as well. All that runs through Jon’s mind as he slowly, slowly eases the door open and peers around it to see into Martin’s room.

It’s sparsely furnished; nothing but a bed and one of those flimsy pop-up cloth jobs bisected into cubes, which is serving as his dresser. Martin’s laptop and phone sit on the floor, both connected to their chargers. The bed is mussed slightly and shows signs of having been occupied, but Jon’s heart rate accelerates when he looks at it. It’s empty.

There’s no sign of a struggle, he tells himself, and he heard nothing, so surely everything is fine. Martin’s probably just in the bathroom, or downstairs getting a glass of water or something. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Jon will just…go check on Tim and Tim will be fine and then he’ll go find Martin and make sure he’s fine and it…will…be…fine. He pulls the door closed and turns to Tim’s room.

The door is slightly ajar, and there’s a faint glow coming from the room. Jon hesitates, then taps lightly on the door three times before easing it open. Tim is sitting up on the bed, cross-legged and leaning forward slightly. And—Jon’s shoulders slump in relief—Martin is there, too, on the edge of the bed, one leg hanging off the side and the other tucked underneath him. They’re talking quietly, but both obviously exhausted. They look up at the sound of the door opening and watch Jon stand in the doorway. He opens his mouth, then realizes he doesn’t know what to say and closes it again.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Martin asks gently. The circles under his eyes are almost black.

“No,” Jon admits. “I—I just wanted to—” He breaks off, still not sure what to say.

Wordlessly, Tim holds out a hand. Jon lets the bedroom door shut behind him as he comes forward and takes it. Martin wraps an arm around him from behind, and the two of them pull Jon onto the bed and into a lying-down position. Tim rolls over and snaps off the lamp by his bed, then pulls the covers up over all three of them. Jon manages to reach down and snag the middle to help.

“Better,” Tim murmurs.

It’s not a question, but Jon hums in agreement anyway. Trying for levity, he says, “Shame to waste money on new beds, though.”

“We’ll be able to sleep there eventually,” Martin says. Jon only realizes how much stress was in his voice when it’s drastically lessened. “At some point we’ll probably want the space. But for now, there’s this.”

“For now, there’s this,” Jon agrees. He tilts his head back briefly to rest it against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin scoots in closer.

Tim does, too, the two of them sandwiching Jon securely between them. “Get some sleep,” he says. “It’ll be all right tomorrow.”

Jon yawns and closes his eyes, and it doesn’t really surprise him when he falls asleep straightaway. The nightmares are as present as ever, but in the morning, he can almost fool himself into believing they weren’t so bad.

Almost.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall) #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #referenced homophobia cw #internalized aphobia cw #panic attacks cw #please click that link and listen to the song #it'll make that bit so much better

[efrmellifer]

FFxivWrite ‘20, Four

Prompt: Clinch, during Heavensward, 1,315 words

With a quiet groan, Etien sat up, stretching first her shoulders, followed by extending her arms and flexing her fingers. The joints cracked in sequence as she flexed and rotated them, yawning, before she rose from bed, rolling back the thick covers.

She put on something other than her layers of clothing serving as pajamas, heading out to the dining room of Fortemps manor once she was dressed, delighted to see that Haurchefant was at the table alongside Edmont, Artoirel, and Emmanellain.

She took her seat, bidding everyone a quiet good morning, looking into her currently-empty teacup.

When breakfast had been served, Etien took her time eating, taking full advantage of the fact that she was being given a day to rest, after the exciting times she’d been having lately.

So she was quiet as she made her way through her food, adding to the conversation when she had something to say, but mostly keeping her mouth occupied with small bites taken at her own pace.

That is, until a question was asked of her directly.

“Have you a family, Etien?” Edmont asked her as casually as if he were asking her what the weather was like. “For all that Haurchefant has had to say about you, never has he mentioned anything of that sort. Are they never reported on?”

Etien blinked, then swallowed, searching for a way to answer that question.

“I… am not an orphan,” she confessed, “but I doubt that I could truly claim membership in the family of parents and siblings I left behind.”

“Oh, no?” he pressed. “How unfortunate. I had hoped that I could send them a missive praising the conduct of their daughter.”

She smiled shakily, reaching for her tea to buy herself time before she had to speak again.

Settled after she’d had a sip, she gave him a more genuine smile. “Thank you, my lord.” “But of course,” he replied, and all turned back to their dishes, and later drifted off to their tasks for the day.

Etien didn’t have much to do, so she wandered around Ishgard, making of herself an errand girl as best she could—making small deliveries, rescuing kittens, things like that. It turned the day into rather a bus-man's holiday, but at least she hadn’t had to go delving into creature-infested dungeons or up against a primal. Picking up a few herbs for an elderly woman and dropping off spiced wine Gibrillont wanted to get out quickly wasn’t so bad.

It got her some fresh air.

She sat on a little copse of broken stones near the Aetheryte plaza for a little while, letting the cool air kiss her cheeks and the wintry sun start the beginnings of sweat under her clothing.

She had intended to let her mind wander as she did that, taking in some of the views of the open space to either side of the Steps of Faith, but she hadn’t intended it to take the path it was.

She was used to calling wherever she was home, sort of—she’d taken up a room in the Roost in the early days; then was half-in, half out of the Waking Sands; then she drifted in and out of the Rising Stones as needed.

And now, she was here in Ishgard. Had her own room again and everything.

Was Ishgard home? Some part of her really, really wanted it to be, and she wasn’t wholly sure why.

Yes, she had had thoughts about finding some patch of the snows and making a home there, silly though it was. For one thing, how would she build a house with no carpentry expertise? But she had dismissed those thoughts for how little water they held.

But, with the Fortemps family sheltering her, and the feelings for Aymeric that she couldn’t deny starting to well up, she was beginning to seriously ask herself again.

Was Ishgard—not the Coerthan highlands, Ishgard—home? Didn’t she want to stay?

A land full of snows wasn’t exactly the place to put down roots, but at this point, couldn’t she survive anything?

She kicked her feet where they dangled over the edge of the stones, sending a smattering of dust into the wide, icy chasm below her and a small rock careening over the precipice.

Slowly, she scooted back from the ledge and came to standing.

Well, it was home for now. A place to let the snow melt off her boots. And she could certainly have worse housemates.

While Etien was sitting at the literal edge of the city pondering whether it was her home, the men of House Fortemps were conspiring to make it so. If she wanted, that is.

“I remain unsure how the paperwork will differ when I share no blood or familial ties with her,” Edmont commented, chin in hand, “but I think it should be simple enough, if no other family would come to claim her, and she would will it, of course. Do you not agree?”

Haurchefant, called to this meeting specifically, nodded eagerly. “I think that would be most beneficial for her! And what a boon it would be to the house!”

Artoirel agreed. “An asset such as her needs protection, and I would be honored to call her a sister.”

“What does this afford the old girl?”

“Not very much she does not already have,” Edmont explained, “but it would add some extra legitimacy to a great deal of the support we give her and the Scions.”

“And make Aymeric’s eagerness to assist her at every turn look a little less selfish,” Emmanellain commented, eyebrows lifting.

“Selfish?” Haurchefant repeated, just a little shocked.

“Surely you must be aware of his fondness for her,” Artoirel replied, almost with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, yes. I was the one who encouraged—” he cleared his throat—“in any event.”

Artoirel sighed. “Precisely. So. Mistress Etien Mellifer of House Fortemps?”

“If she accepts our offer,” Edmont confirmed.

She strode in, boots clattering against the floors as she made her way to the foyer. But when she found all four of the Fortemps men standing there, looking like they’d just been deep in conversation, she stopped short, even pulling up her hands, as if her nails would cross some invisible line.

“Ah, Etien.” Edmont began, as his sons greeted her each in their own way. “We had a proposition for you.”

As she had earlier, she blinked. “All right?”

“After a great deal of thought, we have come to the conclusion that, were you to agree to such a thing, we would like you to become a member of the household. Officially.”

Her jaw dropped, leaving the points of her lower teeth exposed. “Oh!” She responded after a pause, her expression brightening. “That…” She brought a hand to her cheek. “I accept the offer.”

“Excellent, how wonderful to hear! I shall have to draw up additional paperwork, of course, but there is this for you to sign, to take the first steps in that direction.”

She came to the table, lifting the pen in her hand and pressing it to the paper, leaving a loopy signature in its wake.

When she looked up, all of them smiled at her.

“That alone is enough for me. Welcome home, my daughter,” Edmont enthused, a hand on her shoulder.

When she rose from kneeling, Haurchefant scooped her up in a hug, and tears leaked from the corner of her eyes.

“Not so tight, Haurchefant,” Artoirel chided. “You have made her cry.”

He set her down immediately, hands coming near her face as if to wipe the tears away.

Etien shook her head, thought, wiping at her eyes herself. “No, no. It wasn’t too tight.”

It was a last stitch falling into place, a quick agreement clinched. But of course it was quick. She wouldn’t have said no. This was her home now.

#FFXIVWrite 2020 #FFxivWrite #fic #UNICORN FAMMMMMMMM #I really am just hitting a bunch of backstory/elided moments I love this #also the paperwork goes through at the end of 3.0 #in case you were wondering

[chiauve]

Aquarius - 31

Chris could at least count on Wesker and Barry not be out to get him broke. He couldn’t say that for the other three members of his team. Barry sat down for a few moments, picked at some nuts from the snack dish, and then made his farewells. Wesker nursed his single beer as always while Jill, Joseph, and Brad took every advantage of their “free” drinks.

Chris wept inside.

Still, he never really regret having the team together outside of work, but he needed to talk to Wesker alone and the best way to do that was to get drinks up and drank so his friend would leave quickly. Then he insisted on a second beer for Wesker to delay him and hoped things fell into place from there.

Sure enough, Jill cut herself off so she could get home and bowed out. Brad followed after. Joseph was determined to make use of Chris’ generosity and had enough that Chris had to snake his car keys out of his pocket and ask the bartender to call a cab. Adding on to a huge tab and barnacle duty, Chris assured Joseph he’d pick him up himself come the morning to retrieve his car.

The things he did to just have a word with his homeless, hot captain.

Worse yet, now that everyone else was finally gone, the old awkwardness sat its fat ass down at their table with them and neither of them said a word.

Do it, you got him alone.

Wesker ran his finger over the rim of his glass and it sang a soft siren song.

“How the hell do you do that every time?” Chris grumbled, watching those long fingers.

“Talent, obviously,” Wesker smirked.

Chris downed the last of his final beer and signaled for his tab.

“Done already? I was sure you were going to try to get me to stay longer.”

The hair on the back of Chris’ neck stood up and he didn’t know why. Wesker looked as cordial as he ever did. “I do, I mean, I am. Gonna try to make you stay.”

Wesker’s faint brows rose slightly above his shades. “Really? But what if I want another drink?”

“You won’t, lucky me you’re a cheap date.” Chris slammed his mouth shut so hard he bit his tongue and prayed Wesker didn’t fully process what he just said.

Fortunately for Chris, Wesker didn’t seem to take the phrase literally and continued without commenting on it. “And what is so important you needed to throw together this impromptu team drinking session just to get me alone? Something you don’t want them to know, otherwise you would have just pulled me aside at work.”

Chris flinched. “That obvious, huh?”

“Very. I suspect the others are formulating rumors as we speak.”

The bill arrived and, biting his lower lip at the number at the bottom, Chris took the moment to pay to organize his thoughts. How to do this? Wesker magnanimously handed over some cash to cover the tip.

“It’s actually not important, I guess. Well maybe not in the grand scheme of things but it’s important to me because STARS is important to me...” Chris rambled, until Wesker’s impatient sigh cut him off.

Right then, straight to the point.

“Look, it’s probably not that big of a deal because it’s summer and all but the temperature’s gonna start dropping again soon and well... I have my own place and a couch, if you ever need it. That’s not much, I know, but it’s warm at least, and probably not as cramped. And access to a bathroom...” Chris trailed off.

Wesker finger tapped at his beer glass and he stared at Chris a long time, face unreadable. “Redfield, what the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s okay, I mean... There was a brief time I put most of what money I made to my sister and had to live out of my car. Not for very long at all, but I can recognize some of the signs.”

“Signs,” Wesker said, flatly.

Chris hesitated; Wesker was not happy. “You never answer your phone because I’m guessing you don’t have one. You use the locker rooms to change an get ready every day, like you don’t have your own bathroom. The records have your home address as some apartments Jill says were condemned long ago...”

“Chris.”

He stopped at Wesker’s tone. It wasn’t anger or amusement, but disappointment and, far worse, maybe a bit of disgust. Chris could do nothing but sullenly wait while Wesker regarded him as he took a sip of beer, his own eyes unreadable behind his shades while Chris was left exposed. He set down his glass and his demeanor had changed to less disappointment and more resigned but, hopefully a good sign, a touch of amusement.

“I suppose a should...appreciate your concern but I am not homeless, Chris.”

“You're not.”

“No.”

“But what about...”

“Not that it’s any of your concern,” Weser snapped, “but I am busy and can’t always get to my phone. You want my attention, use my damned answering machine.” Wesker’s glare softened slightly and he sighed, “However I was not aware my records still had my old address; I will update that tomorrow.”

“Oh. So that’s where you use to live,” Chris said stupidly, of course he lived there he just said...

“Before I left. It was a shit hole then so I wasn’t all that surprised when I returned to find it closed. I’m currently renting a loft in a house shared with several others until I land a permanent house of my own and unfortunately said housemates are...rowdy. I don’t spend much time there. As for the locker room,” Wesker’s brows arched above his shades again, he’d come full circle back to mockery in his mood, “it’s easier to use it here and go straight to work than drive back home from the beach and fight everyone for use of the bathroom there.”

The beach. Chris hadn’t mentioned that or the stuff in the Bronco, well aware his snooping would not be well received.

“What are you doing at the beach so early in the morning?” Chris asked instead.

“Polar bearing, I believe it’s called.”

It was Chris’ turn to stare. “Polar bearing.”

“It’s an invigorating way to wake up.” Wesker was practically leering now, “And an evening dip in the summer is always refreshing.”

And Chris had seen that for himself. If Wesker swam around the shore naked in the evening, then honestly it made sense he might do it first thing in the morning for his own physical training. Chris ran, while Wesker swam around in cold water in the buff. Of course.

“I...” Chris stuttered back into the conversation, “I think it’s only polar bearing if it’s winter.”

“Really? Anyway, thank you for your ever so kind offer but I prefer my own bed to your couch.”

“Right...right. Sorry,” Chris laughed, easing the tension, “Boy, I feel stupid!”

Again with another long, intense look, “Still, I supposed I shouldn’t be angry at you being observant, but from now on run your ideas through someone else before you try to entice people into your home.”

Fuck, captain. “Yeah, Jill tried to warn me. Sorry about that.”

“Hm, oh well, I got free alcohol out of the deal.”

“I might have to sell some organs after this,” Chris sighed, tapping the bill.

“I know several reputable dealers.”

“...I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Wesker’s grin was wolfish.

#resident evil #chris redfield #albert wesker #aquarius #fanfic

[pixieungerstories]

Housemates 12

“Vinny?”

Vinny did not want to get up, but she cracked her eyes open a little.

“Hey there gorgeous!  I have to go to work now.”  Derick was watching her with a slight smile as he lightly ran his fingers up and down her arm.

“Mmm.  Yeah.  I just need a moment.  I’ll head back to my room.”

“Vinny?  Could I talk you into staying with Kogan tonight?  I don’t want to kick you out of my room and leave you alone.  He would take good care of you.  Keep you warm.  Keep you safe.  Bring you water or snacks or whatever you need.”

Now she sat up, pulling the blanket around her.  “You want me to … what?”

Derick smiled, “Just let Kogan take care of you.  Just so you aren’t alone.”

Vinny thought about that,  “You are sending me to spend the night with some other guy?”

Derick frowned, “Not some other guy!   Kogan.  You know him.  I know him.  He’ll keep you safe.”

Vinny hesitated.  Derick sighed.  “It’s ok.  I just need a moment to find someone to cover my shift and I’ll be right back.”

Vinny shook her head, “Don’t do that.  I’ll be fine.”

Derick hugged her close, “I know you will be, but you are going to be little cramped in a couple of hours.   I need you to not be alone for that.  I was hoping you would be comfortable enough with him to let Kogan help, but if not, then I will make sure that I can.”

“This is really important to you?”

Derick nuzzled against her.  “Yeah.  It is.  Making sure you are taken care of just now is my responsibility.  And I hate that I have to delegate it.  Honestly, Vinny, when you brought me back here I felt like the luckiest man in the world.  Work was the last thing on my mind.”

“I don’t understand why this is so important to you.”

Derick was still rubbing his face in her hair.  “It’s a werewolf thing.  I don’t like abandoning you.  But if I leave you with one of my pack mates, that’s different.”

She thought about that.  “OK.”  She could always go right back to her room after he left, right?

Derick beamed at her, “Thank you!” He kissed her passionately, then scooped her up, naked and wrapped in his blanket.

Before she had a chance to react with more than a squeak of surprised, he had passed her into the waiting Kogan’s arm.  With a last, tender kiss to her forehead, he said, “I’ll be back in a few hours.  Just keep her safe for me.”

Kogan nodded solemnly and carried her up the stairs as Derick hurried off.

Once Vinny heard the door close she said, “You can put me down.  I’ll be ok in my own room.”

Kogan rumbled softly.  “I promised I would stay with you until he got back.  Your room is fine, but if you kick me out I will have to call him and tell him that.”

Vinny frowned up at him.  “Why?”

“Because this is important in ways you can’t understand.”

Vinny swallowed.  Derick had spent the last hour or more taking care of her and hadn’t let her return the favour.  If he just needed her to be with someone one, she could handle that.  “OK.”

Kogan stopped outside of his room.  “It would be less upsetting for the pup to have you in here than it would for me to be in your room.”

Vinny nodded again.  “Can I get my clothes out of his room? Or something out of my room?”

Kogan considered this. “I will get them.  Please don’t run off.”

He tucked her into his bed in the darkness of his room and Vinny was asleep before he made it back.

——

Vinny woke up face down in bed, hugging a pillow.  She yawned and stretched and winced.  “Why does my ass hut?”

She had been asking the universe, which is why she jumped when Kogan answered.

“Ooo!  Not enough lube!”

Vinny turned her head to look and saw Kogan sitting up in bed, with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, reading a tablet.  Embarrassment fought with shame before indignation won out , “the muscles, idiot!”

“Ah!  New position then.  What are you doing?”

Vinny, whimpered struggling to sit up replied, “I need to pee.”

“Hold on,” Kogan put down his book, reached under the bed and came up with a ceramic pot with a lid.

Vinny frowned at it.

Kogan rolled his eyes, “It’s clean.”

“Why do you have a chamber pot?”

“Seven guys, three bathrooms, but it’s a long run down to the basement if the other two are full in the morning.”

“Thanks, but I’ll just go use mine.”

“C’mon.  I’m old.  It will be easier for me to carry the pot up the hall to dump than to carry you up and down the stairs.”

“I can walk.”

“Uh huh.  I thought your ass hurt.  Even if you make it up the stairs, are you going to get stuck on your toilet and not be able to get up?  That’s an older model.  It’s a lot closer to the floor.”  While he was talking, Kogan pulled over a foot stool, set the pot on it and pulled Derick’s blanket and thereby Vinny over to his side of the bed.  As she was staring at it, he opened a drawer and pulled out a shirt like a tent and pulled it over her head.

Vinny felt like a toddler being dressed as she fought to find the sleeves.

“Alright!” Kogan said in a business like matter.  “I’m going to help you stand up.  Then if you feel up to walking up a long flight of stairs, off you go.  If you don’t, you can hold on to me, use the pot and I’ll tuck you back into bed.  Then I can go empty it, wash my hands and find you an aspirin or something.”

Vinny nodded.  

Kogan counted “one, two, three!”

She was up but her legs were shaking in protest.  She was holding onto his arms so tightly she was probably going to leave him with bruises.  Kogan danced her around and silently lowered her onto the pot.  Vinny tried to look anywhere but at him.

“You know, when we had the safe sex discussion, I never even considered that this might come up.”

Vinny choked then laughed.  As she was peeing, Kogan leaned over and grabbed some tissue for her.  After she was tucked back into bed, he picked up the pot and headed out, pausing on the doorway to say, “I’m going to want details of exactly what he did to you when I get back.”

There was enough menace in his voice to prompt Vinny to call out, “Nothing that interesting.”

Kogan comes back with a glass of water, a bottle of aspirin and a jar of muscle rub that Vinny recognizes from the gym downstairs.  She took the aspirin as she eyed the jar nervously.

“What, exactly, do you think you are going to do with that?”

“Help,” he says simply as he sets it on the bedside table.  “Now, dish.”

Vinny pulls the covers over her face.  “Nothing!  I guess I’m not used to being on top.”

“That doesn’t make sense.  How long were you on top?”

Vinny blushed and looked away, “A while,”s he hedged.

“Alright.”

She peeks out from under the covers at him, “Alright?”

“Yeah.  What else am I going to say?  It’s your body.  Everyone was consenting.  None of my business.”  He thought for another moment, then added, “You may want to give away your shift tomorrow, if you can.  Maybe the one after too, if you really can’t walk.”

Vinny giggled, “Hey, Barry, I need to call in too sexed up to work.”

Kogan shook his head, “Just say you pulled a muscle.  You don’t need to say how. Or is there a coworker that needs the extra work?”

Vinny thought about that.  “Yeah.  I can text Jenn.  Once I can find my phone.”

Kogan walked over to the dresser and picked pulled it out of the pocket on her hoodie.

Vinny looked at it.  She had eleven missed messages, including one from Derick telling her that he missed her and hoped that Kogan was taking good care of her.  And one from a number she didn’t recognize that was a gif of the eggplant emoji sliding into the peach emoji.

[there should be a picture of that here but Tumblr hides my post if I include it.  See the whole post with pictures for free on my patreon page]

Vinny frowned.  Then she deleted the picture and blocked the caller.

Jenn agreed to take her shift and made a snarky comment about too much running.  Vinny just ignored it.

It was after midnight.  She really should go to bed.  Her bed.  “Kogan?  I need to go to sleep now.  I’m sorry I’m heavy.  Could you please see if -”

Kogan plucked the phone out of her fingers and gently slid her across the bed.  “Go to sleep.  Derick will come get you in a couple of hours when he gets home.”

Vinny considered this.  Kogan had a king bed.  It wasn’t exactly intimate. The sheets were clean and crisp and the mattress was softer than hers.

——-

When her alarm went off at six, Vinny was hugging Kogan like he was a pillow.  Derick was spooned up behind her, his sunrise salute pressed gently against her.  This was easily the strangest place she had ever woken.  It took a moment to see where her phone was.  As she stretched across Kogan to grab it, Derick’s cock dragged across her thigh.

“Mmm.  Do that again,” he moaned.

Kogan snorted.  “Not unless you are negotiating a threesome.”

Vinny blushed.  With the muscle cramps and being pinned between two grade A slabs of male, she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Did Kogan take good care of you?”

That was a whole other level of awkward.  “Yeah, but we are missing running again.”

Derick whooped and hugged her close.  “Good!  I am so proud of -” he trailed off as Kogan sat up and shook his head.

“What?” Vinny asked.

“Um.” Derick stalled.

“You left her so cramped up she can hardly stand.  I brought my arthritis cream, but she wasn’t keen on having me apply it.” Kogan explained.

Derick frowned, “Kogan gives excellent massages.”

Vinny pulled a pillow over her face.  “I can’t talk about this.”

A moment later, Derick scooped her up and was carrying her up the stairs.  “I should have stayed.  I was really hoping you would let Kogan help.”

“You really hoped I would let Kogan rub ointment into my ass?”

“Well, yeah.”  He clearly didn’t see the problem with that.

“I don’t get it.”

“Kogan is my friend, your friend.  I was hoping that if you need something, ANYTHING, you would let us take care of you.  Should I have gotten Tristan instead?  I thought you would be happier with Kogan as a backup because you have spent the most time with him.  And he’s old enough to be careful with you.”

Vinny blinked as Derick laid her in her bed.  She was trying to read his face because he seemed completely sincere.  Then something hit her.  “That story about werewolves having pack marriages is true then, isn’t it?”

Derick frowned, “Ah.  I forgot you are catholic.” There was a moment of silence as they both tried to understand the other’s point of view.  Finally, Derick said, “Well, will you let me rub ointment into your ass?”

“That would be nice.”

It was.  It was so nice she was dripping before he was done.  “I can’t be on top right now.” She mentioned a the warming action kicked in helping her relax.

“Neither can I,” Derick sighed.  “Not for the first few times.  Do you have any toys we can play with?”

Vinny smushed her face into her pillow.  “No one has ever seen my toys but me.”

“OK.” He lay down and spooned her.  His cock pressed against her back as he reached around and began stroking her clit.  Vinny wiggled around and pulled a condom out of the bed side table.  “Really not a good idea,” he warned.

“Easier clean up?  I promised you a hand job.”

Now Derick growled.  He snatched the condom from her and rolled it on.  “Can I use your thighs instead?”

#werewolf #Werewolf boyfriend #orc #orc boyfriend #terato #exophilia

[married-world-blog]

The Beginning...

I am three weeks behind with this assignment. I have honestly been struggling with it, to tell you the truth. The assignment is that we find a story worth telling about our lives and find a way to brand it. There is absolutely nothing interesting about my life and this is why I had no idea where to start.

  If you come across this blog, please refer it to your friends. It is an assignment and I need the marks. I need to graduate and be something a whole lot more than just a wife who is expected to have a baby sometime soon.

  I thought about blogging about my new found love for the pain of exercising, but that wouldn’t really be the beginning. I thought about blogging about my dreams, but everyone in my class is doing that. I have been following each of their blogs and they all kind of look the same: it is becoming boring actually.

So perhaps, an introduction will do and then we will see where that leads us.

  Disclaimer:

The names used in this blog are not real. In the spirit of protecting mine and my family’s identity, I would like to just blog and not have any added vested interest in my life that is beyond what I am willing to share. Your respect and understanding is highly appreciated J

  My name is Thandeka Buthelezi. I was Thandeka Zulu before I met my husband, Nkosinathi Buthelezi. My husband is from a royal family in KZN, eShowe. I am from a royal family in KZN, eMnambithi. When one is born from a family that prides itself in being difficult and not leaving you with much choice when it comes to your life, you get used to not having dreams of your own because somewhere along the line, you will suffer the chest pains of having to alter your dreams to accommodate expectation.

I matriculated at the age of 16. I was in boarding school in Maritzburg from grade one. At 17, I went to university, UKZN to study public relations. I do not know why. I have always been a good writer and a good image consultant; that is how I made some extra money in boarding school. My teachers always said that I would make a good journalist or a great PR. I heard “great PR” and chose that over being a “good” journalist. I was good at PR. But still, I was very careful not to date anyone. To date someone would mean to start investing into something that would have to be altered to accommodate expectations. I did not even have many friends. I was friendly with many people but I did not have any friends. I was the only child to Lindiwe and Tom Zulu. What they had in store for me was not up for negotiation. And honestly, I never had it in me to disappoint them.

  I did good by making this decision because at 18, I came home for the school holidays and my dad returned from a business trip to tell me that it was time that I met my husband. Even though I knew that this day was coming, it still shook me. I was scared. I had a matric. I had one year left to get a degree and my dad would not even let me finish that. He told me on a Tuesday, that on the Saturday, my lobola negotiations would begin. I spent two weeks preparing for my umembeso and umabo. My dad sent his workers to go and fetch my stuff in res at UKZN because I was not going back. My very being got lost in the ululating and singing of my wedding. Everything else that happened is still a blur. But I have pictures to jog down a memory or two. I don’t like looking at my wedding pictures though… I look so young, naïve and unknowing of what will be.

After the umabo, my husband had to come back to Joburg and he brought me back with him. I knew that he did not want me so I was not even going to throw myself at him in the slightest bit. He is a medical physician: Dr N.N. Buthelezi. Good for him. He moved me in with him in a 3 bedroom townhouse in Paulshoff. He let me have the master bedroom and he sleeps in one of the other rooms. I know that he has a girlfriend and I am preparing myself for the day he tells me that he will make her his second wife. All I asked of him was to go to school. I told him that I will still cook and clean for him. I will be the wife that I am expected to be. I just need to go to school. I even told him that I would apply for bursaries. He told me that it is okay, he will pay for me to go school. He listened to what I would be interested in studying and I told him my interests. He said I should go to VEGA. He said they have the best programmes for my kind of interests. So here I am, credited and in my third year of Brand Management. Last week, he bought me car to drive to school with. He told me that an uber was not safe. He bought me a white Mercedes Benz A250. I think he did it because my dad asked him how he was treating me and he lied and said we were good. We are not good, we are the same as we were two years ago when we first got married. He is my housemate. I am still a virgin. And every time we go home, I am always asked when I am having a baby. Holy Spirit please intervene.

…

I have started taking care of myself. I enjoy running now. I am a reality-show junkie. And these women whose lives I follow out of interest of how one makes millions out of just living one’s life on camera, I have developed a crush on exercise. I asked Nathi to turn the extra room into a gym and he let me. I gym in there when I cannot hit the road and run, but sometimes, running is the only way I get to just get out of the house.

So I went for my run today. My body has become more in shape then when I started so I have confidence in running in tight gym clothes. At home, I gym in a sports bra and workout tight or workout leggings. I get home and take a shower. I get breakfast started while still wrapped in a towel. I bought some make-up and I am about to watch a Seenqo or Mihlali youtube make-up video to help me apply it. But first, ubaba wasekhaya must eat. My thin twist braids are tied up into a bun. A yellow towel is wrapped around my body, and I have my slipper flip flops on.

  “Hey”, he says as he walks into the kitchen. Nathi and I are generally nice to one another. The chemistry is just not there.

“Good morning”, I reply. Please note that on our wedding night when the elders locked us up in his rondel, he let me sleep on the bed while he slept on the floor. And this is what we do every time we go visit our parents.    

He stares at me while I dish up for him. It is a stare that he has never really given me since we got married.

“Ukahle?” I ask him.

“Hai cha, ngiyaphila ntokazi. Ukuthi nje, ngifuna ukuk’tshela ukuthi umuhle”, he says. He tells me that I am pretty every day. And just like I respond to all the compliments he gives me about my food, my looks, and my manners, I say “Ngiyabonga”.

I walk out of the kitchen. He gently holds my wrist and says, “Please join me for breakfast today”. I am shocked. We have never had meals together unless we are in KZN. He sees my shock.

“Please”, he insists.

I dish up for myself and sit across him. I start eating.

“Everything okay?” I ask him. I have lived with him long enough to know that he is not okay.

He shrugs his shoulders.

“Is it Patience?” I ask him. His eyes almost pop out of his eye-socket.

“Come on Nathi. It’s not like we are in love. We can at least be friends right? This life of ours is almost un-relatable to a lot of people and it is difficult to talk about. So at the very least, we can talk to each other about it right?” I try again.

“It just feels weird talking about my girlfriend with my wife”, he says.

“Then you should tell her to stop writing you letters and putting them in your lunchbox. She knows I make your lunchbox so she clearly wants me to know her and about her”, I say.

He looks at me – speechless.

“Nathi, chill. I am good.” I say.

He chuckles.

“You really are something else Mrs Buthelezi”, he says.

I smile.

“So? What’s up?” I ask.

“Patience wants her and I to get married. Last night, we went out with friends and colleagues, she went down on one knee and asked me to marry her”, he tells me.

I keep eating my food like what he is telling me means nothing to me. But in all honesty, this Patience girl is disrespecting me. She is showing me that she will never respect me like I respect her – enough to not shake things up for her and Nathi. I just stay away. But her type doesn’t scare me. I hope Nathi said yes so that her ass can be taken to eShowe and my in-laws can deal with her and show her the position of the second wife.

“So what did you say?” I ask him, drinking my juice.

“I walked out”, he says.

“Do you want to marry her?” I ask him.

“I used to think that I do, but honestly, there are little things about her that make me realise that she will never be a good wife. Some women make good girlfriends, but they would never make good wives”, he says.

“Not everyone is trained like us for marriage Nathi. You need to be fair. Not every parent births a child for marriage like our parents did”, I tell him.

“It’s not about the training. It is the basic respect for the next person. With respect, everything else grows and can be fixed or groomed. Patience is not a respectful woman. She is into status and she treats people according to their status or positions in life. It is a genuine turn-off”, he says.

I did say I know her type. There are squads of them on social media.

“How are they different to our parents? Our parents thought we were suited for each other because of our positions right? Would they have let you marry a woman who was not from a royal home? Would my parents have let me marry a regular Joe? No. It is human to recognise position before heart. We are no better than her”, I say.

“Do you actually want me to marry Patience?” He asks me.

“I don’t care what you do with Patience. I just want you to be honest enough to say that you are just simply not into her. Making up excuses for your feelings will drive you crazy. If the butterflies are not there, don’t force them and don’t try to make it seem like it’s on her. Patience has probably always been like this since the day you met her. What is making it an issue now? How are you different from the women who believe they can change a man after marriage? Just own your truth”, I say.

He is quiet.

  The intercom goes off. Nathi stands up and gets it while I continue eating.

“Nathi, open the gate we need to talk”, a woman demands.

“Patience, my wife is home. What are you doing here?” Nathi calmly says. I am glad to know that when he talks about me, I am referred to as “my wife”.

“Nathi, I said open this damn gate. Don’t tell me about that village bitch”, she says.

I stop eating. I look at Nathi. He looks at me. He turns off the intercom.

“Nathi, I don’t ask you for much. But I will ask that isthunzi sami sihlonishwe. Don’t bring your girlfriends here”, I say.

I walk into my bedroom to get dressed.

  Good morning bloggers.    

[taeguboi]

So Far Away PART 10

Ah, would you look at that! I found the time for another part in this series! Idk I guess I just got more ideas about where the plot was gonna go and sort of wrote on a roll... Hope you guys enjoy and can anticipate a part 11!

Masterlist // 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09

“So Yoongs, it’s been a while since we’ve both managed to have a day off at the same time, hasn’t it?” Seokjin poses from the kitchen as he tries to make conversation with his friends who are currently lounging in his living room this cloudy Wednesday afternoon.

“Yeah, I suppose it has been…” responds Yoongi, not really caring for the programme on the TV that the others - Namjoon, Jimin and Taehyung - are watching.

“Trust me Jimin, by the time I’m done with these, the pouty bitch will forgive you in no time!” Seokjin confidently asserts as he puts the tray of raw cookies into the oven.

“A little harsh perhaps but ah… I hope so” sighs Jimin, resting on the shoulder next to him, Taehyung’s. “What's it been, like a week now since anyone has heard from him?”

“Possibly a bit less but yeah, I think we're all a little concerned now” replies Seokjin, pushing the heated door shut and finally throwing off the apron to join his buddies in the living room.

It wasn’t unusual to Seokjin that Jimin and Namjoon would be out of the university building around this time of the week because they’d spam his phone with messages whilst he would be trying to work, or they’d decide it’d be convenient to just show up at the cafe instead, but Yoongi was usually in a college lecture and Seokjin’s shifts just so happened to fall on most Wednesdays. Thankfully, the lecture got cancelled and Seokjin’s rota had been kind on him.

“I don’t believe I’ve tried any of your recipes before Seokjin” Taehyung decides to mention as he spots the elder coming into the room.

Seokjin turns to Taehyung with confusion as he takes a place on the couch next to him. “You ordered food from my cafe the other day, remember?... and then you ordered like three more dishes!”

“Oh yeah! So I did!” Taehyung grins dopily. “... and they were all so delicious!”

“I’ve never seen a man eat so much!” Namjoon comments with a chuckle.

“Wait! YOU made those?!” Taehyung unknowingly asks Seokjin in shock, pinning his hands to the couch as if he's just been given a major life epiphany, causing the other four boys to bow their heads into a facepalm in one what is yet to be many of Taehyung’s “blonde moments”. Of course, the boy's hair wasn't actually blonde, nor has it been dyed at the moment, but… it was certainly a moment.

“Oh” Taehyung realizes, noting everyone's reactions to what he just said, slouching back into the couch.

“...What can I say? Nights out work me up a super appetite the next day!” Taehyung informs to divert, throwing an arm around Jimin’s shoulder.

“Yeah, and let’s divert from talking about that night again!” Yoongi chimes in with a nervous laugh followed by silence and expressions of confusion from the others. “Well, you know…” Yoongi begins to explain, feeling extremely awkward as the boys look at him with confusion and he wonders why it was such a good idea to speak up suddenly like that about that night that his friend Jimin is so badly wanting to make amends about. “I guess it was alright that you guys all got laid, but I wound up back home within an hour tending to an injury… and I did not get laid!” he laughs, trying to steer away from a still sore topic… whoops.

“So Seokjin…” Taehyung diverts. “How about letting me try one of those when they come out the oven, huh?” he requests with a huge childlike grin.

“Nuh-uh” Seokjin disagrees. “That entire tray is to give to Jimin only… and has anyone ever taught you manners kid?”

Taehyung tries his best to avoid the gentle clap around the ear that Seokjin is about to give him past Jimin’s head, but fails miserably, getting hit much harder than the elder had planned.

“Okay… ‘suppose that was my fault for flinching” Taehyung says, cowering a little to lean his head on Jimin’s shoulder now instead.

“Oh dear ‘Jin; I hope you’re not planning to be this brutal to my boyfriend when I leave” chuckles Jimin. “I've only had this one for a week! I can’t have you scaring him off, I mean look at him; do you honestly think I’ll ever do any better?”

“True, true… I suppose that’s the best you’re gonna get when I’m already taken” Seokjin jests, winking in Namjoon’s direction.

“So modest(!)” Jimin sarcastically remarks.

“Don’t act like you’ve never thought about it” jokes Seokjin, earning an exasperated sigh from Yoongi.

***

It’s been days since Jeongguk has managed to have a proper conversation with anyone. Yoongi has understandably been way too busy with college work, so once he comes home everyday, Jeongguk can barely get a word in before the elder housemate wants to go to bed. Namjoon and Seokjin have too much on their plates too, and even if they didn’t, they’re probably sick of Jeongguk’s shit anyway. He’s certainly too stubborn to be the first to talk to Jimin after all the drama that went on the other night… Sure, maybe he’s in the wrong for doing what he did, but did Jimin really have to hit him and so hard?

The gym has become Jeongguk’s second home in times of late; it’s the only place whereupon he can release his frustrations - and get away properly. As for uni lectures, they’ve become forgotten and his schedule is on the road to becoming nocturnal. Restless nights overthinking and not falling asleep til daylight the next morning, then waking up at noon for breakfast, eating a fat load of cereal, hitting the gym, returning way after everyone’s working day has ended just for the purpose of avoiding conversations he doesn’t want to have, hitting the shower and then doing it all over again. Jeongguk figures it must be purely the exercise that is stopping him from falling into a deep depression or becoming a complete recluse… Deep depression(!) Yep, I’m fucking ridiculous now, thanks Hoseok!

The time on the clock situated next to Jeongguk’s bed reads 01:07PM - still not quite waking up time for him, in other words. So the young boy is rather startled to hear a sharp knocking on the main door.

Not without a groan, Jeongguk rises hesitantly out of bed, rubbing his heavy eyes and then the stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave off his face. The boy takes a glance at the time and responds with an ‘ugh’.

Gown on to cover the fact that he’s only wearing underwear and hasn’t bothered with clean pyjamas for several days, he exits his room and makes his way to the door, only to find a thick envelope hanging out the letterbox, and upon opening the door, no one on the other side.

“What the fuck?” mutters Jeongguk as he snatches the item out of the letterbox. Inspecting the item, his mood goes from a neutral annoyed to just plain miserable again as he realizes what the package is; some stupid small gift he was going to leave on Hoseok’s pillow one night or something like that. Usually, Jeongguk would probably rip the item out of the envelope and toss it across the room out of pure anger, but he figures it’s not worth it. And besides, it’s not like he’s pented up his frustrations this time like he usually does. He could swear he’s actually trying this time.

“Why the fuck would you knock on the door if you ain’t gonna stay there?” he grumbles, picking up a bunch of mail that seems to have fallen to the floor also.

Flicking through the mail to see if there’s anything for him, he continues to quietly ramble about being woken “Stupid postman…”

What Jeongguk fails to pay attention to though is the quiet, almost silent, opening of the door behind him and the face the peaks cautiously from behind.

“Nothing for me, of course…”

“Actually, I think there’s an order for you that arrived slightly late” the voice courageously speaks up.

That voice. It’s unmistakable. I’m going nuts thinks Jeongguk as he turns around, expecting the voice that resembles Jimin’s to be all in the mind… but it isn’t. There stands the best friend he lost to a meaningless one night stand and Jeongguk’s heart sinks.

“I suppose there’s something you forgot to tell me” is all Jeongguk can say because that’s the only reason in his mind that Jimin would want to come back.

“I suppose there is, kind of” Jimin replies. “I-I… haven’t seen you around lately in class so I er…”

“Just spit it out” Jeongguk demands, followed by a uncharacteristic “Please” voiced quietly.

“I do have stuff to say,” Jimin continues. “But it’s not what you think… besides, if I had nothing nice to say, I’d have probably done it over the phone this time in fear of getting punched back… Dude, I’m really sorry for lashing out at you like that…”

“I’m the one that didn’t listen Chim” admits Jeongguk, head hanging in shame.

Now this surprises Jimin greatly. All Jimin was expecting from Jeongguk is that he’d make Jimin leave the cookies and go because he doesn’t really wanna talk yet at the same time, he’s obviously only been living on whatever is in the house currently over the past couple of days.

Jeongguk turns away from facing Jimin slightly so he can continue but without looking too weak or defeated or whatever appearance or emotion it is that his ego doesn’t want to let through. “I’ve been too involved and wrapped up in my own emotions and I  got selfish and ignorant; you were right to do it… Also, you wouldn’t have been able to call me anyway…”

“Uh, why?” Jimin questions, still amazed at Jeongguk’s use of vocabulary to describe himself. Now there has been many a time that deep down, Jimin could throw a fit at Jeongguk for being selfish and for being ignorant… Last week, though extreme you might say, was the first time Jimin had ever confronted these thoughts that Jeongguk might be selfish and / or ignorant. Yes, the lash out happened only because what Jeongguk did affected Jimin directly and negatively for once, but he wasn't exactly expecting this from his younger friend.

“Why?” responds Jeongguk. “‘Threw my phone in anger the other night and smashed it against the wall, didn’t I?” Jeongguk tells him.

“Ah, of course you did” smiles Jimin, forever aware of Jeongguk’s antics and realizing how much he’s missed hanging out with his mad friend.

“Why are you here?” asks Jeongguk defensively.

“I, erm… Brought this for you…”

“Really?” Jeongguk asks in disbelief, wondering why Jimin is being so kind to him… could this be a trick? Wait, what's in the box?

“Cookies for Gukkie?” Jimin smiles, as if he can read Jeongguk’s though process. The elder hands forward the box of sugary treats and it feels to him as though his arms are hanging there for minutes longer than they in fact are.

“For real?” Jeongguk asks with anticipation inside, now failing to believe those thoughts that Jimin might be pranking him.

“For real, brother” Jimin assures as Jeongguk takes the box from his hands.

Slowly but surely, Jeongguk opens the box to have a taste of one of the biscuits.

“How are they?” asks Jimin hopefully.

“‘Seokjin make these?”

“Yeah… I would’ve done something myself but we all know how useless I am at making things” sighs Jimin.

“Dude, this is gay” Jeongguk states, trying not to let an appreciative and relieved crumb filled smile come out.

“So that means we’re good?”

In a sigh of defeat from trying to keep up some sort of fight, Jeongguk puts the cookies down to rest on the arm of the sofa nearby and approaches Jimin. The big hug that follows tells Jimin everything he needs to know without a single word being spoken by his friend.

***

“Well that went miserably,” Namjoon comments as he and Yoongi take a walk down to a store nearby Seokjin’s.

“Tell me about it” huffs Yoongi, throwing his hood over his head despite the alright weather.

“You need to tell the guys at some point Yoongs, or those two are only gonna get encouraged to get back together or do whatever it is they do…”

“I know, I know… but it's like, how? I stayed quiet for so long to help them with… actually, why was I doing it?”

“Because you care…”

“Ah, don't remind me”

***

An unknowing Hoseok makes his way back to the dorm after attending his second class of the week. He is determined to get back on track with his life goals, and some boy shouldn't have even gotten in the way of that in the first place, he figures.

To be honest, the other night, if he hadn't have already had a big enough realization, the program in the background on the tv he was relaxing in front of whilst catching up with paperwork certainly did, or rather, it certainly helped.

Ceasing to type away furiously at his laptop to meet that one deadline he'd previously forgotten about, the story-line in the soap drama towards the end of the week had caught his attention. See, there was a girl telling her dad she didn't want to go to a university because of the boy she's in love with. Hoseok hadn't really been paying attention to anything before that but from the bit of context he was given as he began to gradually gain an awareness of the background noise, it seemed that the boy whom the young girl was after had little or no interest in her. In other words, he didn't care, not really.

Hoseok found himself quietly yelling at the screen as the girl rejects the pamphlet for a prestigious place of learning which her dad tries to give her and runs off upstairs to her bedroom though she must be well into her early twenties.

“You're gonna just waste your potential like that?!? What the actual fuck?”

“Alright mate?” questioned Yoongi, who was just coming in to the dorm, laptop bag in hand of course and appearing as knackered as ever.

Hoseok sat himself up straight to face his pending document and replied with a contented sigh. “Yeah… Everything is fantastic” he told a confused Yoongi as he began to type away again with confidence.

He'd done so much with himself that to Hoseok the past several days since seemed to have passed in just hours. So when Hoseok pushes down that door handle to calmly enter the dorm now, his mood changes from that laid back and collected mode to something a bit more anxious as he registers his first sight inside the place; one he wasn’t at all expecting.

“So yeah,” Jimin begins to Jeongguk. “Basically I woke up, and….” Jimin takes one look at who has just entered to dorm and he can't seem to find it in him to finish his sentence.

“I see you guys made up” Hoseok comments at the obvious, noting the takeaway order and playing cards on the table. “That's nice” he continues.

“Uh, yeah…” replies Jimin nervously, suddenly having a small flashback of being wasted that night last week and treating Hoseok as though he were Jimin’s best mate. This was never true however, purely because of all the angst that continued to go down between Jeongguk and Hoseok, and the thought sends a small feeling of guilt to Jimin as though he betrayed Jeongguk in some way despite the events prior that night.

“Oh come on, what's your point?” Jeongguk aggressively questions, just wanting to ground to either swallow himself or Hoseok up. This is really bad timing to Jeongguk. Why the fuck did Hoseok have to come back just as amends are being made between himself and Jimin? Jeongguk swears it's almost like the elder has done this on purpose…

“I dunno.... I haven't seen you around much…” Hoseok begins with uncertainty.

“What d’ya want?” interrupts Jeongguk, clearly still unimpressed with Hoseok’s appearance… even though they both live here.

“To be friends, actually” Hoseok eventually speaks out. “It might sound like a stupid idea, but the point is…”

“There's no point... ‘actually’” Jeongguk asserts. “Save it, because… I'm moving out.”

“Huh?” both Jimin and Hoseok ask in surprise.

“Yeah, I'm moving in… with Jiminie here!” Jeongguk decides - in that very moment… without even discussing it with or asking Jimin.

“‘Guk!” exclaims Jimin quietly with gritted teeth. ‘What the fuck are you doing Jeongguk?’ is what’s running inside Jimin’s mind.

“Yeah yeah I know, we weren't going to say anything until I was certain but it's definitely what I want now” Jeongguk continues.

“W-well…” Hoseok stutters, still in surprise. “If that's what you want then… I'm glad for you…”

“Hang on a minute!” Jimin butts in. Trying his best not to expose Jeongguk for his bullshitting, Jimin attempts to divert Jeongguk away from this whimsical decision; he loves his friend, but he could never for the life of him live with Jeongguk… “This idea about being friends, Jeongguk!” he continues, jaw still stiff from gritting his teeth. “I thought we were going to try and make amends first before you make any rash decisions!”

Jimin’s look of disapproval goes ignored by Jeongguk who is still set on what he believes is only a little idea. “Nope! I've made my choice. I don't trust that his intentions are to just be civil…”

“Jeongguk, just hear me out…” Hoseok suggests.

“Come on Guk, you should at least listen to him…” agrees Jimin, desperate to get this so called arrangement forgotten about.

“Fine” huffs Jeongguk, only giving Hoseok the time of day because Jimin said so. “Though I can't imagine there's anything left to say.”

“Will you just quit being stubborn for one minute so we can resolve this?” Hoseok enquires, finally allowing himself to get worked up again.

“See? He just came back to have a go…” sulks Jeongguk.

“Right” Jimin asserts, leaving his seat. “I'm off to the shop to get a few things. I'll be fifteen minutes; sort it!”

It's a big risk, but Jimin practically storms out the front door, leaving Jeongguk and Hoseok to their own devices.

A silence fills the air but Hoseok eventually manages to speak, determined.

“I'm not going to go out of my way to convince you otherwise because you have your own mind but I can assure you there's no need to move out”

“What's it to you?” asks Jeongguk, resting back onto the couch, arms crossed, awaiting explanation.

“Well, it shouldn't have to come to this…” Hoseok begins. “Come on, the only issue - which can easily be solved - is that we were never just friends.”

“Where's this coming from?” asks Jeongguk, leaning forward again and becoming rather restless as he faces downwards to the rug on the floor. “I know you Hoseok… you would never usually want to be so… so… open?”

“Let’s just say I spoke to a friend...” Hoseok explains, thinking back to that day at the cafe with Taehyung. “That’s partly it... And I think I know why I used to refuse to loosen up…” he continues, taking a place on the couch next to one Jeongguk is sat on. “I didn't wanna let my guard down completely ever so I guess I almost became a different person.”

“I still don't know why you got so angry at me and stormed out like that the last time we… saw each other.” Jeongguk tells the elder, gradually looking up and managing to face him.

“Look, I have things I'm annoyed about, but I'm starting to think they were mostly misunderstandings…” Hoseok continues, shuffling along the couch to get nearer in the hope that it might encourage a connection in this uncertain topic of conversation. “I've become an extremely defensive guy, particularly around you, meaning this whole ‘having fun’ thing clearly wasn't meant to be… I think you’ll agree that we both changed too much for our own good...”

“Will you at least explain, out of all the arguments we've had, what the last one was about?” Jeongguk questions with a frustrated hand flung in the air and back down.

“I don't think I can… not completely anyway. I think you can agree that we've both screwed each other over a lot and messed with each other's heads…”

“Got that right!” sasses Jeongguk, still annoyed at the thought of that morning last week when Hoseok left him hanging and stormed out without explanation.

“So... let's start anew” Hoseok requests, drawing closer to Jeongguk once more until they boys are face to face and on the edges of their respective couches.

Jeongguk can't help but disregard most of what Hoseok is saying as he gets a look into the eyes that he hates to admit he's missed looking into. He kind of wants to consider the whole friendship idea but sometimes the heart speaks over the mind and the only thing he can think about is those lips.

***

Exiting the convenience store, Jimin is nothing but frustrated. How could Jeongguk just announce that without even speaking a word to him about t first? Moving out? To Jimin’s place? How would that even work? There'd be so much to sort out, and although it might not be so for Jeongguk, this would change Jimin’s everyday life completely!

Though Jimin may not want to admit it, Guk can be a bit of a handful at times, being the restless muscle pig he is… taking the boy in would definitely prove to be a challenge. Yes, they do have much in common but at the same time, they're opposites; Jimin wants to settle down now and spend nights in getting to know more about his new love interest, whereas Jeongguk in this rough patch is definitely gonna want to be out ripping it up every night… and who else is fool enough to take it upon themselves to look after him?

To: Tae Tae

You still at Seokjin’s?

‘I can’t be bothered to go back’

***

“You know what?” Yoongi rhetorically asks Namjoon. “I can’t be arsed with it anymore” he announces, flicking the ash from his fag onto the pavement as he and Namjoon lounge about outside of Seokjin’s house.

“I think you might need a night out then, in that case” Namjoon encourages.

“Right. How’s tonight for you?” asks Yoongi.

“Fine…” sighs Namjoon despite his schedule tomorrow.

“But just… just a few of us” Yoongi adds.

“Sure” Namjon assures. “Four’s a good number, right?”

Yoongi nods at the suggestions, finally finishing his cigarette and stomping on the end.

The two head back into Seokjin’s place and Namjoon continues “Right. A friend each; I’ll bring ‘Jin and you bring whoever you want?”

“Sounds good”

***

“How about… I compromise” suggests Jeongguk to Hoseok, reaching out a hand to rest on his with what could be read as affection.

“Huh?” Hoseok questions with confusion, yet he doesn't move his hand away.

“I'm still gonna move out, but… Let's start anew tomorrow…”

“I’m lost” Hoseok tells Jeongguk.

“There's a few hours left today; that's enough time for me to pack some things, and…” Jeongguk confidently leans forward to plant a gentle kiss on Hoseok’s loose lips that still part open a little from confusion “... It's enough time to maybe… have one last time?”

“I don't think that's a good idea, Guk…”

“Come on… You won't have to face me the next morning… I'll even let you be a big boy and you can be my…”

“For a start, I don't want any of that weird shit we used to do; that's where the confusion partly lies…”

“So… that wasn't a no… I mean, you know, about the rest?” Jeongguk asks, hiding the smile that wants to emerge on his face.

“I don't know…”

“It'll be a positive end of a chapter… if you make it positive?” Jeongguk smiles,  rubbing his thumb over Hoseok’s limp hand which responds upon this movement to grip the youngers hand.

Hoseok doesn't reply with words. Instead, he lets a silence come between them again as he ponders for a few seconds before deciding he'd probably shoot himself for not taking this last opportunity to be intimate with Jeongguk one last time. With a sting in his eyes, he plants a kiss on a responsive Jeongguk’s lips, figuring he'd only be wondering what could have happened if he doesn't do this - there might even be a regret.

Unable to take the distance that the arms of the couches have between them, Jeongguk moves over to Hoseok, hovering over the elder as he remains standing to engage in another kiss. Jeongguk pulls Hoseok up towards him as their lips are planted together and the make out that follows is their most passionate and tender yet.

Hoseok softly places a hand onto Jeongguk’s chest as the latter runs his tongue between the former’s lips to indicate he wants to go further with this kissing session. Both boys are smiling into the kisses, and gradually, they begin to explore each other's bodies, signalling that they should move on and out of the sitting room.

Jeongguk takes Hoseok’s hand, leading him to his (Jeongguk’s) bedroom, Jimin is completely forgotten about and Jeongguk slams the door shut.

PART 11 here

Again, I really want to thank any new followers [which I somehow seem to still be acquiring] for hitting that button and thank you to anyone who might have only recently discovered some of my older reaction posts and liked those too!

Additionally, I apologize if this feels like another filler part but I promise this is a build up to something more interesting [I think, I hope lmao]

#bts #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts fiction #bts fan fic #bts fan fiction #bts angst #beyond the scene #jungkook x jhope #jungkook #jeongguk #jhope #j-hope #j hope #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook fiction #jungkook fan fic #jungkook fan fiction #jungkook angst #hoseok #jhope fic #jhope fanfic #jhope fanfiction #jhope fan fic #jhope fan fiction #jhope fiction #jhope angst

[quentinquill]

A Midnight Brownie

The heavy cloak of sleep lifts briefly and for a moment I become aware that I’m dreaming before the dreamscape swiftly fades, like rising smoke. A soft voice is pawing at the edge of the bed, and I blink blearily in the darkness.

“Daddy? Daddy?” Felix, lying beside me, doesn’t stir. A small shadow is hovering by him.

“Mackenzie? What is it sweetheart?” The shadow cautiously tiptoes around to me. As she nears, I can make out her tousled hair, trembling lips, and the little stuffed leopard clutched in her hands. 

“I heard a noise. Downstairs.” She says in a high-pitched whisper. I reach out for my dressing gown lying beside the bed and step from the cosy warmness into the chilly night air. From her bed at the foot of ours, the dog gently thumps her tail as we pass by, awake but undisturbed by any noise.

“Come on kiddo, I’ll tuck you in.” I gently guide Mackenzie back to her room, but she pauses as we pass the top of the stairs. She peers into the deep shadows and draws herself closer to me. In a very low whisper she asks,

“What if there is someone down there?”

“The dog would know if there was a stranger. It’s probably the brownie.” Mackenzie crawls beneath her quilt and pulls it up to her nose, her toy clutched to her chest. Her face is blue in the glow of the night light, and shows her wide eyes as she looks at me in surprise, her fear almost instantly forgotten.

“We have a brownie?” She asks in an excited whisper. I smile and nod. “What is it like?”

“Her name is Maggie.”

“It’s a girl?”

“Yes, she is a girl, and we must be careful because brownies do not like to be talked about behind their backs. They find it very rude.” Mackenzie frowns at this, looking very thoughtful.

“Can you tell me again about brownies, without talking about Maggie? Would that be rude? Because we wouldn’t be talking about her behind her back, would we?”

“I think that would be okay,” Mackenzie snuggles deeper into her blankets and peers up at me expectantly, “As you know, most Fae cannot enter a household without being invited in. Brownies are an exception. A brownie will often attach itself to a particular family and it will assist that family for as long it feels welcomed, appreciated, and proud of the people it lives with. If the brownie ever feels insulted or taken advantage of, or if the family becomes lazy, the brownie will leave; often making a little mischief before it goes. You must never thank a brownie though, for what it does, as they find this offensive. Instead, they like an offering of food. I leave a bowl of milk by the fireplace or a piece of cake when I make one.”

“Won’t the cat or the dog eat it?”

“They know better than to try and take a brownie’s offering.” At least, they know better now. “After everyone has gone to sleep, the brownie emerges and goes about tidying up, sweeping floors, dusting and that sort of thing. Sometimes, when the mood takes them, they will scurry about and clean up everything that is messy, and mess up everything that is tidy.” Mackenzie giggles. “Generally, they are very helpful, and we are very lucky that one has decided to stay with us.”

“Do you think I could see Maggie?”

“You know they don’t like spies.” Mackenzie looks a little sad at this. “If you do happen to come across her, you have to make yourself known so that she can hide or disappear if she wants to. Brownies are exceedingly shy, even among their own kind.”

“Can I leave the milk out for her tomorrow night?” Her question finishes with a yawn. I lean over and give her quick kiss on her forehead.

“Sure thing kiddo. Sweet dreams.” Mackenzie curls herself up and I tuck her blankets in around her. I tip toe out but as I near the stairs, I hear a faint scrambling and when I glance down I see a stout shadow disappearing into the darkness.

When I return to bed, I find the cat has curled up in the warm spot below my pillow. Felix is snoring softly, one arm cast across the bed towards me. Gently placing the cat at the end of the bed, I slip off my nightgown and ease beneath the sheets. The cat slinks back, wedges herself in the folds of quilt between my cold body and Felix’s hot one, and hums to herself with closed eyes.  

I lie in the dark, thinking about Maggie. She came to our home only a week ago, while the girls were with their mother, and quickly made her presence known. I came downstairs to find that every book on the shelves had been reversed so that their spines faced inwards, the dishes had all been cleaned and neatly put away, in the wrong cupboards, and later I discovered that everyone’s socks were mismatched, while all our left shoes were in Mackenzie’s wardrobe, and all our right ones in Abigail’s. After setting the mischief to rights, I went on a search through the house and found an old blanket had been stuffed into the space beneath the stairs (collectively known in our home as the Harry Potter cupboard). I had found the brownie’s nest. Now knowing that it had claimed that space, I made sure to remove anything that we might need from the cupboard so we could minimise the amount of future disturbance. While brownies could fit into impossibly small spaces, or even turn themselves invisible, they did like to have a safe and comfortable nook to sleep in during the day.

That same night I filled a bowl with milk and left it by the fireplace for our new housemate, hoping that it would be more helpful in future and less inclined to upset my home. I wasn’t to know that the cat’s complete lack of self-preservation extended beyond dragons to the more quick-witted creatures of Fae.

With Felix still at work, I was making myself a light dinner when my evening was rent with an unearthly screeching. I rushed out of the kitchen and into the living area where I found a squirming bag suspended from the chimney; the source of the screeching. Below it, the bowl lay upturned and the milk scattered across the floor, slowly soaking into the carpet. The bag was in fact a pillow case, and in it was a very angry housecat. As soon as I untwisted the top, the cat with all her hair standing on end, clawed herself out. Leaving fine lines of blood up my arm from her needle-like claws, she leapt from my shoulder to the floor and disappeared upstairs.

My arm was stinging, but I picked up the bowl and brought it to the kitchen to refill it. From the living room I could hear a very faint shuffling and then a croaky voice started to softly chant,

Of my milk so sweet Kitty did think It could take a drink! Now the little thief Has come to grief It sooks and sobs Or I’m not Maggie Hobbs

I shut the fridge rather loudly and as I returned to the fireplace with a fresh bowl of milk I found that the spilled liquid had all been cleaned away. And like the spilled milk, of Maggie Hobbs there was no trace. 

Beside me, Felix mumbles in his sleep, breaking up the memory. I snuggle in closer to him, smiling at the thought of our wonderful and rather strange family.

#brownie #cats #fantasy #short story #mum life #mess

[cecke8]

Your Ginger Housemate - Part 3

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Sorry for the slight delay. School has been pegging homework and assignments at me left right and centre. I hope everyone enjoys the story, it’s taken me hours to perfect it. Also, I apologise for the length. Hope I didn’t go overboard. Please show me what you think whether through likes or comments! I’ve done something a little different towards the end. Hope you like it ;)

You were humming. An activity you did so rarely, you surprised yourself. What was even more surprising, as you were taking more time into preparing dinner than usual. Spaghetti and meatballs. Yes, it wasn’t the most challenging dish to create, but you weren’t the most marvellous chef and wanted to play it safe. Why was that? Well… a particular red-headed psycho that lived under your roof. It was a forced living arrangement at first, but now, you wouldn’t have it any other way. You found Jerome Valeska, although still slightly frightening, great company. You wanted to impress him in every way possible. Was that strange? Probably. Unusual? Certainly. Worrisome? Absolutely. Did you care? Not one little bit. 

Your humming had now escalated to a full-scale acapella session of your favourite Frank Sinatra hits, even if they were taken up a key or two. Sure, you sang confidently now, but there was no way you would ever sing in front of anyone else. Especially not Jerome. You would probably die of embarrassment. 

 ****

Four hours! Jerome was supposed to be home four hours ago! It was 11:20pm, and there was still no sign of him. Your stress sweated out of your pores, shredded your nails with your teeth and turned you into a fidgeting mess. Causing you to pace back and forth and check the clock every other time you weren’t peeking through the curtains. 

‘Stay calm y/n. Stay calm. Jerome’s probably just caught up. Yeah, that’s right. Just caught up…’ But a voice in the back of your head decided to rebut.        ‘But what if he’s more than caught up. He might have left.’ ‘Not without saying goodbye.’      ‘Why would he bother with that? It’s not like your important.’ ‘That’s not true. That’s not true. The way he acts around me. Those looks. It can’t be an act.’      ‘But what if it is…?’

You were close to becoming a complete and utter mess. You were on the verge of hyperventilating, as your hands began to shake. The only action you could handle was cuddling your legs to your chest and watching the second hand travel around the clock excruciatingly slow. Was Jerome hurt, dead, or had he really just left? 

‘God! What is wrong with me. Pull yourself together y/n.’  you scolded. 

You refused to let yourself break down over something like this. Strength was the best method. You stood and rubbed your arms, a habit you a aquired since you stopped... no need to be thinking of that.  Your head full enough as it was, thinking about possible reasons for Jerome's absence. 

He couldn’t have gone anywhere. All his belongings were still in his room, so that was promising. After the trouble Jerome went through to organise all his gear, you doubted he would leave it all behind. Even if most of it he did just decide to throw away - Jerome hadn’t been bothered to fix or clean half of it in the end.

Tap, tap, tap. 

You whipped your head around to see a large, dark silhouette at the window. It was sitting on the fire escape, tapping the window with what appeared to be a knife.  It left little dots of dark liquid on the window pane. Blood.

Recognising the faint, orange glint coming from the top of the silhouette, you raced into action and ran to the window, wrenching it open. You stepped back, preparing to give Jerome a piece of your mind... that was until he rolled through the opening, crashing onto the floor with a groan. 

He had smeared the window sill, kitchen table and floor with blood. At first, you thought he had just lost balance and fell through the window. Oh god, creating a mess with other people’s blood. But he didn’t get up. He had no sheepish grin on his face nor did he laugh like usual or comment on your urgency. In fact, he did quite the opposite. A Cheshire grimace, (the only way it could be explained) was plastered on his face, and a groan was all that escaped from behind his uncharacteristically white clenched teeth. You noticed his hands were also covered in blood. All your anger fizzled to nonexistence as you knelt down next to him, rolling Jerome onto his back, worry coursing through your veins. 

“Jerome? Jerome, what’s happened? You better not be playing with me because it’s not funny!” Your voice rose in urgency and panic with each syllable. Despite your deepest wishes, he only groaned again.

“Jerome, I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong. Now tell me what’s wrong!”

Strained, and without opening his eyes, Jerome gestured towards his stomach.

“Stomach. Shot. Hurts a little.” With that, he let out a wheezing laugh and grimaced.

“Shot!? Of course you were! And hurts a little? Of course, it hurts you, idiot. You have been torn open! What were you doing?” 

Jerome’s eyes fluttered open. They somehow, although strained, showed a spark of amusement.

“Calm down doll face, it’s not too bad. Just a scratch. Easy fix.”

“Just a scratch my ass! Let me look.” Slowly, carefully, you removed his jacket from his torso and stared at the scene before you. His shirt was drenched in dark liquid, the side was torn open. You could see the wound. Taking a deep breath, you removed the rest of the material from his front. The bullet wound seemed to have torn through his side. On first glance, it appeared clean, but you were no expert.

“Oh, Jerome. What have you gotten yourself into? I’m going to have to call a doctor.”

Somehow, he had enough strength to grab your wrist, encasing it in an iron grip. 

“Hell no. A Doc’ll call the feds, and that’ll be my free ticket back to Arkham.” His words were forced and hissed through his teeth.

Whiplash! Once again his mood changed so quickly, it was like you had to sprint to catch up. 

“Jerome, you’ve lost too much blood. We need someone to stitch you up. I can’t. Besides, there’s someone who won’t call the cops. He works in the dark. It... it may be a little illegal.”

The doctor you spoke of you only knew of as Doc. He was older and worked as a groundsman around the city’s nicest parks by day. By night, he operated and made house calls to those who couldn’t afford it or weren’t necessarily welcome into hospitals. 

Jerome’s eye’s narrowed. But he was only stalling. He knew you spoke the truth. There wasn’t enough time to waste on arguing. 

“Fine! But if he does, no matter how sorry you are, I will escape Arkham, and I will find you… Sorry.” He seemed to genuinely feel sorry for the idea.

You shook your head. Taking off your jacket, you pressed it against the wound, grateful it wasn’t woollen.

“Keep the pressure on. I’m going to call him… Stay awake.” You sprinted to the phone, dialling the number as fast as you could.

Stay awake. That’s the thing you are meant to do when losing blood right?

“Hey, it’s y/n… Are you busy?… Good. I need you to come ‘round straight away. It’s an emergency… I’ll tell you when you get here… Please just hurry!” You ended the call and rushed back to Jerome.

“I’m warning you sweet cheeks. No funny business.”

“This is no joke, Jerome! Do you still think I’d betray you? After everything?”

Jerome didn’t answer, but he did frown. An expression you’d only seen once before. The night he had brought his belongings, and you were walking to bed. The night you had exchanged looks that had lasted much longer than necessary.  A moment so small, but felt so significant.

After what seemed to be forever, there was a pounding at the door. You sprinted to it and flung it open. You came face-to-face with a concerned looking man. Mid-fifties, his once black hair sprinkled with silver. 

“What’s happened? I thought you might have been hurt.”

“No. A friend of mine. Please, don’t freak out. He’s never done anything to me.”

“My dear, my profession has caused me to deal with various scenarios outside of the norm.”

~ Jerome’s point of view ~

She seemed genuinely worried. Which I found strange. I’d never seen anyone have so much concern for me. Not since well... a while. 

I heard her talking to some old dude at the door. ‘Here we go,’ I thought. What’s he gonna do? Nothing I haven’t seen before I’m sure. I could finally hear what they were saying. I hate it when I don’t know what’s going on. When things are kept hidden from me. Hate it.

“My dear, my profession has caused me to deal with various scenarios outside of the norm.” 

Jeez. Hasn’t this one gotta’ pole up his ass. This’ll be interesting.

“Please, please, please don’t freak out…”

“It’s okay Miss y/n. I understand.”

How does y/n know this dude anyway? "Might be a little illegal.” How the hell? 

They rounded the corner into the kitchen, the old dude, a doctor I guess, paused and stared at me. I smiled and rolled my eyes. He made a sorta, huff laugh noise? 

This is, by far, the weirdest encounter I’ve ever had.

“Good evening Mr Valeska,” he said politely.

Good evening Mr Valeska. Mr Valeska! Ha! Now, this wasn’t what I expected. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever expected this to happen. After that greeting, he just went on his merry way. Plonking his bag down next to me and opening it up. 

Far out I’m light-headed. I’m struggling to stay awake. It wasn’t because the bullet wound hurt, no. In fact, it’s only throbbing, and honestly, it doesn’t feel like a big deal. Nothing like when that jug-eared Judas, Gallavan snuffed me. It’s the blood loss. I don’t think I’ve ever lost so much. Nope. I haven’t. 

“I’m to clean and stitch the wound. Is that okay Mr Valeska?”

“Jeez, yes it’s fine. You’d probably end up doin’ it anyway.” 

He just smiled and bent over… 

“Shit! What’re you doing? Stabbing me!?” I guess I’d jumped because he looked at me sternly. 

“Mr Valeska. If you would, please, refrain from jumping like that again, I would appreciate it. And yes, I was “stabbing” you. With a needle. Don’t fret. It’s simply a local anaesthetic. You won’t be able to feel me stitch you up. It may make you drowsy, so don’t be surprised if you fall asleep.”

“Well tell me when you’re bloody jabbing next time Doc.”

The drugs were already kickin’ in. I could feel it. It’s stopped throbbing. Almost anyway. The doc must’ve seen this because he started stitching. After what I guess was nearly a half hour, he’d finished. I was bandaged, and boy was I tired. I felt like a freaking zombie! Y/n and the doc left the room after he was finished. Some muttering went on, but I’m not paying attention. I heard the door close, and y/n footsteps come back. My eyes opened. They’re so heavy.

“Okay Jerome, you’re gonna have to walk up stairs now. You think you can manage that? I don’t want you sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“Aw, doll face. So sweet, wanting me closer to you tonight. We sleep in the same bed or what?” I love getting a bite outta her. Her face always had conflicting emotions when I said those sorta things. Real cranky, but she blushed. She blushes all the time. It’s cute.

“Ugh, Jerome. Hey, what’s up. Are you hurting.”

I must’ve been really thinking.

“Nothin’ wrong. Let’s go upstairs huh?” I winked. Getting a perfect reaction, my favourite, a groan, an eye roll and blush to boot. 

We finally got upstairs to her bedroom, even if y/n was practically dragging me up the last stretch. I can barely stand now. I just flopped on the top of the covers - bad idea. It sent my head spinning even if I was hardly conscious. 

“You all good?” Y/n asks concerned.

The drugs were still there. That and I was light headed. No filter now. I’m just gonna say whatever the hell I want! Do whatever the hell I please!

~ Your point of view ~

Jerome stared at you for a moment, seemingly taken over by other emotions. He stared with a look in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. Softly intense, and strangely severe…

“Thanks, doll.”

Jerome shuffled closer to you his head resting on your thigh. Your hand inched towards his hair. It was silky. It’s ginger strands shining in the faint glow of the nightlight.

“You scared me. You know that?”

“Sorry.” You were beginning to see less of the obnoxious jester, and more of the man you really started to fall for. 

Wait, what?

“Try not to do it again. Okay?”

He turned his head toward your face, gazing into your eyes. He smiled sleepily, “Mm’kay, try my best sweetheart. No promises,” and drifted to sleep, the drugs pulling him into a deep slumber. 

You sat there shocked. Mechanically stroking his hair. Smiling, you savoured the moment. All your previous fears had melted away. You knew this couldn’t last, but an extra half hour or two wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

#jerome valeska #jerome valeska xreader #jerome valeska fanfic #gotham #fanfic #dc comics #gotham fanfiction #cameron monaghan #x reader #imagines #jerome valeska imagine #Yourgingerhousemate

[sword-and-quill]

Replies

@cuntharidin said: This was a delighting piece of bedtime literature, absolutely! Can I say that I was especially excited to finally, finally, /finally/ have the pleasure of meeting Allan? I mean, I’m obviously thrilled to witness the whole band of loners assembling, but having had the opportunity to watch him interact as Tremere DID somehow raise my expectations to meet him in his “original” manifestation as a …warlock.

Thank you very much! :) It was a pleasure to introduce him and I hope he lived up to expectations! I’m really excited to get everyone together in the same space and working as a team.

(And I’m infinitely happy Booker survived – not just from the “avoid the trope” aspect, but I also think the narrative profits. The whole ‘must find new social radius because everyone else is dead’ is quite prevalent in young adult fiction, and, y'know, especially since this is all about finding people to trust after experiencing betrayal/some sort of abuse. From my own experience getting away/cutting ties is extremely emotionally straining, especially if people stay back that you liked and who didn’t do anything wrong – and Booker really isn’t a bad guy – but sometimes you gotta leave these behind as well, even though I’m not sure what’s going on with him in the story. I’m not quite sure how to phrase it, yet I always felt the whole “everyone died, tabula rasa” situation oversimplifies extremely and doesn’t answer the “Can I still go and leave people behind that didn’t do me wrong? Or that are somehow dependent on me? Is that a reason to stay?” question. Does that make sense?)

It makes a lot of sense! I’m really happy I finalized the change as well, for several reasons. I think you’re right, I really think you’ve hit on a lot of elements where the death was... well, I don’t want to get too down on myself, but it was a lazy / inexperienced decision that was easy to make when I was 16 and working within the standard tropes of the genre, but definitely needed to be revised.

I think the necessary core impact of separating from Booker - the result that I need to accomplish, in a meta sense - is generating the freedom for Mara to grow. To sift through, synthesize, adopt and/or possibly reject lessons she learned from him and the other authority figures she’s left behind. Her parents, who loved her dearly but with whom she felt she couldn’t be entirely honest. Booker, with whom she could be entirely honest but didn’t always agree. And Thein, who offered a haven of ‘honesty’ and agreeableness, but was ultimately using those as tools to control her.

Which brings me to the question – in how far do warlocks and mages differ? Is it a specific nomenclature within Mara’s universe, or did you chose to adapt the classification for example D&D proposes? It seems to be a thing in high fantasy to separate these supernatural professions, but I have no idea; Z already indicates that the warlock’s interests are of “cosmic” nature and she seems a tad more earthed with her, well, stones. Quite casual about it, too: I believed these phenomenons belong to a “secret society”/beyond convention masquerade not unlike the WoD, but apparently it’s common knowledge and can be discussed openly? After all, Grey’s are public presences as well.

It is a distinction in their magical styles, yes! Though the nomenclature may change. Mage and Warlock are alright as catch-all magical labels, but... they don’t have the right oomph yet. I struggle with naming, at times, I still have half of the Antehex tiers to finalize! Anyway, the main difference is their approach to magic. Allan’s style strongly prefers that you put rules on the spells you cast. You have to build the tunnel through which you wish your magic to travel to the intended result. Zory’s style treats magic with a great deal more trust and personal development. They’re more willworkers than architects and they get a lot of fulfillment out of watching the unique ways magic manifests with their personal touch. “Practitioner” is the catch-all term for people who use magic in this ‘verse.

They’re both practitioners and magical abilities aren’t limited by the style you prefer; in a lot of ways, I’m treating magic ‘in universe’ as art! People have their own distinct styles, some people treat it as a formal school and climb to the peak gladly accepting the lessons of those who came before, some people accomplish fantastic results simply by practicing on their own, and some people do magic in truly bizarre and unexpected ways. Some people have all kinds of classifications and distinctions and genres, while others just see it as one big umbrella. For some people it’s a career, for some it’s part of their identity, and for some it’s just a hobby. What you get out of magic depends strongly on what you put into it.

Now, as to the casual nature of it, I may need to put some additional effort into refining how it’s brought up in this scene. Because yeah, there is that thin veil of pseudo-secrecy, for sure, even if it’s far more permeable and permissive than the Masquerade! I actually based this on how casually my Wiccan and Pagan buds discuss their own practices, buuuuut... I think you’re right, giving it another readthrough with your feedback, I think the initial dialogue does end up being too explicit for the balance I need to hit. They can still have much the same conversation without necessarily tipping their hand to a stranger about how much magic is involved. I’ll work that into my revisions, much appreciated!

In fact, I’ve given it a quick once-over that I think should help! She should come across as a more traditional spiritualist now, until Mara tips her hand that she knows about magic and then they can open up the discussion.

Anyways! I really do love that you chose to invest quite a significant of words into the descriptive part, here; it’s just so very vivid and evokes a wonderful atmosphere and aesthetic to place the newcomers in – one fleeing from it, apparently, despite being versed in maneuvering the field; I’m generally very inclined to dialogue and I wholly enjoyed the character’s exchanges!

That’s delightful to hear, I appreciate it!! I thought mood and setting would be particularly important for this; how Allan treats his environment is as much a part of his character as his words and body language, so I wanted to be sure readers have clarity about him.

Another element that stood out was your choice to let A cry. I was a bit surprised, in fact – which is, I realize, all me, and pointing it out might reveal more about me than about your particular choice. Still, stroke me as positively remarkable, also gives a nice perspective on how significant the solitude and even loneliness which A’s paranoia necessitates might influence him?

!! It wasn’t a decision I made casually, but I... think it’s impactful, both thematically and in terms of character development.

Allan is dealing with a lot. He’s been profoundly disturbed by his experiences, he’s not always coping in the best ways, and he’s having a difficult time not taking it personally that his best friend decided to move out. Certainly he would have preferred not to show vulnerability with a stranger nearby, but... he’s only human and he’s hurting. His social support structures are practically nonexistent due to his isolation and losing a housemate compounds that.

So much of society demands that we put on a cheerful face, move along, pretend everything is alright and sweep everything unpleasant under the rug. A huge part of what bonds this group together is going to be that they can’t pretend everything is okay. They know things aren’t okay, they desperately need to address the fact that things aren’t okay, and none of them truly want to be alone yet they’ve ended up on their own all the same. If I do my job right, the story will make it apparent that they’re all facing extremely similar pain from different angles for different reasons. Sometimes they’ll be able to help each other. Sometimes they won’t. But they’ll always be nose-to-nose with that same kernel, that question of “What do I do?”, trying to answer it in different ways.

I don’t know, I just- Allan deserves the same space to express that pain as everybody else. He has a right to not be okay and to admit that it sucks. I want the story to have compassion and nuance for him and everyone else and I sort of feel like giving the characters that kind of emotional space contributes to that goal. At least, I hope it does.

I don’t want to bother you with an all too extensive comment, so I’ll speed up a little: The state of the house seems very curious – at first I thought he might be a compulsive horder, but he faces no troubles eliminating the dishes, so that’s not it! I wonder what’s the story behind all of this! Additionally I can’t but wonder how Booker and he met!

I can see why you’d think so! He’s not a hoarder, though, just struggles to get out of his own head to deal with real world concerns. It’s not easy to summon up enough focus to clean the house when it feels like the world could end at any moment and the next ritual is far more important anyway. I think that bit of characterization will become more clear as more context and interactions are given.

And you will get to find out how he and Booker met, in the story!! A tiny tidbit, though, he was friends with both Booker and Jackson, so they go back several years!

I might not be qualified to comment on it, though you introduce Zory with the formulation of “tall black woman” and while you describe Allan with the adjective “pale”, you don’t explicitly mention that he is white yet explicitly state that she’s black. I read some guides that say this is an imbalance to be avoided when introducing characters of color! Like I said, I’m not sure, I just stumbled over it.

aaahhhhh, I thought I’d been thorough! Thank you for pointing it out, you are absolutely right to do so! I received some feedback on an earlier section that I didn’t go into enough detail on how characters looked, which resulted in assumptions that everyone was white. And given that a lot of the characters aren’t, I’ve been trying to compensate and make sure everyone’s ethnicity is clearly stated and I missed Allan. Thank you! I’ve fixed that as well. Now we are like... draft 1.3 instead of draft 1.0. That much closer to the second draft!! Haha

I HAD SO MUCH FUN READING THIS. I was disappointed when it ended. WHATS NEXT. lmao too long

!!!!! I’m really glad you had fun! And I super appreciate that you took the time to read it and leave me your thoughts. Reactions, opinions, what you liked/hated/noticed feedback, little error catches - all of these are incredibly valuable to me and they help raise the overall quality of the work itself and make me aware of where I may need to pay more attention, so seriously: thank you! You rock. :)

#cuntharidin

[thegirlwith-kaleidoscope-eyes]

Here’s the email I’m gonna send to my landlord about my housemates. At this point, I don’t even care if I get kicked out too as long as they get screwed over. I know that I’ll always survive. That I will always find a way. But to have them miserable would be perfect. Email: Hello Karl, We talked on the phone briefly about the trouble that has been going on in the house. I debated options, but I believe the situation has come to the point where you need to be informed of all circumstances. While I do not appreciate the way that the housemates treat me, I cannot abide how they have repeatedly cornered and harassed my mother while I am at work. They have decided to target me, deciding that I am a nuisance after I frequently had to remind them to pay rent on time to you and keep the house clean. Eventually, they decided that they wanted to get you involved after my car accident when it was necessary for my mother to assist me. Since they have taken that step first, I feel it my duty to give you full disclosure of the situation. Furthermore, the way that they treat both your and my property is disrespectful and I feel you have a right to know the damage they have done to your premises. Some pictures of the damage are attached but I would appreciate you coming to the house so that I can show you in person the damage that has been done to the house despite my best efforts to care for the place and encourage them to care for the house too. Even Becky commented last time on the amount of trash that has piled up behind the house because they refuse to take out the trash. I absolutely love the house, the neighborhood businesses and history, and everyone that lives in the neighborhood. I have made friends and acquaintances with many people in the neighborhood but the other people in the house have not. In fact, they have been openly hostile and rude towards neighbors. While I adore the neighborhood and would like to stay here, I also cannot in good conscience let the other housemates' behavior continue to negatively impact my new neighbors and friends. I have, more than once, heard the other housemates mock and disrespect the other people that live on this street - primarily the Black and non-white neighbors. The housemates have said things such as, "they (the Black people in the neighborhood) talk like a Jim Crow Era parody," that the Black people in the neighborhood are a "waste of space," and have even slammed the door in the face of neighbors coming to ask if we needed help with our lawn being mowed (the mower did not have a cord so the lawn could not be mowed and was out of control until I borrowed one from a neighbor). Recently, a pumpkin was also set on the porch that displayed for the entire neighborhood to see (including children in the neighborhood) "Fuck Off" (picture attached) which I find incredibly disrespectful to our community. I have spoken to a few of the neighbors that agreed to give a brief statement of their encounters with the other inhabitants of the house. The statements written to you about their behavior is attached as are those neighbor's email addresses if you would like to speak to them further. Along with those aforementioned issues to the property and the other people living in the area, they have continuously broken the lease even after I have brought up the issue. They have broken, in accordance with the lease, sections 10, 11 (I left the state for a few weeks and when I returned the house was infested with mice. When I attempted to remedy the situation with mousetraps, they threw my traps away. The mice are still present in the house. The other inhabitants also often leave dirty dishes in the sink for weeks on end), and 16 (subsection i). While everything else in the email is more pressing to me, and thus mentioned first, I also want to inform you that the housemates have stolen from me and refused to pay money back to me that they owe me. At the moment, they owe me approximately $1600 from me paying their portions of rent and have forced me to have an over $1800 share of the deposit despite the fact that the agreement was for me to have $1000 in deposit. I wanted to alert you to this fact because of the damage they have done. While I also live in the house, I have done my best to mitigate the damage done to your property and even repair damage done with my own money. If it is determined that money should be withheld from the deposit to cover the cost of repair caused by them, I hope that we can come to an arrangement so that those responsible for the damage are held to the payment. Again, I want to reiterate how much I love the neighborhood and the house. I would like to continue living on the premises, but with the current other inhabitants, this situation is becoming more and more negative for me and for you. Sorry to contact you in such negative circumstances,

#housemates #roommates #vindictive