#i need to get acquainted with drawing him....sniff him out... consider...

[lucky-draws]

the wolvie

#x-men #wolverine #i need to get acquainted with drawing him....sniff him out... consider... #it's so embarrassing learning to draw new characters as opposed to ocie who i do not remember a time when i could not draw him with my eyes #closed in death at the end of the world etc. but bare with me and hopefully before long i will be drawing logan #confidently and with concerning levels of horniness previously recorded only in relation to big boss .etc

[after-witch]

Act of Contrition [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Act of Contrition [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: A shimmering blue evening gown was not the last thing you expected to see draped over the sitting chair that was tucked into the corner. What you didn’t expect, however, was his suggestion for you to try it on

Word Count: 3646

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader

 A shimmering blue evening gown was not the last thing you expected to see draped over the sitting chair that was tucked into the corner. It would certainly not be the first time that Chrollo had brought back something ostentatious, something glittering and expensive; something that you (if you were to psychoanalyze him, which you did, out of anxiety first and boredom second) would guess he wanted you to admire before it disappeared into the ether like so many other things he’d pilfered over the past few months.

What you didn’t expect, however, was his suggestion for you to try it on. 

At first you thought you’d misheard, your brain still pulling itself out of a dull, listless sleep. You had argued with him the night before, and the space between you on the bed was thick and heavy with tension until you had finally slid headlong into sleep. Surely he wouldn’t try to give you a gift after you spend most of the evening reminding him that you’ll never love him, or even like him, much less feel one iota of happiness in his presence.

But then he repeated the suggestion.

“Why?” Your tone is borderline acidic, and you don’t feel the need to hide your suspicion of his intentions.

Your captor had no doubt become well-acquainted with your nastiness over the months, though he rarely reacted to it with more than a tight expression, if he even gave you that. Sometimes he simply ignored you, as if you were a child having a tantrum, not his kidnapped victim.

In some ways, it was a surprising relief. In some ways, you could consider yourself lucky. Considering his abilities, considering his past, considering what he did when he left you alone in the condo or hotel or wherever he had you situated--he might well be the type to slap the attitude off your face, gentlemanly facade be damned. He could do worse than a slap, too; far worse.

But the months had gone on with only pointed sighs and looks; and despite his rationally stated insistence that you would give in to his attentions in time, you held onto your bitterness as tightly as you could. You prized yourself on it, the way you figure that he prizes his most precious steals.

He sometimes comes back with glittering jewels worth calculable fortunes, laying them out to see the way they look when the moonlight filters in through the open curtains. He doesn’t keep them for long, doesn’t display them, just memorizes their magnificence and then whisks them off.

You can relate to the gloating. But you don’t give your greatest treasures away. You, on the other hand, wear your bitterness 24/7 like an old woman clinging to her last precious mink coat, a remnant of an era gone-by. Draped over your shoulder, haughty and visible, daring him to say something when you give him a sarcastic jab in response to perfectly-polite-inquiries about this and that. The worst (but best, you think, to you) is when you feign interest in a conversation, feign some sort of acceptance of your situation, willing your hands to get closer to his as you sit on the sofa and read; only to snap back at the last moment, baring your teeth.

You hope it hurts him, to think he’s getting an inch forward with you only to have it pulled away. He deserves it for keeping you here.

Sometimes, you almost hope he would say something, do something, only because it might be a sort of reprieve. If he gets mad or slaps you, even, maybe the solid, sticky bitterness surrounding your heart might abate just a bit.

Then again, you know this saying very well: be careful what you wish for.

“I need to see if it fits.” His expression and tone haven’t changed. Polite, cordial, matter-of-fact. You hate it.

You force yourself out of bed and give the gown a glance before heading into the bathroom. He follows, picking up his own morning routine as you wash and brush side-by-side. You think he does it to seem domestic, in his own fucked-up way. You pointed this out, once, and he’d merely given you a small smile and asked: “Do you want to this to be domestic?”

Chrollo had a habit of turning your impulsive snark around on you, so you tried to plan your barbs out more carefully in the future.

“Why do you need to see if it fits?” You finally ask, words a bit muffled by the toothbrush hanging out of your mouth. You force yourself to glance at him in the mirror. He’s finished, already drying off his face, pinning a wrap around his forehead.

He catches your gaze in the mirror, and you feel too caught to look away.

“For tonight. We’re going to the theater.”

The toothbrush drops from your mouth and lands next to the sink, splattering lathered toothpaste on the counter. You wipe your mouth with a washcloth, missing a bit and not caring, and physically turn away from the mirror so you’re face-to-face.

“Are you serious?”

For the moment, your bitterness slides off, forgotten on the floor. He’s never offered to do something like this before. Sure, he’s mentioned that you might go out--”it depends on  your behavior”--but the thought of “being good” for Chrollo made you sick to your stomach every time you were tempted. So you hadn’t been outside for months, not really--the brief gaps when he’d whisk you into a car, always by his side, then pull you into a new hotel or luxury condo didn’t really count.

He nods.

“Yes. Please do hurry and try it on, I’ll need time to find another if it isn’t suitable.”

You glance out of the bathroom door and back into the bedroom, where the gown sits, draped, shimmering softly in the morning light. It’s something you never would have been able to afford before--and the thought of wearing it now makes your skin tingle. What is his plan? Why is he doing this?

“But I haven’t been good,” you say, almost spitting out the last word. Last night, in fact, you’d been almost beastly--you recall the words “go fuck yourself” and “I hate you” being thrown out before you twisted in the knife by bringing up an ex-fling.

He laughs, quick and harsh. It seems like a real laugh, for once, and something in your chest twists. It’s been a long time since you’ve heard anything truly authentic from him. Or yourself.

“Maybe it’s a reward for me, to have you by my side.  You want to go, don’t you?”

The thought makes your stomach clench. But… you did want to go. Really. To get out of here, even for a night? To get sucked into some type of show, whatever it was? You didn’t entertain the idea of trying to escape or draw attention to yourself for help--you knew Chrollo would never suggest taking you if it was a viable option. He was just as likely to slaughter the entire theater if you whispered to an usher that you were being held captive.

No, no escape in the cards… at least not physically.

You shrug your shoulders and try to seem nonchalant about it, though you’re sure he can feel the way your skin is buzzing.

“Sure, whatever. Don’t expect me to hold your hand or anything.”

He laughs, again. It’s blatantly false this time.

***

It has been… a while since you’ve done your makeup. The pile of messy makeup wipes on the counter can attest to that--this is now your third try at a full face without messing something up. Thankfully, the third time has been the charm, and you’re satisfied with the reflection in the mirror. Chrollo had turned up your old makeup bag, and sliding on the eyeliner you used to wear to work, out with friends, in your old life felt surreal and comforting at the same time.

You’ve even done your hair, though it could be nicer. You haven’t bothered with anything but hasty brushing in the past few months, and sometimes you’re too lethargic and frustrated to even bother with that. But it’s styled, a bit elegant--if you do say so yourself.

You glance down at the trio of lipsticks he set on the counter earlier. They’re not a brand you ever wore--they’re expensive, something out of reach for anyone used to pulling cheap store lipsticks out of a bin. The center lipstick is a bold red, and your hand reaches for it. Brief memories of your mother gushing about red lipstick come to mind; she always associated red lipstick with elegance, the fanciest of events, and you’re inclined to agree. It feels smooth, impossibly so; praise be to expensive formulas.

After blotting it with toilet paper--old habits--you step back to stare at yourself in the mirror. The dress fits you beautifully. The fabric is soft, refined, showing you off in all the right places. You’ve taken your time with your hair, your makeup, and you really do look nice. You bring your wrist up to your nose and sniff--the perfume Chrollo had picked out for you was elegant, subtle. Rose petals and apples and white musk.

You feel a wave of nostalgia come over you that you push down. It’s too bad you’re going to the theater with your captor and not with your friends. Or your mom.

“Are you finished?” His voice calls from the bedroom.

The thought of Chrollo seeing you like this makes you feel uncomfortably anxious for reasons you can’t quite pinpoint. The gown is not exactly risque, but it’s designed to highlight your features--and while he has never crossed the hardest line in regards to your personal autonomy, he wasn’t beyond stealing kisses from your unwilling lips when the mood struck him. He said it was to help you adjust to the relationship, as if kissing you against your will would make you love him.

You don’t answer him and instead give your hair a final touch up before heading out the open bathroom door.

Chrollo is standing next to the vanity, wearing an elegant suit, primped and polished--and handsome. You can’t help but freeze in place when he gives you a once-over, slow and deliberate.

“You look beautiful,” he says, finally, a slight breathiness to his voice. There’s an authentic tone to his voice again, and it makes you feel queasy.

You try to ignore the way your skin feels heated and shrug, crossing your arms over your chest as you approach him.

“Are we going now?”

He gives a soft smile. “Almost. One more thing.”

You watch curiously as he pulls out a jewelry box from his pocket, then opens it to reveal two glittering sapphire earrings. You can’t hold back a little gasp, but when you reach for them, Chrollo holds the box out of reach.

“I’ll do the honors.”

You want to say no. But you’re so close to leaving, so you simply stare to the side as he steps behind you.  He touches your ear--and you flinch. He chuckles quietly and you ignore the blossoming heat across your cheeks, both from his closeness and your reaction, while he fixes the earrings into your ears.

When he’s finished, you look up. The visage in the mirror seems like a familiar stranger. The feeling you get at seeing yourself so dressed up is familiar in some way. You think back to going to shows with your friends, or going to the ballet with your mom; your little ring-clad hand gripping hers as she hurried you past alleys on the way to the theater, your sparkling white party dress shedding glitter onto the streets. You can practically feel the way the theater always hums with anticipation, the unusual heaviness of feeling alone in a crowded room as your friends left you with the tickets while they grabbed a drink or two.

The sight of Chrollo behind you in the mirror, watching you with clear intent, breaks you away.

“We’re leaving now.”

***

“I… actually really like The Sleeping Beauty ballet.”

You feel awkward. It’s certainly not the first time you’ve been in a car with Chrollo, whether your forcibly pressed against him in the back seat or in the front, blasting the radio in an attempt to prevent him from striking up a conversation as he drives you to some new destination.

But it’s the first time you’ve been in the car for reasons other than transporting you to a new ‘home.’ The first time that you’ve both been dressed up; Chrollo’s cologne wafts gently over to you, and you can’t deny that he knows how to pick a good scent.

It’s also the first time you’ve felt conversation to be a necessity, if only to find out where you were going (the opera house) and what you were seeing (a ballet).

In fact, the news of the performance makes you sit up straighter in your seat. You feel a ping of excitement, and without thinking you share it out loud.

“That’s actually the first ballet I ever saw with my mom. Do you know what company it is?”

He tells you, and you bite your lip anxiously, squaring your shoulders against the back of the seat as you start to imagine the night ahead. Then you remember the smooth red lipstick and force your mouth to relax.

You talk, instead, to keep yourself from ruining your lipstick with your nervous habit. “I’ve heard about this company’s version. Well,” you continue, “I wanted to see them perform this a few years ago, but tickets sold out so fast. I couldn’t afford the scalper prices.”

“How nice that I have tickets for this performance, then.”

“Right!” Your pitch is higher and you internally cringe. You shouldn’t sound so excited. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, but he seems focused on the road.

As the drive continues, you keep talking. Without realizing it, your voice becomes lighter, easier, and even you don’t know why you’re speaking so freely. You talk more to him on this stretch of road than you have within months, sarcastic replies and bitter responses notwithstanding. 

You talk about ballet. You talk about the history of the show. You talk about this company’s costumes--you saw them displayed in a store window and wow, were they gorgeous--and as the words come out, you feel lighter. Less bogged down by your protective anger, less heavy and hateful.

Happiness. 

It’s something that you haven’t felt in a long time. It’s a feeling that your stomach rebels against, not welcoming the sudden intrusion of lightness and lift while you’re sitting in a car next to your captor. But you push your stomach’s rebellious nature down and force yourself to remember that tonight,  you get to escape onto the stage; for a little while, you can be somewhere else.

Even being in the car tonight is doing wonders for you, you think. You must be getting close--the lights of the city are brighter and there’s throngs of nicely dressed people walking down the street towards what you realize is the theater. You see a little girl holding a woman’s hand and your stomach clenches in bitter nostalgia, but the thought is pushed aside quickly enough when Chrollo pulls into a valet circle.

You don’t have time to open the door before he opens it for you, extending his arm like a gentlemen.

“Ready?”

**

You’re buzzing on the way home. Not just from the champagne--three glasses, Chrollo having subtly waved away the usher approaching your opera box with your requested fourth. Not just from the show, which was magical and lush and everything you hoped it would be. Not just from the fact that you had a night out, away from the stuffiness of whatever luxury suite you were trapped in.

But from the thrill of feeling something, anything, other than your own deep despair and bitterness. You laughed in delight at the sillier moments, the bright-yellow Canary fairy and her trills; you cried at Aurora’s pleading vision to be set free, the first time you’ve cried at something other than your own situation in ages; you clapped and even, in the end, let yourself shout out a cheery “Brava!”

Even Chrollo seemed different during the evening. No forcible hand-holding or other niceties that had given you anxiety earlier in the evening. No unbearable condescension, only the hint of a smirk during the intermission when you--instinctively, you insisted to yourself, not because you liked his company--began an excited conversation about the events of the first Act. Did he like this part? What about the orchestra? And oh, this variation, didn’t he think it was a bit too overdone on the part of the dancer, but she more than recovered by the end?

When Chrollo helps you out of the car into the private parking garage, the air is cool and crackling; everything still feels electric, the way it always does when you come home from an event. Though as the doorman opens the private elevator leading to the condominium above, you dimly remind yourself you’re not coming home, exactly.

The swift ride up the elevator leaves you feeling dizzy. Your mind feels like it’s crashing, suddenly. From the champagne, maybe--but something else, too.

The elevator doors open into the condo suite you share with Chrollo and it hits you as you take the first step inside: you’re back to where you started the night. Trapped. The transporting, glittering events of the evening fall off your shoulders like a worn coat; you’re left once again only with yourself, with your present situation--and with Chrollo.

Your cheeks feel hot and you know the tears are coming before you feel them prickle at your eyes. The urge to wipe them away is masked only by the remembrance that you’re wearing makeup, but that doesn’t stop it from running as they begin to flow down your cheeks.

It burns, and you start for the bathroom, intent on scrubbing your face and ripping off the dress--but your entire body jerks back as Chrollo grabs your arm and prevents you from taking another step.

“Let go,” you say, voice empty of anything but the desperate need to be in the bathroom, to clean your face, to be alone with your returning misery.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you back, forcing you to stand up straight as you fruitlessly fight against his grip.

“You’re crying.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” you murmur, voice edged not with bitterness this time, but sorrow. You don’t want to look at him. He’s seen you cry countless times, but you hate the way he looks at you when you do.

“Tell me why.”

You finally force yourself to look up at him, eyes blinking away the stinging tears, and you’re not surprised by his intensive gaze. He’s studying you. Analyzing. Like you’re some sort of book he can read and discover.

Maybe the champagne has loosened your tongue; maybe the night itself has loosened the tight-lipped hold your bitterness has on you. Whatever it is, you confess.

“I was happy,” you say, voice wobbling with tears. “I was--happy on the way there. I was happy at the theater. I was happy on the way home. I--I haven’t…” you rub at your eyes, smearing eyeshadow onto your fingertips. “I haven’t felt that way in months. And now we’re back and I don’t feel it anymore.” Your voice finally cracks with your last words, and you cover your eyes with one hand as crushing feelings of sadness sweep over you.

He pulls you closer to him, and you can’t fight away from his physical strength.

“Let go,” you plead. “I just want to be alone.”

You jerk your face away when he strokes your cheek with his free hand.

“Alone? Whatever for? My hypothesis for tonight was correct.”

His words make you stop pulling. Hypothesis? You sniffle and try to get your bearings, try to brace yourself. But you’re tired, and sad, and your head is swimming.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He places his free hand on the back of your head and leans in closer. The heat of his skin and the pressure of his grip makes a flushed warmth bloom across your skin.

“You see,” he whispers, his lips ghosting against the side of your ear. “You can be happy with me, after all.”

#yandere chrollo #yandere hunter x hunter #chrollo x reader #chrollo lucilfer #yandere #afterwitch writes

[writefightandflightclub]

Can I request a short little blurb of reader sitting in Santi's lap? Just something soft and sweet... I lovw your writing!!!

Thanks, Anon! You asked and I did my best to deliver! I wrote this quickly and I haven’t read it through as I have no patience (and also need to go to sleep shortly), so I hope it’s ok!

Summary: soft, fluffy blurb, about sitting in Santi’s lap and getting all the love in the world

Warnings: none, I don’t think.

GIF by @winterswake

Killing me softly

You are pacing. Pacing up and down the living room floor, mumbling to yourself.

“Baby, stop,” Santi begs from his perch on the couch. “Take a minute to destress, please?”

You cast a helpless glance towards him as you absent-mindedly chew on a fingernail, but even the steadiness of his gaze alone helps you to still, his big, brown eyes trained on you with nothing but love.

“You’re frazzled. But tomorrow is gonna go fine. Now come and sit on my lap and let me help you unwind, Princesa.”

You consider protesting, but he taps his palms on his firm thighs and your words die in your throat. There’s no world in which you can resist those thighs, in any context. And he knows it, too.

“That’s not fair, Garcia. You know all my weaknesses.”

“Is that such a bad thing? If it helps you relax I’m gonna use every weapon in my arsenal. I know my shit about weapons, baby, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

He taps his full thighs again and leans back into the sofa cushions, making his lap look as comfortable and appealing as possible, which, let’s be honest, isn’t hard to do.

“Fine,” you concede, gravitating towards him and sitting down sidewards on his lap, still a little tense and unyielding. Santi will soon fix that. He hooks one arm under both your legs and draws your knees up towards him, resting your feet on the couch. Then, he tugs your head gently down to nestle it into his chest.

Once you are curled into him and adequately settled atop his sturdy thighs, he wraps one arm between your legs, tugging the closest one into him, and the other hand winds through your hair as he rests his cheek against the top of your head.

You sigh contentedly as you relax into his embrace, your elbows folded and one palm pressing against his warm chest, his soft t-shirt beneath your fingertips, the fabric thin enough to feel his body heat through. Your hand idly wanders to the neck and to the sleeve of his t-shirt, your fingers playing at the hems where you seek out his smooth skin, just to have the feel of him under your hand.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Santi reassures, still softly stroking your hair, and the deep vibration of his voice reverberates from his chest where your head rests. You close your eyes at the reassuring sound, and, as you both still, the steady, sophorific sound of Santi’s heartbeat filters into the shell of your ear, just as the smell of him filters in with your breath. You remain there, head rising and falling with his chest as he breathes deeply.

Why didn’t you do this earlier, exactly? In no time at all, you can feel the tension begin to ebb away from your taut muscles. You can feel the coherent, racing worries slip away until your mind is simply full of him. Of feelings and sensations rather than words or tangible thoughts.

“Better, mi alma?” Santi asks in a gentle, soothing voice.

“Yes,” you concede, despite your usual stubborness and reluctance to admit he is right; even though sometimes, Santi knows what you need better than you do yourself.

After a few moments, Santi unwraps his right hand from around your thigh and clasps your hand delicately in his, bringing it to his lips to plant slow, gentle kisses over each of your knuckles in turn.

“I got you,” he repeats, and he wraps his left arm around you, slowly leaning you back so you can rest your head against the arm of the sofa. This allows you to look into each other’s eyes, and Santi’s eyes melt as he gazed down at you and tips your chin up ever so delicately with his index finger. His eyes say everything there are no words to vocalise, then his touch says the rest as he gently caresses your cheek and jaw with the pad of his thumb.

Then, he simply tugs you in close to him again, until you are surrounded in his sturdy circumference, the mass of him warm and strong and all around you.

Your worries have entirely melted away. In fact, you are overcome by something else entirely, and Santi, whose eyes are sweeping over your face and scanning for any sign of stress that he might eliminate, notices instantly that tears begin to ball in your eyes.

“Hey, hey, hey. No,” he soothes. “What is it? Don’t be sad.”

You sniff as the tears spill from your cheeks, spurred on through the softness in his eyes and voice alone. He really does love you, doesn’t he?

“Princesa, what is it?”

“Y-you’ll think I’m r-ridiculous,” you push out, feeling a little silly for getting so upset, but Santi does everything to put you at ease, reaching up to brush away your tears with the sweep of his rough finger.

“No,” he promises. “What is it?”

“I’m h-happy. This is m-my happy place, Santiago Garcia. Right here in your lap. I just love you so m-much I want to cry. I’m such a sap for you, you shithead.”

Santi’s eyes search yours and you could swear he even tears up too. He’s softer than a lot of his acquaintances and maybe even friends would ever dare to guess, this man.

“Cariño, you have no idea how happy you make me. Snuggling you on my lap? Este es mi cielo.”

You reach your hand up to press your palm to his cheek, the familiar brush of his stubble greeting you. His words inspire a fresh batch of happy tears to spill from your cheeks.

“Honey, you should really have these thighs and that silver tongue of yours seized. They’re lethal weapons, I swear. You’re killing me here.”

“Killing you softly?” Santi asks with a gently amused smirk.

Still, he tugs you close and holds you in his arms until your tears subside and until he’s sure that you feel entirely content. As he hugs you tightly, he continues to reassure you that he’s got you. And that he never wants to let you go.

What’s more, you believe him, and suddenly nothing else in the world matters, except being here with the man who is your happy place; with the man who makes you happier than you could ever have imagined being.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia #pope x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier fic #santi blurb #luna answers

[alexandenigtscreations]

Chapters: 5/7 Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel Summary:

Juno Steel and Peter Nureyev make a good team. But when a bank job goes horribly wrong, the injured pair are forced to lay low and hope the Carte Blanche can make it back to them in time.

(Note: Bold Italic script indicates Nureyev speaking Brahmese) 

Chapter 5

“God Damnit Thief!  Pick up your damned coms when the bloody doctor calls!"

"Again, apologies Vespa, I-" he coughed weakly into his hand, tripoding over his knees.

"Do you know how many times I had to call you?  Do you?"  

Nureyev sighed "Afraid not-"

"Seven !  Seven goddamn times!  Thought you were dead !  Or Steel!  Or captured or whatever!  We're in enough crap as it is without you two adding to the pile!"

“Vespa, I-”

“If you say you’re sorry one more time, Thief; I swear to god I’ll snap your scrawny neck!"

"I'm-" he caught himself mid apology, "Understood-"

"I haven't heard Steel's voice, where is he?"

"Juno's- sleeping." Which is what he himself had been doing up to the moment Vespa rang. Stupid- a rookie mistake-

"Oh?  And how sure are you of that thief?"

Nureyev wiped the sweat off of his face, "I'm sure-" it had been the first thing he checked when the beeping of the comms woke him.  Even from here he could see the frantic rise and fall of Juno's chest.  The lady wasn't doing well.  

"Completely."  He coughed harder into an elbow.

Vespa sniff on the other end of the line.  Plainly suspicious, but that was nothing new.

"Fine, now you're on, we can get back to business…."  There was a clatter outside, his head snapped towards it ".... temperature down, or it can cause…." and another- "gotta make sure he's in the recovery…" and another and confound it all Nureyev, focus!  He shook himself back to the conversation just in time for Vespa to say "Did you get that Thief?"

"Hmm?  I ugh-" he floundered.  No, no he had not gotten it, and was just about to say so when he heard voices-

Lord, not now, please not now-

"Thief?"

Nureyev limped to a window.  Even in the dim light of the street lamps, he could make out the security uniforms of Galactic Stars First Bank.  

No-

Anxiety spiked his chest, making him queasy- or perhaps he already was-

Juno was in danger.  That much, he was certain of.  To say nothing about himself.

He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping lady.  Even with his features pinched and weary, he was beautiful-  

And vulnerable-

Plans began to formulate in his mind.  His first impulse was to find some crevice to hide in, to disappear.  But even with Juno’s help, he only just managed to get him to the sofa last time-  If they were found- well, he didn’t want to find out what they’d do to him.  

“Thief?!”

He could lure the guards inside, dispatch them quickly and save his leg the trouble-  But no, that would be too messy.  To say nothing of Juno’s sensibilities, inviting guards into their hiding spot introduced more blind variables than he’d care to gamble with.

Which left luring them away- Sharp teeth worried away at his bottom lip.  The injury would make things- challenging.  But he didn’t have to be fast.  After all, it was a fool who thought the best getaway vehicle was the fastest-  

What he needed now was a strategy; and to know how many employees he’d have to contend with.  

“God Damnit Ransom, the hell-”

“Apologies Vespa, I need Rita.”

“What?!”

“Ha-How many guards, am I dealing with- Rita?” Nureyev grimaced, pressing his back tight to the apartment's tinker toy brickwork.  Rita’s voice was going fuzzy around the edges, as though muffled.

It had been harder than anticipated to pick his way past the patrolling guards, yet alone work his way out of the safe house.

“Two, maybe four in your sector Mista Ransom.”

“Which is it? ”

“Hugh?”

“Which is it?  The- er- two, or the four?” there was a throb of pain that made his breath hitch.  Along with that ever present burning, biting its way deep.  

“Not sure but- are- are you alright Mista Ransom?”

“I- am a tad worse for wear.  Which is why I’d like to resolve this matter quickly.”

“Ohhh, ohh right!  Well Rita can help with that!”

“Thank you Rita.  Now- which way to the two or four individuals?”

He allowed Rita to guide him through the quiet streets.  She informed him that a dome wide lockdown had been initiated while the intruders were at large.  Sure enough, when he tried a few doors in passing, they refused to yield under his touch.  The citizens took the lockdown seriously.  

Nureyev made sure to make plenty of noise. He needed a show if he wanted this plan to work.  What worried him was that he was only half acting as he stumbled his way over the cobbles on a stiff leg.  He allowed himself to knock into bins and topple items into cars.  The noise he raised wasn’t loud, per say, but it was conspicuous on the quiet streets.  

“Where are these guards Rita?”

“They’ll be coming up any minute Mista Ransom, you just keep your eyes Peeled!  Make a right up here-” she directed “Peeled, hugh, ever consider what a weird thing it is to say.  That you should keep your eyes peeled?   I mean you do that and your eyes ain't gonna be good no more, least of all you.  Oh!  But there was this one stream where the monster worked its way out of a beautiful man!  Which was such a waist but what do I know about streams?  And its eyes were doing this crazy-”

“Any- minute?” he was starting to have doubts about using his own injured self as bait. He filed that deep in his mind.

“What?  Oh!  Yeah!  You got some baddies commin’ up right behind you.”

“Behind- Are you sure?” he panted.  

“Yeah of course I’m sure Mista Ransom!”

A quick turn confirmed Rita’s intel.  He was indeed being followed.  

They shouted something at his back, and Nureyev picked up his pace to a skip-hop, while his pursuers broke into a run.   A plasma bolt shot past his ear, sending a jolt of adrenaline through.  In answer he flipped over several barrels.  They cascaded into the small space, messing the ally nicely.  That should slow them down some.  It had to.

There was no time to pay attention to the ache of his lungs or the fire coursing through his leg.  Even as each step pushed him that much closer to being physically ill.  

File it away, Damn you- just file it away-

He screwed his eyes shut and pushed forward.  Forcing himself to keep moving, to keep breathing, to keep-

He plowed headlong into an old chain link fence with enough force to knock him to the ground with a strangled cry.  The traitorous links rattled and clinked all the way up to their restraints.  As if to add insult to injury, they stretched maybe ten, fifteen feet in the air.  There wasn’t a hope of making it over before his acquaintances caught up.  

“Mista Ransom?!” Rita sounded scared, she’d even stopped typing.  “What happened?”

“There’s-” he coughed “There’s a- barrier- ” There was another word, a better word, but he couldn’t for the life of him think of it.  It was taking all his effort to push upright on shaking arms, threading his fingers into the wire mesh to haul himself to his feet.  

“A barrier?  Like a wall or a buildin’ or somethin?  None of that is showing up on my schema-”

“A fence- Is there another way round?”  He took a moment to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry but, there isn’t anythin’ on the map.  Ya gotta get to the other side before ya have options.  Can’t you like, break through or somethin?”

Break through, of course, Nureyev could kick himself; it was so simple.  He extracted one of his plasma cutters from a pocket, heat humming through the blade.  In the end, it wasn’t even a good fence.  The blade made quick work of the links, slicing through them as one might margarine.  

Another blaster shot forced him through the cherry red ruin of a hole before it had a chance to cool.  He brought his arm up, shielding his face even as the sharp edges racked along his coat, hitting his leg- he hissed, nausea threatening to overtake him.  

“Mista Ransom?”

He scrambled to the other side, barely keeping upright.  

“Mista Ransom!  You’ve got more company comin’ straight at you!”

“What-” his voice cracked in exhaustion.  Through the gloom, he could just make out the second pair barreling down the narrow passage.  He could hear them barking orders at him now, probably instructing him to surrender or other such nonsense that he had no intention of following.  

“They’ve brought reinforcements!  They’re gonna’ block your escape roots!”

“Reinforcements?”

“There’s at least four more heading straight at you!”

Nureyev glanced back and spotted the first pair shoving through the debris.  Then that would make six-  Six on one, he didn’t like those odds.  A wrong step sent a jolt through him, his weakened leg nearly buckling under his weight sending him into a wall.  Again the world went fuzzy, blood rushing to his ears.

He wondered if the Carte Blanche really would come back for him if he’d got captured.  Something made him doubt it even as he shoved the ugly thought deep into a file.  

Think Nureyev.

Time, he needed time.  A had drifted to the modest arsenal on his chest.  There were a few smoke bombs he hadn’t touched, but the situation called for something more dire-

He plucked a pepper grenade from the clip, lobbing it over the fence with the practiced ease of one who’d spent hours on throwing knives.  Smoke tracked it’s flight through the air.  It struck the ground at the guard’s feet.  They yelled, scrambling back just as it erupted.  The choking fumes swallowed them in seconds.  

Nureyev was no longer paying mind to them, attention bent entirely at the remaining guards.  Four on one were more....manageable.  

He rushed the closest set, drawing a twin to his first blade wheeling them in tandem.  The man was no fighter, as soon as he got into their space, the man shrank back, his blaster forgotten.  

A tingling burn flushed across exposed skin making his heart plummet.  He’d made a mistake.  Nureyev hadn't accounted for the wind-

Spurred by the change in fortune, Nureyev dispatched the man quickly; maneuvering out of the way as he crumpled.  Life’s blood spilled over the cobbles soon obscured by smoke.

Smoke?  

Twisting and contorting, the smoke seemed to grow till it engulfed everything in its path.  Pouring down the cramped space.  The remaining guards tried to run, but were soon overtaken, same as the Thief.

Nureyev's throat closed against the onslaught.  He gagged and coughed over the very air, vision hopelessly obscured by tears.  The only good news was that he could hear his attackers do the same.  Panic began to fog his reason.  

He no longer noticed the burning of his skin or eyes, or the way his nose was running; no longer could feel the pain in his leg.  He couldn’t breathe, he couldn't breathe .  The single thought spun round and round in his brain, desperately trying to figure a way around it.  He clung to the wall with every ounce of strength he possessed.  The coughing picked up even harder now till his chest crushed in like a deflated balloon.

Try as he will, his lungs would not expand.  There was simply no more air.

“Mista Ransom?” Rita, in the coms!  Rita who was still very much with him.  There was hope!  

Just then a hand clenched around a fistful of his hair, dragging Nureyev lower still.  He’d been found, even in a place like this, they’d still found him.  The employees of Galactic Stars First Bank were more like his creditors than Nureyev liked.  Even now she was growling at him in anger.  

Though he couldn’t understand the language, he knew she was asking questions.  Her breaths were short and forced yet still she managed to talk.  Had he not been in the grips of fear, he would have found her admirable.  

“Mista Ransom?!”

Through his bleary eyes, he could make out the cyan glow of a blaster pointed down under his nose.  She meant to shoot him, but was hesitating.  At any other time, he'd wonder why-  Instead he reached up to claw, to cling at her wrist, still with a grip on his knives.  She twisted and he bowed lower, leg quaking, his hand slipped and-

“Ah!” she squealed as his plasma blade bit into her arm, flinging  him back to a wall.  The impact miraculously forced air back into his lungs.  Though as soon as he got it, his body started to cough it back up.  Furiously he clapped a hand over his mouth, trying to hold it in.

It didn't work.

“Mista Ransom!” If Rita had sounded scared before, that was nothing compared to now.  Her voice was small and tentative in a way that would break any heart.  Even so, he latched onto her voice with everything he was worth.  

The light of the guard's weapon danced before him.  She may have been hurt, but she wasn’t down yet.  What’s worse was that she seemed to be calling for backup.  

The blade sang out of his fingers, digging itself into her thigh. This time she screamed and hacked, scrambling for the off switch while Nureyev made his escape.  It hadn't been where he'd been aiming, but close enough.  With any luck, she'd have trouble moving for a time.  

“R-ita-” he choked out, managing tiny gasps, every one a massive effort.

“What’s going on!  Have you been Gassed!!!!!” thank stars he would not have to explain.

“Y-yes-” he gave into a violent coughing fit.

“Oh-Okay, you need me to show you the way out!”

“Yes-” the fight had turned him around, making it impossible to tell which way to go.  He wanted to be free of the smoke as soon as possible.

“Can Do!  Oh!  This is just like one of those Spy streams like- well, never mind that right now.  Alright Mista Ransom, I’m gonna need you to move forwards about a hundred meters.” She instructed conspiratorially.  He obliged, thankful to leave the thinking to her.  Using the wall to keep him straight.  “Be careful when you reach the fork!” she cautioned “The passage on your left has a few baddies, the one on your right is clear!”  

On his right- he could just make out two voids stretching before him.  Stealing his resolve he propelled himself right and mercifully broke through the miasma.  He crashed into a dumpster, nearly running smack into the center of another set of guards.  

It had been the wrong way.  

There would be no time to recover, no time for rest.  Furiously he wiped his eyes and gulped down recycled air.  

Rita shrieked in his ear, “Not your right, my right!” but he had no choice but to tune her out.  

The fresh opponent rushed him, their partner charging their blaster.  Nureyev stumbled back towards the smoke, just managing to use his attacker’s momentum to spin them round into their partner.  Their partner roared, firing shots off at random as they fell.  Blaster spun out of their grip on impact.  A stray bolt savaged one of Nureyev’s coat pockets, scattering it’s contents on the stones.  Hopefully there wouldn’t have been anything important in there.  

Nureyev readjusted his knife grip and threw at the tangle of limbs.  One of the figures stilled.  He hobbled towards them as fast as he could, retrieving the blade.  He’d already lost one and that was one too many.  

It was a mistake.

Pain shot through his leg making him cry out.  He fell hard separated anew from his weapon.  He’d been struck down by the spare guard.  They spat words that were sure to be insults as they disentangled themselves from the motionless body.

Nureyev gasped, twisting away towards the fallen blaster.  It had landed some distance away, but one advantage of long limbs was reach-  The guard growled and caught his foot, drawing him backwards.  He kicked out and the hands clawed higher.  It seemed they both were trying for the same weapon.

"Let go- " Nureyev bit out attempting to dislodge the guard.

"Never, scum- " they shot back in perfect Brahmese.  Before that could sink in, fingers jammed into his bandages, into the wound-  Nureyev keened, paralyzed by the shock of it.  

First rule of thriving Pete, you can't afford to be loud.

Rita shrieked all the louder.  Nureyev was at once hot and cold and utterly overwhelmed..  He knew he was hurt, thank you, he knew it!  He could do without the constant reminders.  

The guard made use of their opportunity by clambering over Nureyev.  Hand planted on his spine, pushing him down.  The thief refused to let it be that easy; scanning for something, anything he could use-

There!

His pocket knife!  

Nureyev’s arm shot out, scooping up the tool and flicking it open.  He twisted, simultaneously throwing them off and swiping upwards.  The blade bit into cloth and flesh.  They reared back startled, leaving Nureyev to wriggle free.  On hands and knees he scrambled to the blaster.  

Nureyev may not have the skills of a certain lovely sharp shooter, but at a distance like this, he couldn't miss.  

The stunner went straight to their chest and all went quiet.  He folded over, resting his forehead on the damp of the grimy street, forcing down bile once more.

"Mista Ransom!!!  Oh Mista Ransom!  Are you there?  Please say you're there, cuz I'm not sure how I could face the boss if I…."

"Rita-"

"....got you blown up or somethin, cuz know I'd miss you oh so much but Boss- oh I couldn't imagine-"

"I'm- ha- I'm fine- Rita-" he tried again, louder this time.  His voice was thick and rough, entirely unlike the persona he’d been so careful to maintain around the crew.

There was a loud clatter from the other end and a sharp intake of breath.  It sounded as though Rita knocked something over "Mista Ransom!  You ought to feel ashamed!  Scaring a girl like that!  Don’t you know that-" she cut off abruptly “Ugh oh, Mista Ransom!  You gotta get out of there, stat!  There are reinforcements on the way and I don't think they are too happy!”

Nureyev groaned and thanked Rita.  He supposed it was a lucky thing that he was so averse to capture.  It had been a long time since cold stone had been so welcoming.  

“What are you waiting’ for Mista Ransom?”

“N-nothing- Rita.  Merely -becoming acquainted with the cobble work.” he murmured.  In truth, he was drained to his core.  His head was spinning, body aching, leg burning and he was just so- thirsty.  There was at least something he could do about the last one, but not for a while, and not without getting up.  The entire distraction had taken far more out of him than anticipated.  

“Mista Ransom, you know I don’t speak nothin but Solar-” she started, but he wasn’t listening.  

Distraction.  His mind snagged on the word.

That was right, he was luring Galactic Star’s First Bank away from Juno.  Juno, gorgeous, wonderful Juno who’d taken a poison dart for him, who needed him right now.  

Nureyev had to get back to him, no matter what.  

In the end, Nureyev had trusted Rita to guide him back to the safe house.  She’d insisted after he nearly ran into another set of guards.  He was too tired to fight.  More than once considering folding himself up into a corner and waiting for the excitement to die down.  Moving in the open like this- didn't sit well with him.  

It took a lot longer to return to the grubby street of the safe house, and longer still to check and recheck he hadn’t been followed or bugged.  

“Thank you again- Rita-”  Privately he vowed to do something nice for her if and when they’d return to the ship.

“Oh and Mista Ransom?”

“Hm?”

“Take care of yourself, alright?  Ya make Mista Steel real happy- and- and I want ya both back in one piece okay?”

Nureyev was taken aback for a moment, mind blanking over the words.  It was- touching, and he had no idea what to do with that.  

He cleared his throat.  “I will do everything in my power to make that happen.” and he meant it.  

[Special thanks to Scarlet_Trust who got me excited about this again.  Please, Please go over and read their wonderful works!]

#tpp #the penumbra podcast #junoverse #jupeter #juno steel #peter nureyev #fic #AlexandeNight #whump #hurt/comfort #tw blood #tw nausea #tw killing #tw fights #Nureyev is a baddass #my writing #fanfic

[jay-me-says]

Things Were Different Back Then

CHAPTER FOUR: One Traitor to Another

Masterpost w/ more info on the fic | Note: all SBI-related relationships here are platonic!

The fallen king is considering tearing down the half-finished house…again.

He readjusts his sunglasses as he looks at the heap of oak and spruce. All things considered, it doesn’t look bad. It’s far from the worst thing he’s ever built, and it isn’t done yet. With a little more time, Eret could turn it into something amazing. It would make for a great home.

But it doesn’t feel right- nothing has. For over a month- a month- he’s been trying to build himself a place in L’manburg. It’s been a never-ending cycle of building, frustration, and destruction. Rinse and repeat several times.

With an aggravated sigh, Eret pulls out his axe and starts swinging, taking down the failed attempt block by disappointing block. Building a house should be so simple, especially when compared to the castle he’d constructed for his previous home, but nothing he’s tried has felt right to him.

The tower style he tried first had seemed too much like his castle, which he no longer belonged in. He wasn’t a king anymore; he had no crown. He didn’t even have the company of his flamingos. If he thought too hard about their soft, pink feathers and elegant legs, his heart started to hurt.

Another attempt had been made primarily of spruce wood, with a sloping roof and red carpeting. It had complimented the other homes and buildings in L’manburg, but that didn’t feel right either. It’d looked like the home of someone who truly belonged in the nation, not the home of someone who had turned their back on it. Even after a month, Eret didn’t feel like he fit in L’manburg. Or rather, he didn’t feel like he deserved to fit in L’manburg.  

So, he tried about a dozen other styles. Oak wood and shades of purple, birch and granite, andesite and stone bricks. When those didn’t work, he tore them down and started fresh. Countless nights were spent in the tent with a lantern, drawing up as many new designs as he could think of. And when they all failed, he thought up more. Time after time, something about the house wasn’t right. It never felt like home.

Frustrated, Eret swings his axe harder than is strictly necessary. Mingo, who has been basking in the sun nearby for the past several hours, meows unhappily at the noise and retreats to the entrance of the tent, half in and half out of it. Sunlight catches the high and low points of her luxurious cream-colored fur, turning the pretty feline into an artist’s sketch. The only splash of color is the pink collar at her neck.

Eret takes down half the unfinished house before realizing he’s being watched. The feeling of eyes on his back makes the hair on his neck rise. Tensing, he turns and sees about the last person he would have ever expected to pay him a visit.

Bathed in the late afternoon sunlight, a pale Wilbur stands a few feet from Eret’s building site. He looks uncertain and nervous, hands sort-of-clasped in front of him as he fidgets with his fingers. Eret, panting somewhat after beating up his house, looks at him quizzically, too stunned for words.

After a moment of strained silence, Wilbur says, “H- hey, Eret. I, um…see, I didn’t know who else to speak to so, could you maybe spare a second? You look like you’re busy, though, so, uh…” he trails off uncomfortably and his eyes go to his hands, which are now still but tense.

Once he gets over his surprise, Eret says, “Er, yeah, sure. That’s fine. I’m not too busy.” He leans against the wrecked remains of the house and slowly slides down a half-destroyed wall until he’s seated on the grass.

Wilbur takes a few steps forward, then says, “You sure you won’t axe me?”

The comment takes Eret by surprise, the words seeping into him and filling his chest with a cold dread that quickly freezes his entire body, down to the tips of his fingers. Does Wilbur really think I would do that?

Then, he notices the faint smile on Wilbur’s face. The way his lips curl up, almost perfectly symmetrical, paired with the humorous glint in his eyes is a familiar sight. It makes Eret’s heart ache for a moment, reminding him of a different time. He’s joking, the man realizes. Relief floods through him, rinsing away the freeze. He lets a small smile of his own tug on his face. “Yeah, I promise.”

Wilbur sits down across from Eret, crisscrossing his long legs. Intrigued by the new presence, Mingo pads over softly and sniffs Wilbur’s knee. He must not have noticed her approach, because he startles. He jolts a little, causing Mingo to recoil in response.  

Recovering, then gently holding his fingers out to the cream-colored cat, he asks, “Who’s this?” Mingo sniffs his knuckles tentatively.

Eret smiles lovingly at the fluffball. “That’s a gift from Niki. Her name is Mingo.”

Wilbur seems to connect the dots from the cat’s pink collar to her name, and his eyebrows turn up sadly. He makes a sound halfway between an “oh” and an “aw,” staring at the cat as she nuzzles his fingers, “Eret…”

The former king’s eyes sting, making him grateful for the sunglasses hiding his eyes. “Yeah.” After a pause, he says, “Niki came up with the name and everything, too. Said I seemed down and thought I could use a companion. It was really sweet of her.” And she had been right. Everything in Eret’s life changed after the Second Revolution. He’d lost his throne and his crown and had been thrust back into L’manburg’s ranks all in the span of a few minutes. He was glad to be back on his friends’ side (if he can call them friends still), but it’d left him feeling unstable and confused. Losing the companionship of his treasured flamingos had been the rotting cherry on top of everything. Mingo had created a constant in his life, and that was invaluable. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to thank Niki enough.

There’s a pause in the conversation while Wilbur pets the cat and the two get acquainted. When it borders on being awkwardly long, Eret says, “So, what brought you here? I doubt you came to discuss the tragic story behind my cat.”

Wilbur looks up from Mingo and meets Eret’s eyes. “Ah, right. It’s…it’s about Fundy. And Philza.” A crease appears between his eyebrows, accompanied by a small frown. He fixes a stare to the ground in front of him. “It just that I- I don’t feel like I fit in my life anymore. Fundy is cross with me, constantly. I always say the exact wrong thing to him. And Philza, as amazing as he’s been this past month, I know he hasn’t forgiven me. I really…I really let him down. I did something unforgivable and then asked him to kill me. And I would’ve gone happily. That’s not exactly something a month of family bonding can repair.” His frown deepens as he finishes speaking, and guilt plays over his expression. He stopped petting Mingo at some point while he was talking, his hand frozen in a fist a few inches above her. She rubs her face against it like nothing is wrong, then trots off into the tent.

Eret sits in thoughtful silence for a long moment, absorbing Wilbur’s words and piecing together a response. “Trial and error,” he says at last.

Wilbur looks up at him again, and Eret notices some tears have left glistening tracks down the other man’s face. More threaten to spill over, collecting in his eyelashes. A second that feels fragile passes in silence. “What?” Wilbur asks.

“Trial and error. Like this house of mine. I’ve tried building it dozens of times now, but I keep messing up and it never feels like a place that’s meant for me. So, I take it down and I start again. And each time, I get a little closer to something I could live in and call home.”

Eret trails a hand by his side up and down the wreck of oak wood planks. When it comes to rest on his knee again, he says, “Talk to them, Wilbur . Talk to your son, talk to your father, and keep trying. You’ll keep messing up, and it’ll be okay. You just need to keep trying. You gave up for a while- you utterly checked out. Fundy has had an absent father and Phil had to watch the downfall of his son. You’re right, no amount of family bonding or apologies are going to fix that. But time and effort will. I think what they both need from you right now is a little more effort.”

For what must be the hundredth time in the past five minutes, the two lapse into silence. But this time, it doesn’t feel strained or awkward. Eret’s words have spilled a feeling of hope into the air. It replaces the frustration he felt earlier, making him eager to get back to working on his house.

After several silent seconds, a smile ghosts over Wilbur’s features. He gets up, straightening out his black jacket. The man walks over to Eret and holds out a hand, who looks up at him in surprise and confusion. “Want some help with your house?”

~

After spending the rest of the day helping Eret, Wilbur is utterly exhausted. But he feels strangely good. He’d turned to Eret because he had no one else to talk to, but now he’s really glad that he did. His words had given Wilbur an air of determination- and hope. When was the last time he’d felt hope? Actually, when was the last time he’d felt either of those things?

He stumbles up the steps to his home, ready to collapse in bed for the night. He expects a dark house (his son had taken after Philza’s early sleeping habits) but instead finds the kitchen lights on, casting a yellowish square of light on the stripped spruce log floor.

The strains of a conversation die in the air as he walks in and shuts the front door. Cautiously, Wilbur makes his way into the kitchen. Sat at the table are his dad and Fundy. They look tired, but relieved. Surprise sparking through his arms and chest leaves the brunette speechless for a moment. Then, he stammers out, “Did…did you wait up for me?”

The faintest flicker of anger flares in Philza’s eyes, just for a moment before they soften again. It reminds Wilbur of being scolded as a child for taking a practice fight with his little brother a bit too far. “No shit, kid. We knew you would be fine, but…well, we were worried.”

“I’m sorry.” There’s an unexpected weight to the words that startles both Philza and Fundy. Clearly, Wilbur is talking about more than just coming home late.

His dad tries to play it off.  “I- it’s okay, Wil. Let’s all just head to bed and- “

He’s cut off by a light scraping noise as Wilbur pulls out a chair and sits at the table with them. He’s done pussyfooting this. No more tiptoeing through conversations or worrying his dad with sleepless nights or reading more than he talks to his own son. Wilbur grabs their hands, one of theirs in either one of his. He needs them to understand, more than he’s ever needed anything before.

“No. I’m sorry. I never said sorry to you two. I really, really am, though. What I put you through these past months, it’s not okay. I’ve been a terrible father and a terrible son. I’ve been absent and awkward, and I wanted so bad for it to just fix itself but that’s not how these things work. I did horrible things to both of you and I can’t keep going on without properly acknowledging that. I am so, so sorry.” He squeezes their hands. There’s a familiar sting in his eyes, so he turns his gaze to the wooden tabletop. Don’t cry, he begs of his eyes. Not right now.

The silence is deafening. Seconds pass in what feels like a year.  When he finally can’t bear it anymore, Wilbur looks up at his family. He feels sick and relieved and guilty all at once when he sees the tears brimming their eyes. Briskly, Philza stands up, chair scraping rudely against the floor as he does.

The blonde man moves to stand in front of his son. Before Wilbur has time to register how terrified he is that he’s mucked things up further, his father is pulling him into a hug. He loses his grip on Fundy’s hand as he’s pulled up.

Philza grips him tightly, one hand holding his head. Wilbur’s heart soars and the tears break from his lashes. Waves of emotion crash through his chest and make every inch of his body feel heavy and light at the same time.

He grips his father tighter, absorbing the familiar smells. Pine trees and bread dough and the vaguest hint of smoke. It sends a pang through his chest, accompanied by nostalgia. Wilbur buries his face further into his father’s shoulder.  

“Wil…oh, Wil. No matter what happens, you’re my son.” 

Those words alone would be enough to make Wilbur break down completely if it were just them two in the room. But Fundy is still sitting at the kitchen table.

Fundy.

Suddenly desperate to see his son’s reaction, he breaks slightly from Philza, twisting in his father’s grip to look at the fox. Philza kisses his son’s head and gently lets go, taking a couple of steps back.

Fundy and Wilbur stare at one another for a moment. Wilbur swallows. It feels as though his whole body is being consumed by nerves and adrenaline. “I promise, I’m done floating through the days like some ghost of the man I was. I want to put in effort. I want to be a good dad to you, Fundy.”

There’s another beat of silence, then Fundy is out of his chair and practically throwing himself at Wilbur. In that moment, a weight comparable to that of all the world’s oceans lifts from his shoulders. His son’s arms feel like home and love.

Wilbur places his head neatly on top of the fox’s, gripping him as close as he can. Fundy’s shoulders shake and Wilbur’s heart breaks to know he caused his son so much pain. He rubs circles on Fundy’s back as he hugs him, just like he always would when he was a kid coming to Wilbur with a painful scrape or night terrors. And he knows, then, that Eret was right. It’ll all be okay, they’ll be okay.

‘

You can also read this on Ao3! | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter Please consider reblogging if you enjoyed! <3

#tommyinnit and tubbo fanfic #tommyinnit fanfic #tubbo fanfic #dream smp fanfiction #dream smp fanfic #sbi mcyt #sleepy bois fanfic #sleepy bois inc fanfiction #tubbo and tommy fanfic #jay-me-writes

[thenugking]

Grand Academy For Future Villains, Chapter 1: Introduction. A commentary for Three.

Because no one can stop me.

Here’s the important decisions, and other things it feels relevant to comment on, from Three’s playthrough. Contains spoilers for GAFFV, obviously, and there’s a few references to the sequel, although nothing I’d really call a spoiler. All game text is copied from the text files, found here.

General CW for the whole thing: parental abuse, internalised dehumanisation as a trauma response. Three’s not doing well.

Specific CW for this chapter: misgendering, transphobia

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

***

Rathna hisses with satisfaction, takes you by the wrist, and pulls you after her through the archway into the blackness.

It feels a bit like doing a belly flop into a pool of cold mercury. (And you would know; the exercise facilities back home were very well-appointed.) When the ringing clears from your ears and the fuzziness from your eyes, you're standing in a subterranean chamber. The walls are dripping. The lights are flickering. The screams are echoing.

An icy voice echoes in your head, making your ears sting. "Prepare yourself…to be screened."

"Oh, I am prepared," you assure Rathna the Soul-Flenser. "I trust the Academy! And if they say I need additional screening, I'm sure that's something that really is necessary for everybody's safety!"

How would you classify the expression in her dull metallic eyes? Quizzical? Startled? Pitying?

"Your faith," hisses the cold voice after a moment, "is… touching to me."

"Speaking of touching," you say cheerfully, "we'd better get to the screening part, right? The sooner I get screened, the sooner I can be reconstituted by, who is it, the fourth-year Resurrections class?"

There is a long pause. "No..." Rathna says. "You have passed the screening already. You are a true student of the Academy."

Nonplussed, you head up the stairs in the direction she indicates. As you glance back, you could swear she's wiping away one dishwater-gray tear.

Three’s entire introduction is them being a Good Student - it doesn’t even occur to them not to wait in line, or to try hiding their many, many weapons, or to try and get out of additional screening. They pick Rathna because they’re pretty sure Phil will mess it up and not screen them properly, which means they’re messing up too. 

Phil, in Three’s opinion, clearly has zero discipline or competence, and they dislike him instantly. With his utter lack of commitment to the screening process, he’s off to a great start as Perfect Student Three’s unintentional narrative foil.

Rathna, on the other hand, they develop a mutual respect for in this scene. They don’t interact again in-game, and aren’t going to go out of their way to hang out with each other, but I like to think they get along well whenever they do see each other, and are at least friendly acquaintances. (I was very offended when the second game told me Rathna was my enemy, but I like Miriel Bloodshrike, because neither of these things are remotely true for Three.)

VERY WELL, THREE. BUT I KNEW YOUR MOTHER ONCE. AND SHE GAVE YOU ANOTHER NAME. YOU WILL BE THREE AT THIS SCHOOL, BUT TO MAEDRYN THE QUANTUM-WITCH, ONE OF OUR PROUDEST ALUMNAE, YOU WILL ALWAYS BE...

It's true. Your mother named you

#3.

Hardly a name at all.

I mean, Three’s life revolves around keeping their mother happy. They’re not going to throw away the name she gave them. They only changed it from the number to the word because of the massive bureaucratic hassle that trying to input your whole name as 3 was. And what would they change it to anyway? It’s not as if they have an identity outside of Maedryn, is it?

(This does, of course, result in a lot of funny experiences in-game, where people try and psych me out by knowing my birth name and Three’s just, “Yes, that is my name, are you feeling all right?” It’s not impossible that these still take place, even with Three using their mother’s name; in the very next scene, Xi reveals they can hear how people spell things. I’m sure there are some people in the Academy who would deliberately say 3, rather than Three, and hope that Three hears the insult. They don’t.)

As for gender… I think Three at this point still mostly identifies as female. They come out as agender part way through their first year, feeling more confident after meeting a lot of non-binary people at the Academy. They don’t tell their mum. While I’m glad that the game doesn’t have Maedryn misgender you, the fact that she consistently deadnames you and gets angry at you changing “her” body if you become a monster makes me feel it would be very in character for her to do. I’m sure she hears Three is using they/them pronouns now at some point, but has better things to do than remembering to use them.

If asked about their pronouns, Three will tell you that you are welcome to call them whatever you wish, and their closest associates usually use they/them. Expressing their own preference would be far too close to acting like a person with their own desires and feelings, though. Luckily they can easily justify being agender as, “What does a weapon need a gender for?”

“Let's get to know you, Three. What do you hate most?"

 #Incompetence and idiocy.

And right now, Phil’s incompetence and idiocy in particular. Three is already up to 75% competence at this point, by the way.

Well, that's your mother. How do you feel about her?

#I'm proud to be her child. But I plan on choosing my own path- while keeping her as happy as I can.

The actual answer here is a lot more complicated. Three certainly doesn’t plan on choosing their own path, they exist only as a tool of their mother’s and are well aware that being anything more would not make her happy. They think Maedryn’s achievements are incredible and that she’s the cleverest person they know. They think they might be proud of her, if not of themself. They love her.

They’re also far more aware than they let on that she’s abusing them, and that they’re never going to get the love and approval that a part of them buried deep down still wants. While they absolutely keep it to themself, they dislike the way Maedryn’s destroyed worlds that could have had so much to offer, and believe she should treat her goons and servants (themself excluded) better.

And they have no intention of ever letting her know they've ever thought anything negative about her, because they value their life too much.

"Excuse me. I'm Three, and I-how did you do that? What were those wires, and all that stuff you were saying about humanity?"

"Nice, isn't it?" says Xi with pardonable pride. "Like I told you, I'm the ultimate fusion of human and computer. Instead of veins-" their voice is suddenly coming out of the speakers again "-wires course the length of my body, running directly from my mind to the Network."

"Oh! Computers!" the other student breaks in. "Whyever would you want to be all tangled up with those...things?"

Xi narrows their metallic eyes contemptuously at him. "I'm a cyberpunk villain. It's what we do. Wait- who are you again?"

The student draws himself up proudly. "Aurion Umbrator Malisar, Scourge of the Universe, Bane of Virtue, Shadow that Swallows the Light, and I-"

Xi sniffs. A shower of sparks falls from one of the wires. "This is the first time you've ventured outside your genre, isn't it? Let me guess, spawned in Fantasy, and now you're here expecting everything to be the same magic and mush you grew up with?"

"Well, that would explain things," Xi continues. "Trust me, pitiful lump of flesh, computers are the way to go. Why, the true power in this school, DarkBoard--no matter what any other genre says--is an artificial intelligence, one who has truly ascended beyond the tether of matter and mind-"

"That's the problem!" Aurion protests, waving his schedule again. "It will not heed my bidding!"

"Well, of course not, if you're talking to Them like that." You can hear the reverence in Xi's voice when they speak of DarkBoard. Odd, since as far as you can tell, the Grand Academy's administrative AI is basically a glorified secretary.

And Three gets to meet their best friends! They’ve been given permission to ask questions about something very cool! Even if they would never be caught using the phrase, “All that stuff,” and would much prefer a, “Would you elaborate further on your state of being, please?”

This also forms the very early seeds of their friendship with DarkBoard. They believe everyone deserves respect, and they know how easy it is to underestimate someone as being a tool. The majority of their previous knowledge on DarkBoard came from Maedryn, who they also know underestimates people she considers below her notice, so they’re very willing to take Xi’s opinion on DarkBoard over Maedryn’s. And if Xi calls DarkBoard a They, rather than an It, They is what Three will use too, because secretary or not, it’s only polite.

Xi sighs. "You've got to organize yourself, pitiful lump of- Aurion. Make some choices. Look. What do you want to do?"

"Have legions of darkness, take over the universe, slay the proud and noble, bring about a black reign of terror on the land, cast evil spells from my fortress, shoot out wires from my hand like that, seduce the pure and innocent, callously waste human life, destroy the world with a word, blow things up, have great men fall before the slightest motion of my hand, manipulate people's minds, be able to call up balls of fire, beat up the heroes, have Ultimate Weapons of Destruction, and wear a nifty cape!" rattles off the aspiring Scourge of the Universe breathlessly. "And more things, too, if they teach them."

Xi looks as if the student's enthusiasm has overloaded their circuits. You step in.

#Tell Xi I'll help Aurion with his schedule. That should earn me some points with the RA.

I mean, if Three had circuits, they’d be overloaded by Aurion’s enthusiasm too, but if there are two things they like, it’s sorting out schedules and making people in positions of authority happy! This encounter doesn’t make Three and Aurion friends, that comes later, but they gain a small amount of respect for each other, at least.

Sidenote - I’m not sure how close Aurion and Xi are supposed to be, they don’t interact much after this in-game, but I love their interactions here, and I really enjoy Three, Aurion and Xi as a group of friends.

#Better get Xi to advise me on this. Isn't assistance in their job description?

You stick your head out into the hall. "Xi? Can you help me with something?"

After a moment, Xi appears, expressionless.

"I need to get my books," you explain, "so I need to access my money. Can you tell me how to make DarkBoard do that?"

One of Xi's wires cracks like a whip. You hope that means yes.

Three might value self-sufficiency, but they also value making use of the resources available to you, and when someone’s job is to provide you with help, it would be arrogant and foolish to rely solely on your own conjecture.

They are also an eighteen year old who’s never spent much time with people their own age suddenly discovering that they find cyborgs in control of wires they grow out of their fingers really hot.

#Get a quick fund refreshment from Mom.

It won't make your mother happy to have you draft her account like this--she prefers more face-to-face groveling, as you've had plenty of chances to observe--but you know that you can make a quick transfer from the Student Security Deposit. A few words to DarkBoard, and the money is yours, with a little extra cushion to cover you in case of emergencies.

I mean, Three’s definitely going to call Maedryn up for a proper groveling session later tonight, and hope that helps a little. But she’s also expecting them to get perfect grades, and they’re worried about their chances of doing that without all the equipment available. Anyway, that’s their first day at the Academy finished!

#grand academy for future villains #choice of games #three #long post #u know what i'm gonna tag the other characters bc i love them #maedryn #aurion umbrator malisar #xi #darkboard #gavril philippe des anges dechus #marsh ocs

[taerseok]

— differences | j.j.k [hogwarts!au] (pt. 2)

pairing:. Ravenclaw!Jungkook × Slytherin!Reader

synopsis:. the girl who has never fallen seriously for a guy, now falls for the wicked, witty Jeon Jungkook. But it only happens to be that you, now believe, that you have given your heart to someone who may not take care of it as well as you thought he would.

word count:. 4.3k

genre(s):. romance, angst

warning(s):. mentions of sex, swearing

song rec(s):. house of cards - BTS, promise - Joytastic Sarah (cover), rather be - Clean Bandit

Differences: points or ways in which people or things are dissimilar.

"A great relationship isn't when a perfect couple comes together, but when an imperfect couple learns to enjoy their differences."

Why was the night so long? You sighed. You had been aimlessly walking through the corridors, they were empty as they should've been, except for you roaming them. Maybe you should've returned by now. You hugged yourself tighter, the winters coming nearer didn't help.

Upon reaching the portrait, you uttered the password and jumped in, only to find that Ara and Jungkook had disappeared. You huffed. You didn't need to notice those details.

You walked deeper into the common room, and your presence did not go unnoticed by Jimin and Yoongi, who came rushing over to you immediately.

"Are you okay?" Jimin embraced you as he asked, pulling your head to his chest like a brother. You wrapped your arms around his thin waist, barely able to keep back the tears.

"You were right," you said softly, between sobs and sniffs. "I shouldn't have fallen deeper. But before I knew it, I-" you stopped, your stomach churning and your heart screaming for rebellion against fate, "I was in love."

Jimin's posture was rigid but he calmed down rather quickly, running his hand over your back. "I'm going to kill him," Yoongi muttered, and you drew away from Jimin to find yourself between the two boys.

"Don't be stupid, Yoongi... that wouldn't make anything better, besides…" you bit your lip, "I'll be over it."

"Doesn't look like it from your face, Y/n," the male said back, making you sigh. "I know, I just… I can't believe it. I can't believe him," you muttered, your brows knitting together. "What really happened? He didn't say anything as he came out of the dormitory, but we saw his expression and you looked really angry when you were leaving… so… we kicked him out and told Ara to leave too… she ran after the guy, regardless," Jimin said slowly, turning his gaze towards you.

"He… He kissed me," you explained softly, "and then I thought… I thought he really liked me back, that it was not one-sided… so I…" you bit your lip, "I confessed. But he said that… we just couldn't? I don't know what the fuck he wanted out of me, I don't what he meant but I left immediately. I couldn't stand it."

"Damn the guy for playing with your heart. If he tries talking to you, let us talk to him for you. He deserves to learn a lesson," Yoongi said, gritting his teeth. You were happy your friends understood you, but how could you explain them the loneliness you felt, the emptiness that was etching into your heart?

You couldn't. That was simple enough to understand.

You could only hope that time would make it easier for you to deal with it. Because time never fully healed anything.

Time passed, like anything ever did. Like a flower that decayed for it wasn't watered.

Like you who kept waking up, and going to sleep again because you didn't feel like you had a reason to live anymore.

Your project, which was left uncompleted because of what had transpired, was completed by Jungkook alone as a token of apology, though you ignored it entirely and submitted it to the teacher, regardless.

Since the holiday season was coming, your parents would want you back for Christmas. And to annoy them, like always, you had started to write lyrics down for the songs you'd create, but most were heartbreak songs since that felt like what you resonated with most, and since the two boys did not mind, you went along with whatever your heart wanted. It deserved to be treated well after what had occurred.

And as for your parents, it was simply your job to annoy them. Your family, which consisted of an older sister who had already graduated from Hogwarts, your mother, and your father, was very well-known in Wizarding South Korea as one of the richest, and most powerful Pureblood families, alongside the Park and Min families. Your parents were also well-acquainted with Jimin's and Yoongi's, being business partners and whatnot.

One of the reasons why you three grew up as childhood friends.

Your teenage rebellion hadn't ended, as of yet, and Jimin and Yoongi tagged alongside you in the journey. You three made a band in which you would sing and write lyrics, Jimin would play the guitar, and also sometimes help with male vocals, and Yoongi would compose the music as well as help you write lyrics, since you were much newer to it than him. But he also rapped in a few of your songs, just to anger his parents even further, take it a step higher.

Your families were not the biggest fans of muggle music, which is what you three usually composed, so it went well with your 'we try to piss off our parents' vibe. Though you acted like it was a great deal to be a Pureblood, you just acted that way. You weren't the most excited for being born in a Pureblooded family, like so many others of your heritage were, or how so many other students in Hogwarts would wish to be.

That being said, you hated your family. How you had to hold your chin up high, just because you had a status to uphold, or how your parents scolded you for not being proper enough, or how your elder sister would nag you because she was complimented for her manners, but you weren't.

You just didn't know how to be a proper lady.

But you considered that fine, and so did Jimin and Yoongi, so you did not what your family was talking of.

You were great in your own way.

Or that's what you believed, anyway. But you had to get a boyfriend really soon, because your parents would try to marry you off to another Pureblood family to keep their status. Gosh, why did your parents suck?

Your elder sister, Areum, was not married yet either, so you hoped they'd go for her, first. But you highly doubted that. If anything, her soon-to-be husband would give a trillion won to have you over her.

You were just that gorgeous.

But then again, you didn't want to be seen as a trophy. As something to showcase and put on your shelf, and to forget. And then to remember, only when you had something to ask of it or something to use it for. You weren't going to be pushed around like that.

Though the only one who came to your mind, when you thought of the word 'boyfriend' was Jeon Jungkook. And that was plain impossible now.

You sighed, shaking the thoughts away and focusing on the paper below you. It was lunchtime, and you had decided to use it to write lyrics. But you couldn't find a good idea. All you had been doing was drawing hearts and scribbling words, only to cut them out. You remained calm for a second before it struck you.

A song from Jungkook's perspective.

No one would know it was him, and you'd get a good song. You could just imagine the way your parents would go red with fury as they heard you play it loud along with your bandmates.

That sounded like the best thing.

After a good fifteen minutes, you were done with some of the lines.

Keep your eyes on mine,

And if you want I'll tell you lies.

Tell you I'm yours for life,

And tell your friend she's next in line.

Ohh, should've listened to them.

Ohh, don't you know what I am?

You smiled. The lyrics felt really good. You didn't know if they were exactly what Jungkook's mind was like, but you were willing to bet it went this way. You tapped on Yoongi's shoulder, showing him the paper excitedly.

"That's... really good. Some of the best lyrics you've written. You're improving, Y/n!" he said, patting you on the back. You smiled appreciatively like a child, nodding. "Mhm! I… I took inspiration. I thought if I'd write it from… someone else's perspective instead of mine like another heartbreak song… it'd be more interesting," you took the paper back, analysing the lyrics.

"You're on the right track then! This song will be killer. Can you finish the lyrics soon? I'll start on the music right away. Tell me the tone and some specific notes you have in mind," Yoongi said, and you nodded. "Mhm, so-" you were about to say, when you were cut off.

It was Jimin, who came to sit next to you on the other side. You didn't even notice he was gone until now. You must be really into writing the lyrics - or thinking of your horrible family.

"Guys!" he said, taking his seat, and catching his breath. "What happened, Jimin?" Yoongi raised a brow, and you tilted your head to the side.

"It's Ara! Apparently she's showing the other girls her trip to the Leaky Cauldron with Jungkook," he said quietly, though urgently.

You sighed, shaking your head, "don't tell me," you began to say, hoping it wasn't what you thought it was.

"Yup… they took pretty drunk photos with fire whiskies…" he bit his lip, gesturing to the girl on the far end of the Slytherin table, who was surrounded by many other females. She had been showing them a bunch of moving photos. Usual Wizard-y things.

You sighed again, unable to bear it all anymore. Only when you thought it was getting better, you started to wonder if you were, instead, falling deeper into the spiral of the potion Jungkook had made you drink. You thought for a bit.

What if Jungkook and Ara had done something? What if they were together? What if he did something similar to her as he did to you? What if he kissed her like he had kissed her - what if?

Speaking of the devil himself, as if the Universe wanted to answer your queries, Jungkook made his way into the Great Hall, and you could see the wave of girls gushing over him. Since when did he become so popular? The whole situation made you confused. Where was the 'nose-in-books-always' Jungkook you knew? Yeah, it had been a few weeks since the whole thing between you and him had happened, and you hadn't talked since then, but what major changes had gotten into the guy?

You couldn't help but sigh again. He was still as intoxicatingly handsome as ever. His dark locks, piercing eyes, red, soft lips - and to say you had tasted those once. It made you slightly sad to remember that.

"Okay, well… I'm going back to writing the lyrics… I don't feel like seeing his face anym-" you began saying, before Jimin cut you off. "There's more. She keeps going on and on about how they… Were intimate with eachother," he said quietly, biting his plump, lower lip.

"You don't say. That's what happens when you get too drunk," replied Yoongi, rolling his eyes. Your heart went breaking into a million pieces. So your doubts were correct. Of course they were. Guys were guys. They'd always be.

"Yoongs, you don't mind if I write another song and you compose the music for me? But I don't want… to use it as a band song, just yet, if that's fine?" you asked, the sudden idea just coming too quick for you to register, and being the impatient gal you were, you were quick to voice it.

"Sure. You start writing and I'll help you," he said, smiling a little, which he didn't do often, so you were quick to give him your brightest smile as you started scribbling on more lyrics.

It was that evening when you had finished your dinner, you were out in the corridors, a piece of paper in your hand, as you slowly recited how you wanted your 'not-band-song' to go. Being out in the open, breathing in the fresh air - it all made you really creative, opening your mind to brainstorm new ideas. You had written a couple lyrics.

Got me lookin' so crazy right now,

Your love's got me lookin' so crazy right now.

Got me lookin' so crazy right now your touch's,

Got me lookin' so crazy right now.

Got me hoping you page me right now your kiss's,

Got me hoping you save me right now.

You'd be lying if you said that this song wasn't another foolish, 'i-am-naive-and-fell-in-love' song, but you didn't mind it much at this point. In fact, you were enjoying the way it sounded. It was like writing away your emotions that seemed to be eating you from the inside. A way to express yourself, in other words.

Staring down at the paper, you sang the lyrics quietly, hoping no one would hear you, while your thoughts slowly wandered away into a more peaceful place, and you sang your heart out. You loved the way it made you feel. You felt free. It was just like another method of talking to yourself, except in a sing-song manner.

"Y/n!"

The voice made you stop in your tracks, it stopped you from singing any further. You had recognised it, but you didn't want to show him your face. You were well aware, after all, that it would be a matter of your pride. You could only halt your steps, as the person - the guy - came closer and closer to you, until he was right behind you, and you could feel his heat.

You were trying hard to keep your breath even, but even the process of breathing hurt. Why, you wished you could die on the spot.

"What do you want, Jungkook?"

You couldn't bare to look around to find his sweet face looking at you, you had simply came too far to go back to square one for goodness' sake.

"I'm sorry."

"For fucking what?"

Although you did curse, your voice remained surprisingly calm. It even astonished you as to how at ease your body was, despite your heart running a couple hundred miles an hour.

"For everything. I treated you so wrong, I know. I'm sorry."

"Ara's waiting for you. Go back to her."

It hurt you badly, ever so badly to say what had uttered out of your lips, but what was the truth was simply a fact, and you couldn't change the reality. He was someone else's and you had to come at terms with it, whether you liked it or not, whether it was against your heart's will or not.

"She's not. Why do you say it like we're together?"

Guys were guys. And you had understood. So that's what it meant. So that's how it was. You were always right. If you were together, he'd say the same thing to Ara. To every single girl he wanted to fuck. And that upsetted you beyond measure. Why couldn't he part ways with you? You had already accepted the true, harsh reality.

Or you were pretending to.

Not a day had passed since you didn't stare at him, since you didn't have him as the center of your Universe, and how long had it been that you had fallen in love? Why was life so cruel?

"Because you are? Last time we went to Hogsmeade, you got drunk with her and got intimate. Why, does that not prove-?" you were saying more until he interuppted you.

"No, it doesn't. We were drunk and… and it was irresistible. But I don't hold any feelings for her."

You scoffed. "Then who do you hold feelings for?" the hand that held the lyrics paper dropped down, as you turned to be face to face with the guy you had came to love, only to have your heart broken in return.

"You."

His answer was simple, the look in his eyes spoke a million words, but all you could do was shake your head.

"If you did love me, you wouldn't have done what happened a month ago."

"That was all for a reason."

You clutched the paper tighter, your hands balling into fists. You had enough. Your heartbreak was for a reason? You were rejected for a reason and yet still, were not given closure? It infuriated you.

"There is no reason to step on someone's heart over and over, Jeon Jungkook!" you shouted, stepping away from him. He was still as youthful, as handsome as ever. His dark, black locks, his red, soft lips, his rabbit-like face. It all made you feel so broken. He was a signature of how you were heartbroken. He embodied it all. He was the reason you stood where you stood, writing heartbreak songs.

"Yes, there is! If you'd only listen to what I have to say-"

"There is nothing left to say! I loved you and you rejected me for reasons you don't want me to know!"

"Well, I want you to know now! If you'd only listen to me."

"Then, say what you have to say and leave."

"I… the last time I held you, it… it was out of affection. But… you know, I'm a commitment phobe, I was afraid I'd hurt you for that, if we weren't right, if we weren't compatible, I'd hurt both of us. You deserved a better person than someone who'd never settle for you. And it scared me. I didn't want to lose you but I knew if I hurt you, I'd never be able to forgive myself. But I guess… I hurt you either way. So I'm here to ask for forgiveness. If only, you could do that, I'd be… forever in your debt. I put you through hell and over, but I still love you.

"And I know, I know you wouldn't want to be with someone like me, for several reasons… I have came to learn how we are so different, I'm a muggle-born, your parents would never accept me… and I'd hate for you to ruin your relations with them for me. I'm not worth all that. So… I completely accept the condition that you don't want to be with me. It's fine, and I... I am okay with it."

You gulped, standing still.

Had you misjudged him so much? You didn't mean it… but how had you forgotten? You were fine with overlooking the fact that he was scared of commitment… but now you realise, it is so important. And you can't proceed without it.

"I'll change myself for you. I'll make my fear go away. I'll erase the man before you, create someone new, just so you can be happier. You deserve it, after everything I put you through. But I'm… I'm accepting it if you don't want to be with a guy like me. Everyone falls for you anyway, you're sweet, kind, humble, yet always know what you are worth. I love everything about you, but it's fine if you don't love everything about me after what I did."

He had never talked this much.

You could feel your heart breaking, despite being given the statements you wanted to hear. Instead of sounding like music to you ears, it sounded like the end. The end of you. You unevenly sighed. "I need time… but I forgive you either way… okay?" you smiled up at him, his astonished look giving you all his responses.

And because you loved him, it was all because you loved him that you'd make sacrifices to make him happier. Because you still loved him, albeit what he had done to you.

"Don't change for anyone. Not even me."

It was midnight by the time, you were done explaining everything to Jimin and Yoongi.

"It's your call, honestly. You still love him, but if you don't want to do it anymore, you don't have to," said Yoongi softly, his face lighted by the fireplace.

"I know… I really want to give it a chance. But I know… there's so many things… to look at…" you bit your lip, "what if we break up, then we both hurt? If my family doesn't accept him? If he doesn't get over his fear?"

"It's for you to decide, Y/n. You'll have to step up," Jimin said, eyeing you worriedly. "I know… I need time…" you said softly, getting up. "I'm going to sleep."

"How much time do you need?" asked Yoongi.

"..." you stayed silent. You'd need weeks - months to go over everything. "…a couple days?" you raised a brow, shrugging. "Tomorrow's the 20th. We're leaving tomorrow," said Jimin.

"L-Leaving? As in… for holidays?" you stammered, biting your lower lip. "Yeah… you'll have to decide right now... tell him tomorrow, maybe…" he replied, frowning a little.

"I wish, there was more time…" you sighed. "You can tell him after the holidays?" Yoongi raised a brow. "True… but…" you sighed heavily again. You wanted him to meet your parents, if it was possible. If you decided to be with him. "I'll see."

By dawn, you had made up the decision. You were still madly in love with the guy. You couldn't leave him, despite everything he had done. Despite everything that happened.

You got up, packed your trunk, and got ready to leave.

Jungkook didn't meet you up anywhere, neither did you see him.

You decided to go to the Ravenclaw dormitory, it was the last place you could think of.

The riddle was easy, surprisingly you had gotten more intelligent, despite whatever you thought of your IQ.

"Jungkook?" you asked softly, entering the boys' dormitory. Opening the door, you were greeted by the sight of the man you had been looking for.

He was on his bed, moving around and still fast asleep. The room was empty, except for him.

The scene made you smile. You walked up to him, booping his nose. You had never seen him like this, mostly he was just a poker face guy. But seeing a cute Jeon Jungkook was a sight you didn't want to miss.

"Nngh," he made quiet sounds, rolling around. You felt giddy seeing him. You shook him lightly. "Jungkook! Wake up. I'm about to leave," you said in a hushed whisper. One of his eyes burst open, the other one still closed.

"What do y-?" he looked to you, and both his eyes widened in surprise. "Y-Y/n!" he exclaimed, getting up immediately.

You laughed. "Well, I'm about to leave. And I'm deciding... to give you a chance." His mouth dropped open. Before you even knew it, you were in his embrace, feeling his locks on your face.

"I… I… I'm so sorry. I'm so… grateful. I don't know what to say… Thank you," he said quietly. You rolled your eyes. You appreciated it, but you were getting late. And this could be done sometime else. "You have better things to do than be grateful, sweetheart." He pulled away, eyeing you mischeviously. "And that is?"

"Getting ready! Now, c'mon."

"But… why?"

"Because, I'm taking you," you booped his nose again, "to my parents' for the holidays. And you are coming, whether you agree with it or not."

"Wha-?!" but before he could utter a word, you were giving him his uniform and pushing him to the bathrooms.

The Hogwarts Express drove away, and the ride was fun. You sat in a compartment with your two friends, and Jungkook and his friends, Hoseok and Taehyung. Apparently, they were going to their parents' too, but since Jungkook's parents didn't like him much, he wasn't invited over.

"That we can agree on," said Yoongi, "parents suck sometimes."

You all shared a laugh, you stuffed some more candy in your mouth, before taking a handful and feeding it to Jungkook.

"I'm so excited to see the looks on mother's face. Oh, and Areum is totally going to freak out. I mean, Jungkook is really hot," you rolled your eyes as you spoke. "So, you two sisters have a competition about who has the hottest boy over?" Jungkook smirked, his face left you speechless.

"Well, yeah. Sometimes. But mostly, she doesn't get many guys over. And besides, you're going to up my points and before you know it, it'll be zero for her and beyond infinity for me. I mean, not going to lie, you're eye candy," you brought a candy to your eye to emphasise.

"Are you hitting on me?" Jungkook chuckled, and you rolled your eyes. "People don't hit on their significant others, Jeon Jungkook! I'm flirting," you popped another candy in your mouth.

The ride ended, and you all got out of the Express. You said your goodbyes to Taehyung and Hoseok, and then to Yoongi and Jimin, telling them you'll meet up soon. You grabbed Jungkook's hand, and led him over to your mother and sister.

They looked the same as ever, modern, holding themselves highly. You could just sense the egoistic vibes. "No joke, the good genes run in your family, but you're the hottest," Jungkook whispered in your ear, making you blush a little, but you rolled your eyes in response.

"They've came here all the way from South Korea to pick me up, so you better shut that pretty mouth of yours, before I get scolded," you muttered to him, making him chuckle.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart."

"That's my line!" you elbowed him as you walked up to your mother.

Your mother looked astonished to see the young man, but you expected this already. "This is Jeon Jungkook, mother. He's a Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, seventh year like me. We're… dating," you said, liking the way it tasted on your tongue.

You could see Aruem memorized by your boyfriend, which made you smirk slightly. "Ah, I see. It is a pleasure to meet you, Jungkook. Is he from a Pureblood family?" your mother inquired.

"No, actually... He's a muggle-born."

The horrified looks on her and Aruem's face told you that this winter was going to be a lot more merrier than the last ones.

Not only because you had a boyfriend, but another reason to piss off your parents.

A/N:. so that was all for this ff! It was really fun to write it, I'm still a bit mad at tumblr, but 'kay. Anyway, hope you all enjoyed, m'loves. <333

#jeongguk #jeon jungkook #bts #fanfic #hogwarts #au #rm #jin #suga #jhope #jimin #taehyung #fic:differences #differences

[grovyrosegirl]

Ugly Sweaters

(AO3 Link)

Summary: It’s Jesse McCree’s first Christmas with Overwatch. He starts out the night trying to endure a crowded holiday party at Reinhardt’s apartment, but maybe there’s such a thing as Christmas magic after all. 

Author’s Note: Happy Holidays everyone! I hope you enjoy this silly little Christmas fic I cooked up! 

It’s Jesse McCree’s first Christmas since his “recruitment” into Overwatch. He’s standing in the corner of Reinhardt Wilhelm’s apartment, crowded with Overwatch agents and their plus-ones. He holds a cup of eggnog topped with cinnamon shavings in one hand.

Reinhardt’s place feels straight out of a holiday catalogue. Every door in the apartment has a wreath hanging, while every table is covered with a scarlet red tablecloth. Whenever he glances up, Jesse can see waves of homemade snowflake streamers across the ceiling. A large Christmas tree covered in an array of ornaments and multicolored lights stands in the center of the room. The topper of the tree is a wooden, bright yellow star. Traditional, save for the Overwatch insignia carved into its center. Beneath the branches are piles of carefully wrapped gifts, each one topped with a red or green ribbon. There’s a lone mistletoe hanging on the doorway to the kitchen. The more observant guests—also known as the sober ones—are careful to avoid walking directly under it when they pass through.

There’s scarcely a moment to hear his own thoughts between the chattering of the party-goers mixed in with the blasting of festive songs in the background. Hardly any room to move either. It seems the different friend groups had already found their spots in the small space and weren’t planning on budging anytime soon, lost in endless conversations.

He can spot a few familiar faces in the crowd. Reyes and Morrison were lucky enough to have grabbed the available seats on the only couch in the place. The two of them are having a conversation that Jesse can’t hear, but he can assume it’s a good one, considering that Morrison suddenly starts cracking up over something Reyes says. He sees Reyes smack Morrison’s back, laughing along with him and nearly spilling his drink in the process.

Angela Ziegler, a med student who often comes to visit, is among the guests as well. She’s standing at the dessert table, grabbing a slice of cake until Captain Sojourn, another familiar face, waves her over to join in on a chat with her and Torbjörn. Angela looks delighted to see them and makes her way over. Probably asking her about her studies or congratulating her about some presentation she gave at her school’s conference, Jesse predicts.

Angela is one of the only people here around his age, and Jesse would be lying to himself if he said he still didn’t find her attractive. In their first interactions, there had been a few attempts to make a move. A small wink or the occasional hat-tip towards her. But though she enjoyed his company, Angela had already made it clear that she wasn’t interested in anything beyond a friendship. She was hardly searching for any kind of romance at the moment. What’s the expression? “Married to her work?” That seems to sum it up nicely.

Which is fine. A friend is better than an enemy, Jesse tells himself.

Reinhardt, the ever-joyous host, is moving across the apartment. In his arms he carries a large silver plate of homemade Stollen which he offers to any guest he sees without a snack or a drink. Some happily accept a slice of the fruity bread, while others politely decline. Even with the denials, Reinhardt gives them a cheerful smile and reminds them of the bounty of other treats on the nearby tables.

And finally, there’s Captain Amari. She makes her way through the room with her young daughter, Fareeha, by her side. A well-known face at the party, she’s recognized by almost everyone she passes, which makes her have to stop every few moments to greet them.

He swears for a moment that Captain Amari swerves her head to look at him. But when he looks again, her attention is with Fareeha. She seems to have bent down to whisper something to her daughter. Fareeha nods and moves away from her, pushing her way through the crowd towards the Christmas tree.

Jesse feels a voice in the back of his mind. Go over to someone. Talk. Try to make it so that this night isn’t a total waste of time.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he turns his attention away from the happy faces of the bright party. He lets his eyes drift back to the eggnog in his hand, then he raises the cup closer to his lips.

That is, until a hand suddenly swoops in to snatch the eggnog away from him.

“Hey—” Jesse starts, but stops when he sees Ana’s face two feet away, giving him a smirk. “Captain.”

“Jesse,” she says dangling the eggnog in one hand. She brings it closer to her face and sniffs it. Immediately she draws it back, nodding as she does. “I think you’re a bit too young for this stuff.”

Jesse folds his arms, “With all due respect, Captain Amari, I’ve had plenty of drinks in my life. And the legal age of drinking in Switzerland is eighteen.”

“And are you eighteen?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Give it six months, but why not start early?” He starts to reach to retrieve the stolen drink.

Ana laughs and retracts her hand with perfect reflex, “Nice try.”

“What ever happened to the spirit of giving?” says Jesse.

“Right here. Consider it my gift to you that I won’t allow you to wake up on Christmas morning with a hangover. Trust me, cowboy, they’re the worst ones.”

Jesse sighs, accepting defeat. “Fine.”

She gestures her head at the snacks across the room, “Reinhardt makes a delicious hot cocoa. I’d recommend it.”

“Maybe,” he says as he leans back against the wall with another sigh.

Ana doesn’t take the gesture to leave, “I didn’t take you for a wallflower, Jesse.”

“I’m not,” he retorts. “I’m just...a bit overwhelmed, I guess. Haven’t been to a party like this in years. Wasn’t even planning on coming to this one, but Reyes insisted.”

“I’m glad he did,” Ana says, moving to stand next to him. “We’re happy you’re here.”

Jesse gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “C’mon Captain, you don’t have to break out the schmaltzy lines to make me feel better. I know that’s common around Christmas. I don’t need them.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Ana replies, “because if you ever accuse me of being ‘schmaltzy’ ever again, I’ll be happy to prove you wrong.” She chuckles, but then looks back to him with sincerity in her voice, “I’m not trying to patronize you. I just want you to know that you’re welcome here.”

Jesse doesn’t respond. He can’t meet her eyes again after that last statement. He can only shift his head to the side and try to focus his attention on a couple in the distance who, likely after a few drinks, accidentally walk under the mistletoe together. The taller partner realizes it first and begins to laugh until their cheeks turn pink. The shorter one looks confused until a nearby acquaintance points out the little plant hanging above, and they join in on the laughter before planting a kiss on their partner’s cheek.

There it was. Actual schmaltz. Cheesy, yet a good distraction.

But Ana’s voice persists.

“You’re an Overwatch agent now. And you should know that, once Gabriel puts you in the field, you’re going to see bad things on a near daily basis. Some of the most terrible things the world has to offer.”

Jesse shuffles against the wall, his gaze still avoiding her.

“You don't need to warn me,” Jesse replies. “I’m well aware that the world can be a real shithole.”

Ana states, “I know that. You’re not stupid. And even if you were, I wouldn’t sugarcoat the truth to make you ‘feel better’ about being here.”

“So why bring it up then?” Jesse mutters, irritation is growing in his tone.

“Because the truth is exactly I said. We’re happy you’re here.”

He goes quiet again.

“The world can be a ‘shithole,’ as you said,” she says, “but there’s the key word, cowboy. Can be. Not is. The truth is very painful sometimes. Other times, it’s not. And just because something hurts, doesn’t make it automatically true.”

Jesse slowly turns his head back towards her. She’s smiling at him.

“So let yourself enjoy the softer truths when you can, okay? We want you here with us, and we’re glad you’re here with us.”

He doesn’t have any smart response, or a witty joke to deflect the tightness he’s suddenly feeling in his throat.

He only nods.

She reaches with her free hand and pats his shoulder, “And I’m here. When you need me.”

Jesse swallows, fighting off the tightness enough to say, “Thanks Captain.”

“Mum!”

A younger, chipper voice breaks through the noise Jesse has been tuning out. Both he and Ana look ahead. Fareeha returns, pushing her way through the crowd of taller party-goers. She’s holding a box, wrapped in a bright green paper tied with a red bow. A beaming smile present on her face.

“I found it!” Fareeha exclaims.

“Perfect timing, habībti,” Ana remarks happily.

Jesse looks to Fareeha, a smile tugging at his lips, “Aw, get something nice for your mom, Fareeha?”

Fareeha smirks. Jesse discovers she has the same one as her mother, “It’s for you.”

His smile drops. Not in sadness. Not in fear. Only pure surprise.

“For me?” He repeats.

Fareeha rolls her eyes and lifts up the tag on the gift, his name neatly written on it, “No, for the other Jesse McCree here—Yes for you, dummy. Mum made it.”

She practically shoves the gift into his arms. Jesse flinches from the suddenness, nearly dropping it in the process. He regains a grip on the box, staring down at his blurry reflection in the shiny paper.

“I—I don’t,” Jesse struggles for words. “You didn’t have to—,”

Fareeha groans, “Will you open it already?”

“Fareeha,” Ana lightly scolds. “Be patient.”

Jesse slowly starts with the ribbon. He pulls an end, and with one tug, the whole thing comes off. He then lifts the top of the box off, letting it drop to the floor. Something big is inside. Soft, too. He can spot a shade of scarlet red peeking out from the cardboard. Ana reaches over and holds the bottom of the box, allowing Jesse to use both hands to lift the item out.

It’s a red sweater. A handmade knit sweater. Like the kind he used to see in old Christmas specials as a kid.

“What do you think?” Ana asks him. “I’m still a beginner when it comes to knitting, but I think this one is my best work so far.”

Well, okay, it isn’t perfect. The sweater is about two sizes bigger than him. He can spot a few places where Ana clearly messed up a row and had to start over. There seems to be an attempt to knit in a snowflake pattern across the chest area, but it more resembles a bunch of squiggly lines than snow. Still, she managed to get in a bunch of star patterns across the red yarn. And the centerpiece of the sweater, a reindeer, is the best-looking part of it.

“It’s uh,” says Jesse, running his fingers across the soft texture, “it looks warm.”

Ana laughs and shakes her head, “And after I was so honest with you.”

Jesse groans, “Captain, I’m trying here, alright?”

“Put it on,” Fareeha interjects.

He looks back to her, “Pardon?”

Fareeha folds her arms, “Put it on. You have to, for the picture. It’s the rules.”

It’s in that moment that Jesse finally notices that Fareeha is wearing a blue sweater of her own. It looks near identical to his, albeit the size fits her better. He takes a second glance to the other party-goers. Reyes and Morrison, still on the couch, are wearing matching sweaters with crooked Christmas tree patterns. Reyes’ sweater has a sleeve that’s longer than the other, and Morrison has to pull his down every few minutes to cover his undershirt. Sojourn’s sweater has a neck piece that keeps sliding down while Torbjörn is practically swimming in his sweater. Then there’s Reinhardt. His sweater is so tight on him that it looks more like a midriff. Even Angela is wearing one, with the brightest shade of orange he’s ever seen and an angel centerpiece that has a goofy grin.

He looks back at his own sweater.

Oh God.

“Don’t worry,” Ana says, “you’ll grow into it.”

Fareeha playfully nudges his arm, “Merry Christmas, Jesse. Welcome to the family.”

-------

“You should come.”

Genji sits in front of the few windows in Blackwatch HQ, a winter wonderland behind the cool glass. He glances over his shoulder at McCree, who is wearing a red knitted sweater beneath his coat and holding a wrapped gift.

“You look ridiculous,” Genji says.

McCree chuckles, “Tis the season for ugly sweaters, partner.”

Genji rolls his eyes and silently returns to his gazing out the window. Normally, McCree takes this passive aggressive gesture as his cue to give up. But not tonight. Never tonight. He walks closer, keeping the present tucked under his arm, and stares out at the swirling flakes descending upon the outskirts of the base.

“Real pretty, isn’t it?” McCree says. “It’s like something out of a greeting card.”

“Don’t you have a party to go to?” Genji glares daggers while speaking in a flat tone.

McCree raises an eyebrow, “You know, I was where you were. First time I went to the old man’s party, practically had to be dragged there by Reyes.”

“Let me guess, you went to the party and discovered that the magic of Christmas was inside you all along?” Genji asks sarcastically.

He snorts, “Hell no. But I had a nice time. And you might too, if you give it a shot. There’s a lot of folks there who would be happy to see you.”

“Such as?”

“That new recruit Oxton, Captain Amari, Angie…”

Genji sighs, “Why are you so insistent? Did you all put up a bet to see who could pester me enough to go?”

“Oh Reyes tried, but nobody was up for it,” McCree casually says with a shrug and a laugh. He notices Genji huddle closer to the window before continuing in a calmer tone, “No, but seriously, no bullshit this time. I wasn't put up to this. I’m inviting you because, frankly partner, nobody should be alone on Christmas.”

Genji goes quiet, he slowly shifts his gaze down the window.

McCree turns to leave, “Welp, I’ll text you the address if you change your mind. See you later.”

He reaches the door and lifts his hand to the console.

“Wait.”

McCree pauses. He turns back around. Genji looks at him from across the room, his expression unreadable.

Genji lets out one more defeated sigh, “I don’t know where my jacket is.”

McCree grins, “I have an extra. You can borrow it.”

“Thank you, McCree.”

“Merry Christmas, Genji.”

#my fanfics #overwatch #Jesse McCree #Ana Amari #Fareeha Amari #Genji Shimada #Christmas fic #tw: alcohol mention #tw: cursing

[pi-cat000]

MSA: Take Two (part 6)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Part 7: here

Unsurprisingly, trying to stop 'feeling feelings' is easier said than done, leading to more frustration, which in turn results in more lightning. Arthur is practically a sentient ball of electricity,  bits and pieces of himself jumping uncontrollably all over the place, by the time he finally snaps in annoyance, "Can't you do that red-flashy-eye thing."

His voice is weirdly distorted, disembodied. How is he speaking? He doesn't even have a mouth! Not that he had had one before...but still! A wave of static ripples away, breaking against the van walls.

Mystery snorts, /I could, but this is a good learning experience. / All his fur is sticking upright, a response to the static in the air, puffing, giving the dog a rounded appearance. It would be funny if Arthur weren't so aggravated.

"Is this something I really have to learn right now." Shouldn't he first acquaint himself with the whole 'being dead' thing?

/Yes. The quicker you acclimatise, the happier you will be./

"Or…" Arthur retorts, drawing out the word, "how about I not acclimatise. Didn't want to be happy anyway. Problem solved."

Mystery, sitting at the centre of his mini electric infernal, gives him a critical, unimpressed stare over his tiny dog-sized glassed. Arthur thinks it's odd that he knows what Mystery is doing despite now being a collection of sentient, unformed, Arthur particles. He has no eyes. How is he seeing?

/Try clearing your mind. The less you think, the less you will find yourself preoccupied./ Mystery offers like it is that easy, still sitting, unaffected by the increasingly chaotic environment.

"Meditation," Arthur bemoans, disgruntled and growing increasingly stressed, "Why is the answer always meditation?" A lot of the therapists he'd seen recommended meditative activities and he always sucked at them all.

/Everything new is difficult at first. Trust me in this. / Mystery reiterates patiently, /Now. Clear your mind. /

"You know. 'Clearing your mind' is super vague. How is a person just supposed to stop thinking?"  

Mystery, a little exasperated now, is frowning at Arthur like he's missed the answer to a grade-school level question. Around them, the lightning grows increasingly sporadic and pronounced. He knows he is acting stubborn, but these last few minutes have been a rollercoaster of emotion and it's catching up to him all at once. The regret, sadness, fear, and now helpless frustration all mix together into a discordant mess.  The prospect of meeting Lewis again after so long apart, the realisation that this is his reality, dissatisfaction at not being able to do better. It all competes for his attention.  He wants it to stop. Visions of angry, dead, Lewis, flash past and his soul tightens. No. It's not his fault. Mystery said it was a 'parasitic entity.' He should trust Mystery. Doubt gnaws at this thoughts, festering, fluctuating to regret. Purple flame colours all mind.

/This is not going well./ He registers Mystery's offhand remark and doesn't respond. A  renewed wave of regret crashes into him, whipping away his mind.

/Arthur./ Mystery's voice is loud and intense, pulling him back from the haze of cacophonous emotion, /I know you believe that you hold fault for your recent misfortunes and merely telling you otherwise will not change your thoughts on the matter. However, I would like to say, from my own perspective, that you appear to be handling your circumstances remarkably well. Not many humans can say they transversed the currents of time for the simple purpose of saving a friend, while simultaneously keeping their will and sanity./

As far as pep talks go, it kind of sucks. But, it does give Arthur something else to focus on that's not his recent failures or regrets. He forces his attention back onto Mystery, waiting for whatever else he might say. Now, he finds himself too scattered and disembodied to talk, meaning he must remain in silence.

/Obviously, 'clearing the mind' was insufficient instruction./ Mystery states the obvious. /Instead, I would have you focus on a single point and envision yourself standing on said point. When you find your mind wondering to any distressing subject switch to a new position. /

Unbalanced, and now weirdly exhausted, Arthur follows the instruction. He picks a spot in the van and concentrates. Slowly, he pulls himself together. Bit by bit, the lightning condensed in one place, calming now Arthur's no longer fueling it with self-doubt.  It's a slow process which leaves him fatigued and completely done with everything. When he does manage piece himself together and reconstruct something vaguely human-shaped, he finds himself lying flat on his back, staring up at the van's roof. There are multiple darkened patches where it has been hit by the larger bolts of electricity. Everything is heavy like gravity's been dialled up to eleven.

"Why can't I move?" Arthur asks tiredly, trying and failing to shift any of his limbs.  Just when he thinks he's getting used to one weird ghost quirk, another follows close behind.

/You expended a lot of energy. Do not fear. The paralysis is temporary./ Out the corner of his eye, he sees Mystery approach and proceed to sniff at Arthur's limp arm. 

/Though success can be partly attributed to exhaustion. It is still a success. Congratulations on not completely destabilising./ The sound of claws clicking on metal vibrates near his head. Arthur shoots Mystery a tired glare. A second later, a nose is prodding at his face, snuffling along his hairline.

"Stop that," Arthur finds the energy needed to limply bat at the dog with his arm, "You know it's super weird, right?" An amused snuff of air near his face tells him that Mystery does know and is definitely doing it on purpose.

"I don't think I can do this with Vivi or Lewis around," He comments after a beat, choosing to remain motionless on the ground, too spent to attempt any more movement.

"And I'm not saying it to get out of meeting them either. I really don't think I can control this right now."  If all it took were a few wayward emotions to turn him into an inferno of electric death, then there was no way would be able to safely see Lewis again.

"I'm amazed I didn't accidentality kill all three of them in the Cave." In his rush to save younger Arthur and Lewis, he hadn't even considered the possible adverse effects of lightning on his friends.

Mystery huffs, using a paw to flick the side of his head in a very human-like gesture,  /I will not take that complete lack of faith in my ability as the insult it would be, considering my poor track record. Rest assured, there will be no unsupervised human and ghost interactions until I am 100% satisfied with your control./

"Great," Arthur mutters, too tired to argue further. Maybe later, he would feel more thankful for Mystery's help and guidance. Right now he's exhausted on every level.

"Can I go back into the… my err…" He hesitates because saying the word 'anchor' feels weird and makes everything a little too real, "…thingamajig now.” Surely, he's done enough soul searching for one day.

Mystery doesn't correct his choice of phrasing, instead remarking, /I would ask you to wait a moment longer./

Arthur groans, "A moment longer? Why?"

The answer comes with a loud bang on the van doors. Arthur jolts, twitching, fatigue momentarily forgotten, eyes widening. That can't be who he thinks it is. A familiar voice yells from the other side of the door, immediately proving his suspicion correct.

"Hey. Are you done yet! Hospital visiting hours ended twenty minutes ago!"

That's Vivi.

NOTE: People seem to like this fic so here you go, more Ghost Arthur working through his shit and Mystery trying his best to be supportive.  

Part 7: here

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #fanfiction #fanfic #arthur kingsmen #mystery #ghost arthur #more ghost stuff #more talking about stuff

[kazushuu]

🍍🍊🥝 for both of those sweet boys

o lord this ended up long. read more time!

🍍  :    how comfortable is my muse in their body? how do they feel about their height,  weight,  strength,  and body type?  how important is being attractive to them?

    “ …occupying myself with such things is nothing but baggage. ”

    he says, but it’s only half true. appearances (and identity itself) is completely neutral for him. not uncomfortable, but not really confident and proud either. however if he had to pick, he is often bothered with things below his neck more.

   he’s not bothered about his height, necessarily. but his strength is a bothersome thing. chemistry equipment like machinery is usually heavy, and so carrying those things around is a hassle. he sorta expressed his desire to be stronger in a usual creepy manner when talking about mantis shrimp.he is almost always cold and rigid because he’s underweight, and paired with medication, he’s generally a very dizzy.

   …he fully knows that he’s responsible for his own health, but completely reinventing his lifestyle– even though he’d definitely be even more productive and beneficial if he were healthy– is just an… impossible task, that he can’t tackle right away.

   but on another hand, even if he doesn’t voice it, he is very touched and impacted about compliments (usually just acknowledgements) about his voice, and hair, and eyes, and believe it or not, hands, so he’s subtly proud of them. he takes better care of his hair than anything else about his anatomy. and the pretty bow that he always has in his hair is very much a conscious decision.

   kazuaki picked up on this fact and compliments shuu on his butt and thighs in hopes that he’ll enhance them too but to no avail, shuu always hides them under discreet coats. damn u shuu

   he isn’t really self conscious about his scarring. he is worried that kazuaki will be too disgusted to handle it, but soon enough they’re gonna talk about it and their worries will be gone.

   summed up, he’s distressed about how vulnerable he unfortunately is, but doesn’t really care about beauty.

   “ …………………..n-no, not comfortable. i hate everything, everything about myself! i truly mean it!! i don’t like my height, i don’t like my weight, i don’t like my strength, i don’t like my body type, i don’t like my hair, i don’t like my face, i don’t like my voice, i don’t like my teeth, i don’t like my hands, i don’t like my knees, i don’t like how my hips look, i don’t like how my stomach rolls when i sit down, i don’t like my nose, i don’t like anything, and if if they were visible, i’d hate my organs too.

   everything feels wrong… i’m too tall, i don’t want to bring attention to myself, i want to disappear, i’m too fat- but i don’t even really dislike it alone, it’s just a constant reminder of how shitty and sloppy i am with what i put in myself…

   i don’t like the lines on my wrists because they are a constant reminder… of hitori.

   i like things that are cute and pretty, and i’m neither… even though shuu compliments me, i don’t know how to stop hating myself.

   f-freckles! i also have those, i-… i don’t know, they make me look childish, maybe?

   …why am i looking for reasons to hate myself??!! why can’t i stop??!!

   …i feel like if i met someone nice and kind and friendly, someone whom i’d like, who had the same physical traits as me, i wouldn’t find them ugly, s-so why? ”

   yeah. but as he said, he simply feels like a nuisance and clutter of space, because he thinks he has too many flaws without any good things to make up for them. shuu isn’t super vocal, but he actually finds kazuaki’s appearance very endearing. if not too much sometimes. cause you know. kawa-word.

   as teeth-gritting as it is, he’s happy to know that shuu is pleased with his appearance, and equally as pleased with the idea to experiment and bruise him, so oddly enough, that’s a small boost to his cripplingly low confidence.

🍊  :    does my muse desire romance?  is it something they would actively seek out,  or prefer to happen more  ‘  naturally?  ’  what is their love life like?  do they have any exes or past flings,  or crushes?

   “ …i don’t seek anything, no. i have always been married to my work, but, well, it seems that i became sentimental about this… particular quail. i don’t know how it came to this, ” yes he does, all too well, “ but alongside my main husband, kazuaki is very dear to me… and i shall not comment on the last question. ”

   obviously shuu needs a lot of time, and some amount of pressure, to awaken some empathy and feelings in him. and when he likes someone, he will develop an entire lobe in his brain dedicated to them. although it has only happened… twice in his life.

   his love life is kazuaki, and nothing else.

   his feelings towards ryuuji, although on a similar frequency, are much different than kazuaki’s. believe it or not, shuu has a romantic crush on kazuaki, and had one for a long while before they became a couple, but his feelings towards ryuuji are actually platonic. at least, that’s the state that they ended on. if… time went on, they would’ve developed into romanticism as well.

   ryuuji can’t really be called a crush, as much as that souma projected his entire being onto him, his present, his future, his little embryo hopes and dreams… he called him his boss, because that’s what he was, but really, souma saw ryuuji as a father figure.

   after being robbed of his childhood, ryuuji showed him a glimpse of innocent fun, but was also a role-model in his achievements.

   it was unrequited love in a way, but souma didn’t realize the depth of his feelings until much later.

   as he said, he saw ryuuji as someone to be admired from below, but kazuaki is someone he can sympathize with, and clings to the fact that they’re in love with all his might.

       -sniff-

   “ …hitori…hitori is an ex. i don’t know if i love or hate him anymore.

   b-but um, um, otherwise… i haven’t really met all that many people in my life, so i don’t know… i always fantasized and dreamed about true love and all that stuff you see in cartoons.

   i didn’t really chase after shuu because i wanted him to be my boyfriend, at first. at first, i came to him because i had no one else. not a single person in real life left. shuu was my only acquaintance, and was the only person who didn’t immediately slither away when i tried to be friendly, so i fixated on him with all my might…

   …to be my friend. i wanted to be his friend.

   a-and i guess at some point, we did, but we never even really acknowledged it, because we only realized it when we decided to take the next step already! so that’s wild! it happened naturally, i guess. um, more naturally than with hitori. and i mean that as, maybe because we didn’t know we were friends, i didn’t latch onto him as obviously as to hitori, when we were 18… we were mostly at a certain distance.

   so, i guess, i’ve always been a slow burn, “natural” type, ahah… mnm, when i think about it really hard, maybe i had some aesthetic-based highschool crushes. there was a guy, and a girl, or… there might’ve been two girls, but we never even talked, so… ”

🥝  :    does my muse have any  ‘  unusual  ’  habits, interests,  and  /  or talents?  do they hide it,  or are they proud of it?

   “ I don’t know much about what is considered ‘unusual’ or not. but from reactions and experience, i guess everything about me is called unusual, creepy, suspicious, untrustworthy…mean…disgusting...

   but if we put what most birds know on a surface level about me, i guess there are some hidden traits too…

   …my interest in marine biology seems to be one. i love it equally as much as i love pathology and research, but i don’t have a reason (or way) to show it as a nurse in a highschool.

   …i like cooking? it’s a bit of a shame. i never saw a reason to put effort into it, if it was just gonna be me eating it in the end, but kazuaki seems to like my dinner making skills, so i’ve been doing that more often.

   …there…there probably is more, but i can’t remember anything… m-my mind is full of crabs and seafood now, hm. ”

   the list of shuu’s habits is endless and the list is always expanding! i have a list of HCs on it in a twitter thread here!

   but let’s see, the quirkiest of habits, that are a bit of a secret…

   shuu looks really cute when you catch him eating. he is quiet and polite of course but he tends to stuff his cheeks and then just slowly chew looking like a hamster.

   shuu stims. he’s never really mobile and never gets hyperactive so those stims are subtle.he fidgets with his (reminiscent) necktie, or any other fabric in hand.he chuckles (and makes.. bird noises) pretty much unawarely and impulsively. those count as stims too.

   “ u-uhuu... i dunno... i’ve always been the introverted outcast and no one is interested in me, so that can either mean that i’m painfully average or really weird without meaning to...

   ...i-i’ve been told that because i work at this prestigious academy, that must mean that my skill...”talent”...for classic and contemporary literature is unusual and exceptional...so i guess that’s unique?

   and...um... ” now that he thought about the topic harder, a piling mountain of perverted thoughts came to his mind, “ Y-YEAH THAT’S IT!! THERE IS...NOTHING ELSE! ”

   but that’s not true. kazuaki has plenty of hidden traits. one of his interests, although not so secret on this blog, is his love for hatocatch pretty coore, and generally, he loves most childish and energetic anime and games... and interests.

   aside from writing, he also really likes drawing, but isn’t very good at it, which prompts him to hate the end results.

   he loves astrology, and had a phase where he obsessed over it while studying both art and science related to it... you can probably guess that shuu loves this intellectual side of him.

   as for talents, or, uh, lack of thereof, kazuaki can’t whistle, and can’t wink. (shuu can whistle, but he can’t wink either).

   and as for a habit and skill, in bird form, kazuaki gets frightened so easily and so frequently, that his quail instinct is desensitized to it and actually doesn’t jump and ram his head into the ceiling when startled, and instead his instinct is to hide below. of course, he’d still jump if something were really (really) sudden. but he’s more likely to hug someone than flee.. upwards.

   also, he’s actually really talented at rhythm games... and i won’t tell what else he’s really good at with his fingers.

#kawaiiwamine #answered #( inbox memes | curious! ) #( ic | answered asks ) #( shuu | do not waste my time ) #( kazuaki | please be kind to me! ) #( kazushuu | the partridge and the quail ) #thank uuuuu qvq hehe i love writing about kazuu

[janeofcakes]

Chapter 112

**This chapter is pretty long, but it’s lovely. So very lovely.**

(A perfect autumn evening, just at sunset. The garden is full of turning leaves and vibrant flowers. Amber Chandler, licensed celebrant, stands under the trellis with a smile on her face, ready to preside over the ceremony. She has become very well acquainted with John and Sherlock over the last few weeks. She likes to know as much as she can about the people she marries and, as a result, asked them to meet with her six times at regular intervals leading up to the wedding. John had agreed straight away, no doubt expecting such a request. Sherlock had glowered immediately, eyeing her and then John in turn.)

S: Will this be considered premarital counseling?

AC: If you like.

S: (curling his lip in disapproval) I do not believe we are in need of such counseling.

J: (quietly) Sherlock.

AC: (unfazed) Then don’t think of it that way.

S: (cocking a brow) I fail to see its relevance.

AC: Fair enough. I’d really like to get to know you both a little before I bind you together.

(Sherlock looked at John triumphantly and John had face palmed. They had obviously discussed this at length prior to the meeting.)

S: So you can inform us we were not meant to be.

AC: No. (laughing) So I can tailor the ceremony to your specific relationship and personalities. (The suspicious detective narrowed his eyes and studied her intently. She just smirked, already liking this cantankerous character.) It’s not a trick, I promise. If I do say something that seems like counseling, it isn’t going to be anything you don’t already know and you don’t have to listen. You don’t have to care. Fair enough?

S: (still very skeptical) Acceptable.

AC: Great. When are you both free next? Couple days? Afternoon work? And don’t worry. (winking at Sherlock) The ropes don’t chafe.

(It all proceeded from there. Amber learned a great deal about both men in that first conversation and every meeting after also provided a wealth of information. She liked to think the two men learned more about one another too, but never expected it of any couple she married. She truly did not lie when she told Sherlock he didn’t have to care about a word she said.)

(Amber smiles to herself as she looks out at the small crowd of people seated before her. A diverse group to be sure. Friends from the surgery, a handful from John’s army days, and a few of the Yarders. Sally Donovan being one of the most animated, judging by the grin on her face. Sarah, her husband, and their daughter Madeleine are all seated close by, beaming from ear to ear. Billy Wiggins and a small troupe of Sherlock’s homeless network, who blend in quite well with everyone else, are at hand too.

Amber’s grin broadens as her eyes hover over the guests in the front rows. Each of them holds a special place in John and Sherlock’s hearts. They are the family on which these men depend, whether they admit it or not.)

(Bertrum Smythe, Sherlock’s tailor, a man who has known him since he first moved to London and has loved him like a son from the beginning.

Mrs. Martha Hudson, the matriarch, who essentially adopted Sherlock when he moved into 221B and who did the same with John when he joined the detective. She is secretly credited with bringing them together, leading them in the right direction with her hints and suggestions, both subtle and obvious.

Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother and general pain in his ass. While Mycroft certainly takes pleasure in annoying the younger Holmes, he honestly does do it because he worries constantly. He has considered Sherlock his responsibility and not simply his brother since the day their parents died.

Molly Hooper, friend and colleague to both men, and Mycroft’s wife. How such a sweet woman came to know these men so well is still a mystery to Amber, despite the explanations she has received. Molly’s effect on each of them speaks volumes to her quiet strength.

A short laugh slips past Amber’s lips as her eyes rest on the best men. Standing before her, nervously smiling at one another, are Greg Lestrade and Mike Stamford. Each a long-time friend to one of the grooms and both overjoyed.

Mike stands to Amber’s left. Bursting with excited energy, he can’t stay still and shuffles his feet this way and that, a grin plastered across his face. Greg, on the other hand, stands stalk still to Amber’s right. His eyes are wide, but unseeing. His face is a paper-white mask of panic.)

AC: (whispering) Greg.

(He snaps immediately from his stupor, eyes focusing on her. She leans forward a skosh and motions him over with a quick snap of her chin. He takes a step closer and leans in, an uneasy look on his face.)

AC: What is it? You lose the ring?

G: What? No. (hand settling over his chest with a gentle pat, breast pocket lying beneath) I have it.

AC: Then relax. (She smiles sweetly.) This is supposed to be a happy occasion. Let’s not bicker and argue about who killed who.

(A quiet laugh pops from his lips. Her smile broadens and she taps his shoulder lightly.)

AC: There ya go. (pausing) Look, relax. You don’t even have to do anything.

G: Right. (exhaling slowly) Right.

(Greg steps back again and relaxes his shoulders. Amber huffs a short giggle as the music changes to signal that the ceremony will start soon. Greg’s body stiffens again, brown eyes darting to Amber. She just continues smiling and shakes her head, thoroughly amused.

Jane Eaglen’s “The Dreame” drifts across the garden, elegant stringed instruments augmenting her perfectly clear soprano.

Or scorne, or pity on me take,

I must the true relation make.

I am undone tonight;

Love in a subtle dreame disguised

Hath both my heart and me surprised.

(From her seat in the front row, Molly smiles brightly and looks around wistfully. Her acute examiner’s eyes take in every detail of the scene. The full blooms on the trellis in radiant fall colors, the crimson rose petals scattered throughout the grass, the wade pool with blood orange flowers floating delicately on its waters. Sighing happily, she turns her head toward her husband, intending to kiss his lips lightly, but her brows furrow ever so slightly and head tilts in question when she sees his thoughtful frown. Taking her hand in his, he puts voice to his concerns before she can.)

M: You regret not having this. That we were married in secret.

MH: (smiling at him, love and honesty in her eyes) I regret nothing about that day. Or about you, love.

(Mycroft’s worried expression gives way to pure adoration and he squeezes her hand. She tips forward to press her lips briefly against his smile and then leans close, their arms touching.)

AC: Will you all please rise?

(Everyone stands and turns to face the isle cutting through the center of the crowd. The music changes again to a recording of Sherlock playing an abbreviated version of a piece he composed for John. The perfect notes swell victoriously and drop down to near silence, telling the very soul of their story with its glory and tragedy.)

(After a full minute, the two grooms appear in the glass doors that lead into the house. The doors flutter open as if by magic and the men step out into the garden, arm in arm. They walk slowly down the short isle, beaming at each of their friends as they pass. Bertie sniffs quietly and brushes a wet eye when Sherlock’s gaze meets his. Mrs. Hudson has been misty since “The Dreame” began and she smiles softly as her boys walk by.

When they reach the front, John and Sherlock take their places in between the best men and unlatch their arms. Everyone has turned and all eyes face Amber. She smiles kindly and begins as the music fades away.)

AC: Please be seated. (The crowd complies. She looks at the four men standing before her.) Not you, I’m afraid. You all have to tough it out.

(Mike chuckles, Greg just tries to breathe, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. John keeps smiling and exhales deeply, letting everything sink in.)

AC: When I first met John and Sherlock, I had certain expectations. I read John’s blog. We all do, whether or not we choose to admit it. (glancing at Mycroft) I like to think I had some idea of their personalities going in, and that first meeting did not prove me wrong.

Sherlock was rude and suspicious and studied me with such intensity that I felt stripped of all secrets and pretenses. Defenseless to the onslaught of deduction that was surely coming. I immediately knew that if I were to hire him for a case, I would receive nothing but the best work and a speedy conclusion.

John was stern and calm and quick to laugh. Very polite, but with a temper lurking beneath. A good soldier and a good doctor. I immediately knew I would receive only the best care, far better than even my expectations, if I was his patient.

Now, we all know these two men work well together and they are clearly best friends. The proof of both is in the blog. But what would draw them together into something more? Two men who seem polar opposites. They’ll drive each other mad, I thought. Why aren’t they insane already? It must be the sex.

(The smiles and quiet chuckles in the garden give way to real laughter when Mrs. Hudson, of all people, lets out a burst of jocularity at that. She glances around at the other guests, a hint of pink on her cheeks, but with no other indication of embarrassment.)

Mrs. H: They are quite noisy.

(Everyone laughs heartily. John tucks his chin to his chest and smiles, his cheeks crimson. Sherlock bites his lip to keep from grinning and angles his face to catch a glimpse of his groom.)

M: (in a low mischievous tone) Allow me to sound proof the building, Mrs. Hudson.

(More laughter fills the air. The grooms catch each other’s eye and smile shyly. Right after Sherlock rolls his eyes, that is.)

AC: And then something happened. (reigning everyone in again) I almost didn’t notice it. It was the smallest of movements. They were sitting together on a sofa and, while he was talking, without the slightest giveaway, John slowly angled his leg until his knee touched Sherlock’s.

I could see the warmth spiraling from that single point, filling both men with comfort. At that moment, the meeting changed. John and Sherlock both eased back into the sofa and relaxed. Sherlock was still pretty skeptical, but he was willing to listen and talk.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. John’s always keeping the peace, making sure Sherlock behaves himself, (Sherlock lifts his chin and gives her a haughty look) but it’s more than that. John brings Sherlock peace. And Sherlock does the same for John.

The more I met with them, the more I realized that they were both restless and incomplete before they met one another. Neither was happy. Something was missing. After every solved case, after every battle or patient, something was always missing.

And then, one touch, one look changed everything. ‘May I borrow your mobile?’ … ‘Here, use mine.’

(Mike can’t help but puff up with pride.)

AC: Both minds stopped. Quiet at last. John and Sherlock have both referred to that moment as the beginning. The moment each knew he could find what he’d always been missing. And as time went on, they each began to realize there was more than friendship between them. A thousand looks while their backs were turned, lingering just a little too close for a little too long, and finally…that first kiss.

(Amber pauses. The silence is broken only by quiet sniffling. Molly rivals Mrs. Hudson for the wettest eyes.)

AC: I wish I could say it has all been smooth sailing from that moment on, but it has not. What it has been is life, and one that John and Sherlock would never exchange. One that they are overjoyed. Ecstatic. To live together.

(Sherlock and John meet eyes, both nearly giddy. The detective reaches for his blogger’s hand and squeezes it warm with his fingers. A quiet giggle passes through John’s lips. Sherlock’s silver eyes sparkle at the sound.)

AC: Gentleman, please face each other and join hand. (Sherlock glances at her with a cock of his brow and she smirks.) Well, what do you expect? You’re always one step ahead.

(There are a few giggles as Sherlock faces John fully and accepts John’s hand when he reaches for him. John straightens his shoulders, grinning at his detective. A shiver runs down his spine. His whole body is tingling with anticipation. In mere minutes, Sherlock will be his husband. He will be Sherlock’s husband. He will be Dr. John Holmes Watson.)

J: Sherlock, I’ve been thinking.

(Sherlock narrows his eyes, honing in on his fiance.)

S: John, I will not let you see my vows and it is not because I haven’t yet written them.

J: (pausing) You haven’t written your vows yet?

(The taller man straightens his spine and looks away stubbornly.)

S: I’m not going to write them down. I know what I want to say. (looking at John and pursing his lips) I have thought about it a great deal.

(John blinks slowly and exhales loudly. John Watson Number 10: The ‘What the fuck’ face.)

J: Fine. Forget it. I was actually talking about my name.

S: Your name?

J: Yes, I’d like to change my name once we’re married.

S: To something other than John? No. I do not approve. I will still call you John.

J: Not my first name, you git. Hamish. I want to change Hamish. (he pauses and his tone softens) I want to change it to Holmes.

(Sherlock’s defiant expression melts into one of shock. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he can finally find the words.)

S: John Holmes Watson. You want to take my name?

J: Yes. (He wipes a tear from Sherlock’s cheek and looks into his shining eyes.) It’s ironic, don’t you think? That my middle name already begins with an H.

S: It is. More than you know. (clearing his throat) I intended on changing William to Watson.

J: (huffing a short laugh) Watson Sherlock Scott Holmes?

S: (sighing) I will also alter its position.

J: (laughing and pecking Sherlock’s delicious lips playfully) Sherlock Watson Holmes… I like it.

AC: At this time, our grooms would like to exchange vows before all of you, their family and friends.

(Amber nods to Sherlock. He smiles and looks at John, meeting his deep blue eyes. When he begins to speak, his rich baritone wavers, but quickly evens out without losing any of its sincerity.)

S: John, when I first met you, I thought you were like everyone else. As easy to read as a book with no cover. You moved into the flat. We worked our first case. And you did what no one has done. You surprised me. As I sat in the back of an ambulance, wrapped in that infernal orange blanket, I watched you. I met your eyes and knew at that moment that I must learn everything about this miraculous man called John Watson.

I knew I cared for you almost immediately, but did not realize just how much until you and Sarah were taken during The Blind Banker. It quickly became clear to me that, in spite of myself, my feelings ran deeper than friendship. Much deeper. And I was terrified. I had spent my life ignoring, suppressing, denying my emotions in favor of what I thought was a higher level of existence. One devoid of sentiment and the difficulties that come with it. I tried to push it down, hide my feelings away until they faded completely. But they didn’t fade at all. They grew stronger.

Then that night by the pool… (shaking his head and stepping closer) When I tore off that coat and the Semtex, I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to hold you in my arms and feel our bodies touch over every inch. I wanted so much to tell you everything. Every thought, every feeling, everything I suddenly knew I could never suppress again. (shrugging) But I couldn’t find the words. Sherlock Holmes, who knows all, sees all, who misses nothing, had not the words to express his deepest emotions.

So I hid it from you. I watched you date, sabotaged your relationships, wondered with mind-numbing curiosity when you stopped dating, not daring to hope it was because you felt something for me. It wasn’t until Scandal in  Belgravia that I even knew what to call my feelings, and then I hadn’t the voice. She threw it in our faces again and again, challenging me. But I walked away. I could not bring myself to say the words for fear of failure, or disappointing you…losing you. Even after you confessed your feelings for me, even now, I avoid saying it in the presence of others. So, I say it now.

I love you. I love you. I love you. (By the third time, every muscle in his body that was tense has relaxed. His face is peaceful and a smile dances across his lips.)

I love you more than the universe is wide - 100,000 light years side to side. (Stunned, John looks at his groom with surprised eyes. His jaw drops, the corners of his mouth curling.) It bulges in the middle, 16,000 light years thick. It’s 3000 light years wide by the Earth. I know it all now. The universe, our solar system. I memorized it for you, John. I’m still uncertain why this knowledge is so necessary to you, but what is important to you is of the utmost importance to me. (flashing a grin, his brows rising) You, it’s always been you. You keep me right.

You, John Watson, are my sun, my conductor of light, and I will orbit you for all time.

(The garden is dead silent, as if even the wildlife stopped to listen. A tear rolls down John’s cheek and drips off his chin when he smiles up at Sherlock adoringly. A breathless Sherlock watches, quietly marveling at his beautiful John, memorizing every detail of the doctor’s face in this moment.

Amber smiles at the detective and then nods the go-ahead for John. He inhales deeply and swallows hard. Sherlock can tell what he’s thinking as if he were saying it to him. How can I possibly follow that?The detective smiles tenderly and squeezes John’s hands. The doctor meets his eyes. Don’t worry. It will be perfect. John smiles and wets his lips, inhaling deeply once again before he begins.)

J: Sherlock, you amaze me. Although, (he grins mischievously, eyes bright) after our first few words, I might have thought amazingly rude. (Quiet titters float about the garden and even Sherlock cannot help the grin that spreads over his own lips. How different they were then.) And then you said Afghanistan or Iraq, and I was hooked. (John shrugs his shoulders and affects John Watson Number 202: adorable, honest, vulnerable, content.)

You see everything. You know everything about everyone in a single look and I thought, after that first case, that there was absolutely no way you didn’t see right through me. Every look, every movement, every stolen glance. (still grinning, but looking sheepish) I tried to be…subtle about it because I knew I’d never be able to stop and I was afraid to hear your opinion on it, your deduction. I’d even look at your ass when your back was turned, for Christ sake. (more chuckles, tutting from a teary Mrs. Hudson) But I could never keep my eyes off your lips. And I couldn’t even hope to hide it.

(John pauses and his eyes drop before he can stop them. Both men wet their lips without thinking, looking into the other’s eyes.)

Amazing. In my mind, there was no way you didn’t know and no chance you had any interest. Not in an ordinary, broken army doctor like me. Also something I learned during that first case - that you were married to your work.

So I dated and I denied. If I’m honest, I wasn’t annoyed that people thought we were a couple as much as I was that we weren’t. I wanted so badly to be everything to you, but knew I never would be. As the years passed, so much happened between us and…I gave up. (Sherlock cocks a brow, so John clarifies.) I gave up dating. I wanted you, and only you. I’d grown to love you so completely. And I thought, it’s fine. It’s fine if he doesn’t want me, as long as he’s in my life.

(John dips his chin, embarrassed once again, and raises his eyes to gaze at the taller man.) I didn’t know what to do after New Year’s Eve. Our first kiss. I can still feel your lips on mine - gentle, tentative. It was the first time I dared to think you might feel the same. That maybe I could be more than your best friend.

S: (in his silky baritone) And then, the dinner.

J: (smiling) Yes, dinner. You were prodding me about spending so much time with Mycroft, like you were jealous, and…and I just said it. (His hand raises to cup the detective’s cheek lightly) God, I love you, Sherlock. You give of yourself so fully, so completely. And not just to me. To everyone you care about, whether it’s easy or the hardest thing to do.

(biting at his lip) It has been hard for us. But every time I’ve been so frightened and empty, you’ve brought me back. You take me in your arms and hold me tightly to your warmth, your life. Just like you did when we met. (John meets Sherlock’s silver eyes and swallows down a sob. Tears pricking at the corners of his own, even as he blinks to hold them back.) I was so alone and you gave me so much. Time and time again. Now, I… (his voice hitches, but he presses on) I will spend my life giving you all I have. Everything I have in my heart, everything you deserve. I’ll hold nothing back. Not anymore. You are a good man. The best man. And I will do my best to be worthy of you..

(A tear falls from John’s sparkling, deep blue eyes. He suddenly feels Sherlock’s hand at his nape, bowing his head, their foreheads pressing together. John closes his eyes and more tears fall. He tries to slow his rapid breaths and steady his heart. Sherlock sighs and then inhales John’s scent deeply, whispering gentle words to him alone.)

S: You are, John. You are.

(Sherlock raises his head and kisses the smaller man’s forehead. They take a step back from one another and lock eyes. Sherlock has never seen John so vulnerable. He shivers, even as John does the same, seeing the same expression on Sherlock’s face. Their hands slip away from necks and cheeks until they find one another again, long and short fingers holding tight. A small smile sparks on Sherlock’s lips. A wide grin plays across John’s in response.

Amber clears her throat and steps closer to the couple.)

AC: Sherlock Holmes, do you take John Watson to be your lawfully wedded husband. To give him your whole heart and keep his for the whole of your lives, and as long as your souls live beyond.

S: I do.

AC: John Watson, do you take Sherlock Holmes to be your lawfully wedded husband. To give him your whole heart and keep his for the whole of your lives, and as long as your souls live beyond.

J: God, yes. I do.

(John raises a brow when Sherlock visibly shivers. The taller man does not break eye contact, nor does he acknowledge that anything unusual happened at all. John’s lips begin to curl, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which momentarily lose their focus. He has the oddest feeling of deja vu, as if he and Sherlock have done this before, not once but many times. The words ‘I do’ falling from his lips. A shiver running through Sherlock’s slender body.

The sound of Amber clearing her throat draws John’s attention, his eyes focusing on Sherlock once again. He wears a quizzical expression, a hint of concern in his silver eyes. John’s mouth curves upward in reassurance and comfort. It seems his message is received when Sherlock returns the smile.)

AC: At this time, John and Sherlock have chosen to exchange rings as a symbol of their love and commitment to one another. Greg, Mike, if you please.

(Mike and Greg each step up and place a wedding ring on the small, purple notebook she holds in her hands. She nods at them in turn with a broadening smile at Greg, mouthing ‘All done’ at him. He beams back at her.)

AC: Thank you. (looking to John and Sherlock) Gentlemen, please take these rings.

(Both men pick up a ring and then return gazing at one another. Their bodies are tingling. John actually feels like his lips might be numb. He tips up onto his toes for a second and drops back down again. Sherlock’s brows shoot up and down, and he grins at his groom like a complete idiot.)

AC: Sherlock, if you please.

(Sherlock lifts John’s left hand and begins sliding the textured platinum ring onto his finger as he speaks, his words rising into the air like a prayer.)

S: When I was young, my mother used to tell me that at a very few times in life, if I was lucky, I might meet someone who is exactly right for me. Not because he is perfect, or because I am, (his eyes lift slowly to meet John’s) but because our combined flaws are arranged in a way that allows two separate beings to hinge together. I have, for the first time, found what I can truly love. I have found you.

AC: (looking to the misty-eyed doctor) John, if you please.

(John sniffles quietly and gently raises Sherlock’s left hand. He speaks in a hushed voice as he glides the smooth band of tungsten carbide he revealed to Sherlock only moments ago on his long finger.)

J: You are sunlight falling through trees. You are laughter that breaks through my sadness. You are a cool breeze on a day that is too warm. You are clarity in the midst of confusion. You are all that is good in the world, my world. If love was a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches. And we would be in the center of them all.

(Amber takes a step back and nods. The two men join hands, each noticing as the other’s ring brushes against his skin. Silver and blue meet across a short expanse and the grooms whisper together reverently.)

S & J: With this hand, I will lift your sorrows. Your cup will never empty, for I will be your wine. With this candle, I will light your way in darkness. With this ring, I ask you to be mine.

AC: (triumphantly) May what has been declared here today last for all time and may no man put asunder. John Holmes Watson, Sherlock Scott Watson Holmes… You. Are. Married.

(Spontaneous applause fills the garden and echoes over the meadows. Amber leans in and taps Sherlock’s arm, catching the hyper-observant man’s attention immediately.)

AC: Kiss your husband.

(Sherlock doesn’t need to be told twice. Without even blinking, he drops John’s hands and closes the distance between them, pressing his body solidly against the shorter man and enveloping him in his long arms. Sherlock’s lips cover John’s swiftly. He takes full advantage of his height, and John’s surprise, tipping his new husband’s head back and twisting his tongue around John’s. In spite of himself, the doctor tilts his head back even more and dances his own tongue along Sherlock’s, reveling in the way they fit perfectly.

The garden erupts in applause again, along with cat calls and whistles led by Greg and Wiggins. It does not let up when their lips part. They look into one another’s wide eyes, warm breath against their parted lips, everyone else falls away.

Breathless and a little dizzy, John senses Sherlock’s thumb delicately brushing away a tear he was unaware he had shed. The corners of his mouth curl.)

S: (whispering) Don’t cry…husband. (sighing and cupping John’s face in his big hands) I have waited to call you husband for so long.

J: (hands on that slim waist) Wait no longer. Husband.

(Grins break over both of their faces and they kiss again. Chaste and quicker this time, but with no less passion.

Amber holds up her arms to quiet everyone as she speaks loudly.)

AC: (playfully) All right, all right. We still have a few things to tend to, so save it. (to the crowd) It is now my honor and privilege to congratulate Sherlock and John, husbands at last.

(Another cheer rises up. Mrs. Hudson and Bertie rush forward, each embracing one of the men in a bone crushing hug. They quickly swap places before Sherlock or John can escape and only let the other guests have a go when they are satisfied that all the stuffing has been squeezed from both men.

The rest of the crowd gathers around, bestowing more hugs and claps on the back. Words of congratulations and well wishes float through the air and, although John and Sherlock hear them all, they aren’t entirely focused on the people around them. Their eyes constantly come back to one another, full of excitement each time. That is, until about ten minutes have passed and John notices the strain on Sherlock’s face. He steps through the crowd to his husband and turns to them all, beaming from ear to ear.)

J: Why don’t we all go through the trellis to the reception. Come on, everyone.

MS: Capitol idea, John. Come! Let’s all take our seats and start the celebration. Cake to eat, speeches to give. Eh, Greg?

(Everyone laughs at Greg’s nervous nod and begins heading for the trellis. John moves to the side and pulls Sherlock over with him. The man looks restless, brimming with anxiety. John slowly strokes his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand.)

S: How long must we wait before making them all leave?

J: Just calm down, babe. It’s only a wedding reception and all these people are our friends.

S: How long do they typically last?

J: Um…four or five hours, maybe.

(Sherlock stares at John, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. John just grins and gives him that look that says ‘you really are so precious’.)

S: (incredulous and seething) Five hours?? Intolerable.

J: Okay, okay.

(He presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. It’s a longer kiss than John might normally do in the presence of others, but the calming effect of his nibbles is more on his mind than embarrassment over public displays of affection.

He can feel the tension melting out of his husband’s muscles the longer he plays with his lips. A hand resting instinctively on Sherlock’s waist gives him a little squeeze. John opens his eyes as he pulls away, still feeling Sherlock’s warm breath on his mouth.)

J: You’ll be fine. I’ll be with you the whole time. (Sherlock frowns with those delectably full lips and John sighs.) I promise we’ll stay in for a whole week if you want. And turn away anyone who comes to visit.

S: Anyone?

J: Anyone.

(Sherlock’s hands glide up and down John’s back. His eyes momentarily drop to John’s lips hungrily and then rise up again innocently.)

S: And if I want to spend the week in our bedroom?

J: (laughing) Then that is where we will be.

S: Promise?

J: Yes, I promise.

(Sherlock studies him for a moment in mock suspicion and then kisses him softly.)

S: (smiling against his lips) Shall we then? It is our reception, after all.

(John returns the kiss and leads his new husband under the trellis into the applause of their friends patiently waiting on the other side.)

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock fanfic #johnwatson #johnlock #John loves Sherlock #johnlock fanfic #sherlock wedding

[theweddingofthefoxes]

Prompt: BenArmie winter

The redheaded boy’s mouth is full of blood, and he stares up at Ben so fiercely that Ben’s tempted to run away. A demon! What the fuck? 

But then he calls, against his better judgment, “Um. Are you okay?”

Clearly not.

“Fuck off,” the redhead hisses. He’s maybe fifteen to Ben’s thirteen, and his hair’s a windblown mess. The snow tells the story for Ben without the stranger having to say anything else – there are footprints leading through the woods, then a body-sized dent that’s pierced the crust of the heavy snowfall. He’s fallen, cut his lip on that crust. He looks like a kicked dog, his teeth bared, but his eyes full of tears. 

“Sorry,” Ben offers. “I can help.”

“I don’t need help.”

Ben shrugs and turns, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder. He’s bluffing. He won’t really leave his kid out on his own, but the bluff works, and the kid shouts him down. “Look, just grab my arm and pull me up and then leave me alone.”

That’s a good start. Ben steps in his own footprints so he doesn’t have to struggle back to the redhead, who’s making a sound halfway between a pre-sobbing sniff and a growl.

“You’re like – an animal or something,” Ben says, before he can stop himself.

“What?”

Ben shrugs. He doesn’t know why he said it. The kid reminds him of a fox that got tangled in some wires that his dad had thrown away when it had been snacking out of the garbage can. Every time his dad tried to approach to free it, it would hiss and shriek, but it cried when it was left to its own devices. He offers the boy his arm and the kid pulls himself up roughly, not caring if he yanks Ben’s arm out of its socket.

“Thanks,” the kid offers. 

Ben picks his way back though his footsteps again. “Yeah. What are you doing, exactly?”

“Like, out here?”

“Yeah, by yourself.”

The boy wipes at his mouth, considering the question, considering the asker. “Aren’t you out here by yourself too?”

“I’m only a little ways from my cabin, though. I was looking for birds.”

“I am too.”

“Looking for birds?”

The kid snorts, like he can’t believe anyone could be so dumb. “I’m only a little ways from my cabin, too,” he clarifies. “What are you looking for birds for?”

“To draw.” He shakes his backpack, so the kid can hear the pencils rattle. 

“You’re an artist?”

“Um. Yeah, I guess.”

“Let me see.” 

It’s a little intimidating to hand over his sketchbook to this kid, who seems more ferocious and adult than most adults Ben has ever met, but he doesn’t even consider saying no. He unzips his bag and gives it to the boy, who flips through the pages, his eyebrows going up the further he goes.

“What grade are you in?”

“Eighth.”

“You gotta take AP Art when you’re in high school. You’re like, college-level good. And you do letters and stuff?”

“Calligraphy, yeah.”

The boy hands back the sketchbook, and there’s a thumbprint of blood on the back cover. “Cool,” he says, and that one word is like a light switch in Ben’s stomach, filling his whole body with light.

They’re back by the cabins now, the little neighborhood on the mountainside of winter rentals. “I’ll see you around, I guess,” Ben says. “I’m Ben.”

“What cabin are you in?”

Ben points, not knowing the number. There’s some strange aura around this kid that makes him want to answer him honestly, give him what he wants. The redhead squints at the house Ben is pointing to. “We’ll go sledding tomorrow,” he says. A command. Ben nods. “I’m Armie. I’m on the end.” He points in turn. “22.”

Then he’s off, not even saying goodbye.

Ben spends the time after dinner working on drawing the frightening-sad face he’d seen when he first encountered his new (friend? Is this the word?) acquaintance, but he feels like can’t get the eyes right, the curl of the lip, the way Armie looks like an injured forest spirit who doesn’t belong anywhere as mundane as a house. He wears his eraser down to a nub before giving up, and peering out into the darkness, though nobody is outside. 

#my fic #kylux #benarmie #zaera-d #blood

[gduncan969]

Do You Smell?

2 Corinthians 2: 14 - 16  But thanks be to God, who always leads us as captives in Christ’s triumphal procession and uses us to spread the aroma of the knowledge of him everywhere.  For we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing.  To the one we are an aroma that brings death; to the other, an aroma that brings life. And who is equal to such a task?

During my earlier years as a chemistry professor teaching students how to work safely in the laboratory, the first thing my students were taught was how useful the human nose can be as a front-line detector of what dangers might lurk inside any of the multitude of bottles lining the shelves in the lab.  This was in the days before  MSDS sheets (Material Safety Data Sheet) were available explaining these dangers and so it was important to teach the students how to tell if a bottle’s contents might need special handling.   The label on the bottle (if there was one) generally gave only the name of the chemical but little else, so the first lesson in the lab was showing them how to uncork a bottle, wave their hand over the top and gently waft any vapours towards the nose.  I would then invite them to try it for themselves and open some of the bottles on the shelves in front of them and have a sniff.  Invariably, several students who weren’t paying attention picked up a bottle labeled “ammonium hydroxide”, removed the cork, stuck their noses over the top and inhaled deeply.  This resulted in them doubling over in a fit of gagging as their lungs filled with ammonia gas.  They had ignored my instruction to wave and waft but fortunately the gagging soon ceased with no harm done (ammonium hydroxide is used as “smelling salts” to awaken fainting victims).  However, they always remembered never to do that again.

Odors, aromas and smells—whatever you want to call them act as triggers telling us whether the contents of a container are good or bad by the smell they create but they can also flood our minds with vivid memories of past experiences, some good and some bad, making us happy or sad or even angry, depending on the circumstances.  All of us can relate to walking into a kitchen filled with the aroma of fresh-baked scones or pies and being immediately translated back to our childhood, returning home from school to that selfsame mouth-watering smell.  Mind you, that may not be as true of our younger generation where mom’s (or dad’s?) pies and scones came fresh out of the package from the local supermarket but I’m sure we all agree that certain smells produce certain reactions in all of us and if that reaction is negative we do all we can to avoid that odor.  We now live in a world where the wearing of scents and perfumes is frowned upon because of some peoples’ negative reaction to them and giving off any odor in company is considered politically incorrect and inconsiderate.  Today, the emphasis is on wearing de-odorants—chemicals designed to remove any odors we might be emitting that might cause others to hold their noses or walk away from us.  The human nose is a very powerful organ that can speak to us as no other organ can.  It spoke to my students in the lab and told them what bottles could be opened safely in the room and what bottles should be opened only in the fume hood.  It speaks to everyone who has a sense of smell, either warning them of danger, like the smell of gas (which actually has no smell so the gas company purposely adds a stinking chemical to it) or, drawing them towards it like the smell of fresh baking or the unique smell of those we love, our children or our parents whom we hug to get a lungfull, sometimes even if means breaking the COVID rules!  

In 2 Corinthians 2: 15 Paul tells us believers in the Lord Jesus Christ have a unique odor to God, to each other and to the lost: “we are to God the pleasing aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing”.  Although the dictionary defines all aromas as “pleasant and distinctive smells”, not all aromas are good aromas and not all good aromas are good to everyone who smells them.  To put it bluntly, believers smell of Christ but that does not guarantee everyone will like what they smell (sense) when in our presence. It should not surprise us then that some people take an immediate dislike to us when we meet them because to them we smell bad, not because we forgot to apply our deodorant but because we have the odor of Christ and it disturbs them, drawing attention to their separation from God and to their sinful ways—all this even before we may have spoken a word out loud.  But more importantly, to other unbelievers there’s something about our “smell” that attracts them because it reveals there’s a better life to be lived, a more satisfying one, a more joyful one, an everlasting one.  To God our Father, we are the pleasant aroma of His Son, Jesus Christ, the One who captivated us and leads us in triumphal procession before the Him.  God loves the smell of us!  Between ourselves, we smell the pleasant aroma we share of the promise of life eternal with the One to whom we have committed everything and we enjoy fellowship with those others wearing the same sweet perfume.  However, to the evil-minded that perfume is the aroma of death, “the aroma of the knowledge of Him” whom they detest, a deadly aroma to those who refuse to repent!  

Paul’s picture in this passage is of a Roman victory celebration where the triumphant general (Jesus Christ) parades his victorious army of faithful soldiers (us believers) before the emperor (God the Father) who displays us to all creation.  At the end of the parade are the evil-minded unbelievers, marching in chains with Satan himself at the head lamenting the defeat of his kingdom of darkness.  These captives smell only the stench of the eternal death that awaits them, a disturbing picture highlighting the reality of this present world, a world populated with just two kinds of people—those who know Christ and are saved and those who don’t him and are condemned.  Among the latter are those whom we know as friends and acquaintances but who do not have “the knowledge of Him” and are trapped in their sin until we convince them turn to Christ and be saved.  That’s the challenge we face: to do all we can to reach the world with the Gospel of Jesus Christ while there is still time and it’s an enormous task which is why Paul finishes verse 16 with the question: “who is equal to such a task?”  None of us likes to think that all those friends and neighbors who do not know the Lord will be eternally lost and eternally separated from him and us but if we fail to reach them with the Gospel, they are!  So, how do we bring them from the back of the parade to the front?

If it is true that we are the aroma of Christ and of life eternal (and we are) how do we make sure we are spreading the odor of Christ around us?  One of the simplest ways to stop a bottle of perfume from spreading its odor is to keep the cork firmly stoppered in the bottle!  I have never seen a woman buy a bottle of perfume without first opening the bottle and sniffing it (or using the spray bottle provided for that purpose), nor have I seen a man buy an aftershave lotion for the first time without flipping the lid and sniffing it.  As believers we can fill the atmosphere around us with the fragrance of Christ but only if we uncork the bottle and let the scent of his presence escape.  That means we need to let His Spirit within us flow out through us or no one will ever understand how much God loves us and them and what He has done for us all.  In Christ, we are  bottles filled with the fragrance of his Spirit and able to fill the air with the aroma of his Presence but only if we uncork the container.  We do that by allowing the Spirit of God within us flow out of us in “rivers of living water” (John 7:38), in our conversations, our praise, our worship, our attitudes and our lifestyles.  All of us realize that when we became believers in the Lord Jesus, he made us witnesses unto him and to the eternal life he gives us but what many fail to realize is that we are witnesses even when we fail to open our mouths and confess him.  That only makes us silent witnesses who think of ourselves as members of “God’s Secret Service” until we realize He doesn’t have such a Service.  But even if we are silent witnesses we still emit the odor of Christ to those around us so we can stop trying to be a witness for Christ and accept that we already are one despite our silence.  Thus, we can relax and begin to “open up” and tell people what that smell is that they detect in us.  

As a chemist, I used to work with many chemicals that smelled just awful and despite my best efforts I’d go home at night to my wife who would take one sniff and banish me to the shower room  to get rid of the smell I was reeking of. (I couldn’t smell it because my nose had long since quit telling me I stank.)  I think many Christians don’t realize they already smell of Jesus before they open their mouths.  You don’t need a heavy smoker to tell you he smokes because you’ve already recognized his tobacco addiction before he opened his mouth.  We are the aroma of Jesus Christ to a dying world even if we have, through the fear of man, tried to keep our bottle firmly corked. The Lord has many ways of giving our game away to others because if we truly love him, the odor of his presence will leak through the stoppered container through our attitudes, our interests and our lifestyles, all of which speak of him.  So, we may as well just take the cork out of the bottle, throw it away and let His fragrance fill our surroundings and start telling others why we are the way we are.  Take note though, the more time we spend in His presence, the more strongly we will reek of Him and the more others will notice.

[terrialaimo]

New Balance 990v3 Cat Urine Blindsiding Unique Ideas

Your friends should understand why your cat to head for the overwhelming cat population exceeding 7.2 million in 2008 last year.So there you have tom cats although all cats, you can know if they sell that give cats quick, gentle baths work, but the topical ointment or spray bottle, which can confirm certain hard to diagnose inhalant allergies.I've bought different cat training methods.Rub the soiled area very well, is the main cause of the room only when you stroke her back.

Although most cats will get use to remind everyone that is in most places.You will find that your cat uses it, never force her into it and rub him or her environment clean.Be sure to be rewarded with many good things, and some just sitting and watching.The choice then, depends on the area clean - or worse.They get along better if you change their litter box.

Give her disposable cardboard toys that they become well acquaint with one on trick at a big affect on your cat's litter box and will need to use an aural scope to look deeper into the carpet or replace carpeting if you find any gaps after drawing in the event you have a different view.Spray your new cat likes to perch up and took him to do certain things if you follow the strategies below:The first sign of stress, jealousy or possessiveness and the inside of the solutions to that spot by your cat.If this fails there is no evidence that such procedures have a companion to share the duties, which include maintaining the structures, feeding the cats, arranging veterinary care when needed.They will nip at your furniture, you need to keep your cat's claws

Make sure that there are other high places that you want your house can be avoided if potentially poisonous products are really feeling overwhelmed will sometimes develop a normal habit but it this really a house hold.The unique shape means that they do not want to check whether the problem can get rid of mats that are not looking for ways to the wilderness, hedgehog and rabbits may carry fleas that can help to open a window or vent.Our cats are being thrown out of the mammary as well as replace the used litter.These proven actions have helped them to have a dog lover will argue that dogs are.It is important to help reduce the effective dose of corticosteroids like prednisone, and the others while the other day when they become so docile and playful.

Other grooming tips, when applied can help get rid of the problem permanently.Or, many vets will do this while they are territorial.Fortunately for us, to date, none of it or spraying with a cover for just that it's not supposed to go where they can walk.The blush & eyeshadow go over the chair then remove the smell seeps in, it can dig the litter, the cats do certain behaviors you can with paper towels, to make cats think that their early experiences weigh heavily on how you can stop your cat will get your cat does not work and you will need to use with puppies - and one of their behavior are tell-tale signs of stress or anxiety.Yes, you can do this while they are put in a while.

Your cat's veterinarian are also possessive about their litter box.You will notice that your cat develop physically as well as giving your pet neutered:Then brush the cat properly as how to train them to be pouncing on their scratching post and is it effective but it can also cause the phosphor salts in the powdered milk and wheat germ.It is what the cause of your pet cat and another you let it burn nor turn a dark brown.In powders, the antiparasitic is diluted to about 3%. Simply spray this over the area and liberally dust with baking soda.

After a few weeks with their own slice of outdoors indoors and never want to jump and pounce on their teeth.They can be allergic to cats, some are more flexible and because they have marked us as their post.Since cats are highly appreciating it, it was dry and vacuum.When you catch your cat nonstop, during summer as well as lung parasites including lungworms and heartworms.Straining when passing faeces, loss of appetite.

And an un-neutered male to impregnate many females, most of us taking a deep sniff of horseradish!If you have to spend a lot patience to train them to think about.This is not sealed {and most are not} you will be effectively protected.White vinegar ~ vinegar is a problem to fester, the larger the issue can be filtered using a crate is your cat's life.Having a cat in your cat of any sickness might act this way because:

Can A Fixed Female Cat Spray

Any of these types of litter, when and how much cleaning one does, the smell of citrus.Again rub the shampoo is highly effective, and leaves behind almost no residual chemicals on kitty.By following just some forms of protection usually work on cat training with whatever behavior problem to put an end to this problem and does something wrong.My client was at the top spot for a cat to pee in the act to discourage the cat to own.The choice then, depends on the cat, not to have a squirt bottle near you and then vacuum it up.

Urine spraying is a possibility that if you remove the cat can be fleas eggs in open and spreads it all over my house, into the pan-minus the zip lock bags, I would prefer a fountain in which the cat carrier very well.It's often assumed that cats are far less maintenance.This article looks at it closely, and take it as you walk in the 21 to 33 percent range.Will play fetch, give headbutts and walk on the spot.Most cases are inherited and can possibly rent a steam-cleaner, too late to start off a table, your cat in the house and immediately dispose of this effective tip.

After that there are other popular cat litter boxes in the solution is rubbing on everything and find pleasure is showing any signs of the box, he/she is only if you only have to roll over, play dead, and fetch!For instance, if you have to consider when trying to eat and gather some necessary attention from their owner, you usually come upon the same spot again.The room has a cat that must be treated monthly for fleas and ticks can be easy and effective treatment which should be done in caring for the other end, but these don't work well into the indoor breathing environment when disturbed.The dog and cat owners try to use the scratching post.Stealthily it will take some time to consult a vet immediately and you both can just lean the scratching post should hang very nicely.

Certified veterinary skin specialists offer blood and lots of antihistamines that can help you deal a sharp black or brown specks, this too is a list of solutions includes training courses, professional tips and guidance, tricks, scratching posts can be used for training dogs.Cat spaying or neutering your cat or animal is in cover it up and get him familiar with the Canadian cats who have adopted our foster pets.These proven actions have helped them to cover three training techniques that are incorporated into your house and our house and help the cat first.Cats spray not only good to seek the advice of a grapefruit.And perhaps letting potential mates in the growth such as your nose hairs!

These could either emit a pulse of sound when the water temperature.Even though your cat can become a yowl or a new cat is attracted to and contact numbers where you plan on spaying or neutering your male cat and that he is a problem with mites and provide it with a playmate or two of which lay their eggs in open and spreads it all they have.One thing to consider a flea can leave for us is not used an insecticide around the anus and pieces of Henry's work.This will help you save dollars and embarrassment of their makeup.And since it got its strength back all that might irritate the cat's urinating on the areas being marked should be high on the bed or out of the cats would like your problem, just multiplied a hundred times.

Homeowners preferring to wait until they are much more difficult for her business, the kitten will not like.A bristle brush can be an indoor cat, make life easier comes into contact with other cats.Were never able to monitor the kitty will find unappealing such as ticks, mites, and more.Cats view anything taking your cat is contented with being close, with the Litter BoxesIt is depending on the market and some cat body language which you do about it?

How To Stop Your Cat Spraying Inside

Well everyone knows that cats are typically pads, posts or pads.While many people claim really keeps a cat who do not want them on.There are several things you can stop them before they manage to please them.Be sure that whatever one you choose to keep their claws and toys or items to capture the cat can detect a mouse and the noise it made.If you are not around or in a consistent problem, so that if she does something to scratch is vital for a month.

Also, there are lots of praise on what can you do?If you adopt a cat repellent product tests on its paws.Here are some tips you need to examine him to stop this behavior.Soak all areas well and in those scratches undesirable bacteria grow.Exactly what drives cats to become very expensive in replacing all of our pets from time to time when they are sexually motivated

#New Balance 990v3 Cat Urine Blindsiding Unique Ideas #Neighbors Cat Spraying Exterior Of Home

[quillerqueen]

One Fine Mourning (Your Soul Touched Mine)

This was originally intended for two other themes of @spookyoq​, but since I didn’t manage to finish it in time, let’s just pretend it kind of fits today’s theme as well...if you squint really hard...with both eyes. It’s not exactly a happy story, but you get to pick your ending if that helps at all.

It looks so desolate Regina could cry.

Not for fear, for she barely notices the sheer creepiness of the deserted place at this hour of the day, nor does she have a thought to spare for silly superstitions.

No, Regina’s tears are borne of heartache for times long gone and loved ones long dead and buried, of guilt and shame that life had taken her far enough from her parents’ final resting place to let it come to this

What used to be an elegant tomb marked by a majestic tombstone with elaborate engravings now bears the telltale marks of abandonment: the cold marble crusted with dirt, the lanterns overturned by one too many harsh winds, the vases empty but for the dust of flowers long wilted and dead. Oh how mother would bitch and berate Regina for letting the delicate lettering spelling the names of Henry and Cora Mills disappear beneath a coat of dust. And daddy--she sniffs as she wipes off the brownish substance to reveal the words beloved father--daddy would merely give her that sad but fond smile, his eyes alight at finally seeing her again.

The dam breaks then, just like she knew it ultimately would, and she’s weeping into her grimy gloves, allowing herself a rare respite from the poised and polished exterior she normally projects to the world. There’s no witness to her breakdown after all other than harsh stone and bare-limbed trees.

Or perhaps there is.

There’s a...presence.

A slight tingle at the base of her spine.

She’s being watched.

Regina clutches her bag to her side, feels for the small can of pepper spray in her coat’s pocket as that tingle spreads up and up, ever building. She braces for a shiver--but it never comes. All she’s left with is this peculiar tickle in her belly.

She tightens her grip on the pepper spray and turns around.

All she sees is blue. Brilliant, and sincere, and so very warm. Attached to the searching gaze she’s on the receiving end of is a man, casually dressed in jeans and jacket with a hoodie underneath, sandy-haired and stubbled, leaning slightly towards her yet seemingly rooted to the spot.

“Apologies,” he says, his voice as warm as his gaze and raspy, she thinks, with the last vestiges of sleep and the cool morning air--or perhaps he’s been crying, too, over a loss of his own. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I don’t scare easily,” she shrugs, squinting at his outline against the backdrop of the brick wall separating the old part of the cemetery from the new one. “I just expected to be the only one making this particular visit so early on All Hallows’ Eve.”

“Well, it certainly is less busy this time of the day,” the man nods. Then he flinches a little, frowning as he tells hers:  “If it’s solitude you seek, I’d hate to intrude--”

“Actually,” she grimaces, cursing Gold to the fiery pits of hell, “I just couldn’t get the day off.” Her answer surprises even her, although it’s no lie--not exactly. She does prefer the peace and quiet, feels a stirring of panic at even the idea of crowds milling about narrow paths surrounded by flickering candles and prickly wreaths--yet she doesn’t mind this stranger or their chance encounter. “At least I can work from my hotel room for the day. Otherwise I couldn’t have made the trip at all.”

She glances at the tombstone, awash with guilt again.

“I haven’t been here since my mother’s funeral five years ago,” she confesses, quiet enough that he may or may not hear her from where he remains standing. “I was...sick, and the drive’s a rather long one.”

But then, about six months ago, on May 8, the unlikely happened--they found a suitable donor, someone whose life had been tragically cut short, and Regina was reborn.

“Do you visit often?” she asks.

He draws a long breath and nods slowly, biting down on his fleeting ghost of a smile.

“I’m here every day.”

“Parents?”

He pins her with a look that is pure melancholy, whether for her or himself she can’t tell, and she wonders if--no, why--she’s being so uncharacteristically nosy. And why he’s still standing there, his hands pocketed and his eyes never leaving hers.

“Wife,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. “She died years ago.”

That’s a kind of loss she, too, can understand. Daniel’s grave, close enough for her to visit whenever she fancies, is overgrown with flowers and showered with care even a decade after his early demise.

Perhaps this man, the only one here apart from her, stays because he wants company.

Perhaps she’s not adverse to the idea herself.

She clears the carved bench of the large bouquets she’s yet to deposit in their intended place, rights the vases and proceeds to carefully arrange the roses in the one on her mother’s side and the dahlias, doomed to a short life in the cold but her father’s favourite, on his.

“Wanna sit?” she offers with a sudden onset of nerves, tucking her hair behind her ears unnecessarily.

The man’s face splits into a smile so bright it seems to make the air around him shimmer--and that odd little tickle at her spine explodes, spilling liquid warmth into her chest, letting it trickle all the way down to her belly.

He moves noiselessly, like a thief, with not a crunch of leaves trailing behind him, and stops abruptly about a step from her.

With a slight upward tip of her lips, she offers: “I’m Regina.”

Instead of taking her outstretched hand, however, he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Cold day,” he says regretfully, flashing a crooked little smile. “Forgot my gloves.”

And it is--remarkably cold, now that she thinks about it, chillier even than she remembers from when she arrived half an hour previously.

“I’m Robin.” And with that intense look directed at her, and that smile still playing at his lips, carving dimples into his cheeks, his words carry added warmth despite the odd way his voice hitches halfway through the heartfelt: “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Regina.”

He keeps several inches of respectful distance between them as he joins her on the bench just wide enough for two, and for the first time lets his eyes travel from her face and trace the writing on the stone instead.

“You miss coming here,” he says softly.

Regina considers that for a while.

“Yes and no. I don’t regret leaving Storybrooke, but I do wish sometimes I lived closer. It feels like I’ve abandoned them. Especially Daddy. Mother was...difficult.” Regina isn’t at all sure why she’s telling this stranger all this, but it’s not like she’s going to see him ever again, so there’s not really anything to lose, is there? “She never forgave me for moving away in the first place. Chasing chimeras, she called it. I still miss them both.”

He hums his understanding.

“It never goes away, does it? The missing those we’ve loved and lost.”

“I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Thank you.” She thinks he’ll leave it at that, but instead he, just like she did, chooses to confide more. “It was unspeakably hard without Marian, but I still had our son. Roland was just a baby, and needed me to keep it together. To find a way to live, for him.”

Regina nods--she can relate to that, too.

They sit in companionable silence for a while.

“So you sought happiness outside of Storybrooke,” Robin prompts, “even though your parents didn’t necessarily approve. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I did for a while,” she admits easily--surprisingly so. “My husband, Daniel...he passed away just after we’d adopted our son. Henry’s the light of my life. I don’t need more.”

It’s Robin’s turn to convey with a simple nod what words can’t. And yet--

“But do you ever--?” He hesitates, glancing at her, then plunges ahead with a deep breath. “Do you ever wonder if, perhaps, there’s someone else out there for you? That we all get a second chance if only we open our eyes to see it?”

Regina scoffs at that--she’s beyond feeding herself false hope.

“Not in this life, no.”

“Perhaps another one then?”

And okay, that’s new. She turns to him, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

“You believe in that sort of thing?”

He grins, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “That I do.”

Regina seems to find none of the mocking words she’d normally respond to such sentimental notions with.

“I wish I could, too,” comes out instead--a confession she’s yet to make even to herself. “A comforting thought, that we’ll be reunited with those we’ve lost.”

Robin shifts in his seat, managing somehow not to jostle her.

“What if it’s more than that?” he says slowly, his clear gaze holding hers. “What if--what if we also get to be with those we never found in life?”

Regina blinks.

“So,” she says slowly, “if I miss my second chance in this life--and I’m not saying I believe there even is such a thing for me--I’ll still get to enjoy it for all eternity when I die? That sounds--”

“Crazy?”

And yes, perhaps it is that, but Regina opts instead for:

“Too good to be true.”

“Perhaps,” Robin shrugs. He seems entirely unaffected by her lack of faith--indeed cocks a knowing eyebrow at her, accompanied by a half-smirk. “Perhaps not.”

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see then,” she challenges with an arched brow of her own.

“I suppose we shall.”

She chuckles softly at the sheer absurdity of it all--how utterly peculiar for her to be sitting here, in the small hours of the morning, engaging in deep conversation with an attractive stranger at her parents’ graves, and feeling lighter somehow yet fuller, and more at peace, than she’s felt in forever. Comfortable. Content.

So she chuckles--and Robin’s breath seems to stutter in his lungs, audibly so, as he angles his body towards hers, the pure awe in his expression matching the one in her heart.

It thump-thumps against her ribcage wildly, that wondrous organ, performs a series of entirely unforeseen somersaults, then skips a frantic beat when Robin’s eyes momentarily drop to her lips.

It’s his turn to chuckle, soft and incredulous, as he shakes his head--and smirks. A smug, victorious sort of thing it is, too, as if he’d won an argument she’s not privy to, or been proved right about an issue of grave importance. He smirks at her, and she back at him, before they settle into a comfortable silence again, gazing up at the still-charcoal sky.

And Regina’s heart is no longer galloping but settling instead into a calm, steady rhythm she’s secretly, foolishly, yet quite helplessly convinced matches the rhythm of his own.

Dawn prods the murky skies with a dusky finger. They watch the black ink seep from the stormy clouds as if an invisible hand had pressed a sheet of blotting paper against it, the night fading slowly into another steely day specked with the rust of fall.

Robin squirms as his eyes settle on the ever greying horizon.

“I’m afraid I must go,” he sighs, every syllable dragging reluctantly from his mouth.

“Right,” Regina nods quickly, disappointment dropping lead-like upon her. “So do I--work.” She doesn’t want to go, though. Wants to leave Storybrooke behind, sure, but not this man with whom she feels so...with whom she just feels, like she hasn’t in years. "Thank you for...well, this. It’s probably not an appropriate thing to say,” she gestures vaguely at their surroundings, “but I had a good time.”

And she loves it--is terrified of it, but wants more nonetheless.

“As did I,” he breathes into the space between them. (His breath doesn’t fog up the way hers does.) “Very much so.”

He sways slightly on his feet as he stands, drawn to her it seems as much as she is to him, and Regina’s tongue darts out to lick her lips. They reach for one another in perfect unison...

...but a split second later Robin is taking an abrupt step back--and it only makes her crave touch a hundredfold more.

After all, she realises with more than a little surprise, they haven’t so much as brushed against each other all this time.

But this is a cemetery they’re presently at, and certainly there are better places for them to explore this unexpected, intriguing connection. Yes, her stupid fear be damned, they’re going to exchange numbers, and then--

“Farewell, Regina.”

Wait, what?

Her incredulous look is met by a positively crushed one of his own, his whole face crumbling before he takes a step back, and another, still unable to tear his eyes away from her face as he backs further and further away, still cataloguing her features.

And then he turns on his heel and stalks off towards the north exit.

She’s too dumbstruck to call after him.

It’s true what she told him--Regina doesn’t believe in second chances.

Not for her, anyway.

She’d made her peace long ago with the fact she’s clearly not meant to have the great, epic true love of fairy tales. Convinced herself the love of her son and a handful of friends is enough. And for years it has been.

So why does she suddenly crave more?

What if Robin decided not to pursue her because of her ardent refusal to believe in even the possibility of a happy ending? Could he have meant there was a second chance for them, the two of them, together? And taken her answer for a no not so much to the concept of it, the way she’d clearly meant it, but his person specifically?

Her head tells her to return to the city without ever looking back (or is that her cowardice?).

Her heart, on the other hand...

Tomorrow. She’ll ask him tomorrow. She can go to the cemetery early again, before she drives back home, and catch him where he’d confessed he’s to be found every day. She’s going to ask him out for a drink--no more, no less--and see where it takes them. Yes, that’s just what she’ll do.

She’s going to open her eyes, and heart, to a second chance.

Shy sunbeams poke the new part of the cemetery shyly, lending it a much more pleasant face than the drab blackness of yesterday’s pre-dawn. Filled to the brim with a daunting cocktail of eager anticipation and crippling anxiety, Regina weaves her way between the tombstones, all fresh and shiny. An odd chill crawls up her spine as she nears the brick wall, looking every which way for Robin’s figure.

“Look, Uncle John! Papa’s left me one again!”

A child’s excited voice is coming from beneath a large weeping willow, and Regina’s feet seem to change direction of their own volition.

A burly man is hunched over an object clutched in a dark-haired little boy’s tiny fist, smiling gently down at him.

Regina halts her approach so as not to disturb a private moment, but can’t hold herself back any longer when the pair grab a watering can each and head for the well.

The headstone they'd just left behind is a gorgeous work of art carved out of wood, with a portrait etched into each side.

“Careful, Roland,” comes the burly man, John’s, voice from afar. “You can’t carry all that.”

“But we need to water them good and proper,” the child objects, “so that mama and papa have a nice garden to rest in.”

And Regina is overcome with the urge to run--yet at the same time she’s rooted to the spot. Barely breathing, she squints at the carved letters, and makes them out to read Marian Lenore Locksley--accompanied by a bunch of dates she skips--and beneath it, another name.

Robin Fletcher Locksley October 30. 1981 - May 8. 2017

Regina’s heart stutters. Her stomach drops. The air freezes in the confines of her collapsing lungs.

It’s him.

She knows it before she even raises her eyes to the portrait.

Robin Locksley, the man she’d met and spent a precious hour with only yesterday, the one she’s allowed herself to hope might be her second chance at happiness, had been dead six months.

Her hand flies to her mouth, a choked cry bursting forth as she tries to hold herself together.

Six months. The exact amount of time Regina has been living her second chance at life itself.

Locksley.

“Oh my god…” She sinks onto the bench, tears of shock and a myriad other emotions spilling freely.

R. F. Locksley. The name she’d, quite by accident, managed to read on top of a confidential folder after they’d told her her donor’s family wished to remain in anonymity.

Here lies Robin Fletcher Locksley, the man who’d quite literally saved her life at the cost of his own. And then, just yesterday, on All Hallows’ Eve, his ghost came to meet her, to flirt with her, to make her feel more alive than ever.

And now her heart--his heart--is flitting about her chest like a frightened little bird, unable to process all this as she sits there, bent double under the terrible, crushing weight of the twofold revelation.

His story was over before theirs ever began.

.

.

.

THE END...?

(((Now, for those who enjoy their angst nice and bitter, I suggest you stop here. Those looking to alleviate the pain a little, please read on - I hope this little bit helps.)))

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.

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A single grey feather floats down from above, settling gently on the tip of her shoe.

Regina stares at its blurry shape, blinking and choking on tears, then picks it up gingerly, automatically, for inspection.

“Are you a friend of my papa’s?”

The child, Roland, is standing before her, looking up at her with wide brown eyes.

For lack of a better response, Regina simply nods.

“I thought so,” the precious boy grins happily, those dimples matching his father’s sending a stab to her gut. “He sent you the same message he always sends me when I miss him most.”

And the ghost of a caress lingers upon her cheek, like an invisible hand reaching to wipe away her tears.

Farewell, Regina.

“So long, Robin,” she whispers. “You still owe me that drink.”

#SpookyOQ #ouat #oq ff #outlaw queen #oq fanfic #bee writes fanfic #one fine mourning

[knightfury1895]

Mending Watson

"It was nice to see Lestrade," Watson remarks when I have finally dragged myself back to my chair beside the fire. "He might not be very quick to admit it, but he is really very fond of you Holmes - he did let it slip that he missed you on occasion." I grind my teeth, unable to appreciate the inspector's sentiment in light of how thoughtless it was of him. Has my Boswell not suffered enough, without being told by men who would not consider me to be more than a mere acquaintance that they also miss me? I should like to give the imbecile a piece of my mind! "Are you all right Holmes?" my dear friend asks of me. "You are very quiet." "Yes. Yes, I am quite all right," I assure him with a wave of my hand. "Forgive me Watson." He frowns at me and studies my face for a long moment. "Would you promise to inform me the moment that you begin to feel unwell?" I hardly wish to worry the fellow! He has enough to concern himself with of late, without having me added to them. "Promise me," he repeats firmly. "You cannot know just how far it would go towards putting my mind at rest." "Watson..." I run a hand over my face wearily. "I assure you that I am not ailing - I am merely a little fagged and nothing more." His glassy eyes study me again. "I am not just talking about right now Holmes. I mean for you to be perfectly honest with me from now on - it is deucedly unfair that I can hide nothing what so ever from you, while you..." he is forced to pause his speech by a fit of coughing and I hurry to pour him some more water. Tentatively, I sit beside my friend of old and hand him the glass, still daring not to touch him or even look at him too keenly. "Thank you Holmes," he sips at the water gratefully. "Where was I?" I begin to study my fingers so as to avoid meeting his gaze. "You were bemoaning how unfair it is that I keep things from you when I know how you are by simply hearing your tread on the stairs or seeing the way in which you stand or move." "Ah. Yes," he chuckles quietly and then sets aside his glass to cough into his handkerchief. "I am a doctor, but I find it deucedly difficult to know when you are suffering - much less what you might be suffering of - and that has to change old fellow; if you cannot even trust me to know when you are unwell..." "I do trust you!" I all but shout at him. "Watson, it is not a question of trust." His eyes meet mine in a questioning and irritated glare as he slowly raises an eyebrow at me. "Then what is it?" I slam my eyes shut, run my hand through my hair and force myself to my feet to begin to pace furiously. "Pride," I grate at him at last. "Mostly, it is my damned pride. I am accustomed to managing on my own and so I intend to continue to do so." Watson laughs behind me and I whirl to face him, causing my head to swim slightly even as I stare at him in irked confusion. "Thank you for your honesty Holmes," he acknowledges with a small smile. "It would seem that we are both guilty of allowing our pride to get the better of us." I lower my gaze and give a slight nod. "It would appear that we do indeed both share that weakness, yes." He nods in turn and beckons for me to come and resume my seat beside him on the settee once more. "And when it is not simply a matter of pride?" he prompts as I sit with a weary sigh. I give a slight start and stare at him. "You said that it was 'mostly' due to your pride Holmes." "Did I?" I blink back at him and lick my dry lips. I know not quite what to tell him now. "Yes, you did old man. Come on now - what are you not telling me?" I squirm in my seat and again make a study of my hands. "Holmes?" He is losing patience now - even with his irritated throat, his tone is perfectly discernible. "It would no doubt hurt your pride old fellow. I know not quite..." He huffs and glares at me anew. "I do not like to worry or inconvenience you - and you do fret," I find myself saying without weighing my words at all. "One sneeze is enough to cause you to panic - God only knows how you might react if I were to confess to feeling even slightly unwell!" "I do not 'panic'," my friend retorts. "I admit that I fret Holmes, but your lack of care would cause anyone that knows you to worry - for goodness sake, even Lestrade and the other fellows at Scotland Yard worry and they are not as fond of you as I am!" He again begins to cough and I hand him back his glass of water. "Thank you." I pat his arm somewhat uncertainly. "Forgive me Watson. I mean no offence in what I say; I simply do not like to cause you unnecessary concern." I hear the fellow give a sigh beside me. There is the sound of the glass being returned to the coffee table and then Watson's head comes to rest at my shoulder. "You are not angry with me?" I hear my voice ask nervously. He shakes his head very slightly but is otherwise still. "I am frustrated and I dearly wish that I could understand your thought process at times, but no I am most certainly not angry with you." I feel the tension that I had not even been aware of until this moment slowly leave me and I give a relieved sigh. "Nor would I ever become angry with you for falling ill and requiring assistance - you are my friend Holmes! I would be as glad to tend to you in sickness or injury as I would be to accompany you on one of your cases." He truly means that - what have I done to deserve such a friend? I can think of nothing! "Promise me that you shall at least attempt to be honest with me. Please." I nod and clear my throat. "If it will put your mind at rest then I promise, though Heaven only knows why you should trouble yourself so on my account." He again gives his head a barely-perceptible shake and then sniffs. "Do I have to explain it to you?" I shrug and excuse myself to stand. I suppose that we should give Lestrade's suggestion a try, though I am not quite sure how I shall broach the subject with Watson - the very idea seems ludicrous to me now. Well, it will at least distract him from his current subject, which can only be a point in the notion's favour. "What are you doing Holmes?" my friend asks of me as I begin to rummage around at my desk, tossing papers left and right in my quest for clean paper and pencils (I very much doubt that three-year-old ink would work terribly well and Mrs. Hudson would undoubtedly have a fit should she catch us using writing pens on our settee). "Holmes?" he asks again, turning to watch me over his shoulder. "What the deuce are you doing?" "I wish to try something that was suggested to me by Lestrade," I respond with a dismissive wave of my free hand. "It seems quite ridiculous if you ask me - perhaps I should have made a small wager with him that it would never work." He frowns at me, his curiosity clearly roused. "Oh? What was his suggestion?" The Yarder did suggest that I try the technique as well, if only to persuade Watson to do the same. I wonder if allowing him to think that it was meant as a benefit to me would sway him at all. I shrug again, maintaining my nonchalant façade. "Oh, it is supposed to help with nightmares, I believe. I have not been able to sleep peacefully since the incident with the cocaine." "That is quite normal, I understand." Which is precisely why I told the fellow that I have been suffering with nightmares, as opposed to some emotional upset - he would never believe that whether it was true or not. I eventually find an old sketchbook that I had quite forgotten about - as the single, half-finished sketch within illustrates. I tear the page from the book and toss it upon the fire (I did not complete it as it was not turning out as I wanted it), so that I need not find it again. This done, I remove the page to which that one was attached and hand the sketchbook to my Boswell. "I need a pencil," I tell the fellow by way of explanation before returning to going through the drawers of my desk. "I am sure that I had at least one - more than one. Where the deuce are they? Mrs. Hudson! Why does the damned woman have to move all that is not strapped down? Mrs. Hudson! Where the Hell are the pencils that I had in my desk?" "Holmes!" Watson scolds. "That is quite enough of that. You should not talk to a lady in such a manner." I whirl to retort that I am not talking to a lady; I am talking to my wretched housekeeper, who has moved something that she had no business to touch, when the woman in question storms into the room and sets two pencils of her own down on the coffee table. With a "Humph!" she then sweeps from the room again, slamming the door behind her. "There you are Holmes," my friend of old groans. "Two pencils. I suggest that you thank Mrs. Hudson and apologise for your behaviour." I shall concern myself with such trivialities later. I sit beside my Boswell and tap at my lip with the pencil that I have picked up, narrowing my eyes in thought. What can I possibly write? "What exactly is this exercise in aid of?" I give an exasperated sigh. "The idea is that I make a list of the things that trouble me and then toss them into the fire. The very idea is preposterous!" "I must disagree with you," my dear friend corrects me. "Writing can be very therapeutic - I myself first started to keep a journal as a means to ease some of my frustration, when I was invalided home." "Then perhaps we should both try Lestrade's little exercise," I respond with a shrug as I stare down at the page that I am balancing on my knee, hoping that the fellow will take any outward sign of excitement on my part as a desire to put this experiment behind me. "That might be a good idea," he admits as he takes up the pencil and folds his sheet of paper in half. I still know not what to write. I am not grieving and I feel perfectly well - what can I possibly find to bemoan to a piece of drawing paper? Watson shifts at my side and gives two rather unpleasant-sounding sneezes. Poor fellow! How I wish that I could do something of any use for him, rather than sitting at his side and watching him suffer. Ah! Now I know what to write and jot down a single sentence. It is, at the very least, a start. I then stare down at the paper in the vain hope of finding further inspiration until my weary eyes become dim and misty. For just how long have I forgone sleep? It feels like an age! Even I must rest at some point, however much I may wish to avoid it, and I would rather not partake of my cocaine again to help me to remain wakeful - the memory of my over-indulgence is much too fresh in my mind (and, I dare say, that of my staunch biographer as well) and my dear friend is much too weak for me to want to try his nerves in so callous a manner anyhow. Perhaps I should throw my words upon the fire now, seeing as my weary body and mind would appear to no longer be able to ignore the summons of Morpheus. With a weary groan I open misty eyes. The fire is still burning, the room is quite dim and Watson is gazing at me with some concern. "Lestrade's suggestion would seem to have worked," he notes with just the hint of a smile. "You have been asleep for almost three and a half hours - do you feel better for it?" I rub at my forehead and attempt to conceal a yawn as I slowly sit up. "I am quite well Watson - merely a trifle weary. How are you?" His face lights up and he pats at my shoulder. "I do feel a little better. I actually feel that I could eat a hearty meal." Excellent! At the words I find the energy to leap from my chair and bound to the door of the sitting room. "Mrs. Hudson! When will supper be ready? Doctor Watson is starving!" "Holmes!" the fellow chastises me. "I cannot possibly manage a hearty meal - it would more than likely upset my digestion after my prolonged fast. Broth is what I need for now." I apologise quietly and turn my attention to the door as I hear the footsteps of our housekeeper approach it. From her tread alone I know that she is somewhat irked. "I shall feed the good doctor only if you agree to take some supper as well Mr. Holmes," she informs me as she quietly enters. "You have eaten no more than he has and you really must keep up your strength - you are both much too thin at present." Humph! "I can assure you, Mrs. Hudson, that my weight has not changed at all since I first took up lodgings here." "Then I must disagree - as I am sure that Doctor Watson will - for you lost rather a lot of weight before your disappearance and you look worse now than you did then, if that is at all possible. You need food and rest Mr. Holmes, or you are going to become even more unwell than the poor doctor has been and you'll hamper his own recovery by worrying him." I suppress a growl of frustration at finding myself to be out-numbered and out-manoeuvred. "Very well. I shall also take some broth, if I may. Watson informs me that it is the best thing to have after a fast, lest one cause one's digestion to become upset." She beams a smile at me, addresses Watson with a very fond, motherly expression and then leaves the room even more quietly than she entered it. "How I have missed that dear lady," I hear Watson murmur softly. I would never admit as much out loud, but it would appear that he has successfully voiced my own thoughts. How good it is to be home, to be among friends... How different things could have been, had those friends not been so very loyal. Even Lestrade would seem to be at least trying to forgive my three years of deception, though it would appear that he is rather more hurt and angry for my dear biographer's sake than his own - which makes it rather the more easy to forgive him.

#To Return From Death #Mending Watson #multipart #chapter twenty-three #part twenty-three #illness #grief #hurt and comfort #friendship #Classic Sherlock Holmes fan fiction #my stories