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sometimesiwrite · 3 years

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In Your Arms, In Your Mind

Helloooo friends! ‘Tis I coming to you with ANOTHER collab with Erica @pressedinthepages. This time, we were inspired by Eskel’s face in this stunning work by @journeythroughunknownlands. Thank you for this incredible piece! Pairing: Eskel x gender-neutral reader

Summary: The trek to Kaer Morhen is a long one with few opportunities for lovers to indulge in one another. When opportunity presents itself in the warm safety of the long-awaited keep, things get spicy. When Eskel worries he’s indulged too much, you’re there to bring him back with gentle reassurance.

Warnings: Smut, related bruising, concern/comfort Check out MY MASTERLIST HERE Check out ERICA’S MASTERLIST HERE

Enjoy!

The golden sun of late afternoon—soon to be setting behind the peaks of the Blue Mountains—streams past the heavy curtains flanking the ancient window of Eskel’s room in Kaer Morhen. The keep is shrouded in a muted, patient silence awaiting the arrival of Eskel’s brothers and their traveling companions for the winter months. Distant sounds of masonry work suggest that Vesemir is diligently working on the near-lost cause of the outer wall. Eskel should be helping. Instead, he’s doing his fair share to contribute to the more immediate sounds of lovemaking that threaten to fill the entire dormitory wing if this keeps up.

It started innocently enough—a hot meal after the final trek up the mountain, then a hot bath while the fire warmed the chilly walls of the room. But your lips were especially luxurious against his, and hands soon found freshly-bathed skin far too enticing to leave un-appreciated. It had been a long journey, and with the cold weather only growing colder, it was no longer the season for starlit lovemaking. So when two lovers arrive at their destination, skin starved of hands and hands of skin, what else is there to do but make love with abandon?

Flecks of dust dance through the beams of sunlight as Eskel gasps up at you, hips rocking with sinful indulgence in rhythm with you, the glide of his girth a blessed, aching punishment for being the miracle that you are. You feel his fingers dimple the soft flesh of your hips and you know he’s relishing the give of you under his hands. You’re only about halfway to as good as it can be and he’s not stopping anytime soon. It’s been too long. Too long without the taste of you, the smell of you, the sight of you—and Gods if you aren’t the most beautiful thing. The sun has shifted, casting an oblique ray across your body, accentuating the graceful, rolling countryside of your torso as it shifts and flexes, guiding his movement within you.

You roll your hips just so and sound escapes Eskel’s body, cut off by another puff of air as his head falls back, barely able to wrap his head around the reality of you. On top of him. Feeling this good. He brings a hand ‘round the back of your neck and pulls you down, brushing his lips over yours as you surround him, and your breath is hot and wet on his face when you let out a moan and slow your rhythm with the new angle. Your bodies adjust as you continue to roll and glide, new sensations blooming to the surface of your walls.

“Gods,” Eskel breathes, wrapping his arms all the way around your back, pressing your bodies closer, determined to feel as much of you around as much of him as possible. “Ho-oh, how’re you so good to me.”

“Because you’re too good to me,” you whisper, and Eskel lets out a throaty groan as he thrusts up and forward, an edge of hungry desperation colouring his reverence. You let out a gasp and try to speak—fuck-shit-oh-gods it’s so good—but your breath is gone. You can barely locate any part of you in relation to anything else: not your hands, not your stomach, not your thoughts. The only thing you can place is Eskel, everywhere. In you, on you, under you. Hitting something deep and devastating as he grits his teeth, holding himself together as your lungs disintegrate and float away like paper confetti.

Even in this position of relative power, you are rendered completely at Eskel’s sweet mercy as he holds you tightly, feeling you completely, vulnerable and exposed to the relentless pleasure currently overwhelming you. But Eskel knows you’ve adjusted to him now. He can tell that there’s more depth for him to find, but it won’t happen from down here. So he slows a little and shifts so expertly, you can’t imagine how he managed it. But the room turns and now you’re below him. Looking up into his eyes as they shimmer with the sunlight still streaming through the window beside you. He’s breathing heavily, and his body is tight with concentration and the effort of control. He wants you, you can see it in his eyes and the way they darken again as he begins to press deeper.

You let out an indulgent whimper and he feels the strings holding him together begin to snap.

But he knows that taking you now for everything you can give him—with everything he has—won’t produce the earth-shattering results he’s been longing to hear tear from your body for the last two weeks. He redirects his impulses, intensifies everything he can and diffuses the rest, pressing, dragging, every muscle in his body refocused for endurance and precision rather than power and speed.

You feel his hands start to tingle on your hips, and your skin calls to him, begging for everything he has, but he tries not to listen too carefully. His mouth, open and gasping, drags over every piece of you he can reach, breathing you into his lungs. His hips jerk as he loses the thread briefly, your breathless moan nearly enough to send him over the edge—and he's dangerously close. Eskel fits the slope of his nose right into the crook of your neck and he feels you start to finally, blissfully, completely meld with him.

His weight rests on top of you as he continues to roll, rippling across the surface of you as he glides effortlessly through your wet heat. Your gasps become more desperate, pulling high in your chest and he feels the texture of you change—now firmer, even deeper than you were just moments ago. He can smell your approaching orgasm and he lets out something guttural, half-growl, half-moan at the responsiveness of your body to his. He feels a shift inside him, too.

Eskel’s pace increases as he chases your release with the search for his own and he's lost in you, wandering senselessly through the melted solder of his mind. He can’t find it in himself to worry. He holds tight, feeling the strands snap one after another, his ears aching to hear you shatter beneath him as he begins to thrust harder, faster, with wicked precision that sends a flare of heat down the backs of your arms as you feel the wave begin to crest

You arch into him, his chest pushing firm against yours as the world brightens and then—goes black. Everything falls away, leaving you raw and exposed to the man above you and you’re still so impossibly full with him, even as he threatens to fall apart himself. You keen and whine against Eskel’s neck and he clutches you tightly, one hand fisted in your hair, the other more than likely leaving bruises on your flank as he tries to bury himself under your skin—weeks spent together but not nearly close enough finally made up for.

The sounds of your approaching climax have Eskel fraying at the seams, desperately trying to hold himself together so that he can come with you—a shout into the crook of your shoulder as his thrusts turn erratic, and you feel yourself clench around him in a way you haven’t before, holding him tight as he buries deep and spills. And gods, you can feel the texture change in you as he drips, thick and warm along your walls and around him.

Your breath comes in hot whispers against the pretty pink flush of Eskel’s neck, and when the world finally filters back into Eskel’s mind, and he is painfully aware of how tight he is still gripping you. He can feel the blood flowing under the pads of his fingers, under your soon-to-be bruised skin. You hum contentedly, but he doesn’t hear you. His heart in his throat as he swallows back the sick feeling of possibly having hurt you.

Eskel releases his grip almost immediately and scans your placid, dewy body as you pant and tremble beneath him. Panic starts to bubble in his chest. He swallows again. Your eyes are still closed, but he feels a little relief to see the hint of a smile tug at the corners of your mouth and eyes.

"Love? Talk to me, please."

You blink open one eye with a quirk of your brow, letting the smile pull your lips up. “Eskel, you just absolutely —” And then it hits you, the creases on his forehead, the tight forward slump of his shoulders, the emptiness of terror that so rarely decorates Eskel’s eyes. You reach up, smoothing your fingers down the harsh planes of his cheek, doing your best to chase away the darkness that dares threaten to pull him under.

"Did-did I…? Are you…?"

"Hushhh now," you coo, pressing a delicate finger to his lips and coaxing him back down to the pillow. "I made you a promise, didn't I? That I would tell you the minute I feel something I don’t want. And you know that I would never, not a single time, lie to you, yes?"

Eskel nods and moves a piece of hair away from your forehead, his voice husky and vulnerable in your ear, “I can’t shake the feeling that… you have bruises.” He rubs his fingers over the marks on your hip and you can feel his hands trying to take it all back, wipe them away.

“And have you ever considered, my darling,” you murmur, taking his hand away to kiss the calloused tips of his fingers, “that I might enjoy having your touch linger on me after we’ve pulled apart and the day has turned over again?”

Your witcher traces the purpling fingerprints on your hip again, his brow furrowed in thought. "You like these," he states—as much for himself as to confirm with you.

"Mmhmm," you nod and kiss his shoulder. "It reminds me of the passion we share, how close you hold me to you when everything falls away."

"I never thought of it that way..." he drifts off back into the foggy recesses of his mind and you know he's blaming a part of himself that only exists because the rest of the world has put it there.

“Eskel,” you press a kiss to his chest, pulling his molten gaze back to yours, “don‘t go there, stay with me. Keep me in your arms and your mind. I want you, all of you. As you are. And I want you to have me in return.”

"And you'll tell me if I—"

"Always. I promise, I will tell you if something is too much."

"Even if—"

"Even if one or both of us is getting close. Come on, lie down with me. Don't linger on unhelpful thoughts. I've told you I like it, and you know I love you. Let that be enough."

Eskel sighs, sinking back into the embrace of the blankets around him and your arms encircling him. “You’re always enough. More so. More than I think I deserve sometimes.”

“And?” You raise a brow, and you know that he knows that you hate when he talks like that.

“And,” he laughs, “you’re helping me see that I’m enough for you.”

You kiss his forehead, "Good. Now maybe one of these days I'll be able to convince you that you're so much more than I ever could have imagined finding in this lifetime."

"Hmmm this all sounds very advanced."

"Not at all, it's easy," you say, lazily tracing a finger through his soft dusting of chest hair. "You just have to take my word for it."

He breathes deeply and pulls you closer, falling back into the completeness of everything as he feels your pulse slow against his chest. The sweet smell of your sweat mingles with the leftovers of your arousal and the sharp musk of your releases.

And just like that, he slips into meditation. Completely unintentionally. He doesn’t sleep—that would mean losing this feeling. Instead, he settles into it so deeply, it’s all there is. Just you. His place of power.

You feel the thrum of his chaos find its place under his skin, tingling and rumbling through his bones. It’s a foreign feeling, almost frightening, but it’s also warm and welcome, a part of your lover that you’ve never experienced this intensely, this intimately—the timelessness of him, the ancientness of his magic. You nestle impossibly close to him, holding him while he allows himself this rest, and allow yourself the same.

————————

@criminaly-supernatural @belalugosisdead @the-space-between-heartbeats @thirstyforred @iloveyouyen @enkelikauneus

#gender-neutral reader #eskel x y/n #eskel fic #eskel smut #The witcher #the witcher eskel

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marblesarelost · 4 years

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fanfic authors tag game

Tagged by @cakeisnotpie

AO3 Name: LostMyMarbles

Fandoms: Ah ye gods. Marvel Comics, MCU, Star Wars, DC Comics Penguin, Doctor Who, Harry Potter, Star Trek to a point, Supernatural to a point, Sherlock to a point

Number of fics: Under the Marbles name? Two

1. Fic you spent the most time on: Well….wait, do you mean counting the Phan-fic that I wrote and sold on Kindle? Because that took nine months. Longer. (Don’t look for it, it’s gone now, and also it was horrible)

2. Fic you spent the least time on: A short piece I wrote for @linotte--melodieuse

3. Longest fic: Again, I have to point to the Phan-fic that is alas dead. Smoke was really long, I think it was -- it was over 20 chapters. Unfinished, all my shit’s unfinished because I have no discipline.

4. Shortest fic: Again, I have to say the short private piece I mentioned above.

5. Most hits: Change Your Mind, Change Your Life -- 4,512

6. Most kudos: Change Your Mind, Change Your Life

7. Most comment thread: Change Your Mind, Change Your Life

8. Fave fic you wrote: Ah…under Marbles? I really do like CYMCYL. I like TWIDAFOD but CYMCYL is a better fic all around, I think. Under the old name? Toss up between Smoke and A Penguin And His Pack.

9. Fic you want to rewrite/expand on: Smoke. Oh, GOD but Smoke needs rewritten so badly. It’s a beautiful story but it got away from me.

10. Share a bit of your WIP or share a story idea that you’re planning:

Title: Well I Tried To Make It Sunday Pairing: Clint Barton/Wade Wilson

Everything hurt.

And everything stank.

Not just stink, not just like when Lucky had let a good one after a slice, but like when he’d gone out and rolled around in the dead fucking pigeons in the park at the end of the street that time. It had taken three baths and four industrial cans of tomato juice to get that stank out of his fur, and it hadn’t really, it’s just that Clint had become acclimated to the smell --

He made the mistake of opening his eyes. “Fuck.” The curse was heartfelt, small, and irritation just bled from his voice; he was somewhere dark and rank, which meant he was in a goddamn dumpster again -- his hand brushed something chilly and wet as he reached for his lighter.

“FUCK!” The corpse underneath him didn’t answer, and thank FUCKING God for that, as Clint sat up, dropped his lighter, and spent another forty seconds blindly grasping everything around where it should be before finding the blessed hot plastic. He took a deep breath, took late to worry about airborne contagion now, and flicked his Bic again.

He was in some shit, some serious shit, he realized as he looked around. It wasn’t a dumpster; it was…the fuck was the word. Fuck it, a tomb, he was in a goddamn tomb, because it wasn’t a fucking morgue, and it sure as hell wasn’t somewhere he felt great about being in.

“Sorry about this,” he muttered as he bent down and ripped part of…Charlie’s, he decided, looking down at the dead guy he’d been beside. This one was Charlie, and he was tearing off part of Charlie’s shirt. The fabric tore easily, maybe a little too easily -- it was rotten, which meant it would burn too quick, really. “Shit.” Find a wall, some part of his brain said. Find the wall, then move along --

A muscular arm wrapped around his neck from behind, and for the second time, Clint dropped the lighter, his right arm coming back sharply to elbow the guy behind him in the gut, but catching only air, he tried to turn, but was caught again. Spandex. Whoever it was was wearing spandex. And he was blind, and, he realized suddenly, deaf. His hearing aid had fallen out somewhere, fuck, fuck, fuck -- light blinded him, bright white, then whoever was behind it…backed off? Before a hand appeared in the light, signing clumsily.

“Fuck, Clint, I’m sorry. It’s DP.” The D and P were close together, but styled funny --

“Wade?” He said, and the hand turned up in a thumbs up. “Fuck, Wade, sorry, I don’t -- I can’t hear --“

The hand signed again. “I can tell. Hang on.”

(Do I get to kiss him yet?)

[Not yet, Wade. Gonna draw it out, baby. Make it good.]

(Okay, Bubbles. Lots of UST?)

[You know it, baby.]

(Oooh I like UST. Just not too much, ‘kay?)

[I’ll do my best, Wade. Let’s get back to the story now, ‘kay?]

The light went down on the ground, highlighting Deadpool in his black and red spandex. Clint bit back a sigh; well if he had to be stuck someplace weird as fuck, might as well be with somebody who can’t die. Wade was able to use both hands to sign now, and did so.

“Sorry, Clint. Didn’t know it was you, didn’t want to give myself away with the light.”

“That’s fine, that’s great, you’re forgiven. Just -- where the hell are we, Wade?”

Wade hesitated, his hands falling to his sides for a moment before he signed again. “I don’t know. What were you looking for? What were you doing?”

“I was -- “ Clint struggled to think. “I was…walking home? Walking home. Didn’t want to stay in the Tower this week, I wanted to go home to Bed-Stuy and eat at Mister Lo’s tonight.”

“Oooh, I love Mister Lo’s! He always adds the peppers and the --“ the signs cut off abruptly, then Wade shrugged. “Not now. Now, we figure out how to get out of here. Yeah?”

“Best idea you’ve had,” Clint agreed. “Keep an eye out for my aids, please?”

“I will,” Wade nodded as he signed. “Okay. Ideas?”

“Find a wall. Follow the wall to the door, pray to god there is a door, because if there’s not, then…”

“Then we got dropped from above. And…” Wade picked up his light again, aimed it upward. The beam petered out about ten, maybe fifteen feet up into the darkness. The drop to his shoulders meant he was thinking the same thing Clint was, before he moved the light again to sign. “I got a bad feeling about this, Chewie.”

“Fuck you, you’re not Han.”

“Am too. I’m a heroic scoundrel.”

“Scoundrel I’ll agree with.” Clint bit his lip, trying to think. He didn’t have his gear; he’d left his Avengers bow at the tower, he was just going to hang out at the apartment, he had another bow there… “Let’s…let’s try to find a door, anyway. We might get lucky.”

Tagging: @sasskarian, @imperiuswrecked

#fanfic games #yes I am that author #not that anyone will recognize the story now anyway #I'm not talking about the Phantom book

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kevinscottgardens · 3 years

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27 septembre au 3 octobre 2021

Monday I started cutting back the Iris unguicularis (below: before the chop, right; after the chop, left). Matt and Will headed home around 9.30. It was great having them visit. I’m looking forward to playing more Catan this winter. James showed up around 10am and I spent the morning with him and Mme. Monday was Quinta book club, this time Fernando Pessoa was the author of choice.

Tuesday I continued cutting Iris then Alejandro showed up with a student so we had a good look around the garden and picked out a better spot for the future dry garden nursery, at the very top of the property. In the morning M. prompted me to speak with Adam to agree where I could put my nursery, as it is currently part of the potager.

Tuesday evening I joined James, Alejandro and Alek on a Zoom call to talk about seeding the prairie. I led the meeting with photos I’d taken throughout the year and Alejandro described how we seeded on the day. It went on for an hour and a half and it was so nice to talk about it and look back over the project.

Wednesday morning I asked Adam and he is happy for me to use the spot, and there are fantastic views of Nice up there. Later, Ronie helped me measure out the area and I will come up with a couple suggestions for a layout. I continued cutting back the Iris and then collected seeds after the sun dried every thing out. There’s been a lot of dew in the mornings, so I have to wait to collect.

Thursday I found the first Crocus in bloom. I continued cutting down the iris and then I spent a few hours blowing all the pine needles and other debris off the gravel and the paved areas around the house.

Friday I finished chopping down all the grass and iris that I want to; next week the general big chop will commence. I made a delicious red lentil stew for dinner and I made enough to enjoy it all weekend.

Saturday was beautiful so I had an early start in my garden. I did a bit of weeding my small veg patch, which has just a few more tomatoes and an abundance of chillies. Sara-Jane and Kahlil saw me as they were leaving the domain in the Fiat and asked if I’d like to go to the flea market with them. I said yes so after a quick change, we all headed to the flea market next to Antibes Land. SJ bought a lot as usual. I bought a book in French; I really must start putting in effort to learn the language. From there I walked to my hairdresser and then walked home. I had lunch with Ronie and Julietta; it was our last together for the season.

I came home to tackle my meadow. I first strimmed the paths as low as possible. Then I went bed by bed and cut them to around 200mm. I went around the nicely flowering Gaura. That took over an hour. Then after a snack, I started raking up the cuttings. I started again with the paths. I only was able to get one bed raked before it was getting dark and the mosquitoes came out in force. The beds take a very long time because I’m trying to remove as much debris as possible. I want to give any flowers that may be there a chance to compete with the overwhelming grass.

Sunday I raked two more beds before it started raining. Ronie brought me a Pelargonium x fragrans in a broken pot. I repotted it and took the opportunity to take some cuttings to propagate it as well. I then started cleaning my house for Susie who is coming next week. I took a much needed hot bubble bath and turned in early.

Cours de français hebdomadaire

Je m'en fiche. - I don’t care.

Et alors ? - So what.

Je ne suis pas sûr. - I’m not sure.

Je ne sais pas. - I don’t know.

Quel est le problème? - What’s the problem?

Ce n'est pas important. - That’s not important.

Je suis pressé. - I’m in a hurry.

Dépêche-toi. - Hurry up.

Allons-y. - Let’s go.

J'arrive, J'y viens. - I’m coming

Plant of the week

Asteraceae Galatella sedifolia ‘Nanus’ (syn. Aster sedifolius ‘Nanus’)

subspecie(s) - Galatella sedifolia subsp. biflora (L.) Sennikov; Galatella sedifolia subsp. dracunculoides (Lam.) Greuter; Galatella sedifolia subsp. illyrica (Murb.) Greuter; Galatella sedifolia subsp. rigida (DC.) Greuter common name(s) - dwarf rhone aster synonym(s) - Aster acris L.; A. canus subsp. punctatus (Waldst. & Kit.) Soó; A. hyssopifolius L.; A. punctatus (Cass.) Parsa; A. punctatus Waldst. & Kit.; A. punctatus subsp. rossicus (Novopokr.) Soó; A. sedifolius L.; A. sedifolius f. sedifolius; A. sedifolius subsp. acris (L.) P.Fourn.; A. sedifolius subsp. sedifolius; A. sedifolius var. sedifolius; Galatea punctata (Waldst. & Kit.) Cass. ex Less.; G. hyssopifolia (L.) Nees; G. insculpta Nees; G. punctata (Waldst. & Kit.) Nees; G. punctata subsp. punctata; G. punctata var. punctata; G. rossica Novopokr. conservation rating - none native to - species is endemic from Europe to Iran location - Domaine de l’Orangerie leaves - lance-shaped, medium green flowers - flowers are slightly smaller than the species with ray flowers that are a darker blue habit - herbaceous perennial habitat - garden origin pests - generally pest-free disease - powdery mildew hardiness - to -10ºC (H4) soil - well-drained, moderately fertile; thrives in alkaline soil sun - full sun propagation - division pruning - cut down after flowering nomenclature - Asteraceae - aster - star; Galatella - perhaps refers to Galatia in central Anatolia; sedifolius - with leaves resembling Sedum

References :

Gledhill, David, (2008) “The Names of Plants”, fourth edition; Cambridge University Press; ISBN: 978-0-52168-553-5

IUCN [online] http://www.iucnredlist.org/search [30 Sep 21]

Missouri Botanical Garden [online] https://www.missouribotanicalgarden.org/PlantFinder/PlantFinderDetails.aspx?taxonid=256523&isprofile=0& [1 Oct 21]

Plants of the World [online] http://plantsoftheworldonline.org/taxon/urn:lsid:ipni.org:names:70029022-1 [30 Sep 21]

Royal Horticultural Society [online] https://www.rhs.org.uk/plants/340673/galatella-sedifolia/details [1 Oct 21]

Shoot Gardening [online] https://www.shootgardening.co.uk/plant/galatella-sedifolia-nana [1 Oct 21]

Wikipedia [online] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galatella_sedifolia [1 Oct 21]

Ibid https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Galata [1 Oct 21]

World Flora Online [online] http://www.worldfloraonline.org/taxon/wfo-0000027814 [30 Sep 21]

SARS-CoVid-2 update (incidence rate per 100,000)

#Galatella sedifolia ‘Nanus’#Aster sedifolius ‘Nanus’

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wydobrien · 7 years

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open wounds

AUTHOR: @wydobrien

PAIRING: mitch rapp x reader.

WORD COUNT: 5,888.

WARNING/S: light smut, big build up, angst to the max, mentioning of self-harm scars and lots of sadness.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: i really thought smut did not really fit into this fic, but, i did (somewhat) as promised with some heavy hints at smut. i know i’m not the best writer, but, this took a few hours to write and 17 pages of re-reading and uncertainty ahaha.

LISTEN.

Head lolling back against the smooth acrylic, your body welcomed the warmth of the water and the soothing sensation of bubbles; you haven’t had much opportunity to just sit like this. To enjoy some solitude, to take a long bubble bath and allow all the toxins of stress, frustration and anxiety flush from deep beneath your skin out into the soapy water surrounding you. The words of your mother from last night briefly intruded your thoughts, but as you wiggled your toes and your body sank just a bit further into the bathtub, the memory faded.

Hands pushing your hair back over your head, a long sigh drawls out from your lips, eyes fluttering shut as you allow a small grin pull at your lips. The peace and quiet, besides the occasional sound of water slushing when you moved a part of your body, was absolutely heavenly. That is, until it was interrupted with the crude noise of loud bangs coming from downstairs.

Your body jumps, some water spilling onto the tiles of your bathroom floor, and you grip your hands in your hair as you let out a loud groan, pulling at your hair tightly as a growl-like sound from your throat comes afterwards. Your heart starts to pound as you try to relocate your peace once more, hoping whoever was at your door would just leave, but another round of loud bangs proved that silent prayer to be false.

“Oh my fucking God.” You groan, frowning as you manage to pull yourself from the comfort blanket of warmth from the water and into the cooler air outside the bathtub. Shivering lightly, you wrap a towel around your naked body and tuck it beneath your armpits so you can rub off some suds from your hair, until your wet feet pad out of the bathroom, through your unpleasantly chilly room and downstairs, which only seemed to be less merciful to the exposed skin the towel couldn’t hide. Goosebumps prickled your skin, especially at your unshaven legs, and you bit down at your lip at the discomforting feeling.

Making it to the door with your chest filling with irritation, you slide the chain off your door, unlock the doorknob and slowly open the door. A light drizzle of rain can be heard outside, but you hardly pay attention to that when you come face to face with someone you were far from expecting. He looked hardly any different than when you last saw him, the only differences being longer hair, a beard and his eyes; his eyes being the one thing that stood out the most to you. There was no trace of light in them.

“M-Mitch? H-How. . . How did you-”

“I never thought I would ever see your face again.” And, despite him being a little damp from the rain, you two hugged tightly and firmly, a solid reassurance that filled so many voids that had pierced through you.

♡

“You’ve changed.” You roll your eyes at his evaluation, continuing to fold his laundry as he helps beside you. He hasn’t talked much since he returned last night, but you didn’t question it, as much as you found it to be unusual.

“How?” You retort, raising an eyebrow as you turn to look at him. He tilts his head at you, before puffing out a sighed laugh. You blindly finish folding one of his shirts as he scratches at the back of his neck.

He blinks as he looks over at you, making you blush lightly and cross your arms over your chest. You thanked yourself for the long-sleeve and longer pair of shorts you chose to wear to bed that night. “You’re just. . . different. Since the last time I saw you. . .”

You shake your head. “Stop.” You say. “Just stop.” You continue, your voice hushing down to a whisper as you place a gentle hand to his shoulder. “I’m still your best friend. And because of that, I haven’t changed at all, okay?” A smile pushes past your lips as you reach up to brush your thumb over his cheek, feeling the soft hairs of his grown out facial hair. He tenses at your touch, but, a weak grin finds its way on his face, which makes you feel content.

“Okay.” He whispers. “How about you go to bed. It’s late. I can do the rest.” Mitch insists, a bit more monotonously than you would’ve hoped. Instead of retaliating, you nod your head softly and step back from the edge of his bed, and he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, a gesture you would’ve never expected out of him. Blushing profusely, you pat his back, whisper a goodnight to him, and leave his bedroom.

Things might turn out to be okay. Now that you have Mitch, at least.

♡

You sigh as he, yet again, doesn’t answer your question. But, you simply shrug it off, just as you always do, as much as it hurt your heart. “I made an old favorite of ours for dinner.” You say, tilting your head as you lean against his doorframe, watching him remain motionless. “Double chocolate brownies a-and apple juice. You remember?” You ask, and all he does is continue to stare at you, cold and silent. “I-It’ll be- It’ll be downstairs.” You push a grin towards him, hugging into yourself somewhat and gripping at the end of your tee-shirt. Your heart starts to hurt, but, you simply shake it off and blow another sigh, pushing yourself off his doorframe and walking to his side of the bed, placing a hand on his back. Your eyes, full of understanding and care, and you watch him as he places a hand over yours. You feel a pang of hope strike at your chest, but it drops when he pulls your hand off his shoulder coldly.

“I don’t want you here right now.”

Mouth parting at his chilled request, you frown and look down at your feet. You grab at your wrist, trudging back to the door, and only muttering a small okay as you grip at the door knob. You turn your head over your shoulder, hoping for a retort from him, hoping for him to get up and come join you, to hug you, to apologize. But he just squints his eyes. You weakly push a toothy smile at him, even as you feel your heart breaking. “If you need to talk, I am always next door. I’m your best friend, Mitch, and I. . . I’m worried about you-”

“Leave.”

You gulp, turning your head to look straight ahead, lifting your chin as you shakily breath and fight against tears. “Okay.” You whisper, and you shut the door behind you.

♡

How could you let it get this far?

It started out simple, and it started out sweet; innocent, pure, a decision of relief and ease. You hadn’t seen your best friend since he had left to go on a trip with his girlfriend to the beach; you can remember the final words exchanged between the two of you. A nervous grin being passed to you, and you responding to it with a warm toothy grin and an equally warm promise of luck and love.

“I don’t know if she’ll say yes. We’ve been together for so long, b-but I’m just unsure now. What if this is too fast? You’re the person I trust the most, so, I’m just- I just need your reassurance or else I’m not going to-”

The pain in your heart threatened tears in your eyes, but, like always, you pushed past it and stopped his rambling. “Mitch Rapp, she’d be a fool if she said no.” You say, heart wrenching at each word of approval to his desires of proposal that left your lips. “I promise that everything will turn out perfect.” And you lean in to hug him, tightly, tears prickling at your eyes as you pull from him to hand him his suitcase. “Go get her hot-shot.”

All you had wanted to be was selfish and for him to come to you, instead of having to deal with the dread that you would never have a chance with you again after that. You had watched him fall in love with someone else, and you had let it happen. The pain of that day, instead of the happiness that spread across his face, was all you could feel after remembering that day. Nothing compared to the day afterward, when you were flying through channels and landed on the news, checking your phone with a sore heart and tired mind until your phone was blasted with news of a terrorist attack on a beach. Everything jumped inside you, and the adrenaline that filled your blood like a burning poison shook your body as your fears proved to be true. The attack happened at the exact same beach Mitch was at, and you froze right on your couch as they revealed the body count.

So when he returned back to you, a year later, you could expect for things to be more than great, right? All it took was about two weeks later when you realized that you should’ve shut the door right at his face, rather than feel the things he was making you feel.

You rubbed your hands over your face as you sat down on your bed, back slumped, legs tangled in a fuzzy blanket, skin fresh from a stinging hot shower. You clenched your eyes shut at the thumping sound from the room next to you, along with the faint noises of moans. You let out a sigh of relief when it all suddenly stops, fingers releasing their tight clench at your bed-sheets, cheeks ablaze with jealousy, frustration and sadness.

About a few minutes later, and the usual sounds came afterwards. The sound of a door opening, footsteps down your stairs and at your living room, and your front door opening and slamming shut. A sigh blows past your lips as you shut off your television, numbly sliding out of your bed and keeping your head down as you go downstairs to lock your front door, and maybe grab a glass of ice-cold water to clear your head. You were ready for some quiet, so you could cry and deal with chest pain without interruption.

That is, until you hit into a hard chest.

You push back and look up to see an expressionless Mitch, him smelling of sex and the perfume of the woman he was with. You crinkle your nose at the scent. Mitch grabbed at your forearms to keep you from stumbling, but you quickly slid your arms out from his hold and locked your hands behind your back once you found your footing, your blush still prominent. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” His monotonous voice struck a nerve or two in your heart. “I was just about to head into your shower, if that’s okay. My bathroom drain is clogged.” You look away from him and just nod, another sigh blowing through your nostrils.

“Go ahead. I’m getting some water and then going to bed.”

“Okay.”

And that is all the words you two exchange between each other as he walks past you, ignoring the hurt on your face. Before the attack, he would’ve noticed immediately and would’ve questioned the look immediately. But he never does now. He hardly pays any consideration to you at all, and treats you as if you two hadn’t been separated for a year after you thought he had died. It’s such an empty relationship that leaves you questioning your decisions every single night, and having to do some laundry the next morning because of tear-drenched sheets and pillowcases. It’s so difficult to deal with the fact that the person you knew once cared for you so much now doesn’t even bat an eye to you anymore.

That night was sleepless.

Oh, God, how could you let it get this far?

♡

“I don’t have any idea of what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, of course you fucking don’t. When Mitch? When will this immature and disgusting behavior end? I’m so tired Mitch. I’m so tired of getting treated like your sheets after every other night when you’re done with yet another poor woman, used and cold.”

“And how is that my fault?”

You fought back against so many tears, as your heart pounded heavily in your hollow chest. “How is it my fault?” You whispered, repeating his question to yourself, saying it out loud to yourself to pick at him for saying such an awful, heartless thing to you. “My fault?” His face didn’t change, even if his eyes changed in hue just a tad. “I want you out.” You mumble, too quiet for him to hear.

He ticks his head at you. “What?”

“I want you out!” You yell, tears now spilling from your swollen eyes onto your flushed cheeks. “I want you gone. Out of my life. I want you out by tomorrow morning or so help me God I’ll throw you out onto the streets myself.” Your finger, the one that’s pointing to your front door, shakes with the intensity of your words and nerves. “I can’t believe I ever thought. . . that I even thought. . .” You trailed off, your hand flying to your messy hair, chest rising and falling immensely. “that I had my best friend back. But no, he didn’t come back. He died. He died on that same day that the attack happened on the beach. Whoever this asshole is, this heartless, emotionless, cold bastard is, he is not my best friend. I want you fucking out Mitch, and I don’t ever want to see you again.”

All of a sudden, you see his face drop, the first emotion you had seen him show since you opened the door to him a month ago. “(y/n)-”

You clench your free hand into a fist. “Shut the fuck up and start packing. You don’t get to say anything. Not after leaving me to cry myself to fucking sleep, and to wake up, wishing that I didn’t, because the one person who I loved the most that I thought I had lost is never there. Not after having to dread each morning, knowing that I have to look at you and fucking pretend that you’re not tearing me apart.” Your body shakes with each word that you manage, tears spilling harder and more fluently as you push through your rant. “I let you in. I comforted you, I told you things about myself that I never would’ve told anyone else just so you could feel better. I let you in Mitch, and you never, never, returned anything back but a blank fucking face! You made me feel like a cheap piece of garbage. You made me feel like nothing. Nothing!”

You let out a deep breath after spilling your heart out to him, panting as he steps back, hand gripping the handle of his bedroom door. He said nothing, and you knew he couldn’t say anything. You wiped at your face, sniffling as you finally smooth out your shirt and shakily suck in a breath. “I hate you.” You whispered. “I hate you.” You say, louder. “I hate you for making me feel this way. I hate you for using me like this. I hate you Mitch, I hate you!” He opens his door and quickly shuts it, and you let out a choked sob. “I hate you!”

♡

Everything is quiet.

For once, everything is quiet. Your eyes skim across the pages of your novel, fingers gently brushing some hair behind your hair. Things have gotten better since he left, even if you’ve been dealing with the heartache that immediately stung when he shut the front door behind him. Three months since you last saw him, and three months since the pain he caused you finally faded. The last thing you had to do was care to the bruises.

Morning exhaustion caught up to you, but you were too awake to fall asleep on your couch. You sniffled up the allergies clogging your nose, and as you were about to finish the novel you had been reading these hard weeks until a knock, a soft one, hit at your door. Licking over your lips, you stood from your blanket, shutting your book and wrapping your arms around your body, the long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants on your body not doing justice. You were always cold, but, the weeks without Mitch made you much colder.

A yawn bellows from your throat as you shut your eyes for a handful of seconds, one hand reaching up to fluff your hair as you suddenly sneeze afterwards, cursing beneath your breath. You unlock your door and open your eyes to see your visitor when you open your door.

As soon as you see his face, you immediately go to shut the door, but his foot goes to catch it. “Please, (y/n).” He whispers, and, as much as your chest burns with anger, anger that he had the audacity to come back to you, as much as your brain is screaming for you to slam the door into his foot and make him leave, your heart gives in to the way he softly speaks your name. “I-I. . .” He starts, but soon fails to find his words. You grip at your door handle. “Please let me in.”

Frowning, you look down at his foot, heart swelling at all the sudden memories of hurt, sadness and insecurity, and you open the door. And you let him in.

♡

You watch him silently as he adjusts himself in his seat, giving you a nod. Keeping your hard expression, you turn on the electric razor and lean in close to him, being able to feel his warm breath hit your face and smell the mint in it. You both said nothing as you furrow your eyebrows, delicately running the razor along the lower portion of his face. Your face slowly softens as you reveal his face from the dark beard he had sported, being careful not to hurt him, so careful not to hurt the person who you had hurt you so much.

“There.” You speak after the job is done, turning off the razor and setting it on the counter. Mitch runs a hand over his clean-shaven face. “Broom is in the pantry.” And you walk past him, going to grab your book before heading upstairs, unable to look at him any longer.

For a long time, it was like he wasn’t there at all. It took a lot of willpower to even remember that you had let him in your house again. You could already feel the pain in your chest again, the hurt in your heart, the headache in your brain. You were reliving history without even having to do anything related to it.

You laid on your bed in silence, just listening to the soft tick of your clock, the hard rain hitting your window. The day had gone by excruciatingly slow, and, after you had shaved Mitch’s beard, things had gone by even slower.

Your door suddenly opens.

Head lifting up, your eyes widen to see the figure of Mitch, still rubbing over his face with half his body hidden by the door. You two don’t say anything, and he takes the silence as his gateway, trudging into your bedroom, shutting your door and making his way to your bed. You freeze.

“Get ou-”

“I’m sorry.”

The words fly right over your head at first, like your brain had chose to ignore the words. You stare blankly up at him, eyes glossing over. “What did you say?” You whisper, clutching onto yourself as he takes another step to you.

“I am so, so sorry.” He says, his voice breaking towards the end of his confession. You finally look into his eyes, and see just how blood-shot they’ve become. “(y/n), I am so sorry. I am sorry.” Your bottom lip trembles as your head comes up with many ways of reaction. You want to scream at him, beat at his chest, slap him, yell all his mistakes and how you want him out again. You want so much out of him, but all you do is look ahead and allow silent tears fall down your face, trying to be brave and keep yourself from falling apart in front of him again. “Please say something.” You hear him whimper, and you bite at your lips as more tears spill down your face, your body silent and cold. “Please (y/n). I need you to say something.”

“What happened to you?”

He goes quiet. You shake as you turn your head towards him, jaw trembling and your self-control thinning. “I. . .”

“Mitch, what happened to you? W-What happened to you? Why did you enjoy hurting me so much?”

Mitch’s face drops, and you watch as tears now spill from his eyes. “I felt like I lost everything.” He started. “I couldn’t find you after the attack. I was at the hospital, crying my fucking eyes out, thinking that I had lost everything, and everyone, I had loved. Katrina was killed. I had no one to go to. They couldn’t contact you. I tried calling you, but you didn’t answer the phone. You didn’t pick up, (y/n), and I don’t what broke me further; knowing that I lost her, or thinking that I lost you.” You falter when you hear him talk, both of you crying tears you didn’t know you had. “When I found you, I thought things would be okay. But I wasn’t okay. After what happened, I lost remorse and even if the first night was good, things went downhill in my thoughts and I took it out on you. I refused to believe that I would be feel anything again, even after I found you again. You looked at me like I wasn’t the asshole who was treating you wrong, and I still stayed, and I still took out my frustrations on other women because I couldn’t handle the fact that the one woman I was hurting the most still looked at me like she cared about me.”

You stand, and he backs up, as if afraid to be too close to you. You didn’t know what to say. You really didn’t know.

“I knew I didn’t deserve you. I still continued to treat you like shit. I knew I was hurting you, and I continued to do so without thinking. It was easier to be mean to someone who you know cares about you so much, using that someone because you just know deep down inside that they don’t have the power to call you out, instead of trying to be better to them. I’m sorry (y/n). I’m sorry for making you feel the way I did.”

You suck in a breath, your hands balling into fists as you watch him fight against his own tears. “Stop talking.” You whisper, so soft you’re unsure if you even heard yourself. “Please. . . please just stop talking.” Your brain was telling you to kick him out again, to push him out the front door and never, ever, consider letting him in again. Your brain was scolding you for being so gentle, for allowing your soft-spoken self to get the best of you, for taking advantage of the fact that you still could not be entirely mad at who used to be your best friend. “I don’t hate you.”

Mitch looks up, his tears finally coming to a stop as he puffs out a breath. You don’t let him speak.

“Y-You’re my best friend. I-I. . . I could never hate you.” You manage, your voice reflecting the hurt in your body. All the pain, the regret, the frustration, the stress, it all was shown in the stutters and voice cracks in those very two sentences. “I already know that you’re sorry. And I. . . I forgive you.” He furrows his eyebrows towards you, his expression showing his own disbelief at your words. He looked so shocked that you had even considered forgiving him.

He was your best friend.

“You don’t have to. . .”

“I forgive you.” You cut him off, staring up at him with bravery, even if you felt like breaking down at that very moment. You still couldn’t stand to look at him. He looked so tattered with regret, the ugliness of hate and rejection finally taking its toll on him. He deserved to feel this way, but, still, you felt so much hatred for seeing him like this.

Mitch let out a choked cry, and, suddenly, he takes a quick step forward and engulfs you into his arms, holding onto you with such force and emotion that it squeezes out further tears from you. You both break down in each other’s arms, so much intensity in both of your feelings that it brings you two to the ground. Your heart was thrown into a pool of relief, the ache that had been paining you finally, finally, fading away as he squeezed you tighter. “I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair, trembling terribly as his tears soak into your shirt, his firm arms stil surrounding your weakened frame. “I am so sorry.”

Like two broken hearts finally reunited, she hugged back tightly. “Me too.” She speaks softly, knowing that those words only were right in her head.

And they didn’t let go of each other this time.

♡

Bright, blonde light peaked through the slits of the blinds, causing you to open your eyes tiredly, your body feeling much more warm than usual. Quickly, you realize that the arms from last night are still holding you, and you peak your head out from his shoulder to see him fast asleep, his cheeks still red and eyelids appearing a bit swollen. You run a hand through his messy hair, pushing past the memories of the weeks before, and focusing on the present. You feel him breathe in a deep breath and start to move, and you blush, looking at him with heavy eyes and a stiff-feeling face. “You’re still here?” You hear him whisper, and you frown.

“I am.” You answer, finally pulling apart from him as you plant both of your hands on his face to catch it from falling, gulping. You both exchange a look, one that confirms their actions and words from the night before, and you sweetly push back all the hairs that got in the way of his face.

“I don’t know what to say.” He admits softly.

“You don’t have to say anything.” You reassure quickly, eyebrows knitting together as your hands drop from his face, hands moving to grab at his own. He grips your hands almost painfully tightly, as if still scared that not all things were fixed. And, that was true. Some things that happened between you two may never be fixed after the months before. You two sat there, taking in each other’s presence, looking into the emotions in both of your eyes. The forgiveness, the love and the healing in his eyes was such a sight that almost brought back sore tears, but, you kept them down, feeling so dehydrated of tears that you thought you would collapse if you shed one more.

“D-Did you mean it?” He suddenly asks, and you tilt your head somewhat, confusion falling over your tired features.

“Mean what, Mitch?”

“When you said you hated me. Did you mean it?” Your heart softens at the question, and you shake your head.

“I told you last night. I don’t hate you. I-I could never-”

Mitch lets out a shaky breath as he holds your hands firmer. “I just thought t-that maybe you just said that in the heat of the moment. I-I’m so unsure of myself now. I couldn’t lose you, (y/n). Out of everyone I lost, you are the one that I can’t.” Your mouth parts at his words, and, you thrive on instinct as you suddenly lean in and press your lips to his. Everything stops.

The trembling, the hurting, the last feelings of pain, it all stopped.

♡

His hands were rushed, but gentle, as he carries you to his old bedroom, both of you too fresh on what happened last night to continue your actions in your bedroom. You had kept everything how he left it, finding it too painful to walk in the room and erase the last bit of presence Mitch left. He pressed you against the back of the door as soon as he shut it with his foot, his lips peppering in all places on your skin. “Let me make you feel good, (y/n), please.” After all those nights of hearing him with other women, you never expected to hear such things be spoken from his mouth. You shake underneath his touch, and you nod wordlessly, him continuing his confident kisses all over the column of your neck and dipping into the crevice of your neck. You fluttered your eyes shut as he suddenly drops you to your feet, hands grabbing at your waist hungrily and pulling you flush against him.

You gasp, and he pulls away for a split second, fearful that he hurt you, but once he sees that you were fine, he reels you back in and runs his hands all over your back, feeling you, even when you’re still covered. You don’t do much in retaliation to his actions, letting him do most of the work, and all you do is give him the satisfaction of the occasional sighs and little moans. But, as soon as you both know it’s time to start stripping, he pauses.

“(y/n). . .” You look at him as he pulls from you, both of you panting for breath.

“Mitch?”

“I’m not pretty. I’m. . . not exactly. . . easy on the eyes.” You falter at his words and you shake your head softly, taking a step forward and gently placing your hands at where his shirt ended. He grabs at your wrists. “(y/n).” He says once more, voice shaking slightly. You grin up at him and escape his grip from your wrists. Once he sees you not change in expression, he sighs and nods.

Slowly, you lift the shirt, revealing somewhat pale skin and defined muscles, but, along such perfections, are the exact things that Mitch had feared you looking at for yourself. Scars. Many, many scars. Paler against his skin, looking out of place, with irregular shapes and in many unpleasant places that made them look all the more painful. Your face empties as you completely take the shirt off his body, and as he stares at you, digesting your reaction, you look at his body with empathy as you trace your fingers over each scar with care.

Shaking your head, you bite your lip as you look up at him. “Do they hurt?” You ask sweetly, even if you know the answer already. He shakes his head. You blink a few times as you shakily take the ends of your long-sleeve shirt and exit the safety of coverage, shutting your eyes as you reveal yourself to him. Everything. You open your eyes gingerly, and see his expression is one of shock. You turn your wrists over towards him, showing him the vertical scars that ran up your skin. They were thicker than some of his, and as you go ahead to remove your shorts, his eyes follow, the horizontal scars along the tops of your thighs. “You don’t. . . have to be embarrassed over your scars.” You whisper, one hand leaning up to scratch at the back of your neck nervously. “Because you’re not the only one who has them.” You look down sheepishly, a blush creeping over your cheeks.

“(y/n). . .” Mitch looks into your eyes with tears pooling in his, taking a step forward and grabbing at your hands. He gulps, before he releases one of your hands and places his fingers underneath your chin. He leans in and presses his lips against yours; so softly, so truthfully. You let out a small shaky breath when he pulls away. “You don’t have to continue on with this.”

You shake your head once more, hands smoothing over the muscles of his shoulders. “I know.” You speak, hands resting on his shoulder blades on his back. “I want to.”

Mitch gulps and takes one of your hands from their position, turning it over and analyzing the scars up close, before bringing his lips to it and kissing up all along it, finishing with a longer peck at the end of it. “You are more than enough, love.” He repeats his actions with the second arm, and you look up at him with glossy eyes as he eyes the imperfections without any sign of disgust. He brings your hands together, and he kisses over your knuckles, before pulling you to press another kiss to your lips.

The scars were from the day after the terrorist attack. You believed with all your heart that you had lost him, and you couldn’t take it. Those scars represented how heavily he affected your life, but, the longer you had them, the sooner you realized that the scars that once showed how weak you were became symbols of self-redemption. Even if you had lost the urges, you had still fought through them, and while you still had plenty to fix in yourself and you were shy to even think of letting other people see them, you realized that those scars were strength. You aren’t the strongest person, emotionally and physically, but, the scars on your wrists and thighs were ones to be viewed much differently than how you originally looked at them, and they are the strongest trait on you. You beat what was trying to defeat you.

And the man you loved, lost, and loved again was looking and loving on them because he, too, saw the light in the awful.

“You are so beautiful.” You were thrown from your thoughts as you feel Mitch’s fingers smooth across your exposed skin, your eyes shutting once more as he picks you up once more, and you feel the soft cushion of his bed-sheets hit your back as his body hovers over yours.

Shutting your eyes tighter, you hear him undo his belt and shake off his pants, before you feel the pillow beneath your head dip on either sides of your head. You finally open your eyes, seeing him inches from your face, his forearms on either sides of your head, eyes pure with emotion and love.

And as you pulled him onto you, you missed the soft I love you given to you by him when he undressed you and pushed himself inside of you, but, you didn’t need to hear it to know it.

Each touch he gave you healed over all the damage done these past few harsh months, and each phrase he whispered to you gave light to the heavy in your chest.

You had so much more than your best friend back.

#mitch rapp #mitch rapp smut #american assassin #dylan o'brien #fanfiction #angst #holy shit #this hurt writing #i love you all lovelies #i am always here for you all #i'm so emo

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landofsomethingsomething · 7 years

Text

Strilondes & Co stupid bath post

Jane is relaxing in a massive hot tub at the esteemed crocker estate. The water is hot, the jets are on and this corporate queen is in bliss. she cannot hear the faint sound of the fogged windows opening over the bubbling of the whirpool action. she cannot hear the quiet giggles as roxy and callie slip in and tip toe closer, arms full of contraband. she does not realize until the very last moment what is about to go down. roxy stands over her, wearing a legendary grin. jane surges up out of the tub, wailing, ROXY NO

ROXY YES, roxy counters. she and callie drop three dozen bath bombs into the churning water. chaos ensues. rainbow foam and biodegradable glitter are everywhere. roxy slings an arm around jane, laughing so hard jane has to hold her up out of the water. callie covertly eats a handful of sparkling pink foam. instant regret. this is betrayal. how can something look and smell so delicious and yet be so very disgusting

jane insists that they’re gonna have to clean this up later. dont worry, roxy grins. i got that all lined up. (it’s john. he doesn’t know it yet. jane doesnt want to hear another word)

There are natural hot springs on consort island. Dirk encourages visiting them often b/c otherwise Jake goes like weeks without showering jesus christ Jake please. Jake tries to initiate amorous activities because everyone god damn knows when you take your s/o to a hot spring this is what happens, there are rules. dirk just wants to wash his fucking hair, for once, would it kill you jake. would it. a rustling in the wilds around them interrupts their debate, which jake is winning, because let’s face it jake is hot and dirk is weak. a clan of salamanders burst out of the trees. they canonball into the water. bubbles fill the air. dirk and jake slam themselves onto opposite sides of the spring as fast as they possibly can. nearby, the scent of onions fills the air. a nakkodile is chopping vegetables. he is ready to feast

Karkat unwisely leaves the door unlocked for his routine morning shower. Dave stumbles in blearily 40 minutes into it whining about being left to freeze in bed alone. it’s summer, karkat points out, and also get the fuck out what the fuck is wrong with you????????? dave ignores this and proceeds to use the toilet instead. Karkat is screeching. are you filling this bathroom up with the fetid stench of your human waste while I’m trying to goddamn shower. yeah, dave says. sure am. he leaves without flushing. karkat has an actual meteor level meltdown but he never forgets to lock the door again

Kanaya comes home after a long day supervising the jadebloods at the grub caverns. her back is sore. her feet are aching. do you know how much work it is to mop that many eggs. but what’s this? all the lights are off. where is rose. there are rose PETALS... is this a trail? should she follow it? why does it lead to the bathroom???

...... oh. someone has prepared her a nice bath. theres incense burning on the counter. there are rose petals in the water. multicolored tea candles are the only source of light. steam curls off the water’s surface, inviting. but its simply too nice to spoil by actually using it. she just stands there, staring at it. rose arrives minutes later, knocking before she walks in, and nearly bowls her right over. what are you doing, she laughs. I thought you’d be in there by now.

oh REALLY, kanaya says. her eyebrows climb. so you were going to ambush me. oh yes, rose agrees, revealing that she is carrying a tub of ice cream. my plans were VERY nefarious, as you can plainly see. they nearly die twice tripping over each other climbing in. water goes everywhere as they settle in together. they sit facing each other, passing a gallon of ice cream between them, quietly telling each other all about their respective days until the ice cream is gone, the incense has burned down and the water’s gone a bit chilly. but that’s ok. they have ways of warming themselves back up again

#kanaya maryam #rose lalonde #dave strider #karkat vantas #dirk strider #jake english #roxy lalonde #jane crocker #calliope #rosemary #davekat #dirkjake #text #op #hc

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high5nerd · 4 years

Text

Alone Together---Chap. Twenty

FYI Sadie is now in her teens, in case that left any previous confusion. Sandy also looks more like pilot!Sanderson, which was a fanart piece I saw and really enjoyed someone make.

Sadie came in with a dazed expression on, her eyes focused off in another world as she closed the door behind her and stood there, unmoving. Alice and I looked up from our conversation, waiting for her to say something.

Alice glanced at me, and after I shrugged, she asked her sister, "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah…" she sighed.

"You sure? You look a little off."

"Nah. I'm fine." she finally smiled, walking towards her room, still dazed and her body swaying as if she was a ghost.

Alice and I watched her go down the hallway, her being genuinely curious and I being wary.

"That's just freaky." I said once her door was firmly shut closed.

Alice shrugged lightheartedly, "Ah, she's full of surprises and weirdness. Nothing unusual. Kind of like you!" she smiled at her jab.

I smirked at her before flicking her shoulder, and she laughed, trying to grab my hand before I could flick her again.

Sadie continued to be all dreamy and...ghostlike, in a sense, for the following week. But she finally snapped out of it when the heatwave came that June. Oh. My. God. It was like being at the foot of an active volcano. That's how hot it was. You could literally see heat waves sizzling on the pavement outside and on the roof of Alice's car, and anything metal outside you better avoid, or be prepared for burning. If you wanted cool air as well as be outside, you had to stand completely still, not even breathe, and wait for a gust of calming wind to swirl through the backyard.

I have never been so bothered by temperature before. I didn't know I could, but the heat caused me to shed off the robe and just walk around in my pants. Even Alice changed into a breezy beach dress so her clothing wouldn't stick to her body. Sadie would not stop complaining, and was lazy as ever.

"Ugh! How hot is it outside again?" she moaned, wiping sweat off her upper lip as she hung upside down on the couch. Her woven sandals nearly fell off her feet as she lazily swung them.

"Almost a hundred and seventeen degrees Fahrenheit," Alice said with her head buried in the freezer, her voice slightly echoing, "that's the record this month."

"You've got to be shitting me." Sadie griped as she tried reaching for her glass of water.

"Language, young lady." I scolded.

"Sorry."

Alice finally made some sort of of frozen treat with orange juice and cups by sticking a popsicle stick into the middle and leaving it in the freezer. Thankfully, that quieted down Sadie for a while, but once that was gone the now fifteen year old was face down, flat on the floor with her music in her ears, absentmindedly flipping through songs until something reminded her of winter.

"Why is she complaining, there's worse things than a heat wave." I muttered, folding my arms.

Alice closed the freezer and looked at me. I stared back, still unamused.

"What?"

"At least you're somewhat resistant to temperature. You can control that." she chided gently.

I rolled my eyes. Yeah, I get testy when it's hot like this. Why wouldn't I? Anyone would, even an age old spirit like me.

Alice and I moved outside a few hours later, tired of the indoors when it was truly a nice day outside. One thing I did like about hot weather was that there was no way I would see Frost around. I wasn't sure if he would melt or get sick or something, but knowing that he can't be around during then felt like Mother Nature was allowing me vacation from him. First his immense hate when I first met him, and now the loser would not stop talking to me. Annoying brat.

Alice's voice shook me out of my thoughts, and I looked over at her. She was lying on the grass with her eyes closed shut, the wind blowing through her hair gently. Blades of grass somehow wove into her now bright, blood red hair. She looked like a summer elf.

"Sorry?"

"I was wondering if you knew any place we could go to that would be cooler. Like a pond or something?" she looked at me through squinted eyes.

I thought for a while. Ponds weren't usually the best place to swim in. Not only was it mucky and gross if you touched the bottom, but some sprites like to live there, and if humans happen to come across them and their nests, they're most likely to cause trouble. The last time I wandered into their territory I nearly lost my sanity from their incessant laughter.

"There's a quarry I've found a long time ago...Is that something that strikes your interest?"

Alice's soft smile told me indeed. Sure enough when Sadie was informed to get her bathing suit and whatever she needed for swimming, she was ecstatic. Nearly bouncing around the house finding her sketchbook and her sunhat. If anything she was the one bringing all her stuff while Alice had nothing besides the bathing suit she had on and her hat.

I had forgotten exactly what the quarry looked like over time, and I could tell Alice and Sadie loved it when we got there. The water was as blue as the Caribbean sea, the skies clear without a single cloud in sight. There was a nice patch of trees that shaded one part of the sandy side that Sadie made a beeline to, as well. The quarry was of almost a square shape, nearly half a mile long and about two thirds of a mile wide. On three sides of the quarry was solid rock, like a wall that touched the sky. Flora guarded the entire place, whether it'd be trees, bushes or overgrowth of flowery vines. It almost gave off a tropical feel.

Alice cheered as she took off her dress and ran towards the water. I smiled as she jumped head first into the water, and she resurfaced a moment later with a happy sigh. I looked over at Sadie and noticed she was focused incredibly hard on her drawing, her music in her ears again.

I made my way over to her casually, my hands behind my back. I bent over to look at her drawing. For the time being it was just lines and shapes, some darker than others.

Sadie noticed my presence and stopped her music, looking up with a smile, "Hi, Pitch!"

"Hello. What are you drawing? You look so engrossed in it."

She pointed to the quarry itself, right where the rock grew into the sky and one could barely see the green on the surface.

"I'm drawing that, but I'm going to be putting a face in the rock once I'm done. I'm going for something surreal...ish."

"Well, I'm glad you have a heightened interest in art," I ruffled her hair, "it's very nice seeing it in you."

Sadie smiled and turned back to her drawing, sketching in more lines and ovals in the center of the rock wall.

"Hey, Pitch!"

Alice was jumping up and down in the water, "Come on! The water's nice!"

I shook my head at first, but Alice gave that puppy look that always was capable of getting me to do things for her. With a sigh, I waded in, sucking in my chest at how chilly the water is.

"God! This is not what I had in mind." I grumbled, not liking the feel of my pants becoming heavy with water.

This is not what a Boogeyman would be doing. Good God, this water was cold at first! But after dunking my head under and meeting up with Alice in the sunlit part of the quarry, the water was much warmer than the shaded area. She laughed and floated on her back, watching me tread water.

"I take it you're not that into swimming." she grinned.

"Look at me!" I gestured to myself, "Do I look like the summer spirit or the Boogeyman? I'm like a shark in this water."

"Ooh, scary," she laughed, twisting herself around until she floated on her stomach and stared into the water like a dead man.

That gave me time to roll my eyes before she surfaced. Out of nowhere, she splashed me right in the face, causing me to splutter and cough. Once I wiped the water from my face, I saw Alice stifling a laugh. I gave her a wide grin, making her eyes widen.

"You're going to regret that."

I felt younger. I felt like I was human again when we were swimming around avoiding splash attacks. With anyone else I would never even think of sticking a toe into water, but Alice was an exception. She swam as if she was meant to have fins rather than legs, and our splashing stopped after we just swam around underwater. I had fun watching her move so elegantly through the water. Her slender legs bent back and forth as she curved in circles, arching her back as she shot around a rock and through underwater grass. Her hair swirled around her like a halo, contrasting against her basic blue bathing suit.

She looked over at me, her eyes open underwater. Noticing I was watching, she smiled, little bubbles floated up to the surface from her closed teeth. I grinned back, watching her swim around me like she was a dolphin.

I floated back up to the surface, needing to refill my lungs with air. Never before have I felt so calm from swimming before. Underwater was like another world, more blue and lively than above the surface.

But Alice didn't resurface along with me.

I peered down, waiting to see even bubbles rise up, but nothing met my eye. I glanced over to Sadie, who was now in the sunlight with her belly on the ground, getting a tan on her back. She wasn't worried where her sister was.

"Alice?" I called out.

Almost immediately, she popped out with a gasp, way beyond where she was before. She treaded water near the rock wall, waving a hand over to me.

"Pitch! Come here! I found something!"

Diving underwater, I followed her voice. I resurfaced close to her, and she smiled in greeting. She pointed a finger to a cave at the floor of the quarry, right into the rock wall we were near.

"I found an air pocket through there. You want to check it out?"

Sure enough, we did. I followed her through the tunnel that slowly arched upward into the air pocket she told me was there, and it wasn't like any other air pocket people would think.

There was nowhere to get onto dry land, so we had to tread water in order to keep our heads above the surface. The light from outside seeped through and made the water seem to glow, reflecting off of the dark rock ceiling. But within the cracks of the ceiling, were glittering rocks, unidentifiable to see whether they'd be precious stones or not. But what was more breathtaking was the drawings on the ceiling. They were etched into it, deep enough to feel against your fingers. Changing from geometric patterns to pictures of constellation beings, like Orion and Gemini, it covered the entire surface until it was two inches below the waterline.

"Isn't it cool? It's almost like temple engravings." Alice sighed, craning her neck up to see the giant star in the center of the ceiling.

"Romantic, too." I grinned at her, making her blush, "Is that why you brought me here? For privacy along with this?"

Alice laughed shyly, "Fine, you caught me."

I gently kissed her, holding her close so she could take a break from treading water. Her legs wrapped around my hips, her hands weaved into my hair and pulling gently.

I pulled away, breathless, "We should go back. Sadie might get suspicious."

Alice moaned into my neck, causing a hungry growl to rumble in my chest. "Let her wait. We're finally alone."

And who was I to not grant her that pleasure?

#pitch black x oc #pitch black #rise of the guardians #rise of the guardian fanfics #fanfiction #fanfics #rotg fandom #rotg fanfiction #rotg fanfic

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muffinsnotebook · 7 years

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Mac n Cheese pt. 3

oh wow, it’s really been a long time since my last update hahahuhu im so sorry. i also took a while before i posted it here too. (it’s on ao3, in case you’re a new reader)

pt. 1 pt. 2

Chapter 3: Waffles in Winter

Jimin pouts the entire time Seokjin takes tucking the three of them into bed. It’s a queen size, pushed to the far wall, with a bedside table propping the nightlight, and Jeongguk’s milk bottles, and whatever toys could fit. The rest of the toys are scattered all over the floor, where the toy box by the foot of the bed can’t hold them any more. A large wooden dresser holds their clothes - some spilling from half shut drawers - and a small bookshelf housing more foam blocks than children’s books, stands beside the tall window. It had taken an entire day to move all the children’s stuff into Seokjin’s guest bedroom, but he’s just relieved to have enough room for them all.

“Jimin-ah, we had a deal,” Seokjin reminds him. “I let you have a shorter nap time, and you guys agreed to go to bed earlier in exchange.”

Jeongguk wriggles on his side of the bed, next to the wall, tossing and turning under the covers before flopping down at last, yawning widely, “Milk pwease!” Seokjin pauses, quickly fixing him his milk bottle while Jeongguk impatiently makes grabby hands.

Taehyung watches his younger brother practically chug his milk with amusement, mimicking the way he sucks loudly with his lips puckered exaggeratedly. Seokjin and Jeongguk laugh, the former nearly tripping over a stuffed elephant on the ground.

Still, Jimin huffs testily. “But I’m not sleepy!” He whines, but then his lips wobble, and he lets out a yawn of his own. Seokjin smirks, carefully picking his way through the few other toys scattered on the floor, picking up dirty laundry as he goes.

“Well then you’ll just have to keep lying down until you do feel sleepy,” He says with finality. “Alright, lights out, kiddos. Good night.”

“Good night, Uncle Jin. Sweet dreams.” The three chorus in reply, even Jimin who says it with a bit more sulk.

“Sweet dreams. See you tomorrow.”

Jeongguk is first to conk out, as usual, his white jammies already riding up his stomach. Taehyung is quick to curl his arms around Jimin, and most nights, Jimin is grateful for the extra warmth and comfort that sends him effortlessly into Dreamland, but tonight isn’t most nights. In all honesty, it hasn’t been most nights for the past few nights. These nights, Jimin dreads sleeping - where his dreams are more nightmares, not of spiders or monsters, but of the cold, barren darkness from before.

But the worst parts are the bright flashing lights, loud noises and breaking glass, mommy screaming for daddy–

Jimin wakes up with a small cry. A familiar chilliness settles in his belly, but not even Taehyung’s hugs can keep it away. Jimin clambers off the bed, placing Poby the Polar Bear in Taehyung’s arms instead. Silently, he crawls over to sit in front of the window, peeking up at the sky.

Tonight, the moon is only half out, but there are thick clouds in the way, and Jimin can’t see even the stars. It’s dark, and the nightlight only makes Jimin feel more lonely, reminds him more of before.

Before appa and eomma.

Before Taehyung.

Before Sunshine House.

In truth, Jimin doesn’t remember much before Sunshine House. Not that there is much to remember. The days and nights blur together into incoherency, and the only thing that remains vivid is the closed door where grown ups would come and go.

Instead, Jimin remembers the day she - not eomma - left him. Jimin remembers how she had dressed him up in his one and only coat, the sleeves bunching up in his palms. He remembers her wrapping a red scarf round and round his neck - it had kept him warm enough despite his threadbare clothes.

He remembers the park. How the playground had been bare, the chains on the swing icy in his hands. He remembers playing in the sandbox, forming lumps of clay and sand for riceballs and drawing figures with a stick; remembers turning every now and then to show her.

He remembers turning around and finding her gone completely.

He remembers feeling cold - the kind that remained after the hot cocoa they gave him at the police station, wrapped in a thick scratchy blanket. The policemen behind the desks would take turns staring at him, making him uncomfortable, and every now and then, a lady police officer would come up to offer him water or snacks.

He remembers walking through the front door of Sunshine House for Children, remembers feeling tiny and even colder under the stares of the other kids. His bed is a futon among a dozen others in a big room, the blanket thicker than his old one, the mattress not as lumpy.

Jimin doesn’t talk much to the other kids, doesn’t talk much at all, except for when the adults ask him a question. Though polite, his answers are always simple, short words.

About a week in, the first snow falls at dawn, and the kids wake up to a good couple inches of fresh, white snow. Where most of the kids run around building snowmen and waging snowball fights, Jimin picks a secluded corner, near some bushes. There, he meets Lula - the resident stray cat, fur in soft patches of orange, black and white, and eyes bluer than the sky.

When the matron comes to coax him back inside with the other kids, she gets a heart attack. The notoriously feisty stray calico in their neighborhood hangs limply in Jimin’s arms, as though it has only ever been docile. The child turns with his charms on at full throttle - his droopy eyes wide and beseeching, lips full on pout - looking like the world would end if she says no.

That night, Jimin is given a thorough lecture about being careful around stray animals, as well as how to care for a pet himself, while they get the calico de-clawed and vaccinated.

Lula is the first friend Jimin makes.

Jimin likes Lula a lot - she doesn’t talk but she always keeps him company. She gets fussy with other people, but Jimin finds her anger familiar and calming somehow. He likes her soft paws better than stinging slaps and booming shouts.

It’s still hard to talk to the other kids - Jimin finds himself lost for words around them, finds his voice gone when they try to talk to him, finds his limbs frozen when they try to play with him.

There’s this one boy, though, named Taehyung - the boy who always smiles and is one of the loudest kids in the bunch, the one who sleeps in the cot next to his. On Jimin’s third night in the orphanage, he gets nudged right before he could fall asleep. It’s Taehyung.

“Can I sleep next to you?” He whispers, already tugging at Jimin’s comforter.

“Why?” Jimin sits up quietly, peering at the rumpled state of Taehyung’s futon.

“I can’t sleep.”

Taehyung fiddles with the frayed ends of his pajamas, his eyes are wide and he bites his lips shyly. It’s different from the typical bubbly brightness he exudes - which Jimin secretly envies - and Jimin finds himself scooting over, allowing Taehyung to snuggle up next to him.

When he wakes up, Taehyung has his arms and legs coiled around Jimin, but he only finds himself feeling perfectly warm, the coldness he’s felt in his tummy from before somehow gone.

On his second week at the Sunshine House, Jimin makes his second friend - his first human friend, Taehyung.

Taehyung is different from Lula. He’s loud and cheerful where Lula is quiet; always moving and talking and playing. But Taehyung makes him laugh with silly faces and weird noises, keeps Jimin warm with hugs and cuddles just when Jimin starts feeling left out. He never leaves Jimin alone for too long, and Jimin shows him how to give Lula a bath the way the caretakers taught him to.

In the day, Jimin becomes Taehyung’s shadow, trailing after him quietly as he plays and mingles with the other kids. Some days, Jimin is still too shy to stick around, so he settles back down with Lula, coloring or drawing or playing blocks, and sooner or later, Taehyung settles down next to him. It’s one of the few moments the caretakers actually see Taehyung settle down.

In the night, Jimin scoots to the left most side of his cot, makes sure their comforter is evenly spread. Taehyung snuggles close to Jimin, wrapping his arms around him as though Jimin is an anchor that keeps him from getting blown away. Jimin doesn’t mind; likes Taehyung’s warm hugs, likes waking up tangled in sheets and limbs, especially after long dreams of being alone in the dark on cold kitchen floors.

It takes several more weeks, but spring comes eventually. When they finally shed their heavier coats and scarfs for light sweaters, Jimin plays with the others like he’s been part of the group for years, smiles bright and warm like the spring sun.

It’s November now, and Autumn engages in a tug of war with Winter. To Jimin, it’s all the same; the nights are long and cold, but his tears don’t run out.

Spring still seems too far away.

Jimin tries to stifle his sobs, he really does. But he misses when appa read him bedtime stories - misses appa’s warm big hand on his head, misses eomma’s lullabies, misses forehead kisses. More than anything, he wants appa to come back. He doesn’t understand why appa needed to become a star. Jimin doesn’t need stars - they’re too far away for hugs and kisses and bedtime stories.

“Jiminie?” Taehyung whispers, crawling over to sit next to him in front of the window. Jimin doesn’t look up, only curls tighter into himself, knees pressed to his chest, face buried in his crossed arms. Taehyung clenches a fist onto Jimin’s sleeves.

“Did you get another nightmare?” He whispers sadly. Jiminie has been having a lot of nightmares lately; he gets woken up whenever Jimin begins tossing and turning, sometimes talking and crying.

Jimin shakes his head, sniffling. “I miss appa so bad, Taetae.”

Taehyung nods sadly; he does too. He looks up at the cloudy sky, and frowns. He glances at Jimin, biting his lip, before curling up his legs to rest his chin on his knees, too.

“I’m sorry, Jiminie.” He says softly, morosely. “S’my fault. I drew on the couch again today and I didn’t eat my vegebles. Daddy must’ve saw, and ‘cause I wasn’t good today, hid away.”

Jimin shakes his head again, this time lifting his head. “No, Taetae. It’s my fault, too. I made fun of Uncle Jin, and I don’t finish my food all the time. And we didn’t clean up our messes after playtime.”

They both quiet down, looking up at the inky grey and black sky.

“…It’s both our faults.” They say at the same time, sighing. Blinking, they turn to look at each other, then look back up at the sky. “We’re sorry.”

“Need to apologize to Uncle Jin tomorrow, maybe.”

“We’ll do it after breakfast. I’ll make sure to finish mine tomorrow.”

“I’ll eat more of my vegebles, too. After playtime, let’s clean up too.”

“What about the couch?”

“Ggukie started it! That’s his fault, too,” Taehyung whined, pouting. Jimin pokes his arm.

“Appa will know. You have to be good, too, or it won’t work.”

Taehyung pouts some more, but nods resignedly. “Fine, fine - but can we go back to bed now? The floor is cold.”

They get resettled - Poby the Polar Bear getting pushed off the bed - back into their tangle of arms and legs and pillows, Jeongguk remaining fast asleep through it all.

“Good night, Jiminie.”

“Good night, Taetae.”

Seokjin frowns, seeing Jimin’s puffy eyes. The seven year old is more sluggish this morning than usual, more subdued.

“Jiminie, are you feeling okay?” He asks worriedly, pressing the back of his hand onto the young boy’s forehead. His temperature is normal, and Jimin mumbles a small, “’m fine.”

Seokjin purses his lips, then turns to his other seven year old, who’s more bleary eyed than usual. Taehyung’s hair sticks up in multiple directions, his eyes still at half-mast staring blankly at the table. It’s a one-eighty from the usually exuberant boy that Taehyung is, and Seokjin’s worry meter goes up another one or ten notches.

“Taehyungie, did you not sleep well last night?”

Taehyung promptly slumps over, faceplanting onto the table with a small thump. Jeongguk cackles at his brother, reaching with stubby fingers to poke at his side. Seokjin watches with mild amusement as Taehyung whines, weakly batting out an arm in retaliation.

“Right, well, you can go back to sleep if you want, but only after breakfast.” Seokjin says finally, turning back to where he’d been finishing the last plate for breakfast. With a flourish borne out of habit, (and yeah, okay he might be putting on a bit of a show, but if the kids don’t bat an eye, then it never happened) Seokjin makes quick work of the berries, dishes them out into small bowls.

“Heads and arms off the table,” he calls plopping down the plates and bowls. Taehyung’s nose twitches, before he perks up in a flash, back ramrod straight even as his eyes remain half shut.

“Strawberries!” He yells loudly, prying one eye open.

“There’s waffles, too.” Seokjin replies, more than slightly amused when Taehyung’s eyes pop wide open at the breakfast spread, the boy digging in with a hearty cheer. Jeongguk is already cramming his cut up pieces of bacon and waffle, and even Jimin hums happily with every other mouthful.

Today, Seokjin’s decided to give the kids a treat, making hashbrown-stuffed waffles, topped with bacon slices and poached egg, along with a bowl of sliced berries. Taehyung eats only the strawberries after polishing off his waffle, handing the rest to Jeongguk as usual who happily devours the rest, his own plate already wiped clean.

“Dewishoos!” Jeongguk chimes happily through mouthfuls of strawberries and bananas. Taehyung pokes his side, and Jeongguk blinks at his brother, before he turns to Seokjin, saying “Thank-you Uncle Jin! Dewishoos food!”

Somewhere between Seokjin melting and preening at the praise, Jeongguk polishes Taehyung’s bowl of fruits, moving on to Jimin’s. And in what seems like a blink of an eye, the four year old manages to stuff six whole blueberries into his cheeks. Like a chipmunk. An oversized chipmunk.

The idea of a four-year-old Jeongguk-chipmunk driving him to bankruptcy with his bottomless pit of a stomach won’t quite go away.

On the bright side, today Jimin finishes his waffles, although he only eats half of his fruits (Jeongguk had gotten to them before Jimin could). But Seokjin decides to count his wins rather than his losses.

Progress is progress.

Soon, everyone’s plates empty out, and dutifully, the kids set their dirty dishes onto the sink - for the first time, without prompting from Seokjin. The chairs are tucked in with a bit of scraping, and Seokjin turns to wash the dishes, hearing the telltale pattering of feet and the opening theme of Pororo blaring from the living room. He assumes the kids are tucked into the couches - or likely goofing off and roughhousing again - so he’s surprised when he turns around to see Jimin and Taehyung still standing by the table, engaged in what may very well be a telepathic conversation.

“Boys? What are you two still doing here?”

Jimin and Taehyung turn to him at the same time. The solemn looks in their eyes make him pause, curious, but also slightly nervous. “Uncle Jin!”

He raises his brows, drying his hands with a dishtowel.

“We’re sorry!” They chorus, even bowing their heads at the same time.

Seokjin dumbly replies with an open mouth and a, “Uh…huh?”

“I’m sorry Uncle Jin,” Jimin chews on his lip, looking down and sideways and everywhere not into Seokjin’s eyes. “…I haven’t been a good boy.”

“Me either neither!” Taehyung chimes in, and while he looks determinedly at Seokjin, his hands fidget restlessly with the ends of his pajama shirt. “I should’ve finished all my vegebles and I haven’t.”

“A-and we didn’t clean up after playtime,” Jimin adds nervously. “Sorry.”

“The broken vase too, and the couch and the wall–” Taehyung looks at him wide-eyed. “I-I mean the vase and the couch, the couch, we’re sorry.”

“Uhm…? Okay…?” Seokjin replies unsurely, his brain still trying to catch up.

Jimin and Taehyung look up at him expectantly, pleadingly, as though he holds the key to their fate, and he simply isn’t well-equipped for this so early in the morning. He doubts he’d be prepared for this any time of the day this year, really - or ever. He clears his throat; motioning for them to come closer with what he hopes is a comforting smile as he crouches to their eye level, each hand on the boys’ shoulders.

“I forgive you both. I’m glad you boys are mature enough to own up to your wrongs and apologize - I’m proud of you, and I’m sure your parents are too,” His voice hitches a bit, and he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. Jimin and Taehyung look up at him so earnestly he fears he might just break. “But what brought this on, all of a sudden?”

The two look at each other briefly, then Taehyung says, “Jimin misses dad a lot, but we haven’t been good boys, and dad saw and won’t appear in the sky.”

Seokjin is stupefied. Struck dumb, dumbstruck.

“Taehyung misses appa, too,” Jimin adds. “You said if we’re good boys, appa will be bright and happy, right? We promise to be good today, so appa will be up in the sky tonight, won’t he?”

That’s when Seokjin remembers it’s been cloudy and overcast the past few nights, will remain so for the coming days due to a mild monsoon. There won’t be stars in sight for a few nights more, at the very least.

More than ever, he wishes he had an ounce of Namjoon’s intellect, so he isn’t left fumbling for the right thing to say to these boys. Or at the very least, the perfect way to explain to them that no, good deeds and perfect behavior have no sway against easterly winds and monsoons.

Then he realizes Namjoon had been the one who began all this stuff about stars in the first place (what was that about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?) and he curses his boyfriend instead for putting him in this dilemma in the first place.

Seokjin really doesn’t know what to say.

Does he tell them the truth and take away any possible comfort they might’ve gained from believing their father’s become a star?

He doesn’t get to make the choice. Jimin’s face crumples, and Seokjin realizes he’s been silent too long. Oh no.

“Please, Uncle Jin, we’ll be good, we’ll be good! We promise!” Jimin cries, big fat teardrops leaking down in his cheeks.

Seokjin quickly pulls him into his arms. “Oh Jimin-ah, I know you will - you already are. You’re such a good, sweet boy–”

“Then why won’t appa come out in the sky? Does he hate us?” Jimin cries out, his body shaking with every sob. “Why did appa have to leave? We’re being good, we promise, we’re good! I want appa to come back!”

“Your appa loves you, Jimin-ah, he loves you and Tae and Ggukie.” Seokjin replies thickly, his own eyes hot. “He doesn’t hate any of you at all - he could never hate you–”

“Then why did he have to leave? Why isn’t he here?” Jimin pulls away viciously, face crumpled and wet. “If he loves us why isn’t he here?!”

“Because he can’t come back, Jimin-ah.” Seokjin replies softly, his ears ringing with the very same questions he still asks himself - even when he knows better.

But broken hearts do not listen to reason, and Seokjin knows this well enough, too. Still, his heart breaks all over again when Jimin’s face crumples with a fresh wave of tears, running back to the bedroom.

He hears a wet sniffle, and Seokjin turns to see Taehyung, tears dribbling down his face, too, fists twisted at the hem of his shirt.

“I miss daddy.” Taehyung chokes out.

Seokjin smiles sadly. “I miss him too, Tae.”

“Where the fuck are my tenderloins?!”

The kitchen staff flinch collectively, but nobody dares to raise their heads. The senior staff heave quiet sighs, but the newer, younger hires - including their part-timer dishwasher - quiver in fear. The young commi in question, even more.

“S-Sir?”

“How long does it take an idiot to rub fucking herbs into a slab of meat?” Yoongi slams his meat cleaver, chopping off a whole duck into clean cuts, before rounding onto the trembling young staff. “This is a kitchen, not a petting zoo! Gimme that before you drop it.”

He snatches the tray of freshly marinated meat from the trembling commi, handing a junior chef the chopped up duck. “Deal with this before I blow my fucking fuse.” Yoongi mutters, shoving the tray into the preheated oven after double checking the temperature, then slamming it shut.

“Entrée, coming right up,” Hyeri, one of their senior chefs, says, sliding over a nearly finished plate of lamb chops. Yoongi grabs a clean teaspoon, dripping different colored sauces in swift, meticulous strokes onto the dish. At the raise of a hand, Hyeri dutifully hands him a clean dishtowel to wipe off any excesses.

“Done,” He says at last, Hyeri collecting it with a nod to pass it on to their waiting servers. When Yoongi turns, he spots the commi from before - a kid, really, probably still in culinary school - still standing where he left him. “What’re you standing the fuck around for? Make yourself useful goddamn; the lunch rush ain’t over, kid and those meats aren’t gonna be rubbing marinade on themselves.”

The young commi practically jumps out of his skin, before running back to his previous station, where Young Jae is braising two different pots, while heating up a new batch of oil for deep frying some fritters. Young Jae discreetly offers the young lad a sympathetic smile, before nudging him to check on his braised duck.

Yoongi is already sampling Henry’s fresh batch of sauces for another set of dishes, supervising the plating with an eagle eye. It’s another busy day at Eat Jin with the lunch rush in full swing, a steady flow of customers coming and queuing up, especially after they’d gotten a Michelin star. The stress and high tension isn’t new, but normally Seokjin’s around to ease things down a notch before the kitchen gets too heated.

With Seokjin on leave, however, they’re left under the charge of their sous chef. And while Min Yoongi is a more easy-going person than most, Sous-Chef-turned-Head-Chef Min Yoongi absolutely does not have an ounce of chill in the kitchen.

“Yah, Yoongi-ah, you’re gonna scare away all our newbies if you keep at it,” Hyeri says nonchalantly while she checks on another batch of grilled pork chops just as the sous chef comes to a stop at her station.

Yoongi doesn’t lift his eyes from where he’s chopping up short ribs for galbi with a steady BANG, BANG, BANG! “I’m a chef, not a babysitter; Jin’s fault for hiring sissies.”

“Yoongi-ah,” Hyeri rebukes sternly and Yoongi sighs testily. “Look, I know you’ve been stressed, having to take over as head chef, and we’re all worried about Seokjin-“

“I’m not worried about that idiot-“ Yoongi mutters and Hyeri rolls her eyes but continues.

“Look, I don’t expect you to break out one of Seokjin’s puns-“

“I’d rather die.” Yoongi deadpans and this time, Hyeri flicks his forehead.

“Yah, if you interrupt me one more time, I swear,” the older woman huffs. “As I was saying, I don’t expect you to start cracking jokes, but you can at least try to be nice to our commi - Sungjae did not deserve that tongue lashing, you know.

Yoongi stops himself from releasing the long-suffering sigh building up in his chest, focusing instead on seasoning the chunks of short ribs. “Yes, fine, Hyeri-noona.”

“Good.” She nods, just as a timer dings. She swiftly takes out the tray of perfectly roasted pork belly from the oven. “And could you try to turn down the cursing? At this rate they’re gonna be calling you the Gordon Ramsay of Seoul.”

“As long as no one makes a disaster of a sandwich, noona,” Yoongi replies, passing the seasoned ribs to Kyung Soo for marinating.

The rest of the lunch rush passes by in a flurry of more orders, clanging and banging pots and pans and boards and knives, Yoongi’s occasional curses mixed into the chaos. It isn’t until 2pm when one of their servers, Jackson, comes bursting through the doors yelling, “hyung, hyung, hyung! Yoongi-hyung this is bad, this is bad!” that things take an awry turn.

Yoongi inwardly groans. He really could not wait until Seokjin came back to take this shit off his shoulders. This was not what he’d signed up for two years ago.

Jimin doesn’t come out of the room until Seokjin tells him it’s almost time for lunch. He washes up and gets dressed dutifully, even making sure to tidy up their bed - but he remains quiet and subdued. Taehyung is noticeably quieter today too, leaving Jeongguk to do most of the chattering.

It’s absolute agony.

For once, naptime isn’t much of a struggle. Jimin and Taehyung fall asleep even faster than Jeongguk - who, thankfully, follows soon after.

Seokjin takes this moment of quiet to tidy up the living room, tidy up his own chaotic mind, tidy up his strained and tangled emotions. In the middle of cleaning, he spots a new scribble on the wall by the couch that hadn’t been there yesterday.

This must be the thing about the wall Taehyung had been apologizing for earlier. Seokjin smiles faintly, crouching to take a closer look, taking out his phone to take a photo for posterity (or, y’know, when years down the road, they bring home their crushes, or become famous idols or something).

Just in case.

It’s as he’s zooming out that he realizes it’s right next to the spot on the couch Jeongguk had drawn days ago - still unfinished. The one with his brothers and the moon and one tiny spec for a star.

Taehyung’s scribble suddenly seems more familiar, more coherent - a scribble that looks vaguely like a constellation.

That’s because it is.

It’s Orion - the three stars that form the belt, the arm raised high above its head, the bow. And near the tip of it, closest to the couch, the two blobs, the stars from Taurus. One bigger and brighter than the other. Right to the left of Jeongguk’s wobbly smiling moon.

It’s the star they’d claimed was their father’s.

Seokjin nearly drops his phone. He doesn’t know how long he spends staring at it, his mind at once a storm and an empty void. Somewhere in between, he gets an idea.

He calls Hoseok.

#mac n cheese #bts fanfic #mac n cheese chap 3 #kim seokjin #kim taehyung #park jimin #jeon jungkook #jeongguk #min yoongi #jung hoseok #kids! maknae line #guardian! seokjin #chef! seokjin #chef! yoongi #lmao min yoongi as the chef ramsay of seoul #stars and constellations

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mysnarkyslytherinsecret · 7 years

Note

Drabble request for Reader x Snape where she finds him a weak and bloody mess after a Death Eater meeting and nurses him back to health.

He dropped out of the sky somewhere near a fat winding expanse of river. Luck (of a sort) was on his side, and a chilly, biting wind pushed his limp body the rest of the way into a deeper part of the bloated waterway, thanks to a series of recent storms. He thrashed his way up to the surface, the broom he’d stolen from a Death Eater who’d left it in the coatroom long forgotten. He’d been in no shape to Apparate, so why had he thought he was in any shape to fly?

Luckily, again, he was able to flail his way to the slimy, mud-covered beach, his hand catching on the sharp end of a metal can as he grasped the pliable earth for dear life. Finally, after a long moment lying face down in the mud, he finally scooted up the stinking beach on his belly, sharp stones catching on his soggy robes. His hair matted against one side of his face, cold and thick like a lifeless thing. With a groan, he finally turned himself over on his back and his chest heaved with the exertion of it. Blood leaked down over one eye and he turned his head to the side to spit a glob of blood-filled spittle onto the ground.

With the last of his strength, he forced his shaking hand into his pocket and felt for his wand. Ah. It was there.

Before he could even think of casting a Drying Charm, he was unconscious.

Nora stepped on his hand a few hours later and when he let out a weak groan, she screamed and fell unceremoniously backwards on her arse.

The sun had only just come up, but it was perfect clamming weather. She’d put on her muddy galoshes, tied her hair back into a bun and worn all of her oldest, holiest clothing, on account of the certainty of clam and mud stench.

Of course, she hadn’t brought her cell. She didn’t want to accidentally drop it in the mud. The stuff was thick and it had the habit of taking things dropped onto it, just like quicksand.

“Oi,” Nora said, pushing him with a rubber boot and hoping it could withstand it if the half-dead stranger turned out to be undead like the creatures she’d watched on the late movie the night before, “you’re not a zombie, are you?”

“Gerrof me,” slurred the obviously-not-dead man, and she could see the trickle of free-flowing blood on his forehead.

“Ah, guess you’re not. You want me to drive you to hospital?” Her voice was surprisingly calm, even though the look of the man was pretty horrible.

“No. No hospital. Just…I…” The man closed his eyes and promptly passed out again.

She grumbled to herself, but she still pulled the man out of the mud by hand. After digging for clams every Saturday and working on a farm during the summers for the last two decades, she’d developed the sort of muscle tone that most people went to a gym three days a week to get. The man was practically skin and bones under his muddy clothing, which seemed to be heavier than he was. She threw him over one shoulder and walked carefully back to her rusty old truck, swearing at the way the thick mud sucked at her boots.

The man’s chest rose and fell fairly evenly as she drove back home, which was a simple little cottage on her aunt and uncle’s farm. She’d just finished her undergraduate degree and had come out to the country to try and figure out what to do next. Life had just seemed to big and uncertain after she’d walked across that stage to accept her diploma, and now…

She looked at the man, whose two-day stubble and hooked nose made him look like some kind of cartoonish villain, though the slack look of his unconscious face seemed to make him look a bit more gentle than he’d seemed on first impression.

She sighed, and left him in the passenger seat. It was time to get the tub ready.

Nora was, at heart, a practical young woman. She’d watched calves being born countless times. She’d plucked chickens and readied them for roasting. She also knew that this unknown man would catch his death if she left him in those wet clothes.

“And it would be just my luck if he came back as a ghost to haunt me,” she said with a shudder. It was also easy to believe in ghosts and zombies out in the country, where the lights of the city were far off, leaving the darkness to encroach upon the walls of her cottage as soon as the sun had set.

And so, she filled the tub and she fireman-carried him to the bathroom and stripped him down to his underpants before heaving him into the hot, soapy water.

Immediately, the man groaned, his eyes fluttering. She froze in the middle of reaching for the scrub brush.

“Wuh-ahh?!” He flailed, trying to stand up and she had to lunge down to keep him from slipping and hitting his head (which was already bruising terribly and featured a line of crusted blood).

“Stay!” she demanded, in her best Puppy Trainer voice (it had been a full time job when her aunt’s border collie had given birth to a litter of unexpected pups, and she’d learned exactly how to make them listen to her).

He froze immediately, his expression almost as surprised as she felt.

“You were half dead in the mud and I’m just trying to make sure you don’t get all dead, mister,” she continued, her sternness increasing as she placed her hands on her hips, “You said no hospital, but I’d be a pretty terrible person to let you die, so here you are. Now, you can be as mad as you want to be and I’ll understand it if you are, but at least get closer to being not dead first.”

His eyes widened and he seemed to be warring with himself about what to say before he slumped and sighed in resignation.

“Fine.” His voice was flat, and he dropped his head.

“Now, then, I saw that you injured your head pretty badly, so I’m not going to go anywhere just in case you fall into a coma or something, but I’ll close the curtain so you won’t feel like I’m putting you on the spot,” Nora said, “and I’ll start working on getting your clothing sorted.”

“Wait!” His hand was reaching towards her, then, and she realized that one was twisted at an unnatural angle. It must have been excruciating, but he seemed to ignore it completely.

“What?”

“My…w…um, there’s an important…thing in the sleeve pocket. Just…get it out and leave it on the counter or something,” he said, his eyes glittering in a way that made Nora feel distinctly uncomfortable.

Nora slid her hand slowly into the sleeve of the wet clothing that she’d somewhat unceremoniously dumped on the floor. Sure enough, something hard and unyielding pressed back and she resisted the urge to yank her hand away, pulling back the fold at the top of the pocket and pulling the object out underneath.

It was…a stick? Only it wasn’t…it was too smooth to be something that could have been found in nature.

“So you’re a magician, or something?” she asked, biting her tongue in order to stop herself from snidely asking whether he’d been practicing that trick with the hat and a rabbit and fallen into the river by mistake. Suddenly, the dark robe-like clothing made complete sense, but Nora still couldn’t imagine someone as sour-looking as him doing card tricks at kids’ birthday parties.

“Or something,” he muttered, sinking deeper into the tub. “Just…put it on the counter.”

There was something commanding in his voice that made her want to obey.

“Whatever,” she said, shrugging. “I’m going to throw these in the wash. Don’t pass out and drown while I’m gone.”

He snorted in reply as she bundled up the sodden clothing and marched down the hall to the laundry room.

Severus could still feel his body screaming in pain, but for some reason, the heavenly aroma of herbal shampoo and hot water and steam seemed to send the worst of it to the background, where it buzzed like a bunch of furious bees. This wasn’t the worst he’d been, but h truly had been in a bad way the night before. He felt embarrassed thinking back to how his concussed mind had justified trying to fly back to Hogwarts. He should have just called for the Knight Bus. But no, he had to do everything by himself.

Severus sighed. Sometimes he hated how stubborn he was, but at the same time, he felt somewhat proud about having survived on his own. He scrubbed at himself, eminently grateful that the surprisingly strong woman who’d saved him (no, he thought, saved is too strong of a word, more like assisted, yes, that’s much better) had not removed his underpants. He’d experienced such humiliation only once, and he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to cope with it a second time.

“You hungry?” His rescuer had reappeared, and he looked up at her- stared really, for she’d changed her mud-stained clothing and was now wearing a loose t-shirt and a pair of very short exercise shorts that he could barely see under the hem of the shirt. Unfortunately for him, they accentuated her stocky, muscular legs rather well. Almost too well, really. He swallowed the worsening lump in his throat. “Name’s Nora, by the way.”

“S…Severus,” he stuttered in reply, trying to figure out just exactly how this short, stocky woman had managed to drag his sorry arse all the way to the bath without either bumping his feet or his head on the floor. “Are you…is your back….injured?”

“Don’t worry,” she said with a shrug, “You weren’t that heavy. I’ve been tossing hay bales for years, and you’re like….half that weight at the most. No offense meant, mind, but it’s true.”

“Of course,” he said, because he couldn’t think of what else to say, other than the bubbles were beginning to dissolve and he was worried that he’d embarrass himself if she happened to see what was underneath them at this point. “Can you close the curtain now?”

“Of course,” she said, walking over to where they’d been bungeed together and undoing them quickly. “I’m going to wash up the floor a bit. Shout if you feel yourself slipping into a coma, all right?”

“Naturally.” He snorted and redoubled his scrubbing efforts. Now that the bubbles were mostly gone, he could tell that the water was turning a muddy brown, which, he supposed, helped keep certain misbehaving parts of himself from making themselves known. He scrubbed himself raw, and that helped a bit. Finally, Nora showed him how to drain the tub and work the knobs on the showerhead so that he could finish cleaning himself off. She steadied him with one arm as he stood, but the rushing cold of the shower head was enough to quell any rogue amorous thoughts.

Then, finally, he was alone with some oversized overalls and a button up shirt that looked as though it would look at home on a lumberjack (”nicked ‘em from me uncle” she explained). He slipped out of his underpants at last and dried himself, putting on the clothing with a bit of a wince. They were warm and dry, which felt relatively heavenly. Then, he picked up his wand and fixed the various broken bits of himself He’d need dittany if he wanted to fix the cut on his forehead, not to mention the shallow gashes left over on his thigh and upper arms, but he was all out after last night. And his drying charm only half-worked on his hair. The towel worked better, he realized. The magic wouldn’t work well enough for him to Apparate until he was a bit stronger.

“Besides,” he muttered to himself, “Albus would never let me live it down if I showed up at the front gates like this.”

Nora handed him a cup of strong black tea when he finally emerged from the bathroom.

“The heat will do you good,” she said, trying not to smirk when she saw how her uncle’s things fit the tall, emaciated man she’d pulled from the mud. His dark hair was stringy and wet around his cheeks, somehow making him look even thinner than before. Or maybe it was just how the clothing hung on his frame. Still, she couldn’t help but think back to the scars and old wounds that had traversed his body like a winding map of senseless roads.

This was a man who’d known pain all his life, and who had also known it recently. Something about that thought made her heart shudder in her chest, and she fought the urge to hug him the way she hugged all the strays that found their way to the farm after being dumped on the interstate by ungrateful owners.

He helped with the dishes after dinner that night- she washed and he dried. His hands were so graceful and nimble- she marveled that a man whose body showed evidence of such violence could have hands that could have been attached to an artist.

He didn’t comment when she set the couch up as a place to sleep, for the cottage was small, and only held one bedroom. She did not think that he would appreciate it if she offered her room. He seemed too proud for that. He’d also complained when she’d dressed his wounds with antibiotic ointment and bandages, but he’d let her affix them with minimal fussing once she started doing it.

Over the next few days, they had a number of interesting conversations, though he never shared much about his life or his past. Still, she noticed how his smiles never truly reached his eyes and how he had a nervous way of knitting his hands together while he spoke, as though he was ready to flee at the first sign of violence.

It was strange, but Nora found herself opening up to him fairly easily. It wasn’t that she was a secretive person, but she just didn’t feel the need to share personal details about herself very often. However, Severus really seemed to listen intently to her, and in the end, she even confessed that she was having some anxiety about the future now that she was out of school.

“If I may, might you be willing to take a bit of advice for what it’s worth?” Severus asked, finally, when she’d finished.

Nora blushed, but she still nodded. She’d had a glass and a half of wine and she’d practically gone and told him all of her deepest, darkest fears.

“When I was just out of my apprenticeship, I was offered two different jobs,” Severus said, looking wistfully at the painting over the fireplace. “One job would have taken me to another country where I would have been moderately compensated and done interesting, but not groundbreaking research in my field. The other promised riches, the freedom to try experimentation that I hadn’t dreamed would be possible, and the status that I’d always craved.”

“What happened?” Nora asked.

“I chose the wrong one.” Severus pulled up his sleeve. A tattoo lay on the inside of his arm and for a moment, Nora imagined that she saw the snake move.

“You joined a gang,” Nora said. Suddenly the scarring made quite a lot more sense.

“They called themselves something else, tried to elevate themselves above mere thugs, but I knew what they were pretty soon after I’d joined up,” Severus replied wryly. “The thing was that I chose something that sounded too good to be true because I was afraid. Afraid of waking up in ten years and having accomplished nothing. Afraid that I would marry and have children and do all the things expected of an upstanding young person, but that it wouldn’t be enough. The thought that it would eat away at me and cause me to take everything for granted, possibly even lose it all in a fit of anger, was enough to make me choose the lies masquerading as dreams over something I hadn’t even experienced yet.”

“So I shouldn’t follow my dreams?” Nora asked, skeptical.

“No, no, that’s not it at all,” Severus replied hurriedly, “but if you go chasing dreams, you’ll miss out on the ability to live a good life. Even after I made my disastrous decision, I did do some good things. I’ve learned an awful lot, but most of it was after I escaped…at least for awhile. The point I was trying to make is that if things don’t work in your life, you don’t have to sit there and be miserable. You can make changes. So instead of going for the improbable, it’s perfectly reasonable to go with something that seems interesting and then reevaluate as time goes on. If it’s still interesting, then you can keep going with it, but if it stops interesting you, there’s no shame in moving on.”

“I see.” Nora regarded her half-full wine glass seriously. “So instead of stressing out, I should try something, and if I don’t like it, I should move on instead of just sticking with something I hate?”

“Yeah, and don’t get any terrible gang tattoos,” Severus replied, chuckling wryly.

They both knew that he was nearly good as new. His bandages had largely become unnecessary. Yet neither of them seemed willing to bring up the subject of his leaving.

Nora knew it was foolish. He was obviously from a completely different world, not to mention older than she was, but the wine had made her giddy and just a bit reckless, and she leaned forward and kissed him.

He let out a surprised sound and then he was kissing her back. She knew that it would never happen- he was simply from another world. But for awhile, he was hers, and she didn’t think about anything else.

In the end, he helped her to bed and kissed her forehead before tucking her in. Nora smiled as she drifted off to sleep, but a part of her felt disappointed that he had not joined her.

The next morning, he was gone. He left a note, thanking her for her hospitality, and mentioned that he would like to stop by if he had time to do so. He didn’t leave a forwarding address or any sign that he’d been there.

Nora sighed. It was a bright morning for once, and she had many things to do. And maybe, just maybe, if she played her cards right, she’d see him again.

#severus snape #headcanon #tw: injury #tw: abuse mention #death eater #recuperation #hurt comfort #oc

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snickerl · 7 years

Text

Elixir Vitae

AU fanfic set around the time of IWTB.

A/N: If you think you want to leave a comment, feel free to do so!

Find previous chapters here: Chapter I / Chapter II / Chapter III / Chapter IV / Chapter V / Chapter VI / Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

She’s back home for two months now and it’s going well.

I think.

She’s meeting with a psychiatrist in town every other day, exercising memory techniques at home in between. She rests a lot, either in our bed, on the sofa or outside in the hammock. Every now and then, she’d ask me something about her - our - past or hold something up in the air wanting to know where it’s come from. We’ve already talked more about William in the past few weeks than in the six years before, and it’s liberating not to suppress the topic anymore.

She’s in a good mood most of the time, optimistic and lighthearted. Only sometimes would she become mute and withdraw from me.

It’s not always easy for me to remember her condition because on the outside she looks exactly like my Scully. She regained all the pounds she lost during her ordeal when that killer had her under his control, her voice is the same, her movements, her looks. The way she pokes at her food is still the same, as is the way she neatly squeezes the toothpaste tube. The way she rolls her eyes at me when I make a lame joke is very familiar, as well as the hike her eyebrow takes when I tell her something she doesn’t want to believe.

Only that thing between us is not the same.

Our relationship has a quality it has never had before, save the first few months of our partnership maybe. It’s cordial, easy, convivial, and she’s very trusting. There’s hardly ever awkwardness between us, which is good. It gives her the freedom and audacity to ask me whatever she needs to know, about herself, work, her family, us… It’s as if we were siblings. I really do feel more like her older brother than her husband.

I’m so grateful for having gotten her back but in her world, there seems to be no attraction, no chemistry, at least that’s the impression I get from where I’m standing. I am, of course, very much attracted and every day I’m not allowed to touch her in the places I want to and in the way I want to, gnaws at me. Doubts start arising within me that I’ll be able to go on like this forever, that this can be enough for me for the time being. It’s hard to have her so near and yet so out of reach.

It’s eating me up.

For all the years before we’d become involved, we would’ve called our relationship platonic, but compared to what we have now, it had been a firework of gazes, touches, and flirtation. And I miss it. I miss it a lot. As frustrating as it had been sometimes, I prefer to be her secret, suppressed fantasy to being her best buddy.

Only very lately do I have the feeling the setup between us is changing. I try not to read too much into it, but there’s definitely more touching from her. She slips her hand into mine when we’re taking one of our long strolls around the farmland surrounding our house. She puts her head on my shoulder when we’re sitting on the porch swing watching the sunset, wrapped together in a single blanket now that evenings are chilly in the fall. She squeezes my forearm when I serve her a cup of tea. As if she seizes the opportunities to make physical contact. And I let it happen. Of course.

Right now, I feel her hands on my shoulders, gently kneading the muscles that are all stiff after a long day of writing at the computer. I’m exhausted, my eyes burn, and I’m hungry. I haven’t accomplished much though, so a good deal of dissatisfaction is thrown into the mix. But her hands on my shoulders are calming me down.

“You tired?” she asks gently.

I take my glasses off and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I am.”

“You’ve been sitting here all day. How about a hot bath?”

You and me together? Just kidding!

“Sounds good actually.”

I rise from my chair and stretch. “Ouch,” I wince when I hear my bones crack and feel my muscles strain.

“You know what? You go upstairs and relax in the tub. I prepare something to eat and after dinner, I give you a massage. There are some nasty knots in your neck and shoulder muscles.”

The offer is too tempting to say no, although I should be the one caring for her instead of the other way around. But to be honest, I could use a massage, and I’m too exhausted to take care for dinner myself.

“If you don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I had minded,” she asserts.

“Ok, but don’t make a fuss. I think there are leftovers in the fridge, just warm something up.”

“Leave it to me. Go!”

She nudges me out of my office like a boy who needs to be nudged into the classroom on his first day of school.

When I let myself slip into the hot water, I’m in heaven. My sore neck and shoulders instantly relax in the humid warmth, even my mind is slowing down.

I don’t know how long I’ve been soaking in the tub when I hear a cautious knock at the door. It must’ve been a while because when I look at my palms the skin is wrinkled and the bathroom mirror is foggy from the humidity. I quickly check the water surface to make sure there are still enough bubbles to cover my lower body before I tell her to come in.

She props her head through a tiny crack. “Everything alright in here?”

“Yeah, you may even dare to come in, Scully.”

She opens the door and presents a tray. “I figured you must be very hungry, so I made a club sandwich.”

She fixes the tray at the edge of the tub, the one she usually uses when she’s relaxing in a bubble bath with a book. There’s a plate with the sandwich, which looks really good I must say, and a glass of red wine.

“Is wine okay or would you rather have a beer with it?” she asks.

“Wine is perfect, thanks a lot.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Without warning, she dips her hand into the water, shortly grazing my thigh. Accidentally, I suppose, but I freeze anyway.

“Is this still warm enough?” she asks innocently.

“It is,” I croak.

I wasn’t freezing because of the water temperature being too low but because of your fingers touching my thigh only inches away from my best member.

“Ok, take your time in here. When you’re done, I’ll knead those knots out of your muscles.”

“Ok,” I answer, but I won’t take any more time than absolutely necessary to put that sandwich away.

It is delicious, actually, but still, the prospect of Scully waiting for me to give me a massage is so alluring that I jump out of the tub as soon as I swallowed the last bite. I haven’t emptied the wine yet, but I will take it with me.

I enter the bedroom all clean and refreshed in a pair of pajama pants and a fresh t-shirt, the wine glass in my hand. She’s dimmed the light and lit some candles. Soft music is coming from the stereo. The covers have been folded away, but Scully’s nowhere to be seen.

“Scully?” I call for her.

“I’ll be right up,” she shouts from downstairs, “make yourself comfortable on the bed.”

On the bed, huh?

I place myself on my side of said piece of furniture in my night gear, indecisive, trying to imagine what she exactly meant by making myself comfortable.

“I was looking for some massage oil, but it seems we don’t have any,” she says when she enters the bedroom a few minutes later, “I even checked the storeroom downstairs but all I found were three different kinds of olive oil and some sunflower oil. I think we have to settle for my body lotion. I hope you like vanilla.”

Is that meant to be a joke? I’ve always loved her vanilla scent on me, no matter how it got there, but especially after we’d made love.

“You’re still dressed?” she asks somewhat aghast when she realizes it. “Am I supposed to work on you through your shirt? Undress!”

“Okay, doc!” I manage before I pull my shirt over my head. I suppose she meant only the shirt.

“No lie down on your stomach, relax, and allow my fingers to get to work!”

I do as I’ve been told, burying my face into the pillow.

I hear her flipping open the bottle with the body lotion, a hint of the familiar scent reaching my nose when she squeezes some of it onto her hand. She’s rubbing it between her palms, probably warming it up before spreading it onto my skin. And then it’s there, the feeling of her soft, warm hands on me. She’s spreading the lotion on my back in large circles, tracing slow pathways across my backside, applying a very comfortable pressure. When she shoves the hem of my pants a little further down my buttocks to be able to work on my lower back, my pulse accelerates.

My mind wanders back to the time when everything was still alright, when touching me like this was leading to cuddling and later on lovemaking, when it was not part of some kind of medical treatment. I close my eyes to imagine us in a different setting, wishing us about half a year back in time, when physical intimacy was nothing to be nervous about but the most natural thing between us.

“Trapezius. Splenius capitis. Sternocleidomastoid,” she recites while palpating my neck. “Obliquus capitis inferior. Rectus capitis posterior major and,” she readjusts her fingers a bit, “ah, there it is…rectus capitis posterior minus.”

I’d always been impressed by her reciting medical terminology, but right now this is not only pulling me out of my sweet bliss but it’s downright baffling me. How come she doesn’t remember the date and place she was born but is able to call every fucking muscle in my neck by its Latin term? Why didn’t the amnesia affect this part of her brain, why did it have to be the part where our life together is stored? In moments like these, I want to curse everything and everyone and especially the merciless fate which put us through yet another ordeal.

Sometimes I ask myself why we’re not allowed to be happy, not for long anyway. Who’s the sick bastard having fun throwing us off course every now and then, begrudging us even the most humble states of happiness? I mean, hasn’t it been enough to take our loved ones away from us, is it really necessary to take us away from one another as well?

Her voice cuts through my musings. “Your muscles are very tight, Fox, this might hurt a little. Tell me when I’m using too much pressure.”

The physical pain will be nothing compared to the emotional pain I’m suffering from day in and day out since the woman I’m deeply in love with has forgotten who I am, I’m thinking, but instead, I say, “I have a high threshold for pain.”

“I bet you have,” she replies flatly. “Let me loosen your back and shoulder muscles first.”

She places both hands on my lower back and strokes reasonably firmly upwards all the way up to my neck. Then, with gentler pressure, she circles around and slides her hands back to down.

Oh, this feels good!

I moan.

“Too much?” she asks and takes her hands off me.

“No, it’s perfect,” I mumble into the pillow, “go on, please!”

Now, she uses only the heels of her hands, starting at my lower back again. Both hands work in small circles with a deeper pressure, moving outward, upward, and back to the center. She gradually progresses to my upper back until she reaches my achy shoulders.

God, I feel the tension falling off of me a little more with every stroke of her magical hands.

Next, she glides a thumb with deep sustained spotty pressure up the full length of the muscles on either side of my spine. She moves slowly and deliberately, in sync with the music coming from the stereo.

I can feel her rise from the bed and for a moment I fear that she’s done already, but she leaves her hands on my back, so I guess I’m safe to hope for more. She kneels next to my right flank and works on the opposite side of my body. She puts one hand on top of the other and pushes with the flats of her fingers away from the center line to glide back toward the spine. Again, she starts at my lower back, working up slowly to my shoulders. When she’s done with my left side, she straddles my buttocks for a moment - Stay there, baby! Right there! - to kneel at my other side to care likewise for my right flank.

“Does this feel good?” she asks.

“Mmhmmm,” I hum, stifled by the pillow my face is still buried in.

She giggles. “I suppose I can take that as a yes.”

Turning my face to the side I elaborate, “this is great, Scully, thanks so much. I didn’t even realize I was so tense.”

“You spent too much time in front of your computer today, Fox. Your shoulders and neck muscles are so tight, they must be terribly achy.”

She places her hands at the spots where my neck meets my shoulders and gently rotates the palms. She then forms her hands into loose fists and places each one on either side of my neck near the base of my skull. She starts rotating her wrists forward as she moves her hands down to the tops of my shoulders, rotating backward as she moves back toward the base of my skull.

Suddenly, she hits a trigger point which is especially tense and very sensitive. I gasp.

“Sorry,” she says and instantly reduces the pressure.

“No, it’s okay. It’s just that I’m very sore right there.”

“Yeah, I figured. Let me try something. If it’s too painful, tell me to stop.”

I feel her drape her right hand over the back of my neck in a C-form. I feel like a cat about to be picked up by the back of my neck. She presses gently into the muscles at each side with her fingers and thumbs, gradually deepening the pressure. While maintaining the firm squeeze, she does a large circular kneading action with her hand.

My muscles work against the pressure at first, tightening even more which causes a stinging pain. She feels it under her fingers apparently because she tells me to breathe the pain away by inhaling deeply through my nose and exhaling slowly through my mouth. I can’t help being reminded of the Lamaze class I took her to once, where I told her exactly the same.

“It should be getting better, I can feel your muscles relaxing,” she informs me, and she’s right. The pain wanes a bit but is still very prominent.

“Try to let go, Fox. Picture your muscles yield to the pressure.”

She deepens the pressure a bit again and I can’t keep a painful moan from slipping out.

“I’m at a trigger point right now, try to bear it just a little longer. Trust me, the muscles will surrender at some point.”

“And when exactly will that be, Scully, because right now I feel squeezed like a lemon…ouch!

"I didn’t know you were such a baby! So where’s that high threshold for pain you told me about? Really, if men were to give birth, the human race would long be extinct!”

“Doctors are sadists, I knew it, and you are no exception, Doctor Scully!” I grunt.

Is it smart to tease her when my neck is clamped viselike in her hand? Maybe not! I assume I made her want to increase the pressure until I beg for mercy, but I have to give her credit, she remains completely professional. She maintains the slight circular motion, and a little later, indeed, I feel the pain wear off and the muscles relax.

“Ouffff,” I breathe, followed by more sounds signaling that the pain is easing to the same extent the comfort is increasing.

“There you go,” she says, unable to hide a triumphant undertone, “eventually, the muscle yields and softens. Better?”

“Much better.”

“Good.”

I move my head, now being able to do it without any cracking noises from my neck.

“You’re a magician, Scully.”

“Just a simple acupressure technique I learned from an alternative practitioner at med school. Lie still, I need to channel you out of the procedure.”

She slowly reduces the pressure until she’s more or less stroking my neck, finishing the massage by gently placing her hands on my shoulders.

I’m totally relaxed. What had felt like a dead weight on my shoulders half and hour ago, is gone. It wasn’t exactly a feel-good massage, but I do feel good now. Really good.

After a short moment of stillness, her fingers start gliding back and forth over my right shoulder. I’m not sure if it’s still part of the massage, so I don’t move, but actually, it doesn’t seem to be. It feels more like an intimate, tender caress than a medical procedure, alternative or not. When she touches the scar on my shoulder, I realize where this is going.

“Is that from a gunshot?” she asks timidly.

“Uhm, yes,” I mumble, my face turned sideways on the pillow.

“What happened?”

“You…shot me,” I say as unemotionally as I can.

I don’t turn around so I don’t see her face which I guess is falling apart, but I can hear her gasp.

“What? I accidentally shot you in the shoulder?”

Jesus, Scully, how many more crazy stories do I have to tell you?

“Your hit ratio was above 90 percent, Agent Scully. You wanted the bullet right there.”

“Why for heaven’s sake would I want to shoot you in the shoulder?”

“Because I was going to do something incredibly stupid.”

“Which was what?”

“I was about to shoot the person I believed had killed my father. I’d been drugged and was completely out of my mind. There was no other way for you to stop me, so you put a bullet through me where it’d do only little damage. Like I said, you were among the FBI’s top scorers on the firing range, you hit the target right where you wanted to hit it.”

She palpates the spot with gentle paws. “It’s healed well.”

“You patched me up and took me to a place where I could rest until the effect of the drugs had worn off.”

“Well, it was the least I could do.”

“You’d done the right thing, Scully. I would’ve gotten into big trouble if I had shot that guy, although he’d deserved it. The weapon I’d been holding would’ve turned me into the prime suspect in my father’s murder case.”

“And I was aware of that.”

It’s not phrased as a question but I know it is one.

“Of course, you were. You’d always been aware of the essentials of a case.”

“I see.”

Her hand has been resting on my shoulder blade during our entire conversation. It made me remain on my stomach.

“I have what I believe is a scar from a gunshot on my abdomen,” she says now, opening up yet another chapter of her past I would’ve rather kept closed.

“Ugh, yes, don’t remind me!” I huff. “That was an accidental hit. Not from me, though, but from some green, incapable, and unbelievably impetuous agent you were working with for just that one case. The guy was lucky you recovered quickly, miraculously quickly even, despite the severe abdominal damage he’d caused because nobody would’ve kept me from killing him if you hadn’t.”

I still haven’t turned around but I can literally hear the smile in her voice when she says, “we were quite a working duo, weren’t we?”

“Yes, indeed, we certainly were. They called us Mr. and Mrs. Spooky,” I say and hide my grin in the pillow.

Now she laughs heartily, a rare and therefore very welcome sound.

“Why Spooky?”

“Because my dear colleagues had come up with that very funny nickname for me, Spooky Mulder, and you as my partner inherited it, so to say.”

“So everybody in the Bureau assumed we had something going on,” she establishes. Of course, she’s understood the innuendo behind the expression, back then as well as today.

“I guess so, yes.”

“Didn’t it bother you?”

Now that question makes me turn around eventually and prop myself up on my elbows.

“I was used to be shoved into that corner. I simply overlooked the people who whispered behind the scenes and ignored their eye rolls and mocking remarks. I didn’t give a fuck what they called me, but it bothered me that you were awarded the same ridiculous title just because you were being a loyal partner. In my case, they were just making fun of me and the work they were too narrow-minded to understand. In your case, they were simply being sexists, pretermitting your integrity and capability as a field agent.”

“Did it bother me?”

“At the beginning, probably, but later on, you were above the gossip.”

“But you said I was so compliant with the fraternization rules.”

“You were, but not because you were worried about what other people thought of you. If at all, you were worried about what the rumors did to the reputation of our work on the X-Files. You followed the rules because you believed the quality of our work would suffer if our private and professional lives were mingled.”

“Did it? Suffer?”

“No, it didn’t. Not a bit. As a matter of fact, we were given cases years after we’d first resigned from the Bureau even though we were an official couple at the time. Our relationship status had nothing to do with the quality of our work.”

“An official couple?”

“I had a wedding certificate signed by a justice of the peace of the wonderful state of Kansas to prove I’d really made you tie the knot with me.”

“Come on, you make it sound as if you thought I’d married down.”

Yes, I do! There’d been better catches out there for you, but thanks to some divine choreography, you chose me.

I’m one lucky son of a bitch!

Those were just thoughts, but I’m not sure they’d not been written all over my face because she puts a hand to my cheek and gifts me a tender, even loving smile. In a voice as smooth as silk she adds, “I don’t think I married down.”

God, how I want to kiss her! How I want to pull her on top of me, to feel her weight on me, pushing my body into the mattress!

Her thumb strokes my cheek and suddenly there’s so much energy in the room, the intensity with which we gaze at each other multiplying. How can a pair of crystal blue eyes radiate so much warmth?

She feels it too because she pulls her hand back. Not hastily as if she’s burnt her fingers, but clearly in an effort to break the spell.

I don’t know what to say. I’m really good at saying stupid things in moments like these, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. Actions speak louder than words, I tell myself, and so I take the hand that’s just left my cheek in mine, pull it to my mouth and kiss it.

“Fox,” she says in a tone that adds ‘what are you doing?’ at the end.

“It’s alright, Scully. I’m not hitting on you, I just want you to know how much you mean to me. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable, but we’re in bed together, I’m scantily dressed, and you’ve just relaxed all my tense muscles with your magical massage…I can’t help but enjoy this moment.”

Maybe that wasn’t so stupid after all, at least that’s what her face tells me.

“You’re not making me uncomfortable. Not at all. If I was uncomfortable around you, I wouldn’t be living with you in this house, sleeping in a bed with you. What makes me uncomfortable is the fact that I feel like I’m taking advantage of you. You’re giving me so much, and I’m…uh, I’m not giving you anything back, really.”

“Huh? I don’t understand, Scully. You just gave me the most wonderful massage.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

She bites her lower lip and looks down at the hand I just kissed. Is she nervous? Hesitant to tell me?

“Scully? What is it?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t!”

I really don’t. What the hell is she talking about?

“I’m not giving you back anything…physical.”

She moves a strand of hair behind her ear which is a clear sign of her being uneasy. I can’t believe what I’m hearing, though. Is she really having a bad conscience because we haven’t had sex yet? I don’t know what to say!

Of course, my silence makes her even tenser. “God, this is so embarrassing!”

“There’s no reason for you to be embarrassed! Really! I don’t expect you to sleep with me in an act of gratitude if that’s what you mean. Hell, who do you think I am?”

“I just thought that you…you would want me to…ugh, I don’t know how to put it in words.”

“You thought I expected you to consent to have sex because you owed it to me after what I’d done for you these past weeks? Like fulfilling your marital obligations? Is this where this is going?”

“The way you’re saying it, it sounds ridiculous.”

“Because that’s what it is! It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of!”

My answer came out a bit more fervently than I intended. The way she’s casting her eyes down makes her look like a little girl who’s embarrassed because her mother has caught her picking her nose.

“Scully,” I say, having brought my agitation down a notch, “you owe me nothing. I once told you so many years ago and it’s still true. I’m not gonna pretend that I’m not attracted to you, that at times it’s not easy for my to keep my desire in check, but that’s my problem, not yours. I’ll do everything to help you heal. That’s because I love you, Scully, more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I’ll sleep on the couch if my sleeping in this bed is making you uncomfortable. I’ll check into a motel if you rather have the house to yourself. Maybe you’d like to stay at your mother’s or you want her to stay here? Just name it, Scully, it’ll happen.”

“None of this will be necessary, Fox. I’m not uncomfortable here with you. I just thought…well, I guess, it was stupid.”

“No, it wasn’t stupid.” I tap gently on her forearm to make her look at me. “You were being considerate and caring. You were being…you, Scully. Simply you. You’ve always been like that, and whatever happened to your head hasn’t changed it.”

Our eyes connect and, instantly, the energy is there again. This time she doesn’t pull away but holds the gaze. When I throw her what I hope is an encouraging smile, the corners of her mouth start to rise until she breaks into a warm, hearty chuckle. The awkward tension between us is broken and the comforting ease is back.

“Ready for bed?” I ask.

“Ready for bed,” she answers.

“You can have the bathroom first. I’ll get the tray downstairs and lock the front door,” I suggest.

When I’m back, she’s already in bed, glasses on her nose and a medical textbook on her lap. She looks up when I enter the bedroom and smiles at me, just like old times. My hearts leaps.

A few moments later, after my turn in the bathroom, I slip under the covers. A slight vanilla scent lingers in the air, I’m not sure whether it’s hers or my own this time. I turn off the lamp on my nightstand and lie on my back. The massage has made me drowsy.

“I’m going to let myself drift off, Scully. You go on reading, it doesn’t bother me.”

She snaps the book shut. “No, I’ve only been waiting for you,” she says, taking off the glasses and placing them on the nightstand together with the book. When she leans over to turn off the lamp, her pajama top rides up to her waist, exposing the tattoo. I swallow. Looking at it has always both irritated as well as turned me on, and I wonder why she hasn’t asked me about it yet. She turns around and there’s no more time to dwell on it.

Although all sources of light have been switched off, the moon shining through the blinds sheds enough light on her face for me to notice she’s contemplating something. She’s chewing the inside of her cheek and seems to be indecisive about what to do next.

“What’s the matter?” I finally ask when she’s giving no indication of having come to any kind of conclusion.

“Would you…uhm…would you mind…holding me?” she stammers.

Instead of answering this crazy question, I simply stretch my arm out and lift the blanket. She scoots close and a waft of warmth drifts along with her. When she places her head on the spot where my shoulder meets my neck and rests her hand on my chest, a sudden peace settles upon me. I put my arm around her and stroke her upper arm a few times before I pull her a bit closer. I wouldn’t mind her leg intertwined with mine, but I guess that’d be too much nearness to ask for.

How often have we drifted off to sleep like that? I’ve always enjoyed spooning her, bringing our bodies in perfect alignment as her smaller backside fits seamlessly into my taller front, but having her head rest on my chest and her leg spread across my hip has always been so much more intimate. I knew she listened to my heartbeat, her head rising and falling with my breathing. When my torso was bare, her eyelashes tickled my skin and I felt the corner of her mouth rise into a sleepy smile. When her breathing became deeper and more regular, when her limbs became heavier and absolutely still, I knew she’d fallen asleep, marking the moment I was ready to also succumb to sleep.

We’re not at this point yet. She’s fidgeting, is unable to relax, which lets me think she is not really ready for our embrace, even if it’s only a platonic cuddle.

“Scully?” I ask, keeping my voice low and soft, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you so restless?”

“I’m fine!” she assures me stubbornly.

I can’t keep the broad laughter inside that escapes my throat, even if I had wanted to. She’s not amused, jolts upright in a swift move, and wants to know what’s so funny.

“This has always been your line when you were all but fine, Scully,” I explain, choking some more laughter.

“But I am fine!” She shoots me a reinforcing look. “I just shouldn’t have had that chocolate bar earlier. Sugar after dinner makes me fidgety.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it! What were you thinking?”

“Nothing,” I say and try to sound nonchalant.

“Hardy har har, Fox! You thought I was uneasy in your arms, but I’m not. Stop being overly vigilant about my level of comfort! I’m a big girl, I’m fully capable of minding it myself. If I decide to ask you to take me in your arms, I do it because I want to be in your arms. Got that?”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

“Fine! Then let’s just go to sleep, okay?”

“Okaaaay,” I appease, although I can’t quite believe she’ll be calm enough to fall asleep any time soon. “Good night, Scully,” I breathe in her hair anyway when she’s repositioned her head on my chest. And then my doubts are proven wrong when her breathing does indeed deepen and her limbs eventually lie still.

Scully has fallen asleep in my arms in no time, and contrary to previous experiences, I’m much too excited tonight to follow her to the quiet realm of sleep.

to be continued

#xf fanfiction #feelgood massage #platonic relationship #msr #mulder and scully in bed

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mistleto-3 · 7 years

Text

In Sickness

Despite Rikio’s advice, Misaki spends too long out in the rain and catches a cold.

Pairing: Misaki/Rikio

2,141 words. For K Project Rarepair Week 2017, Day 3: Fluff.

AO3

Rikio had warned Misaki more than once that he shouldn’t spend so long out in the rain- he would catch a cold, it wasn’t worth it, surely he could wait until tomorrow when the forecast was clear. Misaki, of course, had taken no heed, far too stubborn and far too eager to try out his upgraded skateboard (all he’d done to it was replace the wheels, but he insisted it still needed trying out right that moment). So he’d headed out to the skate park and ignored the freezing rain that fell diagonally in the blustering wind in huge, fat droplets, confident that his aura would keep him plenty warm enough as he got soaked to the skin. Him getting a bit chilly wasn’t what Rikio had been worried about, though, but he hadn’t been able to communicate that to his stubborn boyfriend.

Predictably, the next day, Misaki showed up to the bar with a nasally tone to his voice- his sinuses were bunged up, and he had the sniffles. It’s nothing, though, he insisted, he was fine, it was no big deal. Takes more than a blocked nose to keep Yatagarasu out of action. But by the end of the afternoon, he seemed to have flagged much faster than usual, and the tip of his nose was pink and sore from blowing it all day.

And the day after that, he texted Rikio saying he wasn’t going to be at the bar, but didn’t say why until Rikio pressed, and then he finally relented and admitted that he was sick. Rikio let out a sigh, running his hand through his hair in exasperation. What was he to do with that boyfriend of his?

“What’s up?” Izumo asked, peering over the rims of his glasses at Rikio as he polished the draft beer taps behind the bar.

“Yata-san isn’t well, he went and caught a cold. I’m gonna go see if he’s okay.”

“Alright, take care,” Izumo replied, but there was an odd smile on his face as he spoke.

“Kusanagi-san?”

“Ah, don’t mind me bein’ a sentimental old man. Just wish I had someone who took care o’ me the way you dote over Yata-san, it’s sweet. Someone like you’s good for someone like him.”

Rikio smiled faintly, feeling his cheeks warm at the comment. He had to admit, he’d been a little nervous when it came to admitting to the rest of the clan that they were an item a few months ago, but the consensus had generally been: “you guys are perfect for each other,” which made him happier than he cared to admit.

“Go on, get out of here,” Izumo told him with a fond grin, and Rikio nodded obediently, hurrying off to the store.

A short while later, he was knocking at Misaki’s door, his arms laden with shopping bags. It had started raining again, and the water was beginning to soak through the hood of his jacket.

“Misaki, it’s me. Are you alright?” he called.

There was a quiet shuffling inside the apartment, then the clatter of the chain lock being undone, and the door opened a crack to reveal a peep of Misaki’s body. He didn’t appear to be in a good way- his normally tanned skin had taken on a sickly, greyish pallor, and a sheen of sweat stuck his somewhat greasy hair to his forehead. His eyes were sunken, his nose was even pinker than yesterday, and the skin of his lips was cracked and scabbed where it had dried up and split. He was still in his pyjamas, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and there was a quiet babble of daytime television in the background.

“Rikio… what are you doing here?” His voice was scratchy.

“I came to take care of you, silly. You almost never take a day off because you’re sick, you’ve obviously got a really bad case of it. Go and sit down, I brought you some stuff.”

“You might catch my germs,” Misaki pointed out.

“Don’t care,” he replied instantly, with a stern, big-brotherly tone that told Misaki he would not be argued with about this.

Obediently, Misaki slunk back over to the sofa to let Rikio in, who bustled over to the kitchen to begin unpacking the bags he’d brought.

“How come you’re out in the rain anyway after you told me off for it?”

“Because you didn’t need to be out skateboarding when it was raining buckets. At least I had a good reason to be outside: I needed to come and see you.”

“You didn’t need to- I can look after myself you know,” he grumbled.

“Have you taken any medication today?”

“Well, no…”

“Or eaten anything?”

“No…”

“Exactly,” Rikio said, then retrieved the Tupperware box of miso soup and rice from his bag, which he warmed up and poured into a bowl, then pressed into his boyfriend’s hands. “My mother’s recipe- she always used to make this for me when I was sick. Even if you can only eat a little, that’s okay. You need your strength to get better.”

Misaki nodded, taking the bowl without objection- it seemed that Rikio’s point about him not looking after himself had knocked some of the resistance out of him. He perked up when he took the first mouthful, though.

“This is really good.”

“Thank you.”

“You brought a lot of stuff…” he said through a mouthful of rice.

“I’ve got medicine, honey, ice cream, tea, lip balm, video games, tissues, moisturiser, and bubble bath.”

“You didn’t have t-…”

“Nonsense,” Rikio interrupted him. “You’re my boyfriend and you’re sick, it’s my job to look after you.”

Misaki made a quiet, objectionable grumble, but didn’t say anything else- his cheeks had flushed pink at the mention of the word “boyfriend.” Even though they’d been together going on a year now, it still made him bashful to talk about their relationship so candidly, and Rikio thought it was adorable.

As Misaki ate, Rikio set about measuring out the appropriate doses of cough syrup and painkillers and decongestant and setting them out on the coffee table for Misaki to take.

“How did you know I hadn’t already taken some pills anyway?”

“Because you never take medicine when you’re sick- you think you should just power through it, prove you’re man enough to handle it without any help. There’s no shame in wanting to feel better, you know.”

“… Whatever,” he grumbled, downing the cough medicine like a shot, then tossing the handful of pills onto his tongue and washing them down with a glass of water. “Happy?”

“Very,” Rikio replied with a smug smile, clearing away the now mostly-empty bowl of soup (he’d been surprised Misaki had eaten so much of it). “Want some ice cream?”

“Mm.” It seemed the last of Misaki’s stubbornness was beginning to wane, much to Rikio’s relief.

He took the ice cream he’d bought from the freezer and dropped a few scoops into a dish- he’d chosen strawberry flavour, which he knew was one of Misaki’s favourites, even though he pretended he didn’t like it because it was too girly. Evidently Misaki didn’t care enough to object at this point though- his throat was sore, and it was just him and Rikio anyway, so he took the ice cream gratefully. His complex about masculinity had been starting to relax a little in the past few months anyway, and Rikio had his suspicions that this might be because he was dating another guy- the gender roles were a little less distinct when there were no women in the relationship, so Misaki seemed to have opened up a little more to what he normally would have considered way too girly for his taste.

“I’m gonna go run you a bath,” Rikio announced. “Being clean always makes you feel better, and it might clear your head and ease the aching.” While Misaki had never said he was achy, it wasn’t difficult to tell from the stiffness in the way he moved, and he only confirmed Rikio’s suspicions by nodding gratefully at the idea.

Five minutes later, the bathroom was full of thick, menthol-scented steam, and Rikio carried his boyfriend in from the couch and removed his pyjamas as he protested weakly to being babied.

“I can take off my own damn clothes,” Misaki grumbled.

“You don’t normally mind when I undr-…”

Rikio’s joke was interrupted by Misaki elbowing him in the gut gently. “S-shut up.” He shot Rikio a half-hearted glare, then climbed into the tub, letting out a sigh of relief as he sank into the hot water. Rikio discarded his hoodie and sat down on the tiles beside the bath, leaning over the rim of the tub to wash Misaki’s hair, who leaned into his fingers with a soft contented sound and closed his eyes as Rikio massaged his scalp.

“Thank you…” he mumbled.

“It’s no problem,” Rikio replied softly. “Like I said, it’s my job to look after you.”

Misaki made a quiet sound of objection, but didn’t say anything else- as much as he tried to be tough and self-sufficient, the TLC was clearly appreciated, which Rikio was more than happy to provide it. So he sat there until the hot water turned lukewarm, rubbing Misaki’s shoulders once he’d rinsed the suds from his hair, then wrapped him in a warm towel as he climbed out. Once he was dry, Rikio passed him a bottle of moisturiser he’d brought with him, and Misaki regarded it suspiciously.

“It’s not going to hurt you- guys moisturise. There’s nothing un-manly about having soft skin, especially when you’re sick and it gets all dry and itchy. This is the stuff I use after I shave.”

Misaki paused, then snatched the bottle and poured some of the cream onto his hands and rubbed it onto his face as Rikio chuckled, then handed him some clean pyjamas.

They spent most of the afternoon after that on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around them playing video games, with Misaki cuddled up to Rikio’s side for warmth as the waves of chills came and went. Every half an hour, almost on the dot, Rikio refilled the hot water bottle Misaki was clutching and made him a cup of tea sweetened with honey to take the edge off his sore throat. The only point he went further than a few feet from Misaki’s side all day was to drive to a nearby takeout in the evening and collect the food they ordered- Rikio supposed the less-than-healthy meal was alright if it encouraged Misaki to eat, and it did, but his appetite was still nowhere near its usual levels, which troubled him a little. But at least he was eating something, that was all that mattered.

It was barely 9pm by the time Misaki started yawning, but he spent another half an hour resisting Rikio’s advice that he should go to bed and ignoring his lectures about how important rest was when you’re sick. It was only after he’d nodded off for a moment against his boyfriend’s shoulder that he finally admitted that perhaps he ought to go to sleep.

“Mind if I stay here tonight?” Rikio asked.

“You don’t have to, I might make you sick.”

“If I was gonna catch your bug, I would have done it by now, staying over won’t make a difference.”

“Alright, alright, fine.”

Rikio nodded in satisfaction, following his partner into his room and stripping down to his underwear before climbing under the covers. Misaki crawled in next to him and snuggled up to his side, letting out a soft sigh of contentment as Rikio ran his fingers through his hair.

“I feel like I stole the day from you…” Misaki mumbled, his face hidden in Rikio’s chest.

“Hm? What do you mean?”

“You coulda been out having fun with the guys, but instead you were stuck in lookin’ after me.”

“I wasn’t stuck anywhere, I wanted to be with you. I normally spend all my free time with you anyway,” he pointed out. “And it’s not like we didn’t have fun, we spent all afternoon playing video games, which is exactly what we normally do.”

“I guess…”

“Besides, I’m not your boyfriend just to have fun with you, I want to take care of you and do boring domestic stuff with you too. It’s like they say, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, et cetera…”

“Idiot… d-don’t talk as if we’re married…” Misaki stammered. What Rikio could see of his face beneath his hair had turned scarlet. “Y-you’re a sap.”

“I know,” Rikio replied nonchalantly. “I know you like it secretly.”

“Shut up.”

Rikio chuckled softly as he pressed a fond kiss to Misaki’s forehead, then lifted his chin with his fingertips to press another to his lips.

#krarepairweek2017 #yatamoto #yata misaki #kamamoto rikio #k project #k fanfic

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reticexce · 7 years

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▲ five time my muse thought about kissing yours, and the one time they did.

( meme; not accepting– )

it was so surreal to her. it was surreal that now, after hiding her feelings for nearly a year, staying quiet and never daring to break free from the typical boundaries of friendship ( though, such boundaries were blurred between them after quite some time ), she was standing before him with a confession at the tip of her tongue, a confession that was mutually returned to her ( albeit choked ).

but what else could be expected when they were both bearing the risk of a new relationship, accepting the new label that seemed to define them now. with their past histories, it made sense that there was hesitation and fear behind their admittance of love, yet they exchanged promises of togetherness and patience as well. she couldn’t hold back the grin on her face when they finally were able to come to a moment of peace in their conversation, a moment in which both of them could breathe freely and simply revel in the fact that there were now together.

she was thrilled; and the situation seemed to have reminded her of a moment in a romance novel she cherished in which a kiss was exchanged during this time. but—their story was not that of a romance novel. even if impulse was tempting her to simply lean in and feel the warmth of his lips, she refused. instead, she’d enjoy the feeling of his fingers laced with hers once more, a sensation she had been deprived of since they fell out…

—

it had taken them some time to refamiliarize themselves with each others’ company. after being away from each other for so long, there seemed to be remnants of hesitation and caution in their actions towards each other, in their words. they wanted to mend the harshness that had caused them to drift apart, which perhaps explained why they took every chance they could to laugh and connect, returning their relationship to it’s former glory.

she had taken great fondness in eden’s touch, the way his fingers would lightly brush against her hand when they were watching a film, or when they gently caressed her arm whenever she was seated in his lap, their foreheads just touching. it was a closeness they had barely touched upon when they were at the peak of their friendship, and now that they were allowing themselves to go a bit further with their attention for each other, there seemed to be a silent curiosity between them. what would it be like, their expressions seemed to say.

her eyes seemed to glint in this curious way more often than not, her feelings for eden always getting the best of her. she had promised him, of course, that they could take all the time they needed, which was a statement she planned to stick to. but even so, that didn’t mean she didn’t, at times, have temptations to go a little further.

and with their bodies so close, the misses taking her old seat in eden’s lap again like usual, it would have been easy to simply lean in and take a kiss, ever so quick and chaste. but oh, the shock of such an action! she had promised eden they would not so such abrupt actions, that things would go easily and comfortably, and for her to steal a kiss when only a week or two ago they were struggling to exchange confessions—

no, she’ll wait. for him.

—

it was silly for her to be so focused on choosing which bundle of broccoli looked fresher, which bunch of bananas looked more yellow. she was always careful when it came to choosing produce, so she was a bit hesitant on taking eden on her shopping trips since she always seemed to take so long scouting out minute details.

she was often worried that he was bored, that he’d go wandering off through the store impatiently waiting for her to finish, but each time she glanced behind herself, she saw him still waiting by the cart, protecting it from any employees doing a cart swipe, or a little old lady who could perhaps mistake their cart for hers.

the thought of eden patiently waiting for her with no qualms ( and even giving his own opinions regarding the produce she picked out ) seemed to ease her small worries, and as she placed down the final item on her list into the basket of her cart ( a sack of clementines for snacking at her office ), she gave a triumphant little huff, crossing the item off her paper list.

all done?mhm!good. do you want anything?nah.

he was always so pleased to be spending time with her, even on mundane trips to the grocery store. still, the idea of getting to spend so much time with eden never failed to please her, and as they held hands standing in line to check out, she glanced over at him, noticing him looking through the racks of gum beside them,

if she were to just lean up and give his cheek a quick peck, give him a pleasant surprise—ah, there was a child behind them. perhaps in the car, then.

—

did you get it? i did!lemme see.

camera in hand, she pressed through the menu and navigated her way to the previews of former photos, slanting the camera just a tad so that eden had view of the small screen. a small blush dusted her cheeks as she felt familiar arms find their way around her, his chin resting on her shoulder, it was a chilly day out, so she welcomed such closeness from him, especially since eden was known to be exceptionally warm even when it was cold out.

at a steady pace, she passed through all the photos she had taken of the park and of eden, the occasional ones eden took of her and the birds, the ones she took of the clouds—it was a good day for photos, and it would have been even better if they managed to take photos of themselves. but it was a bit difficult to take such pictures with a camera like hers, but—perhaps they could take some last minute photos on her phone? it wasn’t professional, but at least it would capture the essence of their day.

the thought of a cliche kissing photo popped into her mind, especially since she never declined an offer to show eden off on her blog or instagram, but ah, it was so cold! even eden must be feeling it now with that chilly breeze.

they turned out pretty nice, huh?they did~i think we can go home now.time to break out the blankets.

—

it was as if they were on their first date all over again. sitting across from each other, laughing and sharing stories so easily. of course, their first date was actually perhaps their time watching movies and snuggling on eden’s couch, but their first dinner date as a couple—it was a fond memory. eden was a romantic at times, and she was quite glad she decided to dress up a bit for the occasion.

but dates got more casual between them as they resumed their former comfort with each other, the two of them enjoying their time with each other even over a modest meal of pasta from a food chain restaurant. even if their choices for dinner got less extravagant, their time together didn’t, and instead, they seemed to be more immersed with each other than ever.

his hand lightly resting on hers, she noticed he was leaning in just subtly as he listened to what she was saying, a silly story of hers that he seemed to always be enchanted by. their side of the restaurant was starting to empty out as the closing time approached, and as the waitress passed out of the section to attend to the needs of other guests, she felt tempted to just lean in as well, encouraging him to give her a little kiss they both seemed so addicted to.

but just as the thought came to mind, their bill was brought, the leather folder placed right in between them. foiled!

—

he was such a gentleman. she never once thought otherwise of him, but now, with his back turned to her so that she could get undressed and slip into the bubbles waiting for her in the hot bath, it was even more of a prominent, conscious thought. softly, she gave him the okay to turn around, and he waited a moment longer before doing so. a smile, one that seemed to shake and soften her heart.

she wasn’t worried about being exposed to him, seeing as how thick the bubbles were in the tub, though she was a bit worried that eden would perhaps find the situation strange. him sitting outside of the tub speaking with her while she enjoyed a bath? it was his suggestion, but she still couldn’t help but feel a bit self conscious that he’d find her strange for agreeing to such an idea, but as he leaned forward on the edge of the tub, arms folded on the porcelain edge, he seemed to be enjoying her company as shamelessly as if they were in the kitchen chatting.

a gentle smile appeared on her countenance. how peaceful he seemed to just be watching her, the occasional question about her day mused aloud. there was even a point in which she joined him on the porcelain edge, crossing her own arms and laying her head down. he seemed close, and she was just so happy about how willing he was to do this with her, how sincerely interested he sounded about her day. she could never describe just how in love she really was with him, how she adored him. she was grateful that he was so understanding, and she was especially glad that their friendship didn’t take an awkward, unforgivable turn when they both fell out and lost each other.

such quiet intimacy was what replaced their tumultuous history, a softness and warmth that could be compared to how it felt when they were just holding each other, admiring the smallest qualities of each other, taking everything to heart and loving it.

she felt so comfortable holding his gaze, even in her current state: undressed and gradually losing the coverage granted to her by her bath seeing as how the white foam was starting to flatten. but still, despite what usual insecurities she had, she still couldn’t help but smile whenever he looked at her like that. she hadn’t seen him all day, and to come home to such a loving, sincere gaze—

she couldn’t help herself.

ever so shyly, she inched a bit closer to him, leaning in so that their foreheads met. as if they were following a routine, they tilted their heads, though she was the one who leaned in first, a bit of greed overcoming her as she couldn’t help but miss and long for the feel of his lips against hers. it had been a long day, and the morning kiss just seemed so long ago ( even the kiss at dinner seemed distant ).

lingering and gentle, the warmth was something that seemed to dispel all of her worries and stress. just for a moment, she found peace, and she always found it with him.

i missed you today.i missed you, too.

#you're the orange of my eye ( eden & alison )#long post #ofishbowl #answered #aaaaaaaaaaa

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jmuo-blog · 6 years

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New Post has been published on https://jmuo.com/german-buttercream-is-vanilla-pudding-whipped-with/

German Buttercream Is Vanilla Pudding Whipped With...

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[Photographs: Vicky Wasik]

If Swiss buttercream is a rockstar in the realm of frosting, then German buttercream is an indie powerhouse—well loved by its dedicated fans, but relatively unknown to the wider world. For the uninitiated, it’s a style that combines thick vanilla pudding with whipped butter for a frosting with loads of structure and stability, plus a milky flavor reminiscent of vanilla soft serve.

That profile makes it my go-to format for any dairy-centric project, whether for cream cheese buttercream or cannoli filling, where the custard’s inherent thickness can offset high-moisture ingredients like cream cheese and ricotta. But German buttercream is a wonder all on its own, and deserves a place in any baker’s repertoire—particularly those with a soft spot for ultra fluffy frostings.

Because German buttercream incorporates a significant amount of milk into the underlying custard, it’s the perfect technique for creating flavorful infusions with vanilla beans, cinnamon sticks, sliced bananas, fresh herbs, or whatever ingredients you’d normally reach for when flavoring ice cream at home (just avoid acidic ingredients that can curdle the milk). The trick is to steep the milk long enough to extract a super-potent flavor that can stand up to the addition of butter down the road, so don’t rush the process.

I like to warm the milk with a vanilla bean (or other flavoring agent), then cover and steep at least an hour. But for maximum effect, you should steep it even longer by tossing it in the fridge overnight (or up to 24 hours) to extract a deeper flavor. Sure, it’s not the fastest option, but if you’re in a hurry that’s what Swiss buttercream is for. Whatever the timeline, rewarm the milk at the end of the steeping process and scrape out the vanilla bean (or whatever) to make sure all the flavorful bits make it into the frosting.

If steeping the milk with absorbent ingredients like toasted nuts, or those with lots of nooks and crannies, such as fresh herbs or coffee beans, re-measure the milk and top-it off as needed to account for any loss. Or skip the steeping phase altogether and just use your favorite extract in the finished buttercream, adding it in small increments until you get just the taste you want.

Before getting started on the thick custard base, it helps to have a simple balloon whisk and 3-quart stainless steel saucier (its easy-to-scrape rounded corners make it a favorite in the pastry kitchen). With straight-sided pots, the custard may curdle or scorch in the corners of the pan; normally, that’s a great excuse to put a ball-whisk to work, but the thickness of this custard will collapse its tines, making it difficult to emulsify. With the right equipment for the job, the recipe isn’t any fuss, but extra vigilance will be in order when adapting it to less-than-optimal gear.

Start by whisking the sugar and cornstarch together in a medium bowl, then add the eggs, followed by the milk (flavored or plain). Pour the mixture into the saucier and cook over medium heat, whisking constantly until thick and steaming hot. It may look a little lumpy and weird early on, but keep whisking until it’s silky smooth and bubbling hot.

Once you spot the first bubble, set a timer and keep at it for exactly two minutes; this isn’t about reaching a specific temperature (the boiling custard will be, you guessed it, 212°F the whole time) but rather maintaining that heat long enough to help denature a starch-dissolving enzyme found in egg yolks, one that can turn the custard soft and soupy over time.

When the time’s up, scrape the finished custard into a baking dish or pie plate and spread into a thin layer to speed the cooling process. Cover the pudding and refrigerate it until thick and cool but not cold, somewhere between 68 and 70°F. Alternatively, it can be refrigerated up to a week in advance then left at room temperature until it warms up to a similar range.

When you’re ready to assemble the buttercream, use a sturdy spatula to “knead” the thick pudding until creamy and smooth. That may sound like a weird way to describe the process, but unlike the sort of gooey-soft custard you’d find in a cream puff, the custard base of a German buttercream is meant to provide body and structure to the frosting, so it’s nearly as thick as a cookie dough. With a little elbow grease, it’ll soften into a creamy paste.

I used to recommend beating the custard in a stand mixer until smooth, but over-mixing at that stage can damage the custard’s thickening power, so the safest option is to mix it by hand and beat the butter instead. Start by softening the butter to a similar temperature range, no colder than 68°F but no warmer than 72°F; I do this with a few cautious zaps in the microwave, but it can be done passively at room temperature as well (or, god forbid, sous vide; there, I said it).

Beat the soft butter with the paddle attachment of a stand mixer until creamy and smooth, then start chucking in the custard a few tablespoons at a time (no need to measure), one addition right after the other, and continue beating until no lumps remain. Scrape the bowl and beater with a flexible spatula, then continue beating about 30 seconds more, or until perfectly silken. Thanks to all that friction, beating will warm the cool frosting a few degrees, the ideal set up for phase two—aeration.

Switch to the whisk attachment for this stage, and whip the buttercream until it’s fluffy and light.

That phrase may seem a little abstract, but in this case it can be quantified to a certain extent, as a buttercream made with the proper technique should weigh about 6 ounces per cup (this is true of almost any “fancy” buttercream, whether French, Swiss, German, or even the marshmallow-style frosting from my cookbook).

A heavier weight per cup is a surefire indication of a chilly frosting, one stiffened by cold butter unable to stretch and expand with aeration. A few degrees or ounces here or there may sound like a compulsive detail only trained pastry chefs could appreciate, but not so! The differences are night and day.

The two frostings above came from the exact same batch of German buttercream. The only difference? Temperature, and therefore density. On the left, a spoonful of frosting with a final temperature of 65°F and a weight of 8 ounces per cup; on the right, a spoonful of frosting with a final temperature of 72°F and a weight of just 6 ounces per cup.

These differences in temperature and volume affect everything about the buttercream, from sweetness to yield. When cool temperatures prevent proper aeration, the amount of sugar and fat in the recipe will be concentrated into a smaller, denser yield. This cold, dense buttercream will therefore taste sweeter and have a greasy mouthfeel, like a lump of cold butter on your tongue. Not only that, but its density and firmness make it a nightmare to spread over soft cake. Ever scraped cold butter over toast? Not fun.

When the butter is at the correct temperature it will allow the frosting to be properly aerated, and the amount of sugar and fat in the recipe will be stretched across a higher, lighter yield. This makes the buttercream seem less sweet, with a billowy consistency and pleasant richness that melts quickly and cleanly on the tongue. Because it’s so soft and light, it’s easy to spread over a cake in puffy swoops and swirls.

As drastic as these differences can be, temperature-related problems can always be fixed, and that fix is always easy. If it’s too cold and dense, place the buttercream over a warm water bath until the sides of the bowl start to get slick with melted buttercream, then re-whip. If it gets too warm and the buttercream becomes soupy and soft, refrigerate for 15 minutes or so then re-whip. It can be a bit of a balancing act for beginners to find the ideal temperature, but the risk of failure is nil. And once you’ve done it the right way, it gets easier every time.

For more information, check out our buttercream troubleshooting guide. Though written on the subject of Swiss buttercream, all the same rules apply to German buttercream as well, so there’s no reason to ever settle for a buttercream that’s heavy and dense.

Because temperature-related problems are so easy to solve, German buttercream can be made in advance and frozen for several months, then thawed in a microwave and re-whipped on demand. With a little attention to detail, it’ll turn out soft, creamy, and perfectly fluffy every time, with a mellow sweetness and milky vanilla flavor. Like its French and Swiss counterparts, German buttercream is sturdy enough to support even the most towering layer cake, but its pudding base gives German buttercream a down-home flavor and lightness suitable for even a simple Texas sheet cake as well.

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