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ohdaim · 3 years

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april fool's day oneshot

hi guys, i wrote this today in one sitting, and it's lazily edited:) i'm recovering from an oral surgery and on strong medication, so i hope this makes as much sense as i think it does.

Ship: Ignis Scientia/female reader Summary: You are a Citadel valet working the night shift, frequently attending to Ignis' car. You have no idea how to talk to him. He has no idea how to ask for your number. Words: 1849 idk if this is considered fluff or just mutual pining but with like,, idiots

Stir together bread crumbs, garlic, parsley…

You scanned the rest of the newest recipe on your favorite cooking blog, Feeding The Fussy. As always, it looked delicious. As always, you rated it five stars and typed out a comment.

I followed the recipe exactly, but I left out the bread crumbs and cheese. I used shrimp and bacon grease instead. Terrible recipe. Won’t make again.

Putting your phone away, you came to attention when someone stepped out of a Citadel elevator across the lobby. You worked night shift as a palace valet and hardly saw anyone but for a few regular night owls. One of them approached now, and gods, you were nervous all of a sudden.

Ignis was your favorite regular. He was polite, tipped well, and made small talk so you wouldn't have to. You didn’t know what he did in the Citadel or why he so often left at four in the morning. You just knew you had a big crush on him and, for that reason, could never carry a full conversation without getting sweaty palms.

“Good morning.” He greeted you first. “Quiet night?”

You nodded, entering the info you needed to check his vehicle out of the system. You wanted to say something, anything. Nerves got the best of you, and you excused yourself into the back room to get his car keys. On your way out, you held them up. “I’ll have your car here momentarily.”

Ignis didn’t respond. He wasn’t even looking at you. His attention was on his phone, a corner of his mouth curled upward.

You paused, taking in the smirk with shy curiosity. That was a new look. What was he smirking at? When he seemed to remember himself, he schooled the look and met your eyes. Startling, you repeated yourself quietly and went through the doors leading to the parking garage.

Ignis’ car consistently smelled like coffee wrapped in leather. Your phone vibrated in your pocket as you buckled in. Because you wanted to linger in the nice scent--was this extremely weird? Yes, of course--you checked to see what the buzzing was about.

An email. You’d gotten a reply from the Feeding The Fussy chef. They’d liked your comments in the past but hadn’t addressed your obvious jokes. You stared at the subject line for a beat, then opened the message.

Thank you for the review. Almost as insightful as last week’s eight hundred word description of your current diet and how my recipes conflict. Do you have any suggestions on how to improve this one?

Your nervousness grew so heavy, it burst in bright red over your face, a flame in your chest. The chef was talking to you. You’d chalked it up to luck that they understood your sense of humor and the intent of your comments. Never had you thought they’d give more than a like. You typed a response before getting back to work.

Pro tip: Using a microwave is faster than the oven. Also, I’ve begun a new diet (details to follow), so is there any way to make this recipe without the ingredients?

Ignis’ car was fancy but less so than most others in the garage. You always felt a pinch of regret when pulling it up to the lobby entrance. Driving a car like his just to see how fast it could go, it wasn’t something you’d ever get to do. You didn’t own one yourself, and truthfully, you'd only gotten a driving license to be qualified for this job. Getting out, you waved at Ignis and extended an arm toward the open driver’s seat.

Tip passing from his hand to your own, you bowed and tucked the money into a pocket. He thanked you, getting into his car. You waited for him to drive away, likely the last person you’d see this shift.

“Ah, pardon me,” Ignis startled you by climbing back out, the car door hanging open. He held something out to you. “I believe you dropped this.”

You looked at your phone in his hand, your eyes wide, nervousness becoming embarrassment. Quickly grabbing it, you bowed again. “Sorry.”

Ignis chuckled. “It’s quite alright. Good thing I noticed when I did.”

Nodding emphatically, you wished he’d just go before you humiliated yourself further.

Clearly not reading your mind, he lingered a moment longer. “In truth, I--”

“Have a good day, sir.” You didn’t mean to interrupt him and hadn’t expected him to say more.

He cleared his throat and smiled. “Same to you.” Thanking you again, by name this time, he left.

Back in the quiet lobby, you put his tip with the rest you’d made that night. You sat behind the desk and buried your face in your hands. The sting of feeling stupid in front of Ignis was abated by the underlying excitement that came from talking to the chef you admired.

They specialized in meals for picky eaters, which you were. They used clear directions, so they could be followed by an amateur chef, which you really were. They sometimes added personal anecdotes spiced with sarcasm and dry jokes to the recipe’s background, which made you feel safe to comment. You refrained from checking your inbox, content to wait until you were home to see if they’d replied yet.

Two attendants arrived for the day shift, and as you hitched the strap of your bag over a shoulder, readying to leave, one of them told you to wait.

“You should pick up a new nametag before your next shift.”

Glancing down at your uniform, you remembered you’d lost yours several days ago. “Oh, right. I will.”

You stepped into an elevator, pressing the button for the metro station level. New nametag. Dumb. You had your work badge but still required a tag. How else would the Citadel inhabitants know who to thank for fetching their expensive cars? You rolled your eyes at the thought, already annoyed. You’d have to come to work early to pick it up. Was it too soon to quit and attend culinary school? You needed to make a bit more money first. Ignis tipped large bills, but still, it’d take years of picking his car up every morning before you could afford tuition.

Grinning to yourself, you weaved through the incoming morning crowds and boarded a train home. It had felt nice, hearing Ignis say your name on his way out. He was the only person who ever addressed you, so maybe getting a new tag was worth it for that alone. Ignis was just-- He truly-- You really liked when he came down, that was all.

It didn’t strike you for another several hours, as you filled out the online request for a new Citadel employee nametag, that Ignis must’ve remembered your name. You supposed a great memory was probably just another part of his polite demeanor. That’s what you told yourself, at least, to keep your crush from growing. You didn’t even know the man.

You attempted the chef’s latest recipe, and as it cooled, you--very casually and not nervously at all--checked to see if they’d replied.

I’ll keep that tip in mind. As for your question, I recommend the following replacement recipe: brew a cup of coffee or tea, sit somewhere comfortable, and enjoy the beverage knowing your comments haunt me whenever I cook.

You read and reread the message, then laughed into a hand. Worth the wait. You ate a bite directly from the dish on your counter, huffing through the fresh heat with mild regret. They deserved a genuine review after such honesty, but it seemed you were doing little more than burning the roof of your mouth. So you took a picture of the food, offering a thumbs up with one hand in frame, and sent it as a reply.

The next night you worked, Ignis arrived much earlier than expected--before midnight, no less. He was coming in rather than going out. Another man was with him, someone blonde and unfamiliar. Ignis opened the back to retrieve something, turning you down when you offered to get it for him. The blonde man, his smile sincere but awkward, complimented your shoes.

“Thanks.” You didn’t really know what to say. People chatting with you was uncommon.

“They match your uniform’s tie… thing.” The blonde man was red in the face. Someone needed to tell him he didn’t have to make small talk. You were just a valet. He persisted, his smile broad. “It’s nice, y’know. You’re, like, coordinated and stuff.”

“Prompto.” Ignis closed the back and proffered a piece of luggage toward the other man. “Leave her be.” When the man took the bag from him, Ignis gave you the car keys. “I apologize for my friend. He can’t contain himself around beautiful women. Add inebriation, and he’s a lost cause.”

You gripped the keys tightly, taking in everything with a slow nod. Yes, of course, right. All of that made sense. Ignis was bringing a drunk friend into the palace. Normal Ignis stuff.

“Do you think Cor’s gonna be mad at me?” the blonde asked Ignis, walking backwards from the car toward the lobby doors. “Iggy, what if Cor gets mad at me?”

Ignis rolled his eyes, a hand checking his inner jacket. “A tad late to worry about that. Go directly to the barracks and try to sleep it off.”

“Where are the barracks again?”

Ignis’ chest broadened with a sigh, and he left the guy hanging. Withdrawing a money clip, he held it out to you. “For your trouble.”

You hesitated taking it. The outer bill appeared to be 1,000 yen, and it was several notes thick… More than the usual tip. You took it slowly, fingertips brushing his leather covered palm, and murmured a quiet thanks.

Ignis remained, his hand lifting to brush loose strands of hair out of his face. He wasn’t as put together as you were used to. Your eyes trailed downward, now noticing the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Huh.

He cleared his throat and began, “There’s something I--”

“C’mon, Iggy!” The blonde man held one of the entrance doors wide open. “If I knew Cor was gonna be mad anyway, I would’ve stayed at Noct’s.”

Ignis gave you a hasty farewell, already walking away to push the blonde man through the door. They disappeared inside, leaving an awkward wake of silence. You settled into Ignis’ coffee-and-leather scented car, a realization hitting you late, as they tended to do. Had Ignis implied you were beautiful? You didn’t entertain the thought for long. Ignis was a professional, royal something-or-other. He would never. You were reading too much into it. Surely.

On the walk from Ignis’ parking spot back to the lobby, you checked for the latest message from the chef. You’d boldly given them your number in a DM when the comment thread became unbearably long. You hadn’t held out hope of receiving a message and read their initial text at least ten times in disbelief before responding and saving the number.

Was this a new friendship? You hoped so.

#ignis scientia/reader #ignis scientia #ffxv fanfiction #daim writes #lmao do recipe sites even have direct messaging idk #this thing doesn't have a title #it was supposed to be about a prank but i am in fact the fool #anyway i love you guys please take this #i'm going to rest now aaaaaaaaaaaa

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uriel-ignatius121 · 5 years

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More Shadantis?? Shiro/Adam/Lance/Curtis is my new OT4

[i am loving this ot4 but i am having a hard time figuring out what i want for their personalities? Like we barely know Adam and Curtis - but it is safe to say that they are awesome dudes because, in VLD canon, Shiro loves them - even with the drama of Kerberos and Adam... but this is my happy-ish AU and i write the rules, and canon is my bitch now - all the ages are different because an institution like the Garrison should enroll people as young as 18 for programs like being a pilot or space explorer etc. Programs for highschool level can exist but just teach you general classes - but leanings towards sciences?? idk.]

Shiro and Adam met first, enrolling into the Garrison around the same time and got into similar pilot programs - though Shiro was more interested with going further than just being Fighter Pilot.

They were roommates and slowly got closer and closer - and then they started dating. Shiro was pretty much an overachiever and thank god Adam was around to nag Shiro to take a rest or eat between studying. Adam was content with his current position and place in life, but he worries about Shiro a lot since he was going to Space a lot and he was visiting the Medical Wing more times than usual.

Lance enters the picture when he enters the Cargo Pilot program at 18 years old with ambitions to move on to be a Fighter Pilot. Shiro is an instructor for basic flying between Space Missions while Adam trains the fighter pilots.

Lance has a huuuge crush on Shiro and practically worships the ground he walks on. When in need to extra help with his classes, especially in improving his simulation scores, Lance was too shy to ask Shiro for any help but he keeps visiting the Instructor’s Lounge or pass by Shiro and Adam’s room.

Adam notices though because he isn’t as oblivious as Shiro and he calls out to Lance one day to offer to tutor him.

Adam is impressed with Lance’s tenacity and charmed by his loud and bright attitude. Adam can see that Lance was very much capable of achieving whatever he puts his mind to, he just needed the occasional confidence boost and praise, which Adam can gladly give in buckets just to see those blue eyes sparkle.

Shiro soon notices Adam spending more time tutoring the younger Cadet and how happier Adam is after his sessions with Lance. Shiro started paying attention to the aspiring Fighter Pilot. He was happy to see the cadet’s scores improving since being taken under Adam’s wing. Shiro also started to see the happy-go-lucky cadet be the friendly, social butterfly he was and how that no matter what assortment of team members he got assigned with, he was able to adapt and adjust accordingly to be as useful and effective as possible.

Adam started out as bestfriends and then best friends who dated but they havent really explored much beyond that in terms of exclusivity. They very much love and care for each other and will like to keep being in love and happy through any means necessary. Shiro was much aware that Adam might be feeling a bit lonely, their schedules never meeting right and Shiro’s missions taking months away from planet... the possibility of seeing other people was never off the table.

They soon have a talk about it, Adam’s feelings for Lance and what Adam believes the depth of Lance’s feelings for Shiro.

After another tutoring session, Adam asks Lance to stay a bit longer. Lance is curious what this was about and he stays, right after sending Hunk, his roommate, a quick text that he might be late for their study date.

Adam suddenly invites Shiro into the room and Lance starts to feel like a cornered rabbit, but he is quickly reassured by the 2 Instructors what this was all about - inviting Lance into their relationship. First, Lance was totally shocked that his ‘unattainable’ crush and his tutor he was low-key flirting with were dating and second, they want to date him as well...

Lance request that he needs to think this over, he is still confused and unsure... but he promises to give his answer soon.

Lance goes to talk to his sister Veronica who worked at the Garrison as an Analyst. She smacks Lance on the backside of the head for not knowing Shiro and Adam were dating despite being a Shiro fanboy. The 2 siblings have a heart-to-heart, Lance finally admitting to someone who was not Hunk that he was bisexual and very much interested in dating guys - specifically these 2 guys who very much want to date him as well.

Veronica tells Lance that she loves him no matter what and she supports what decision he makes and when he does open up to the rest of the family. She also reassures him that if Adam and Shiro do anything to hurt him, she’ll make sure that their next flying exercises will be hell.

After the weekend, Lance comes with his answer and the comfy duo become a trio... much to Keith’s annoyance that the loud kid from his early flight classes is dating his sponsor and a guy he considers as family.

Fast forward through Shiro’s diagnosis (i dont think his illness would kill him instantly? maybe like cause muscle and nerve damage that would lead to paralysis if left untreated which would cause complications like respiratory distress and other organs and body systems failing), the sudden increase of Shiro’s missions despite his condition, the planning of the Kerberos Mission, Adam and Shiro’s big FIGHT (which Lance was very much concern of Shiro’s well being but Adam isn’t venting his frustrations to the younger man so he is unaware of the fight), the Kerberos mission and the crew’s disappearance, Lance trying to stay strong for Adam and himself, Keith’s expulsion from the Garrison and Lance jump into the Fighter Pilot program which Adam doesn’t instruct anymore because of the stress and depression from Shiro’s ‘death’, Shiro’s sudden ‘return’ and the finding of the Blue Lion.

Adam was at first distraught at hearing Lance’s last call, about founding Shiro but that there is something bigger going on and that he will only come back once everything was okay and he has Shiro by his side.

Adam trusts that Lance and Shiro will care for each other, he is happy that they have each other - Adam doesnt have high enough clearance to be informed of what happened that night, but he meets Lance’s sister who fills him in.

Fast forward some more through the story - Shiro is the captain of the Atlas, Adam is the Commander of the MFE pilots, and Lance is the Red Paladin, the SiC of Voltron.

The MFE pilots are working closely with Voltron while the Atlas stays as back up and support. Shiro is very much inexperienced in leading a group of this scale, a whole battlehip - but he needs to think about the lives that need saving all across the Universe as well as those he cares deeply about. He tries to keep his voice steady and clear and his aura of that as a strong leader... but there are times he feels alone, he is far away and way too busy to be with his friends and lovers. Shiro befriends Curtis, one of the Senior Officers chosen by Commander Holt to be part of the Atlas Crew. (Curtis is younger than Shiro & Adam but older than Lance)

Curtis has more experience in working with crews and ships of this manner, not of the scale of Atlas, but the protocols and basics are there. Shiro usually confides with all of the crew of his limitations in knowledge regarding being the captain of Atlas’ kind, but mostly to Curtis who was always happy to help. Curtis becomes more attuned to Shiro, as he wishes to be as helpful to the Captain as possible, he makes sure that the bridge functions as smoothly as possible - even asking Veronica’s help, which will cost him. He makes sure Shiro is aware of his scheduled meetings with the higher ups and his dates with his boyfriends, checking with the Red Paladin and the MFE pilots’ CO (he also starts to get to know Adam and Lance here as well). Curtis slowly realizes that he was developing feelings for Shiro... his captain who already has 2 boyfriends that love him fiercely that one them even traveled to Space for him.

One day Curtis walks into the bridge, accidentally interrupting some discussion Shiro was having with Adam and Lance. He quickly excuses himself but Shiro calls him back.

Curtis keeps his head lowered, looking at everyone’s feet instead of their eyes. He feels outnumbered and out of place, worried that they know of his feelings for the Captain and that they want to tear him a new one for even daring to even imagine being with him. He is startled by the hand on his shoulder, a friendly pat coming from the Red Paladin of Voltron, he receives a warm smile from him and a friendly greeting and reassurance that he has nothing to worry about.

Curtis looks at Shiro who seems bashful, but looking at him with curious eyes. Adam was the one to break the silence, explaining to Curtis what the current situation was - that Shiro has feelings for Curtis and thinks he might fit well in their little family, that Lance and Adam agree. Shiro and Curtis talk about it further, with Adam and Lance as an audience.

Similar to Lance, Curtis wants some time before he can give them an answer, and with that they all separate to return to their jobs, though Shiro and Curtis are awkward about it at first - they ease back into their roles with work as their main focus.

After a night thinking it over, Curtis calls for all three of them when he says yes, he wants to date them.

And the steadfast trio becomes a family of four

#shadantis #voltron #vld spoilers #voltron s8 au #voltron s8

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a-splash-of-stucky · 6 years

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In Sickness and In Health

Pairings: Steve x Reader

Summary: You’re sick, but for a very good reason.

Warnings: Vomiting and generally being ill. Implied/referenced smut.

Notes: Wrote this on a train, sorry if it’s crap (I was sleep-deprived and in a funny mood). Written for @supersoldierslover’s 3k writing challenge, with the prompt ‘taking care of each other whilst sick’.

also — there was a long period of time between me writing this and me editing it and man. Lemme tell you, I cracked myself up a few times (is that lame? idk) re-reading it.

My Masterlist

To get out of bed or to stay in bed, that is the question, you muse. It’s a hard decision you have to make.

“Fuckin’ butcherin’ Shakespeare, I’m that delirious,” you grumble, to no one in particular.

You’re curled up on your side underneath a fluffy blanket, despite the fact that it’s almost noon. You haven’t had a shower in—an unreasonably long amount of time, goodness, you don’t even want to think about how long it’s ben. You’re wearing your rattiest pair of pyjama shorts and an old t-shirt of your husband’s. In short, you look — and feel — like shit.

You’ve been feeling horribly nauseous. The dreaded queasiness has been plaguing you for the past couple of days, lingering in the back of your throat like an itch you can’t get rid of. A sickening feeling is beginning to creep into your mouth; the urge to hurl is present, but not yet imminent. Although, you’re fairly certain that with the way things have been going lately, you’ll be puking your guts out in no time.

The issue here is the fact that your limbs have basically been reduced to wobbly noodles. You don’t think you have it in you to roll over to the edge of the bed and throw up in the conveniently placed bucket, let alone stagger into the bathroom to puke into the toilet. Earlier this morning, you’d tried standing up, intending to go downstairs for some breakfast, only to find yourself swaying on two feet and collapsing onto the bed from sudden dizziness.

You sigh tiredly as you wallow in a pool of self-pity. Being sick fucking sucks.

It is at that moment that you hear the front door of your apartment creaking open. Heavy footsteps come next, thudding into the hallway. Keys jangle as they’re set onto the counter.

“Steve?” you groan.

Your husband materialises in the doorway of the bedroom, a plastic bag in one hand, his jacket in the other.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, eyes going all soft and concerned as he takes in your current situation — buried under the blanket, your hair in a mess and a positively miserable expression on your face.

“It’s real bad, huh, baby?” he asks, draping his jacket over the desk chair as he approaches the bed. Steve crouches down beside you, so that his handsome — unfairly handsome, Steven why are you like this? — face is level with yours.

“Think m’gonna be sick again,” you mumble.

Steve’s eyebrows quirk up in understanding.

“Need me to carry you?” he asks. You manage to nod your head, even in your weakened state.

Steve straightens up and leans over you to help unwrap the blanket from your body. He gets one arm underneath your knees and the other around your shoulders, holding you in a sure, secure grip, as if you weigh nothing at all. Your husband whisks you into the ensuite and gently deposits you beside the toilet. You manage to muster up enough arm-leg coordination to arrange your body over the bowl as the first tremors roll through you.

There’s not much strength in you, having been up most of the night in this exact same spot, doing basically the exact same thing. You heave an retch weakly, your entire body quaking as you puke out the half-a-slice of toast you’d had for breakfast. All throughout the unglamorous ordeal, Steve stays by your side, one hand rubbing soothing circles over your back, the other brushing your hair away from your face. He murmurs calming words into your ear that get drowned out by the unrelenting roar of your pulse.

When the bout is over, you slump against the wall beside the toilet, bringing your knees to your chest and resting your forehead on top of them. The dizzying sensation is still pulsing behind your temples so you close your eyes and force yourself to take deep breaths through your mouth, in order to steady yourself. You hear Steve standing up and flushing the toilet, before striding out of the bathroom.

He’s back a few seconds later, though, before you even get a chance to call out for him. You feel — rather than see — him sitting down in front of you. The soft crinkling and rustling of plastic tells you the purpose of his short trip to the bedroom. You hear a sharp snapping noise, then feels Steve’s fingers touching the back of your hand.

“Here, baby, drink this,” Steve says softly. You lift your head up and look at him through bleary eyes. Steve’s bringing a bottle to your lips, an encouraging smile on his face. You squint at the contents of the bottle suspiciously; it’s filled with an unnervingly bright orange-coloured liquid.

“S’just an energy drink,” he explains, “To replenish your electrolytes.”

You shrug indifferently, leaning your head forward. At least the thing has a sports top. You take several large sips, savouring the way the chilled liquid soothes the slight burn irritating your throat that comes with puking your guts out. It’s also unbearably sweet, but at least that has the advantage of chasing away the horrible aftertaste of vomit.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a small pink and white box poking out of the plastic bag. As Steve re-caps the bottle and sets it aside, you reach out a hand to inspect the box. What it says on the front makes your heart do uncontrolled leaps.

“Steve?” you breathe.

“Hmm?”

“What is this?” you ask, turning the box in your hand.

A scarlet flush spreads over Steve’s face, spreading from the roots of his hair, to the tips of his ears and even down his neck. He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Um, look, I—I told the lady at the counter your symptoms, to get you some meds, and she was askin’ me questions about what you’ve been doing these past couple’a days, and…and well, she thought it might be worth taking…one,” he finishes lamely, gesturing awkwardly to the box in your hand.

“She thinks I might be pregnant?” you breathe incredulously, looking down at the pregnancy test in your hand in disbelief.

To be fair, this is not a wholly impossible explanation. Lately, you and Steve have been a lot lazier with regards to protection and, now that you think about it, your period might be a little bit late. Then again, your cycle has a tendency to be irregular at awkward times, so who are you to know these things?

“She…well, she said it couldn’t hurt to buy one,” Steve mutters, shifting uncomfortably on his haunches as he sets the energy drink back into the plastic bag. “Look, if you’d rather not—,”

“No, no,” you protest, flapping him away with one hand as you crack the box open with your other. “S’worth a try.”

You break open the seal, then tip out the contents of the box; a pee-on-a-stick test and a small instruction pamphlet. You skin through the pictures, your brows furrowed and your lips caught between your teeth. In your peripheral vision, you can see your husband trying to not let his nerves show.

The process seem simple enough, you muse. Pee on the stick, cap it, then wait three minute before reading the result. Standard. You’ve never taken a pregnancy test before, and you can’t help but feel a little bit excited as to what the result might be.

“D’you want me to…y’know what? I’ll wait outside,” Steve decides, as he pushes himself to his feet. You hold your hands out and shoot him your best puppy-dog look. Steve chuckles, shaking his head in amusement as he grasps your wrists and pulls you up in one smooth movement. Before he lets you go, Steve throws his arms around your waist and pulls you to his chest.

“I love you,” he breathes, pressing a tender kiss to the middle of your forehead. He’s got a dopey grin on his face that he can’t seem to get rid off — but to be fair, you’re pretty sure that you’re not much better. The excitement is making him almost buzz out of his skin.

“Honey, we don’t even know if I’m pregnant yet!” you laugh, playfully wriggling in his grip.

“I know,” he murmurs, finally letting you go. He bends down to pick the plastic bag up again. When he straightens, he flashes you that killer smile, “I still love you, though.”

“Sap,” you tease, sticking your tongue out when Steve makes a wounded face. “Shoo!” you order, prodding him in the shoulder to get him moving, “Let me pee in peace.”

Steve guffaws, eyes crinkling at the corners and hand reaching up to clutch his left pec as he walks backwards out of the bathroom. You giggle as you watch him leave, wondering how on earth you landed yourself this dork. Once he’s gone, you pull down your sleep shorts, take an unnecessarily dramatic breath, then sit on the toilet to take a test whose results could very well change life as you know it.

Being sick makes you something of a drama queen, it seems.

As per the instructions on the pamphlet, once you’ve saturated the tip on your urine, you replace the cap, then set it on the bathroom counter on top of some folded tissue paper — pointedly not looking at the small window where two pink lines may or may not appear in a few minutes time. You wash your hands, then head into the bedroom, where Steve is waiting.

He’s sat on the edge of the bed wearing a hopeful expression on his face. His thighs are spread apart and his elbows are on his knees.

“Got three minutes to wait,” you announce, your gaze flicking to the digital alarm clock you keep on the bedside table. Steve nods, sitting up straighter and holding his arms out in invitation. You smile brightly, sauntering over and perching yourself in his lap. His strong arms encircle you, pulling you close. Steve rests his chin on top of your head and sighs quietly.

“I’m a little nervous,” he admits, voice low and quiet.

“Me too,” you breathe, your fingers idly tracing the geometric design on the front of his t-shirt.

It’s quite possibly the longest three minutes you’ve ever had to wait out.

(Okay, being sick definitely makes you more of a drama queen).

Everyone probably says that kind of thing when they’re waiting for something as momentous and potentially life-changing as this, but still. Time is a cruel fiend, slowing itself down when all you want is to know right now. You find your gaze drifting over to the clock more often than not.

That’s doing absolutely nothing to calm the butterflies fluttering like madmen in your stomach. Or maybe, that’s just the nausea acting up again. No, no — definitely nerves.

“‘Kay,” you say, twisting out of Steve’s grip and getting to your feet when the time is — finally — up. “You comin’ with?” you ask, holding a hand out for Steve to take.

He regards it, swallows nervously, then shakes his head. “I’m gonna wait here,” he says resolutely, folding his arms over his muscled chest and tipping his chin up to look at you. “You get to tell me what the results are.”

“Just an excuse for bein’ lazy,” you say under your breath, as you turn to head into the bathroom. Steve snorts indignantly, forcing you to stifle a chuckle — enhanced hearing; of course he caught that.

The next few seconds pass by in a surreal blur. One moment you’re walking into the bathroom, the next moment you’re staring at the pregnancy test on the counter and seeing two bright pink lines staring back at you.

Your heart stops.

You’re not sure whether the urge to scream or the urge to bawl is stronger — torn in its indecision, your body winds up doing neither, choosing to freeze in shock, instead.

It’s quite possible that for a few seconds, your lungs stop working.

“Sweetheart?” Steve calls, “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you reply, your mouth finally remembering how to make words come out. Your muscles are acting like they’re paralysed — no matter how hard you command them to move, you’re stuck in the same spot.

You’ve no idea how much time passes, but it’s clearly long enough to make Steve concerned. He strides into the room, all purposeful and determined, though you can see the hesitation and apprehension in his eyes. Steve comes up behind you, hands tentatively resting on your waist.

“Baby?” he asks softly, nose brushing along the column of your neck.

“H-hey, honey,” you choke out, voice becoming hoarse tears unexpectedly bubble to the surface. “You ready to follow me into the jaws of parenthood?”

Steve inhales sharply. His grip on your waist tightens almost imperceptibly. An unbearably long silence passes. “You’re serious?” he breathes, the shock evident in his tone.

“Uh-huh,” you reply, turning in his arms so that the two of you are face to face. Steve’s expression is a curious mixture of shock, fear and excitement. He breaks out into a huge grin when his eyes lock onto yours.

“You’re pregnant?” he asks softly, one hand coming to rest on your belly.

“Yeah,” you reply, your voice breathless as a fat tear rolls down your face. “We’re pregnant, honey. You’re gonna be a dad. You’re gonna be a daddy!”

A pause, then, “Already am,” Steve jokes, one eyebrow quirking up smugly. You roll your eyes, about to make some witty retort, but Steve’s already pulling you closer, the grin on his face threatening to outshine the sun.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Holy shit, we’re gonna be parents!” he cries exultantly, picking you up and spinning you around in a circle. You squeal, playfully thrashing in his grip until he sets you down on your feet again.

“We’re gonna be parents, sweetheart,” Steve repeats, his hands travelling up and down your body as if he still hasn’t wrapped his head around the thought. “Oh, you’re gonna get all round and—,” Steve cuts himself off, turning away as a slight flush blooms over the apples of his cheeks.

You know what that means. When your husband gets embarrassed, his face turns as red as a tomato, flushing all over. When he gets aroused however, that’s when he starts looking all bashful and shy like this.

“And what, Stevie?” you tease, poking him in the bicep. “Round and what?”

“Nothin’,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, messing it up.

“Bullshit, Rogers,” you say, grabbing his wrist and pulling him towards you, bringing Steve down to your eye-level, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“I—um. I just realised that you’re gonna look real round when you’re pregnant,” Steve says, trying valiantly to remain calm.

You blink slowly, confused. “That’s…that’s the point, honey.”

“And I just realised how sexy that’s gonna be,” he blurts, eyes wide and cheeks flaming red.

Your expression turns coy as you bat your lashes seductively. “Oooooh, Steven, I didn’t know you had a pregnancy kink,” you purr, looping your arms around his neck and leaning up on your toes to press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“Neither did I,” Steve admits gruffly, his hands dropping down to cup your ass. “Kinda lookin’ forward to explorin’ that a bit, though,” he whispers, voice dropping an octave lower, turning all husky and rough the way you love.

You can’t really focus on that right now, however.

“Hold up, babe,” you gasp, hurriedly pushing away from him, twisting and dropping to your knees in front of the toilet again as the urge to hurl comes rushing back at full force.

“Oh—okay, let me—,” Steve mutters, crouching down by your side to support you. You retch violently, forcing some a meagre dribble of liquid out of your system.

“Just think, honey!” Steve chirps, as he pets your hair affectionately, “At least there’s a purpose to all this!”

“Oh, fuck you,” you groan, as another shuddering heave wracks through your system.

“You did,” Steve says, tone solemn. “That’s how you got pregnant in the first place.”

You bark out a laugh. “You’re gonna be one of those dads with the worse dad jokes ever,” you grumble, your voice coming out sounding much fonder than you want it to.

“And you’re gonna love me for it,” Steve whispers contritely.

He’s right.

You probably will.

#taw3kcelebration #steve x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers imagines #sick fic #reader insert fic #my writing #in sickness and in health

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ofwolvesandbutterflies · 6 years

Text

The House Across the Dirt Road

BTS Suga x Reader

Genre: fluff, angst

Farm/TurnoftheCentury!AU

A/N: I really do love me some angst, especially if it includes min yoongi. Idk honestly if you people are okay with reading in first person but this is just how I’ve been writing for the past few months. Still in a semi-hiatus, things are coming slowly along, and yeah. Please enjoy, if you don’t... feel free to leave critique.

I don’t really have neighbors. I mean sure, we have a couple of stable hands, but they live with us on our property, so they’re not really neighbors. I constantly wonder what it would be like to have neighbors. I’ve read too many of Mum’s romance novels. I fantasize about what would happen if I did have neighbors.

Would they be a widowed mother and her two sons, one of them serious and quiet, the other playful and outgoing? What if they ended up being a newlywed couple and their newborn baby girl seeking a home? Best of all, I’ve always wished that a good family would occupy that house across the dirt road, a good family with children my age that I could play with. Everyone in my family, including me, is always busy.

I’ve often thought about what my family would do to welcome them. Regardless of what kind of family they were, I just know my mum would bake some bread and offer them a place to sleep while they remade the house. Papa would wake early the next morning to help them fix up the house. My older brother would probably tag along and help. I would hide behind mum’s skirt until she told me to introduce myself to them.

I’ve always wished for neighbors.

“Oi! __, stop daydreaming and help me with the lettuce!”

“Yes mum.”

I’m ten now. I still don’t have neighbors. For the past fifteen years - or so my brother’s told me - no one’s lived in that dusty old house across the dirty road. I don’t understand why. It’s a nice little place with light blue paint, albeit a bit faded, and pretty windows. It’s two storied and from all the adventures my brother and I have gone on in there when we were little, it’s still fully furnished and there’s even a smaller, baby grand piano pushed between the couches in the corner of the living room. For now, I’ll just continue to silently wander the halls in the insensible hope a family will move in one day.

It’s dusk now and for a moment, I think I’ve fallen asleep. But I couldn’t have, I’m a night owl and I usually can't sleep until the moon and stars have been been out for hours. It can’t be possible.

So why do I see a new looking automobile growing larger and larger in the distant horizon?

An hour later, we have neighbors. The recently uninhabited house across the the dirt road is filled with the sound of banging while the Min family unloads their belongings. When they first arrived I, from the second story of our house, was met with the sight of two tired looking parents and two bored looking boys.

Now upon way closer inspection, the younger boy has a soft looking baby face with dark, tired eyes. He looks at me, the shadows of his new house dousing his features in a darker shade. His head is cocked to the side, his ivory colored hair following suit.

“What do you want?” despite the harsh question, I know from his tone he's just tired from the month long journey I heard his father tell my father all about.

I hold out the basket of fresh-baked bread my mum made specially for our new neighbors.

“This is from our family, we live across the dirt road from you. Please enjoy it and my mum says to never hesitate to ask for help whenever you or your family need it.” I smile kindly even as he wordlessly takes the basket.

He just stares at me for another minute or so before he bows his head in thanks.

“Thank you. My family is grateful for all you've done for us.” His voice is deeper and richer than I expected it to be. Afterall, he does not look that much older than I.

Soon enough the door starts to swing slowly closed. Not thinking much at all, I stick my petite hand out before it swings shut.

“I’m __.”

The brown eyed boy stops the door in the nick of time with his foot and squints at me. His eyes roll over my form, scrutinizing every inch of my ten-year-old self.

My hand gets tired and I start to feel foolish. He’s still staring at me. Right as I am about to drop my hand, he sticks his hand out as well.

“Yoongi,” is all he says while giving me a firm handshake. His hands as callous and rough, his larger fingers enveloping mine.

With that, he closes the door and leaves me curiously staring at what would have been his receding figure.

Over the next few days I don't see him outside a lot. Like most days I go about doing my usual chores, I collect the eggs, milk the cows, I hang the laundry, water the garden, tend to the horses and sheep. There are times l see him peeking through the window, studying me like I'm a whole different species.

The next time I actually see him is a good couple days later. My family invited their family over for supper and though it seems that he should've gotten more sleep, he still looks tired as he was the first day.

After supper, I approach him cautiously. I have no idea whether or not he wants to have a conversation. As I near him, he tilts his head towards me.

“__,” he greets me. I smile. He remembers my name. I take the seat beside him, ignoring the strange looks from both his and my older brothers. Some nights, I take my time eating. On those nights, I’d rather listen and absorb all the seemingly worthless information seeping from my parent’s lips. Other nights I finish supper early, those are the nights I want to talk. Tonight is one of those nights.

“Yoongi,” I nod. We sit in silence for a while. It's not as awkward as the first conversation, if you could even consider it that.

“__,” he starts slowly as if he has no idea what to say. I meet his eyes with my own level gaze.

“Yes?”

“How old are you?”

“Ten.”

“You're younger than me.”

“How old are you?”

“Eleven.”

There is a lull in our brief exchange of words. Surprisingly, it is Yoongi who restarts the conversation.

“... You spend a lot of time outside.”

“You spend a lot of time inside.”

“I do.”

“What do you do inside?”

“...”

“Yoongi?”

“... I play piano.”

“Really?” I glance up at him in shock. For the last seven years I have always admired the baby grand piano tucked away in the corner of the living room, yearning to learn how to coax the heavenly sound from those time cracked keys.

Yoongi takes my surprise the wrong way. The natural curve of his lips drops down into a sour frown.

“Well I'm sorry you don't like the way I spend my time.”

“No no…” I try to explain to him. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play the piano, I've just never met anyone who knew.” His frown soon turns into a miniscule, shy smile.

“I think it's really cool you know how to play the piano.”

Though he looks back down at his half-eaten food and doesn’t say anything, I can tell he’s pleased by my words. I myself am pleased at being able to elicit an actual reaction out of such a reserved person.

I stare out the window. The moon tonight is shrouded in a silvery-grey shawl and the stars have decided not to shine as brightly as usual. I point it out.

Without a word, the dark haired boy excuses himself from the table. Did I say something wrong? I don’t move, instead I watch and wait for him to appear again. When he does, he makes no move to sit down.

I watch as he stretches a hand out to me.

“__, come with me.”

“O-okay?” His sudden invitation leaves me stuttering, but nonetheless I take his larger, more rough hand. “Yoongi… where are we going?”

Instead of verbally answering me, he bends slightly to whisper something in his mother’s ear. All I see in response was a nod from his mother who at the current moment is deeply engrossed in a conversation with my own mum. With that, his grip on my hand tightens and off we go into the night.

Well, more like the house across the dirt road. In no time at all, we are at the dimly lit living room, squished in between the couches, sitting flush against each other on the tiny piano bench.

The light of the gas lamp casts amber shadows on both of our small bodies. Yoongi carefully pushes the piano cover off, stretching his fingers before placing them precisely somewhere towards the center of the piano. I'm not expecting much after all, Yoongi is only a year my senior. Yet, all I hear next is the passionate kiss of fingers tickling the ivory of a beautiful baby grand piano.

And though I am only ten, though I've only known a number of young boys in my short life… the second I heard Min Yoongi play the piano was the moment I knew I finally fell in love with something of this earth.

His instrumental piece on the old piano takes me everywhere. Through my thoughts - as jumbled and random as they can be - and my pure human emotions. I study his face as he plays this melody spun out of what sounds like raw tears and as ominous as this sounds, the gas lamp makes him look ethereal. I’ve always dreamt of having neighbors. I just hope these stay.

He finishes with a grand flourish, his spindly fingers sliding across the keys to create a staircase of sound. As the reverberating of the last notes fade into oblivion, the dark hair boy looks at me expectantly. The silence after that masterpiece was deafening.

“What do you think?”

All I can do is stare at him in wonder and awe. Thoughts are crowding my mind as more and more questions pop up. What is that song called? Did you compose it yourself? How long did it take for you to perfect that piece? Are you really only eleven? And that’s all it takes to paint a genuine smile on his chapped lips.

Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, and naturally, months turn into years. Yoongi and I become best friends. As time goes by slowly we learn more about each other.

His favorite color is white.

Mine is navy blue.

He has been playing piano since he was five-years-old.

I’ve been working out in our farm since I was five-years-old.

He gets sunburnt easily.

I love the sunshine.

He hates sunflowers and pickled vegetables.

I… really don’t like sunflowers or vegetables in general either.

He dislikes his hair color and wishes it was blond.

I think he’s handsome just the way he is.

He calls me a pig because of the way I end up dirty at the end of each day from working on the farm.

I call him stupid and lazy because… well just because.

It’s his birthday tomorrow. The boy with dark hair and wishes it was blond is turning sixteen and I have nothing to give him. He’s filled out well over the last four years. His skinny, awkward limbs are lean and muscular from working from dawn to dusk at his parent’s farm. Every time I poke him, his muscles are pulled taut over the planes of his body and I need to resist the want to see what’s underneath his loose shirts. His face… it’s still the same cute, pouty, tired baby face he sported when I first met him, but his jawline is sharp and his cheekbones defined.

We’re out on his porch tonight. I’m in my usual position, my back leaning against his side. My male companion is relaxed, weight on his arms with his legs pushed out in front of him. I’m huffy tonight and it’s obvious. For once I wish the stars shining above me were covered. I could have sworn they were mocking me because they know if I could, I’d give Yoongi the universe.

“Hey pig,” Yoongi calls, poking my side to get my attention. I give him the stink eye.

“What do you want?”

We’ve gotten more and more informal over the years. Sure, Min Yoongi is my senior, but be is also my best friend.

“I want to know what you’re getting for my birthday,” he leans closer scrunching his nose in an attempt to be cute. I push his face away without any hesitation.

“Go jump in a lake, Yoongi. There’s no way in hell I’m telling you.”

“Wow, Pig. You’re so rude. I even taught you how to play piano,” he tries, trying to coax the nonexistent out of me. I roll my eyes. He tried to teach me to play piano, but no matter what he did, I was never able to master it.

“Fine,” I exhale. He lights up, thinking I’m finally going to tell him. “I’m getting you… some common sense, logic, brains for that big empty head of yours, something to cure that cold heart, and a side dish of chivalry. Oh, and did you want some manners with that, too?”

He fakes a growl, laughs and pulls me into a bone crushing hug.

“I must have done something pretty bad in my last life to deserve someone like you as a best friend.”

I gasp in mock offense and push him away... but, not wanting to lose my balance and fall down the stairs, I wrap my own arms around his slim waist without a second thought. Taking advantage of my position, I stare closely at my best friend.

“I know you secretly love me, Yoongi.”

“Yeah... I know you secretly love me, too, pig.��

Only… that was a while ago. I ended up giving him an old music book I found in my parent’s attic. Fortunately for me, he loved it. I don’t remember what it was that he played, it could have been ‘Hey Diddle Diddle’, but he could and still can make anything sound magical on that baby grand piano. But like I said. That was a long time ago.

He’s gotten older, as have I. Like most people, we’ve gotten closer over time. Though both of us are busy all day every day, I do my best to make a little time for him once in awhile. At the end of each day you can find us on the pretty roof of the house across the dirt road, nothing on our minds but the presence of each other and the sky above us. Most mornings, I’ve been known to wake up curled under his arm, drowsy and sleep-drunk from ‘stargazing’.

As much as I love him, he’s made some choices I, had he asked for my selfish opinion, would have much rather him not made.

He’s seventeen, and he’s going off to college soon.

I’m turning eighteen now. And though it’s been eight years since I met the dark haired boy that claimed my heart through song, my everlasting feelings still stand. But he has those feelings for someone else. Last year he went off to University. He met someone there. He’s told me all about her through the letters we’ve exchanged.

He says she’s beautiful, more beautiful than the midnight sky littered with stars the two of us spent years admiring. He says her eyes sparkle every time she sees him. He says her hair is flowy and perfect, even when it’s tangled. He says she’s a hard worker, she perseveres through her troubles and comes out victorious in the end. He says that every second he doesn’t see her is like a throbbing wound that only she can heal.

I’m turning eighteen now… and he’s probably not getting me anything. He says he’s coming back home soon, but I don’t think he’s coming in time for my birthday.

He’s probably off serenading that girl whose more beautiful than the midnight sky littered with stars. He’s probably holding her close on these cold winter nights, gazing at the stars sparkling in her eyes. He’s probably kissing her like there is no tomorrow, his dexterous fingers tangled in her flowy and perfect locks. He has probably forgotten all about me by now. Who wouldn’t, especially when he has someone as perseverant and hard working like her by his side. My heart breaks a little more every time I think of him, because all I can think about is how much he misses her.

The sun is setting as I start heading back home from the fields. The harvest has been bountiful these past couple weeks. Darkness has just about touched the tip of the mountains when my feet crunch against the familiar dirt road. Very briefly, I remember the sunset on that fateful day he arrived here. I stop in my tracks in the middle of the road. I hear the sound of a familiar song playing on the piano as I near my house. Great. I’m hallucinating now.

I crouch down and bury my face in my hands. The tears I’ve been holding back for so long fall loose. I sob, not caring that it’s my birthday and that I’m supposed to be happy. The tears come out in torrents, and I’m no longer concerned about the fact the piano had suddenly stopped playing. I wish I had never wished for neighbors. My heart wouldn’t be breaking like this. I wouldn’t feel broken like this. I’d be okay because I never ever worry about filling that empty house across the dirt road.

All of a sudden, I hear my front door opening and slamming shut. Someone runs down the steps towards me. Not wanting to appear sad on the day my family works the hardest to make me happy, I wipe my eyes quickly and stand. I turn, ready to assure the person I’m fine. I’ve never regretted a decision so much in my life.

“Hey, pig are you-”

I scoff in disbelief and stomp past the person who had come outside to comfort me, only to be stopped by a painfully familiar calloused hand on my wrist. Yanking my wrist free, I get ready to bolt inside and hide myself in the warmth of my bed. Yoongi wasn’t about to let that happen though. As soon as him fingers make contact with my waist, he pulls me backwards to him.

“Yoongi let go of me.” My voice is laced in venom as I struggle with his vise-like grip.

“I haven’t seen you since July and when I get back - on your birthday, by the way - the first thing you do is try to run away from me?! Are you crazy? Do you know how much I’ve missed you?!” The anger is boldly prominent in his shaking voice.

I turn to glare at the dark haired boy. I’m sure my gaze is icy enough to freeze him but the the intense look in his eyes counterattacks my offense. I turn away from him again, trying even harder to escape the source of my heartache.

“__,” he whispered. I freeze when I heard him say my actual name. It’s been years since I’ve heard him call me by my actual name. “Why are you avoiding me?”

Of all the stupid questions in the world-

I spin around, eyes red and voice raw from crying.

“I’m not avoiding you. There’s work to be done.”

Yoongi throws his hands up in frustration.

“Out of all the most stupid excuses to come up with… you had to say that bull shit?! For fucks sake __! What is this about?”

I feel the tears running more freely down my face.

“What do you think, smartass? I’ve been in love with you since the day you first played piano for me, and the next thing I know, you’re sending me letters, gushing about this girl from your university-”

“Woah woah woah! Stop right there.” Yoongi says, holding his hands up to emphasize the importance of me pausing. “Who said I was talking about a girl from my university?”

His question throws me into a sudden state of confusion. If he wasn’t talking about a girl from school… who was he talking about?”

After staring at him for a good minute trying to comprehend what he had just said, Yoongi laughs in disbelief.

“Oh. My. Gosh. The girl I love more than anything else in the world is denser than a rock wall. Dear lord...” he sighs, gently cupping my face and wiping my tears. “I was never talking about a girl from University…” He pauses to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

“__, you idiot pig. All this time, I was talking about you.”

I open and close my mouth, trying in vain to think of something intelligent to say. Before I can though, Yoongi brushes the pad of his thumb over the patch of skin under my eye and guides my lips to his.

And if that isn’t the best present in the world from the dark haired boy from the house across the dirt road that I fell in love with such a long time ago… I don’t know what is.

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