#Warm water running over the hands is cleaning the soul to a degree

[remembertheplunge]

I love this, Some times I save the dirty dishes up. I wash them after some ugly experience in court (Im a criminal defense attorney). The warm water running over my hands and the actual act of accomplishing something by cleaning the dish and placing it in the dish washer is cathartic and healing. When the dishes are done, I don't now feel like I have been defeated by the day. It's symbolic victory. While I am washing the dishes, I try to stay present with touch, sound sight of the experience.

instructions for the journey by Pat Schneider

[turtle-steverogers]

steve getting caught in the rain on the way home from work and barging through the front door bangs dripping and cheeks pink and bucky looking up from his spot on the sofa with alpine and thinking i’m fucked

so it's like 1 am and this was going to be something chaotic and smutty but it ended up being a view of steve's pain from the eyes of bucky

oop anway:

In From the Cold

-

From Stevie: Left my key at home. Can you let me in?

Bucky gets the text right before there’s a knock at the front door, and he presses to his feet, shifting Alpine off his lap. It takes a moment to undo all the latches and locks, and by the time he does, Steve has knocked again-- sharper. Frantic. Bucky frowns and opens the door.

“Shit, Steve,” he says, and steps to the side to let Steve in past him.

He’s soaked, straight through to his skin. His hair is plastered to his forehead, clumped and stiff with sleet. His nose and cheeks are bright against his otherwise pale skin, and his lips are a tad blue.

He’s shaking. Hard.

It’s then that Bucky realizes that sleet is coming down outside, the sky blanketed a gloomy grey. The storm had been on the radar, but somehow he’d forgotten about it. Steve, it seemed, had forgotten as well when he’d left for his meeting that morning.

“Yeah,” Steve says, taking off his jacket. His movements are stiff and Bucky reaches out a hand, taking the soaked jacket from him before he can hang it on its hook. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Go ahead and take off the rest of your clothes. I’ll throw them in the wash. Do you want a bath?”

Steve swallows, a shudder running visibly through him and Bucky doesn’t need a psych degree to guess what’s going on. Between the wet and the cold, this is hardly Steve’s preferred state to be in. There’s a vacancy in his eyes that makes Bucky’s blood run cold.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yes. Please.”

-

Bucky’s blood runs cold as a cough wracks Steve’s body, and he instinctively listens for a rattle in his lungs. The cough is not dry, though. Silver linings.

His hair is plastered to his forehead, and Bucky curses, reaching out to usher Steve inside. His clothes are soaked and sticking to his frame, hugging him in a way that seems to accentuate his size. Make him look even smaller. He coughs again.

“Jesus, you got a death wish?” Bucky hisses, hands working to unbutton Steve’s shirt-- get the wet fabric off, because it’s going to make him sick and Steve just got over his last fucking cold.

Steve bats his hand away, leveling him with a glare.

“No, shut up,” he says, and the harshness is dampened by the chattering of his teeth. He unbuttons his own shirt and tosses it aside, the bruises on his collarbone from a work mishap earlier that week stark and purple. Bucky wants to reach out and soothe his fingers over them-- kiss them away.

Instead, he goes to his closet and pulls out a clean shirt and some boxer shorts that will be too big on Steve, but at least they’re warm.

“I thought you were seeing your ma,” Bucky says, handing Steve the clothes. Steve strips naked right there in their hallway. He’s unabashed and it makes the lithe lines of his body all the more beautiful.

“I was,” Steve says. It’s clipped and Bucky’s gut twinges. Sarah had gotten sick a week or so ago-- an awful, wracking cough. Bucky had hoped, fucking prayed that it wasn’t the worst. But Sarah worked in a TB ward, and life didn’t seem so kind to the Rogers family. “They wouldn’t let me in.”

“Shit,” Bucky says.

Steve is dressed now, Bucky’s boxers barely clinging to his hips. He sits down on Bucky’s bed, and Bucky sits, too.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and he’s holding himself so tightly that Bucky’s afraid he might snap.

-

Steve holds himself tightly as he sits on the edge of the tub, his eyes on the rising water level, but mind clearly elsewhere. Bucky watches him for a moment as he returns from the laundry room-- watches his chest heave and hands tremble.

He is naked where he sits, and the way he hunches in on himself makes him look smaller. Bucky’s chest aches and he desperately wishes he could reach out and break the spell-- break the hold Steve’s mind seems to have on him right now. But he knows a thing or two about triggers, and he may not know what happened when Steve crashed that plane-- not details anyhow-- but he knows damn well that Steve still isn’t healed from that particular wound. It will likely follow him to his real grave. The pain. The fear. The damning finality of it.

-

And it seems like a final damnation. One not so beautiful as the perdition that was Steve taking Bucky into his body. But a much starker one. As unforgiving as a son losing his mother can be when he’s already lost his father. Steve says he hadn’t cared much when Joseph finally died-- his own faults pulling him under the current. But there’s a shame there that he can’t seem to quell. Regret that runs in the tightness of his eyes, smoldering and masked by a harshness that doesn’t fit the gentleness that is the skin of Steve Rogers. The soul and bones that are so hurt by a world keen on hurting them.

There’s a grief that wants to rise in Bucky’s own chest. Sarah doesn’t deserve this-- he wishes he could change it. Make it untrue. Make it better.

But he can deal with his own shit later. Right now, Steve is hurting and Bucky needs to coax him out of his shell. Lance some of that pain.

His hair is still dripping from the storm outside and Bucky reaches out, brushes his fingers through the sopping strands. Steve looks at him, eyes hollow and shining-- a strange dichotomy.

“Let me run you a bath?”

-

Steve sinks into the bath water, eyes closed as his chest hitches and stutters. He sinks down until the water covers his chest, stops at his chin. And it would be an endearing sight if he didn’t look so damn troubled.

Bucky hesitates.

“Do you want me here? Or would you rather be alone.”

Please God, he thinks. Please let me in. Let me stay. Let me shoulder some of your pain.

Steve’s jaw shifts, then clenches. He battles with himself, caught between the draw of comfort and his own internal walls telling him to close the gates.

Bucky waits.

“Can you wash my hair?” Steve eventually asks.

Bucky smiles. “Of course, pal.”

-

Bucky takes off his shirt so it won’t get wet and kneels by the edge of the tub. Steve leans back to wet his hair. It seems like instinct more than anything. His hair was already pretty damn wet. Bucky picks up the shampoo-- half empty and a little crusted around the cap-- and squirts some out onto his palm.

Lathering it up, he leans closer.

“Ready?”

“Mhm.”

“Close your eyes, sweetheart.”

Steve closes his eyes and Bucky begins to work the shampoo into his hair, pressing his fingers into his scalp, around his temples. Tension seems to ebb out of Steve in increments and Bucky is hopeful for a moment that he’s leaching out some of the shock.

And he must have taken away the numbness, because then Steve is sobbing, and Bucky is cursing softly as he strips out of the rest of his clothes, climbing into the tub behind Steve. He rinses his hair, and doesn’t bother with soft nothings. Because it isn’t okay. And Steve doesn’t deserve dismissal like that.

Instead, he pulls him close and buries his nose in his hair.

-

With practiced hands, Bucky works his coconut shampoo into Steve’s hair. It’s his favorite even if he won’t admit it and never buys it for himself. That’s alright, though. Bucky doesn’t mind sharing.

He feels Steve’s skin warm up-- rinses his hair with rhythmic and soothing touches, skittering his hands down Steve’s shoulders and across his chest as he goes, aiming to ground him. But Steve is not speaking and he is still shaking.

“Steve?” Bucky prompts gently.

Steve looks at him, gaze darting to his eyes, then his cheek, fixating there. A shudder rolls through him and he goes impossibly more pale.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

“Steve,” Bucky says again, alarmed, and then Steve’s chest is heaving as his breaths start to speed up. “Shit.”

Bucky strips off his clothes, and climbs into the tub with Steve, keeping a hand on him as he sinks into the water.

“Can I hold you?” he asks, and Steve manages a nod. He’s going to hyperventilate if they don’t get a hold of this now. Bucky pulls Steve back against his chest and buries his nose in his hair. “Breathe with me. Just feel me, Steve. Just feel me and breathe.”

Steve does.

-

Steve is worn out by the time they’re settling in bed, and Bucky shifts him so his head is on his chest. They’re quiet for a long time, watching the sun set, shadows moving across the ceiling.

“I’m scared,” Steve says, his voice hoarse from crying.

Bucky tenses. “I know.”

“I don’t want to lose her.”

Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

There isn’t anything for it. Bucky wants to promise that he won’t leave. That he’ll be there, but Steve knows that and reiterating it will only exacerbate the pain of those who can’t be there for him.

“I’m so tired,” Steve whimpers.

-

“I’m so fucking tired of this,” Steve says as he comes down, voice tight and teeth chattering. At least he’s breathing on his own now.

Then rest, Bucky wants to say. Come in from the cold. Let us help. Let people help.

“I know,” he says instead. “I know, honey. But you did so good just now.”

Steve shrugs. “Can we get out?”

“Sure thing.”

They dry off together, and settle into bed, naked still and wrapped up in each other. Steve settles on his chest, head tucked under Bucky’s chin. An age old position-- Steve will always fit right in Bucky’s arms.

-

Steve falls asleep with his hand clinging to Bucky’s. He usually looks more peaceful when he is resting, but now his mouth is turned down-- the lines of his face seem to deepen. He looks much older than he actually is, but Bucky has always sort of thought that. Steve, he thinks, has had to grow up too fast.

There’s a moment where Steve seems to drift awake, eyes opening then shutting again. He makes a soft noise and shifts closer to Bucky.

Bucky holds him and prays he feels held.

-

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve says. It was worth a shot.

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Can I do anything?”

Steve swallows, arms tightening around Bucky’s middle. “Just hold me?”

“Of course,” Bucky says, and he hitches Steve closer, kisses the top of his head.

“This helps,” Steve whispers, and Bucky holds his breath. “You holding me. It feels safe.”

“I’m so glad,” Bucky says. His throat feels tight and he ducks his head to kiss Steve’s temple. It settles something in him, knowing Steve feels safe in his arms. “I’ll always hold you.”

-

thanks for reading, chiefs!

[fanficteen]

gone (4)

tw: implied/referenced self harm, self-destructive behaviours & tendencies, references to canonical suicidal tendencies

“I need you to drop the illusion.” Carlisle’s hand was cool on your cheek, golden eyes pleading with yours, even as you stiffened. “I know I can’t ask you to trust me, but at least trust my medical degree. I need to make sure they’re not infected.” There was no way out of this, except to set your jaw and let the glamour drop. Carlisle whispered thanks, resisted the urge to say anything further as he cleaned the wounds up your arms, in various states of healing. “I’m sorry.” You didn’t owe him an apology. “You don’t need to be.” A bandage swept up each wrist as he released them, finally meeting your eyes again. “I let you down.”  You resisted the urge to comfort him with false assurances that he hadn’t, that it didn’t matter, that he was here now. “I won’t let it happen again.” You wondered if you were naive for starting to believe him.

You came home to a house in chaos, Billy’s sad eyes meeting yours from the middle of Jacob and Rachel’s screaming match, Paul growling at Jacob over Rachel’s shoulder. “HEY!” Your voice cut them both off and the whole pack’s eyes turned to you. “What the hell is going on?” “(Y/N)!” Rachel was on you in a moment, beating her werewolf brother to the punch. “Are you ok? I came by the house but Bella told me you were fine and sent me home.” “I’m fine,” you soothed, grasping her hands. “Just had a few things to sort out.” “So you’re going crawling back to him, huh?” Jacob challenged, surly. “After everything he did?” “We’ll see,” you answered, steadily, determined not to match his anger. “I’m still researching. Even if he keeps this promise, I don’t want to know I have to rely on him.” He grunted some kind of disapproval, but let it go. “The doctor fixed you up?” Billy confirmed, a rough nod at your wrapped wrists, face calm around his storming eyes. You nodded, not trusting your voice. “What?” Jacob’s confused eyes shot to your wrists, the emotions his father hid in his eyes warring for primacy on Jacob’s younger face. “What happened?” You flicked your eyes away from him, only to be caught by Sam’s sorrowful gaze. “Jake–“ “Did he hurt you?!” “No, it’s not like that,” you assured him, frantic. “Jacob,” Sam warned, lowly, but was ignored. “Then what is it like? Who the hell hurt you?!” Sam’s hand landed on his shoulder, trying to soothe the swirling tension. “I DID!” He wilted back into Sam’s grip, eyes wide and tearful, as you buried your face in your hands. “I did.” Billy caught you by the elbow before you could bolt, settling you on his lap in a warm embrace, just as he had done when you were a child, large calloused hands clutching you to him as you sobbed. “It’s time we left,” Sam commented, distantly. “Paul, you too.” Even Rachel’s hotheaded mate didn’t complain at the command, leaving Jacob and Rachel alone to stare at you, aghast, still curled up to your surrogate father’s chest.

Eventually, you unfurled to explain yourself, swiping at the tear tracks sticky on your cheeks as you spoke. Spoke of the pulsing pain of an absent soul bond, of the darker magics you could unlock with only your blood and breath to command it. Of the stinging clarity seeping from open wounds. Jacob’s face hardened into silent stone, and you watched him sink away from you. “I need to go–“ “No!” Hard, dark eyes turned to you. “I can’t be around you–“ “I’ll go.” You stood and grabbed the jacket and handbag you’d discarded by the door. “I’ll be back in a couple of days.” “Running back to your vampire?” Jacob sneered, ignoring Billy’s firm scolding. You didn’t deign to respond, just stepped out the door and slipped away into the woods. Chilled darkness blanketed around you, heavy on your shoulders, but familiar. The woods breathed a peace that you had missed from your time upriver – no vampires, no humans, no shifters. Just… nature. Unaltered. Footsteps approached behind you, hot-blooded heartbeat fitting the hand that landed on your shoulder, that pulled you into a warm body. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” Sam’s voice spoke of sorrow and understanding, of scars too fresh for either of you to be comfortable. You sniffled into his chest. “You can come home with me, or I can take you to your imprint, or–“ “Alice.” Why her name was the first to tumble from your lips, you weren’t sure, but the pixie-like girl swam starlight in your mind’s eye – promises of safety, of honest truth. “I’ll call Alice.” Sam nodded, letting you fumble for your phone. “Alright, we’ll head in that direction while you call her.” His warm arm never left your shoulders as he turned you around, setting off towards the clearing around the Cullens’ home.

You woke the next morning to a cup of steaming tea placed on the bedside table, as Alice took a seat on the bed beside you, offering you a soft smile. Just like the night before, you appreciated the quiet, the lack of questioning – she had opened the door as you murmured your gratitude to Sam, who had given Alice a begrudging nod as he disappeared back into the treeline. You were drawn out of your memory when Alice pulled you close and you let yourself melt into the cool familiarity of her arm draped around you. “How are you feeling, sweetie?” You hummed, closing your hands around your mug as you thought. “I don’t know,” you admitted, eventually. Alice turned her palm over, a wordless invitation, and you placed your hand in hers, letting pain fear anger hurt fear fear love love love burn through the temporary bond. Alice didn’t flinch away, didn’t give any indication that she felt it, her than her fingers intertwining with yours, her other hand combing through your hair. “I just don’t know who I can trust anymore. It’s like… every anchor I had was ripped away and even when the storm clears, it’s not going to carry me back to familiar waters or fix my broken masts.” Your eyes dropped to your bandaged arms. “I’m not even sure they can be fixed. Maybe I’m already a wreck and I’m just waiting for the water to drown me.” “You’re not.” Firm, sure, Alice’s words held every bit of the determination you’d come to know from her. “You’re not broken, you’re not a wreck, and you’re not alone. I know – I know we hurt you, but we’re here now. From now on, we’re here whenever you need us, whatever you need us for. And I know that Billy and even Sam will be too, even if we don’t get along with them. You’re important to both of us, so we’ll make it work.” Protests and disagreements stung on the tip of your tongue, shattered trust and hurt and fear, but Alice’s hands were steady and so was her voice, as she promised she was here. As she promised she wasn’t going anywhere. You didn’t realise you’d lost your shields until an artificial kind of calm washed over you, Jasper padding silently into the room. “Be gentle with yourself,” he requested, quietly, dropping at Alice’s side, golden eyes soft and warm, despite his ice-cold skin. You let his calm steady you, before you began to build your walls back up, closing off their powers.

“Thank you.” Alice smiled at your quiet words, Jasper simply inclining his head in quiet acknowledgement. “Bella’s making waffles,” Alice prompted, after you finished composing yourself, jigsaw puzzle pieces falling into place again. “You wanna shower and come down?” “I don’t have any clothes.” Alice paused. Her clothes wouldn’t fit you, but… “You’re welcome to borrow some of Carlisle’s clothes.” Perhaps, the scent of your soulmate would help soothe you, as well, despite his role in the fragile cracks of your heart. “He’s at the hospital at the moment, so you can use his bathroom and get changed in his room, if you’d like. He should be back soon. But if you’re not comfortable with that, I’m sure you can borrow one of the other guys’ clothes, or someone can duck over to–“ “Are you sure that’s okay?” Alice’s eyes softened. “Of course it is. Carlisle won’t mind one bit, so long as you’re safe and happy… or as close as you can be.”

You stepped out of the warm water feeling a little more like a person, and pulled on the first of Carlisle’s shirts that you found, a button up that draped comfortably down to your knees. Once your hair was dry enough not to soak the shirt, you hung up the towel Alice had lent you and headed downstairs towards the quiet chatter in the living room. Edward was draped over Bella’s shoulders as she cooked, Esme watching fondly as Alice and Emmett bantered over who was really Mr Johnson’s favourite, Rosalie rolling her eyes at them from where she leaned into Emmett’s side. Jasper offered you a gentle smile as you entered and you returned it, only to freeze in place as a familiar head of blond hair poked out of the pantry, which had been stocked with some more human-friendly foods since their return and Bella’s regular presence. “I knew we had maple syrup!” he announced, holding the bottle up victoriously. “Great. (Y/N), what do you want on your waffles?” Bella shot the query over her shoulder as she finished plating up the waffles and turned to plop a plate in front of you. Your tongue tumbled over itself before you managed to sputter a response, earning yourself a concerned look from most of the room. “We’ll leave you two to eat,” Esme decided, ushering the vampires out of the kitchen. Apparently, no matter how good your shields were, you still had an expressive face. Bella leaned against the counter across from you, chewing her waffles and examining you thoughtfully. “Do I need to punch Jacob, or someone else?” she asked, eventually, and you smiled, sombrely, though the effect was ruined a little by the mouthful of waffles bulging your cheeks. “I don’t know who I’m most angry at, so I’ll give you a pass on the punching for the moment.” She laughed, and for a moment things were almost normal. Almost. “What are we doing here?” Bella blinked up at your sudden question. “…eating waffles.” “Yeah, but why are we here, eating waffles, with the people who abandoned us? Why can’t I still be angry? I’m still hurting, like every time I see him the wounds reopen but he’s the only one who can stitch them up and I just don’t get it! Why was it so easy for them to leave us, but we can’t ever stay away?” You were crying now, and Bella offered her shoulder before you ruined your waffles, soft circles running along your shoulders. “It wasn’t easy for them to leave us. And it wasn’t easy for any of us to come back. But… this is where we’re meant to be. No matter what happens now, we all belong together. We can heal together.” She pulled back, brushing tears from your perpetually stained cheeks, and offered a soft smile. “I know they fucked up. I know we fucked up. But… we can do better.”

a/n: sorry for the wait y’all, have some platonic bonding

@mylovelyjoon @kyrah-williams @crazycookiecrumbles @mangoberry43 @misselsbells06

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @romancewritingandwinchesters donated $20, and requested Sam and Dean waiting out a Texas storm with no electricity. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post.

(read on AO3)

When the snow starts coming down, Dean's not yet worried. He's driven the whole country at least five times; he can handle snow. It's when the temperature starts dropping fast that he pulls up, at the closest gas station, and fills the tank, and sends Sam inside for a few gallons of water and whatever food they don't have to cook. "I told you," Sam says, which frankly Dean thinks is a very smug and unattractive way of looking at the situation. "Remember, that front I was telling you about?"

"Yeah, but who thought it'd get this cold in Texas," Dean says, watching the numbers tick up on the pump. Shit, this is gonna be expensive.

"Oh, you know," Sam says, arms folded tight over his chest, stamping his feet by the car's rear door. "Meteorologists. Climatologists. Just that level."

Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam's turned away luckily and can't see it. Turns out Sam gets a little bitchy when it's this cold. They didn't really pack for it—this was supposed to be a low swing south to check a few harmless jobs, stuff that'd take Sam's mind off the whole soulless thing, a couple of easy wins and some weather a little better than February in South Dakota, but it's not working out that way. Fourteen degrees, according to the display on the Shell sign above their heads, and it's only nine at night.

The snow's already piling up, on the parking lot and in the street, making the nice local El Paso people drive under ten miles per hour and making the world seem—not-right. Alien. A cactus planted in the median glints with ice and Dean sucks his teeth, shivers hard. When the car's full up he recaps the tank and sets the nozzle back in place and then looks out at the frosted world. The black shine on the asphalt. "I don't like the look of that road," he says, after a second, and Sam follows his gaze and nods, immediately. "Tonight's not the night to get out of town."

"Texas blizzard on the highway?" Sam says, a little sarcastic, but shakes his head, more serious. "Yeah, it's gonna get a lot worse." His nose is pink from the cold. "Too cold for the car. Even if we still had that—remember, that awful pink blanket?"

"The one you totally ruined?" Dean says, and Sam grins, even if he shudders after. Sam ruined it by getting clawed up by a ghoul when he was twenty-three and trying to protect Dean from something he didn't need protecting from and then bleeding all over the damn blanket when Dean put him in the backseat to race him to the ER. Dumbass, Dean had called him then, but honestly not much has changed. Dean shoves Sam's side, shaking his head. "Why are we standing around here in the cold? Get in the car, let's go."

"You're the one who took forever with the gas," Sam argues back, but he gets in the car, so. Win for Dean. Beyond the win of having this Sam, this right good Sam, in the car in the first place—whole again, with the soul to make a context for the memories that make him Dean's brother.

They're not far off the highway so there'll be motels. The issue hits when they're driving—slow, painfully slow, crawling behind snow-caked Texas plates that don't know how to handle the weather—and the street goes suddenly dark, the lights crashing off in the fast food places and gas stations lining the road. "Shit," Dean says, checking the rearview, but luckily the truck behind him hasn't slammed its brakes and they're not about to be involved in a black-ice skid.

"You think—" Sam says, but cranes around and it's obvious. Some part of the grid, failing, and that's going to mean some panic and it's going to mean some accidents and it's also going to mean finding a place to stay just got a hell of a lot harder.

The kid at the motel they pick clearly has no idea what to do. It's a shithole, which is why Dean pulled in, and clearly there weren't too many customers to begin with. The lobby's dark other than a flashlight the kid's waving around while he explains in a panic that their electricity is out—"I can see that," Dean says, trying to be patient—and Sam finally leans over the counter, takes the flashlight out of the kid's hand, and sets it upright on the counter so it acts like a shitty lantern, filling the room with grey.

"Oh," the kid says, eyes gleaming big in the suddenly stable light. The kid—the boy. He looks barely older than Ben.

"Look," Sam says, while Dean's trying to shake off that thought. "We get that there won't be cable. We just need somewhere to weather it out."

"My register doesn't even work," the boy says, and Dean reaches into his wallet and peels out two hundred bucks and lays it fanned out on the counter. More big eyes—the room rate on the sign outside is forty-nine a night. "Oh," he says, again.

"Just give us keys, okay?" Dean says. "You can explain to your manager in the morning. How these weirdos paid a hundred, cash."

A blink. Maybe he's too young to realize he's being bribed. Sam sighs, and leans over the counter again. "We're taking room 13," he says, coming up with a key in hand. A physical key—Dean was right about the kind of dump this is. The boy opens his mouth and closes it, and Sam jerks his head at Dean before he gives the boy a half-smile, fake as hell. "Try to stay warm in here, okay?"

The Impala's already inch-thick with snow, outside. "Why the hell did that take so long," Sam mutters.

Dean snorts. "Thirteen?" he says, and Sam nods, folding himself back into the passenger seat for the short drive over—"Center room, more insulation," he says—and when they pull around to the odds side of the building he's right. The city's blanketed in dark and weirdly quiet, with the muffling of the snow, so it feels almost like opening up some hidden hunter's cabin as they unlock the room, unpack the car inside. Sam bought jerky, chips, iffy-looking gas station fruit, and Dean still has one lantern and two spare d-cells and a bottle of whiskey that's almost entirely full, and the water, thank god, is still running. "For how long, though," Sam says, so Dean drags a hand over his face and zips his jacket closed and goes down the row of rooms in the freezing dark to the one that's marked PRIVATE, and breaks in to find cleaning supplies that… clearly haven't been used in that long. Buckets, though, that he rinses out and then fills in the utility sink. Spare bedding on shelves above the laundry machine and he picks out two blankets, the shitty supersoft microfleece kind that have always been his favorite.

When he gets back, burdened like a mule, he finds the room—weirdly sort of homey. Sam's got the lantern on the rickety little desk and it's blasting white light up that wall, but he's lit their spare ritual candles, too, and put them on the nightstand, on top of the blank TV, the minifridge crammed up in the corner by the bathroom. It's warm inside, especially once Dean's got the door kicked closed behind him again, but it won't stay that way for long. "Laundry?" Sam says, and at Dean's nod he disappears outside too, and comes back with a pile of the thin towels in his arms, and packs them in against the bottom of the door, the base of the single-pane windows. The water heaters might be gas but they might be electric, too, and with no way of knowing they take turns in the shower, cleaning up fast. The water's still hot when it's Dean's turn and he luxuriates, for a minute that he counts off in his head, letting the weak stream melt over his shoulders and put heat into his bones, where hopefully it'll stay a while.

The bathroom's steamy when he gets out but it's already cooling fast. Not much insulation in the walls. He dries off scrupulously, trying to get off every bit of damp he can, and redresses by candlelight. Smells like beeswax, the hippie natural candles Sam always picks when they restock their kit. His soulless self didn't bother with that. What a weird thing to turn out to miss.

Back in the room, Sam's made a pile of their food on the desk by the lantern, and lined up the buckets of water by the door. Dean checks his watch: ten o'clock, and they're packed into this room like a bunker. Safe, as warm as they can be, clean and healthy and food to hand. Now there is, truly, nothing at all to do but wait.

"Not even wi-fi," Sam says, under his breath like he had the same thought. Dean huffs. Sam's mouth lifts on one side, wry. He sits on the end of one bed, hands folded between his knees, and gives a shrug. "Well. We got a night off."

They did. About time, too, with how they've been running lately. Sam making up for every bad thing his soulless self ever might've done, and Dean just trying to hold onto the bar so he won't fly off. First time in weeks that Dean's had Sam to himself without Sam searching for another job or trying to pin down his own sad timeline or his brain melting out his ear, and he almost doesn't know what to do with it. A bit of silence, between them, that stretches. Dean licks his lips. "Wanna play charades?"

Sam snorts. "You'd cheat," he says, and Dean smiles his most honest smile, and that makes Sam roll his eyes but smile a little, too. "How long do you think we have until it gets really cold?"

Dean tips his head back and forth, thinking. "It's—what, fifty degrees in here?" Sam shrugs. "I don't know. It'll be friggin' cold in the morning, but we won't freeze."

"Guess not," Sam says, but he's still just sitting there. His eyes on Dean, his body quiet. Dean pours them both cups of the whiskey and sits on the other bed, and Sam rotates to face him, and they toast each other with a rasping papery excuse for a clink and take a swallow each, and it sinks down to Dean's gut like fire, welcome with how chilly it is in here, and Sam's just… still looking at him. Like he's something worth looking at. Dean feels his face go warm and wonders if he can blame the whiskey.

"Hey," Sam says, cup held easy between his knees. "Tell me something."

Dean leans back. "What, truth or dare? We're a little old for that, don't you think?"

His legs are kicked out into the space between the beds. Sam shifts and their boots knock together. "Maybe you are," Sam says, and Dean makes a face at him. Sam smiles and takes another sip, watching Dean over the top of his cup, and after the slight pull at the sting he's still smiling, small. "This last year. Did you ever think about…" He shakes his head, looks down at his cup. Dean nudges his ankle to get him to keep going and Sam looks back up, his hair hanging a little in his eyes. "Did you ever want to sleep with—him?"

Dean's lips part but nothing comes out. He's genuinely surprised. Sam's eyes tighten, a tiny shift that's almost not visible in the dim combination of candle-and-lantern light. "No," Dean says, after a pause that's too long. Sam's head tips back, assessing. "No," Dean repeats, firmer. "It wasn't—right."

Sam hmms and Dean takes a drink. Truth or dare, he really ought to do his forfeit. It's not a lie, not really, but it's not—completely true. Robo-Sam never seemed interested and Dean was still half-caught with Lisa and Dean's a lot of things but a cheater's not one of them, and he'd thought—he didn't know. That Sam didn't want it anymore. Whatever fumbling they'd gotten up to, their drunken stupidity, the almost violent way it'd get sometimes, the way Dean would sink his nails into Sam's back and Sam would bite his throat and then the way, after, sometimes, Sam would look at him in the dark and Dean would think, god—

His cheeks are flushed, hot enough to feel in the cool air. "So," Sam says, after the moment's stretched out, "we never—even when I came back—"

"Not exactly trying to make it with my long-lost brother when my creepy resurrected grandpa's breathing down my neck, no," Dean says, and Sam grimaces but then laughs, and then bites his bottom lip. Still looking at Dean and Dean takes a breath, deep, and thinks, jesus. Eighteen months, more, since the last time, most of it with Sam walking around with no soul, and Dean caught up in a relationship that crashed and burned, and it feels—different. They're both different. Happened somehow when Dean wasn't looking but here's the evidence, in how calm Sam is, in how they're just—quiet, here, together. Something building slow, in the cold, with the snow sifting down outside.

Sam lets his lip go, slow, his teeth dragging white. His eyes drop to Dean's mouth, and lower. "I've got lube," he says. Dean blinks. Sam lifts a shoulder, almost apologetic. "Don't know from what, but it's in my duffle. I've been—wondering."

"Jeez, Sammy," Dean says, and has to laugh, too, kind of breathless. It's hot. Jesus, it's hot, hotter than it should be, to just have Sam say it flat out like that. Asking. "What, you want to huddle for warmth?"

Sam raises his eyebrows, glances sidelong at his bed. "I mean," he says, and Dean has to laugh again. "If there were ever an opportunity—"

Dean leans in and gets Sam's jacket in one hand, and pulls. Sam scoots forward easy, his knee sliding up against Dean's inseam, and it's—easy, weirdly easy, easy in a way it never was, to lean in and press his mouth to Sam's and have Sam just—kiss back, pressing Dean's mouth open right away and brushing his tongue over Dean's lip, slick and hot, his breath warm on Dean's cool skin. "Damn," Dean says, soft.

Sam smiles against his mouth and kisses him again, puts his chilly fingertips against Dean's exposed throat. "I mean, we don't have anything else to do, right?" he says, pulling back an inch.

Dean rolls his eyes and says, "You really gotta learn some better lines."

Sam presses in, kisses him again soft on the mouth. God, Sam's mouth. "I don't think I do," Sam says, hanging there, and Dean groans, pushes Sam's face away, thinks: yes. Yes.

He goes to the bathroom. Takes his time. The toilet, thank god, is still flushing, so the water lines haven't yet gone down. He runs the sink and wets a washrag and cleans up, and washes his hands, and then he licks his mouth wet and looks at himself, in the spotty mirror, the candlelight flickery and making his face strange. When he comes out Sam's stripped the bed closer to the door and the other one is spread with that bedding, the blankets Dean stole, and Sam's in the middle of taking off his belt, standing in his socks with his shirt off and his chest bare and his hair a little ruffled, and he looks up at Dean in the bathroom doorway and smiles, and lays his belt on the bare bed, and says, "C'mere," and Dean comes.

Sam's hands are cold and Dean bitches about that, immediately. "Shut up," Sam advises, and Dean says, "Oh, if anyone needs to—" and Sam kisses him, like Dean knew he would, so that's okay. Together they get Dean's jacket off, his flannel, his t-shirt, and he shivers but Sam's hands drag down his arms and that's so warm Dean can hardly stand it. He drags his fingers through Sam's chest hair—hair, when Sam had been so sleek before—and Sam kisses the top of his ear, weirdly affectionate in a way that makes Dean's chest hot—and then his fingers go for Dean's belt, his jeans, and Dean pushes him away an inch, then, taking a second to breathe.

Sam's—christ. Hot. His nipples pebbled up tight and his cheeks a little pink, even in the candlelight. "Gotta get my boots off, man," Dean says, and Sam looks down like he's surprised that an impediment to getting in Dean's pants might exist, and Dean grins, sits back on the bed. Okay, so. Sam's not suddenly a pure sex god. Somehow that's as much of a relief as the breathing room was.

He works at the knot of his laces. Sam takes the opportunity to strip off his jeans, and then there's his bare long legs, his boxer-briefs. His dick's thick in them, obvious, but while Dean's tugging off his second boot Sam skims them off and down and then he's just—naked, nearly all the way except his stupid black socks he always wears, and Dean huffs and says, "Sexy," dry, but then Sam's kneeling down in front of him, sliding his hands up Dean's thighs, and—well. Truth or dare. Dean wouldn't have to take a drink, this time.

The corner of Sam's mouth lifts and he unzips Dean's jeans, and then tucks his fingers into the waistband, and Dean lifts his ass up and lets Sam pull and Sam—takes his time about it, damn him, pulling down Dean's underwear too so the cold air ripples up goosebumps all the way down Dean's legs, freezing. Sam kisses Dean's chest, his nipple—Dean grabs Sam's head, surprised—and then ducks down, kisses the root of his dick and then sucks in the head, soft and warm, slick, so abrupt that Dean slams a hand down onto the edge of the mattress and his head falls back, his hips lifting. Christ, Sammy. A big hand circles around Dean's calf and Sam sucks, soft, while Dean's dick rises so fast he gets dizzy—and then Sam pulls away, the cold air hitting like a hammer, and lifts up with his mouth pinked-wet and says, "Get in bed," and Dean stares at him like a lunatic for a second and then, jesus, scrambles to obey.

He scooches in to the middle. The blankets are ridiculous, double-weight and heavy, but the sheets are chilly even through his socked feet. Sam climbs in after him and pushes right up against his back, his dick swelling up against Dean's ass, his body a hot shock among the cold. "You're a friggin' furnace," Dean says, and Sam snorts, bites soft at Dean's bare shoulder. There's a second of separation—Sam stretching away—and then Sam's back, under the blankets, kisses under Dean's ear, slides his hand over Dean's hip, down. Dean's breath hitches and he slides his leg forward. "Yeah?" Sam says, the idiot, and Dean says, "Duh, bitch," and there's a huff and then a muffled click and then Sam's fingers are slick, sliding up against his ass, pushing in.

Oh—god. It's been—since the last time. Dean turns his face against the pillow and pulls his leg higher, makes room. Sam's fingers, wet-thick, and the strange uncertain feeling of being broken open, how it pulls and worries, his body barely remembering what to do. Long time. Sweat breaks out at his temples, the middle of his back. He drops a hand to his dick and squeezes, letting it know something better's coming.

"You're tight," Sam says. Unnecessarily, in Dean's opinion. "You really, you never—?"

"Some things should be kept between a man and his hour-long showers, Sammy," Dean says, light, and it's not really true but Sam huffs another little laugh and kisses his ear, and Dean pops his leg up instead even though that makes a cool cavern of air under the covers, giving Sam the room to work him. He pushes back, pulls at his dick, works it fat, and against his ass Sam's dick feels full, ready. He always liked this part, the part where he made Dean want it. He turns his head and says, "Sam," and Sam lifts up and kisses him just like he wanted, his chest warm against Dean's shoulder and his fingers spreading deep, pushing the slick inside where they need it, and while he's kissing Dean and relearning every molar Dean feels the fingers slip out, rubbing instead at Dean's hole where it's hot now, wet, flexing. He drags in air through his nose and reaches behind himself, finding Sam fat and heavy. Thick. Jesus, he could never forget how thick.

"Ready?" Sam says and that's a stupid question. Dean tugs the blankets higher with his free hand, covering his shoulder against the cold, snubs Sam up against himself and then lets go, finds Sam's hip, pulls—and Sam takes over, holding Dean's belly as he pushes inside, and Dean tries to contain the flinch but can't and Sam kisses his temple, soft, and his ear, and his neck, and doesn't stop, bulling open that place for himself, splitting Dean wide. His pubes press against Dean's ass. Dean grips the pillow and lets his knee sink down and immediately what's already tight is tighter, closer. Sam grunts against him, slides his hand down to find Dean's half-wilted dick. "You feel—" Sam starts, but he squeezes Dean's dick instead of saying, and Dean's fine with that, he doesn't need compliments when he just needs Sam to—

"Move," he says, and Sam moves.

It's slow, from being on their sides. No real force behind it. Dean knocks Sam's hand away from his dick and Sam squeezes his balls instead, and then slips a hand to the inside of his thigh and keeps him close that way, locking Dean in place to be fucked. He's still tight but he's loosening up, from the thick rocking churn of Sam inside him, buried up to the root half the time, flexing in and making Dean stretch for him, forcing in that deep good ache of being open, slick for it. With the underhand grip on Dean's thigh his thumb slots in right at the base of Dean's dick, a soft dragging pressure every time Sam squeezes, and Dean can hardly think for how good it all feels. For how much he missed it and pretended for so long he wasn't missing it. Sam's other arm is tucked under the pillow, under his head, and he manages to shove the pillow away enough that he gets bare skin and bites there, soft in Sam's bicep, and Sam drags in air through his teeth and pushes in harder, the wet drag enough that Dean shudders, shoulders to hips, and Sam squeezes his thigh so hard that it hurts.

If it weren't so damn cold Dean would want to throw the blankets off—get on his back with Sam between his legs—lift up, ride, to remember the way Sam's eyes went so dark and hot and intense from seeing Dean get off on him. As it is he feels it building slow, the sweat between them starting to get oppressive, his throat a little abraded from the way Sam keeps dragging his teeth over it, his breath hot there where Dean's skin's so wet. He clenches inside, as much as he can when he's split wide like this, and Sam grunts, warm burst of air against the back of his ear. "Fuck," Dean says, squirming back. He presses his knees together and Sam feels even thicker, his hand caught between Dean's thighs. "Fuck, Sammy—"

"God, I want to come," Sam says, and Dean jerks, caught against him, his dick spitting. Sam worms his hand out and cups Dean's nuts, rubs warm at the root of his dick, his lips smearing against Dean's neck. "God, you're—are you close?"

"Out of practice," Dean says, breathily light, like that's even fucking remotely true. "Can't you tell?" Sam's hand pulls up, fisting his dick, and Dean arches as much as he can, shoving down onto Sam, his teeth floating on this feeling. His gut's molten. "Fuck—Sam, if you—"

"I have to," Sam says, thin, and pushes—Dean tips over and Sam slides, god, out, but in a second he's covering Dean's back and Dean's spreading as wide as he can and Sam slots right back inside, hard, and Dean drags in air against the mattress but doesn't really care, doesn't need it. Sam's pumping inside, fast and deep, the jolting drag of it sliding all over exactly where Dean wants him, and Sam's hands slip from Dean's sides to his hip to his shoulders, holding him in place, and Dean worms a hand between the bed and his dick and lets Sam shove him into his own grip, the rhythm perfect, perfect—Sam's mouth hot against the knob of his spine—and Dean comes pulsing into his own hand, his toes curling and his lips spread against the sheet and his whole body locking up, it feels like, tense, unloading—and Sam groans, shoves his hand between them to feel the mess Dean's making, says, "Fuck, you're—fuck, you're so hot, Dean, the hottest I ever—" and gets a hand on Dean's ass and pulls it wider, shoves in harder, for a shocking minute where it almost hurts except that Dean's so floaty and satisfied he'd take a knife in his flesh and wouldn't mind—and when Sam finally comes he presses right up inside and pumps it deep, forcing it in, and Dean sighs against the bed, overheated and wet, and lets go of his own dick enough that he can tangle his fingers with Sam's, slick, crumpled, bone to bone.

Sam's a deadweight on his back. Dean turns his face against the sheet and gets a pocket of slightly cooler air, content to take it. He squeezes Sam's fingers and in response Sam squeezes his hip, and then slowly, slowly, his lips brush the back of Dean's ear, and then Dean's cheek. "Wow," Sam says, quiet, and Dean snorts. A shift, inside, that makes Dean open his eyes wide—oh, he's open now but it feels—and one of Sam's knees slips over to the outside of Dean's, different leverage, as he pushes in again on all the wet he made, and in again, still thick. Dean licks his lips and it's so quiet he can hear the wet noise it makes—match, to when Sam pulls out—a spill, trickling down over Dean's balls—and then the squelch as he pushes back in and makes Dean grip the pillow, makes his nuts pulse in heated shock.

"I could go again right now," Sam says, low against his ear, entirely honest.

Dean has to take a deep breath. "Don't press your luck," he says, raw, and Sam laughs quiet, drags out again—still hard, christ above—and tugs at Dean's shoulder, and turns him over in a messy sheet-tangling pull, and gets them the right way around to kiss, full, open, Dean's hands on Sam's waist and the bed smeary and disgusting, between them.

When Dean pulls away, Sam's got his fingers curled around the back of his ear, his dick warm and full up against Dean's hip. He smiles, looking back at Dean in the barely-light. Dean smiles back, kind of helpless. "We really wrecked this bed," Dean says. Just for something to say.

Sam's shoulder lifts. "Heated it up, though," he says, and, well. He's not wrong.

The candles are still lit, and they'll have to take care of those so they don't burn the damn room down. The lantern, too—they shouldn't waste the batteries. There's a slit in the blankets somewhere, cool air pouring in over Dean's back, and he tugs, and Sam gets it and helps him smooth them out, making a cocoon for the two of them. The discarded lube bottle ends up under Dean's back and he slides it up under the pillow, for hopeful future use. Their socked toes bump together. Sam's nose is cold, where it bumps Dean's cheek, but that's all right. Dean's not in a state to mind.

"It's gonna suck to dig out the car in the morning," Sam says, out of nowhere.

Dean closes his eyes and pulls at Sam's waist, getting him closer. Sam's knee slides between his thighs. "That's what I missed about you, man," he says, drowsy. "You always know what to say to get me hot."

Sam snorts. His knuckles drag over Dean's jaw, safe and warm.

[poison--ivory]

Haikyuu! Hc’s (Inarizaki/Fem!Reader)Quirks

Characters: Ren Omimi, Aran Ojiro, Hitoshi Ginjima, Atsumu Miya, Osamu Miya, Rintaro Suna, Heisuke Riseki and Michinari Akagi

(I did Kita on the captains one I did. The link is down below)

link

Warnings: Fluff, Cursing and NSFW

Omimi- Thunder Valley

Omimi’s quirk was an accumulation quirk, which means he has to build up his power in order for his quirk to work. His quirk was much like All Might’s, but with less force involved with it

He didn’t ask you out up front, but Atsumu did. The Miya twin literally walked right up to you and told you in front of everyone in your classroom

 He thinks the way you snort when you laugh is pretty cute in of itself

Even if he’s not going to be a hero he still trains his quirk on the down low, so that later in life it doesn’t become an inconvenience

Cuddles with him are always warm doesn’t matter what position he’s in, little spoon or big spoon, there’s always a great amount of heat

When sex came into the question further down the line of your relationship he made sure to take every precaution into question. His quirk ran on emotion (mostly anger) and he wanted to make sure that it didn’t go off during any sexual acts

Fingering was always a iffy subject, anything dealing with his hands were

Ojiro- Electric Fist

Aran’s quirk an emitter quirk allowing him to electrify anything and anyone, downside is that only his hands are the ones emitting the electricity

Your in one of his classes and he would be lying if he said he didn’t noticed you. In fact he paid close attention to every tiny thing you did, from taking notes, speaking, walking, etc.

The type of person to deny that he even had a crush on you. But, only confessed when the Miya twins got involved, especially Atsumu. He did it in the form of a medium sized gift basket

Likes that your laugh is kind of strange, it makes you sort of special in a sense

Always makes up an excuse to hold your hand. “I had to get you out of the crowded hallway.” He’s a pretty bad liar, can’t come up with a good excuse to save his life

His quirk goes off too easily when he gets ‘excited’, so he buys specialized rubber gloves in order to touch you properly

He loves it when you ride him backwards. He’s kind of an ‘ass man’, so facing away from him really gets him going

Ginjima- Spirit Whip

Ginjima’s quirk is also an emitter quirk his quirk allows him to throw his soul out of his body and into other living being; dogs, cats, birds, humans, etc.

 Gin knew he had a major crush on you and it was completely obvious to everyone and you

He didn’t really confess more like you had to bring it out of him. Celebrated to his teammates that he finally got a girlfriend

Goes on long dates with you, even after a grueling session of practice he takes you out for lovely date. Nearly overdid himself to the point of passing out, so now you both just laze around for most dates

Loves to show off his quirk to impress you. But, gets scolded by Kita for taking over Atsumu’s body 

His quirk gets compared to Ino from Naruto, and gets pretty insecure about it. So, be wary on how you talk about his quirk

His quirk went off during his first time with you. As soon as he climaxed his soul flew out and into his pet fish

Atsumu- Pyromancer

Atsumu’s quirk is an emitter type, permitting his quirk to shoot out flames from any part of his body. Cocky as hell when fangirls tell him is quirk is one of a kind, his brother says otherwise

Atsumu asked you out without any dithering. He wasn’t ashamed at all that he purposely asked you out in front of the whole volleyball team

Girls would sneakily use their quirks on you as payback for going out with Tsumu

He didn’t really do anything until he actually saw it happening with his own eyes

Your boyfriend is more than just cocky chiefly about his quirk. Like you could be laying on his chest and he just brings up his flame quirk and then brags about it non stop

Since he always brags about his quirk, he makes sure that he could back it up. Exercises his flames on a daily basis, so it not likely it would set off during sex

Except for the one time his hands got too hot riding him and he had to take you to the emergency room for third degree burns

Osamu- Hydromancer

Osamu’s quirk is also an emitter type, and just like his twin can squirt water out of any body part. Cool thing about his quirk is that he can spray his brother whenever he gets a hot head

Osamu was up front about liking you, too. Gave you a weirdly made bento that spelled, “Will U Go Out With Me?” 

Spends most of his free time with you. His favorite thing to do is cook with you or for you. Only makes enough for you and him, so when Atsumu comes in to eat there’s nothing left 

Loves to spray you with his quirk, but doesn’t his own strength. Like the one time he blasted you in the back so hard it left a dark bruise in the center of your shoulders

Expect to see quirk fights between the twins. The whole room steams up rapidly like a full on sweat sauna in under thirty minutes

Kisses are usually long and sweet. He’ll try to rub his sweat off on you after practice, so you both have to take a shower afterward

He tried having sex in the storage room at school and his quirk set off as you gave him head. Leaving you dripping wet and people questioning you why you switched uniforms

Suna- Lethargy

Suna’s quirk is an accumulation quirk allowing himself to get tired  on a daily basis builds up his strength. If he were to take a hero path this is his excuse for sleeping during class

He wasn’t going to tell you his feelings until Osamu started pressuring him into exposing them

He’s a lazy lover, so assume that a lot of dates are inside or close by. However, if your more of an energetic person he’ll try to be a little more open minded

Cuddles with you before practice and after practice. If your in another classroom he’ll sit you on his lap before class starts to get in his daily affection

Kisses your neck a lot even if other see him, he doesn’t care. Did it in front of a teacher once and had to clean the classroom by himself

He likes it when you spend time with his friends, maybe not Atsumu, but Osamu and Aran watch over you when he not around

Suna’s quirk wouldn’t go off after of during sex. Yet, he does tend to pass out after any type of sexual favor

Riseki- Diamond

Riseki’s quirk is a transformation quirk covering his whole body in a diamond layer, eats a lot of barbeque to keep up his hardening. Accidently blocked off his airways in his full body transformation

It’s quite ironic that his quirk harden the outside, but can’t harden his feelings

His reputation isn’t quite the best with most of his classmates, so when you asked him out he thought you were making a joke. Especially after his screw up at their last game. The whole school booed him

This guy loves holding your hand, but doesn’t do it in public as much. Until you reasoned with him that he shouldn’t be ashamed of people seeing them together

He loves how you can stand up for yourself, it gives him the confidence to stand his ground more often

His teammates tease him for kissing you outside the gym when they have practice. Teasing him even more when they catch him making out with you in the locker room

You both decide to have vaginal sex, but it turned ugly soon after. He grew rock hard after his first orgasm and cut the top of your pelvic pretty bad

Akagi- Bright Light

Akagi’s quirk is a mutant quirk it illuminates his whole body at all times, even on the lowest setting is still noticeable. Watching movies in general is awful if everyone around you hates your dim gleam

He had help from Aran and Kita to help him gather the courage on asking you out. Was a lot more confident after a quick pep talk from 

Goes on a variety of cute dates with you on the weekend. Even drops by your classroom to set gifts he bought for you. Makes homemade gifts that he thinks you would find adorable

He can’t turn off his quirk so whenever it’s late outside he’s literally your human nightlight. Sometimes younger kids run around him calling him “Twinkle Star”

Hugs you from behind turn into picking you up and swinging your body back and forth. Pretty strong so it doesn’t matter what body type you are

His main concern is his weight, so he tries to watch what he eats. Fails miserably, but with your help he’ll get through it. You stop eating some your favorite fatty snacks in front of him and make him something nutritious for his diet

His quirk sprung to a full shining, glare of light when he recieved a hand job. To make it any worse it was pretty dark in the room besides the t.v., so seeing his body erupt with light is kind of cute

[deliriousgeek]

Javier Pena x Reader

All conversation here is Spanish, BUT for the sake of possible mistranslation I will keep the dialogue in English. 

Word Count: 2k+

Warnings: slight stalker dude, alcohol, blood, death (but not to main characters)

TBH the timeline is off but lets ignore that

Also if you wanna just skip the part with Javi, because I added some backstory, look for the bold star *

Masterlist

To say that Y/n’s day had been trying, would be an understatement. 

A group of rogue sicarios had attacked another marketplace in the morning, another warning sign to their former leader Pablo Escobar. The emergency medical clinic that Y/n worked at had taken in the gunshot victims that the main hospital wouldn’t be able to save. If the patient would survive the wound, they were taken and treated at the hospital. If the patient was nearing death, they were sent to the clinic. The worst part of it all was that the victims didn’t know they were dying. The nurses and doctors had tried to make each patient as comfortable as possible, and it was only because they knew that the patient would die. 

After a gruelling fourteen hour day that began at six in the morning, Y/n began walking to her part of the nurses’ station. She had finished attending to her last patient ten minutes ago, now she stood above a trash can as she peeled the now bloodied latex gloves off her hands. Ten minutes. A lot can be done in ten minutes. One can make a phone call to their loved one, make a purchase at the store, listen to a song or two, all in just 10 minutes. Yet Y/n had done none of those things in the last 10 minutes. In the past 10 minutes she had entered a janitor’s closet, locked the door, sat on an empty bucket, and cried. She cried and cried until the pain of unbearable loss was now an empty pit in her chest. 

Ten minutes ago she had been holding the hand of a young boy. He was almost ten by the looks of it. He had been there at the market when the sicarios began opening fire on the civilians. Y/n hadn’t even known his name. All she knew, from what the barely conscious boy had said, was that his mom was counting on him to make money to take care of his siblings. That was all the information she had on this boy. By the time the paramedics had gotten to him, he had lost so much blood that all they could do was stop the bleeding in an effort to keep him out of shock. When they had finally gotten him situated at the clinic, it was too late to save him. He was one of the last patients brought in. They had used all their blood transfusions on previous victims to make them comfortable. All Y/n could do was sit by his side as he closed his eyes for what he didn’t know would be the last time. He asked to hold her hand. He said that Y/n reminded him of his mom, and he missed his mom. Sometimes, Y/n wished she couldn’t speak or understand Spanish. The little boy’s voice still rang clear in her ears. It was one of the most heart breaking, yet endearing things she’s ever heard a person say. 

“Tell mama I’ll be home soon. I just need to rest for a while.” 

Y/n scoffed bitterly. He thought he would go home to his mom, his siblings, his family. Instead he was gone. Another casualty made by the hands of the cartel. 

Y/n took in a deep breath. A new feeling of rage had overcome her grief. If those damn cartel leaders could see the death they bring, if they could see the amount of people affected by their actions, maybe they would stop. Y/n had seen at least a hundred patients come into the clinic door that day and the only way they went out was in a body bag. To the cartel, that boy was just another number, another statistic, another dead person; to Y/n he was more than that.

He was another soul added to the lives she could have saved. 

Weighing all these thoughts made Y/n’s head hurt, and the feeling of loss began to creep its way back into her chest. She needed to clock out, and leave; and so she did. Her way back home was quiet. She didn’t turn on the radio, nor did she hum that song that was constantly in her subconscious, she simply drove home with only the noise of the thoughts in her head. Once Y/n had gotten home she slammed the door behind her and headed straight to the bathroom. She let the water run and heat up as she picked out her pajamas for the night. After peeling off her scrubs, Y/n stepped towards the shower, but not before catching sight of herself in the mirror. That made her stop. She turned to her reflection and stared. She noticed her eye bags were darker than they were when she left in the morning. Her hair was in a low bun that had bits of her hair sticking out; a sign that she had been too busy comforting patients to care what her hair looked like, it just needed to be out of her face. Her skin looked dull and her lips were chapped, but the most unrecognizable feature Y/n saw was her own eyes. They stared back at her and showed nothing but a blank stare. Y/n chalked up these observations as effects of seeing so many people die, and knowing one could do nothing about it. Blinking, Y/n stepped away from the mirror and into the shower. The warm water did little to nothing to warm the cold hollow feeling in her chest. After drying herself off and changing in to clean clothes Y/n sat herself down on the couch. A defeated breath left her lips. Her apartment was quiet, too quiet even for an apartment in a low end neighborhood in Columbia. 

* She shook her head. A quiet environment is the perfect invitation to thoughts. Y/n didn’t want those right now. So instead of letting the quietness consume her she pulled herself off the couch and into an outfit for a night out. She wanted alcohol— no —needed alcohol to stop these dark thoughts from creeping back into her head. There was a bar near her apartment that she had yet to go to. Y/n decided she would go there. With her purse hanging over her shoulder and keys in hand, Y/n locked up her apartment and headed to the bar. The bar was a short enough distance that Y/n figured it would do her some good to walk there instead of drive. To some degree, she was right, the slight breeze had cooled her off and in turn helped blow away some of the tension she was feeling. Y/n entered the bar and made her way to the back of the room where she sat down on a stool in front of the bartender who was cleaning a glass. 

“What can I get for you ma’am?”

Y/n places her purse in her lap while resting an elbow on the counter, jutting out two fingers to rest her temple on. “A neat whiskey please.”

The bartender nods and begins to make her drink. She turns from the bartender to survey the rest of the bar. There’s plenty of people occupying the tables and booths that line the walls. There’s a group playing music on stage and it seems that their music is just loud enough to distract Y/n from her thoughts. The atmosphere is bustling and a little noisy; it’s just what Y/n needs. The bartender places her drink in front of her, taking Y/n out of her stare.

“Here you are ma’am.”

She nods, “Thank you.”

She nurses her drink for a while before there’s only a few sips left. She tanks it and hails the bartender over with a wave of her hand. 

“Guaro por favor.” Y/n speaks.

The bar tender nods as he takes her now finished glass of whiskey. 

Y/n places her head in her palm, her hair falls in front of her face. Looking up, she takes a long look at the bar goers around her and closes her eyes, listening to the soft trumpet of the band that is accompanied by strums of the guitar. Her face scrunches up as the memory of the young boy's face flashes across her mind. She forces her eyes open and dismisses the memory from her head. The bartender places the shot in front of her and she thanks him. Then downs the shot, the flavor and burning sensation coats her throat. She places the glass back on the counter before asking for another. The bartender eyes her, as if questioning if he should get her another drink or not, before taking her glass and providing her with another shot of clear liquid. Y/n places the glass to her lip before swinging her head back, effortlessly taking in the alcohol once more. 

This action catches the attention of another patreon of the bar. The way she carried herself screamed confidence, but her slight frown and pale face carried a dark emotion that couldn’t be described. She had just placed the glass of her second shot on the counter when Javier excused himself from his drinking buddies and made his way over to the bar. Truth be told, he had been watching her since she walked in the doors, and he wasn’t the only one who had taken interest in the lonely women taking shots alone. However, he was determined he would be the first to talk to her. Luckily the stool next to her wasn’t taken, so he sat himself down next to her. His arm propped himself up as he leaned on the counter, his body facing her. 

A charming smile worked it’s way onto his face. “Hola.” He spoke, testing if she spoke Spanish.

Y/n noticed the greeting and side glanced at him, wary. “Hola.” She replied.

“I’m a regular at this bar. I’ve never seen you here before.”

Y/n turned her head to look at him. He was a nicely dressed man. Dark hair, dark mustache, tan skin and a leather jacket to match his raspy voice. 

“It’s my first time here.” She dismisses his smile and looks forward. 

Just as his lips open are about to say something else, Y/n speaks again. 

“I’m not interested.” Her voice is quipped.

Javier’s eyebrows slightly lift and he is, albeit, a little bit stunned. His head cocks to the side and his lip quirks up into a stunned smile. Then he nods, lifting his hands up to signal surrender, before lowering them back down and leaning towards Y/n. “Well, then I’ll leave you to it, newcomer. But for the record, I also came over to tell you that the guy in the corner with the white cowboy hat on,” He nods to the back of the room near the stage. 

Y/n follows his gaze. Sure enough a man with a white cowboy hat on sits with his legs splayed out, angled towards them. He wears a long sleeve shirt and a leather vest, with cowboy boots to match. 

“Has been eyeing you for the past ten minutes,” Javier leans towards Y/n’s ear. “and he doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” With that, he stands up from the stool and heads back to the table with his buddies. 

Y/n is left slightly wide eyed, and now more cautious of the man staring at her from behind. Suddenly feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable, Y/n asks for her check. She pays and leaves. The walk home is again, accompanied by a slight breeze, something Y/n is thankful for to cool off her now warmed skin. She walks in silence for a bit longer, listening to the nightlife of her town. Y/n relishes in the feeling of the alcohol in her system before listening to her surroundings once more. She can hear families eating dinner, friends partying, dogs barking, children playing under the street lights, but then a noise catches her off guard. She hears footsteps, heavy foot steps. Taking note of the area she’s in, it’s normally a fairly frequented place. To get to her apartment she has to walk through the town square, which, at this time of night is usually filled with some people, but not tonight. The only things keeping her company are the street lights, the slight buzz of alcohol starting to take effect and the approaching footsteps. A flight feeling of unease fills Y/n’s stomach as she remembers the man who was staring at her in the bar, and the words of warning from the leather jacket clad man, “He doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Not wanting to take any chances, even if the footsteps are of a passer by, Y/n quickens her pace, only to hear that the person behind her quickens their pace as well. At the noise Y/n’s heartbeat quickens and she sobers up just enough to understand she could be in danger. She briskly walks down a road lined with houses before turning a corner, then another corner, then another. She’s straying off the path to home a little, but if it meant losing whoever could possibly be following her then it might be better. Y/n stops and waits, ear straining to listen around the corner for the same heavy footsteps. 

It’s quiet. Y/n lets out a breath relief, then, all too soon, the footsteps are back. However this time, they’re closer. 

Y/n’s eyes widen at the realization, she’s being followed and whoever it is knows where she is. Quickly looking around for anything she could possibly use as a weapon, Y/n spots some rocks on the ground. Her eyes flit to the rocks then to her purse, before she hastily gathers the rock in her purse and fastens the purse cover tight. Her breathing is quickens. The footsteps are closer maybe right around the corner. Y/n straightens herself against the wall of the building and holds her purse by the straps above her shoulder as she listens. She tries to slow her breaths and watches the bottom of the wall corner. The footsteps are louder, closer, right next to her. Then, as soon as she sees the tip of the person’s shoe peep around the corner, she swings. 

“Shit!” A raspy cry rings about as the shoe disappears around the corner once more. 

Y/n pulls herself from around the corner, bag still raised and ready to swing again as she takes in the scene in front of her. In the dim light she sees her pursuer stumbling backwards with two hands cradling his nose. She observes his clothes. She looks at his head, no cowboy hat. She looks at his torso, no leather vest. Then her eyes roam down his legs, no cowboy boots.

Instead of the ensemble she expected, Y/n is met with combed dark brown hair, a mustache, leather jacket and jeans. 

“What the hell was that for?” The man accusingly raises his voice, still hissing as he tries to nurse his nose. 

“Why the hell are you following me?” Y/n shoots back with the same tone. She hopes she left a bruise.

“Because that creep with the hat got up and left the bar after you did!” The man flails one arm behind him as if gesturing to another person as he covers his nose with the other. 

Y/n’s eyes widen. “Oh.” She realizes her mistake. Then she realizes the man has been holding his nose for too long for his injury to be a bruise. “Shit. I’m so sorry.” She lowers her bag and places it back across her body. “Let me look at your nose.”

She steps forward to help, then he steps back, holding out a hand. 

“Look lady, you’re the one that caused this. I don’t think I really trust you enough to not break it even further.” His delivery is terse. He doesn’t look at her when he speaks, eyes squinting in pain. 

Y/n rolls her eyes. “I’m a woman walking home alone at night, I think you can understand my reason for being defensive.”

When the only reply she gets from the man is a hiss as he tries to touch his nose, testing the injury, she speaks again, but this time a in a more gentle tone.

“And I’m a nurse. I won’t break your nose.”

Javier lets out a puff of a laugh, almost a scoff. “Pretty sure you just did.”

Y/n sighs at his stubbornness. “Look, if your nose is broken then you’re going to need immediate attention. If it’s not, then all you’ll need is an ice pack. Okay? So let me look at it and then we can be on our separate ways.”

Javier opens his eyes at this. He squints at her, then slowly nods. “Okay. Deal.”

“Good.” 

Y/n leads him back to the town square where there is better light. She makes him sit down on the fountain edge so she can observe his nose from above. Now that she has a better look at it, she takes in the bruises already starting to form. Her face scrunches and she feels guilt in her chest. 

“So? Is it broken or not?” Javier impatiently inquires.

Y/n only nods, feeling too guilty to retort with his attitude. “Unfortunately, yes. It is broken. You need some medical attention right away.”

Javier looks at her with a cocked head. “I’d say I’m getting some pretty good medical attention right now.” His eye brow lifts as a smirk appears on his face.

Y/n is startled at his brazen attempt at flirting, before her eyes narrow. “I broke your nose. I will not hesitate to break another body part of yours as well.”

Javier lets out a breathy chuckle. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop.”

Y/n nods before speaking. “The emergency clinic is still open. C’mon, I’ll take you.” She begins to walk away. 

Javier stands up and takes long strides to catch up with her. 

“Why are you trusting me?”

Y/n stops. “What?” She turns to him.

“Just a few minutes ago I was following you. Now you’re all of a sudden very comfortable with walking me to the clinic. How do you know I didn’t make up that whole thing about that creep following you out of the bar just so you wouldn’t suspect me of anything?” There is a teasing lilt to his voice. 

Without breaking eye contact, Y/n reaches down for her purse and holds it up so that Javier could see it. “I’m not trusting you. As a nurse I took an oath to heal those around me. However, that doesn’t mean I will hesitate to use this should you make me uncomfortable again. Is that clear?”

A playful smile makes its way onto Javier’s lips. “Crystal clear ma’am.”

Posted on 12/7/20

Part 2 at the clinic anybody?

Translations: 

sicarios: hired mercs/men of the cartel

guaros: Columbian nickname for a type of alcohol

[whump-town]

A Cumbersome and Heavy Body

Chapter Six: Looking In Their Eyes When They’re Down

Summary: Stubborn until the very end, Aaron Hotchner isn’t going to go down without a fight. It’s just getting hard to tell the difference between fighting them and fighting the cancer.

Word Count: 4453

Author’s Note: The next chapter is the final chapter... somehow

I bet on losing dogs I know they're losing and I'll pay for my place By the ring Where I'll be looking in their eyes when they're down I'll be there on their side

She has no warning to prepare her for the swift sea of medical personal swarming around them. One moment she’s folding Aaron’s fingers over her own, using both hands to keep his captive between hers, and the next he’s lodged free. Her own panic spikes and she can see his tired eyes snap open with alertness, shoulders moving as he tries and fails to move his body. His deep, rasped voice calling out to her muffled by the oxygen mask they’d pulled over his face. Any movement he manages is met with a hand, his left shoulder pushed back to the stretcher, and his wrist caught swiftly and held down. He stands no chance against them.

She’s allowed to stand at the corner of the room. Left to watch as Aaron’s nose starts to bleed again, he gives a low grunt as his head begins to pound. She steps forward, moving to point it out, but she stumbles into a nurse and is met with two more guiding her right back out. One stands by her side, a hand on her bicep to keep her in place and all she can do is stand and watch them cut his clothes away. She winces at the bruises, ones he’d managed to keep hidden from her, or maybe she just can’t keep track these days there are so many. They stand out horribly-- dark greens and blacks and blues against his nearly colorless flesh. Up and down his legs and arms and chest.

He gives a soft protest as his shirt is peeled open, both of his hands shaking where they lay at his sides. Painful goosebumps breaking out over his skin. He’s lifted up, the head of the stretcher lifted so the blood pouring down his face won’t slide back down the back of his throat. His weak protest is met with a pink bucket being thrown into his lap and he takes it wordlessly. A nurse moves the mask off his face, giving it to a woman behind her to be cleaned, and Aaron falls forward, caught by the swift-handed nurse, as he throws up. All this movement too much for his stomach to take.

The whites of his eyes are all Emily can see and she shouts, being held back by that nurse, as he slumps back against the stretcher. She watches them pass things between one another, doing everything but ignoring how cold he obviously is. She doesn’t get a clear name of the drug they press into him, just watches it get passed to the woman standing over Aaron’s shoulder. It’s as if she’s watching in lapsed time seconds behind every action that takes place. Having no idea what they’re doing or what’s wrong just that Aaron has stopped moving, laying still and calm while they manipulate his limbs. She watches the needle sink in and frowns, waiting for some sort of reaction. Watching for whatever is that they’re waiting for. Hotch lets out a little kicked breath, leg twitching as he rasps something incoherently, and falls limp once again.

“What--” she never gets the chance to ask.

They start kicking the stretcher, forcing the wheels into motion as they scramble overtop one another. Placing machines on every side of Aaron and pulling the guard rail up. She’s pulled back not allowed to follow.

“If you’ll wait in here,” she’s left in a hall or something like one. There are some chairs thrown against a wall and two shitting vending machines with overpriced snacks in one and shit coffee in the other. “Someone will come out and speak with you shortly.”

What’s she to do until then?

“Da-Dave?” she hears his groggy reply. A slurred, panic not yet set in, mumbled “yea”. “He’s -- We’re in the hospital,” she says, restlessly walking the cold hall of the waiting room up and down in slow lazy circles. “Pneumonia, they think. Probably, uhm, maybe caused by the radiation. Something to do with -- with scarring.” She pushes her hair back from her face with her palm, the messy ponytail she’d managed running out the door isn’t cutting it anymore. The cold sweat dying off as her adrenaline goes with it. She wants a shower and to see Hotch.

“It’s -- It’s not a big deal,” she mumbles, speaking far too quickly for Dave to even get a chance to get something out in the way of conversation. “He’ll probably be fine. Or, well, I guess I don’t really know. They won’t tell me anything yet. They just took him, Dave. They just took him from me and left me in here in this fucking room that’s freezing.” She motions up to the unapproachable white walls extended all around her, shaking her head. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she mumbles, frustratedly. “I just wish I could--”

She wishes she could do something, give him a kidney or a quarter of her liver so that this little game can come to its falling action and find them naïve and drunk off winning. She’d return to them in a heartbeat and never go back to London. She’s not sure she’ll ever be able to leave Hotch again, can’t spare the thought of what shit he’ll get into if she’s not around. Maybe she knows too much for him to want her to (or maybe they’ve developed a sort of codependency). But she’s learned her lesson and she’s not sure what Hotch’s is but he’s probably figured it out too. Certainly, that means they have just reached the climax of this awful story, she thinks around every turn it’s here and finds herself pumping the breaks never hearing the right words.

“It’s aggressive, abnormal.”

“It’s spreading rapidly to his other organs.”

“We’ll combine the chemo and the radiation but all we can do is cross our fingers.”

Where’s the ringing of that bell that’s downstairs in the treatment facility Emily drives him to? She knows what it’s for and she’s never heard it ring. Not once. Someone should get to, after all the people she’s seen during those trips, and not a single one has done it yet. When does it end?

Because they’ve done the hair loss. She’s seen him puke so many times and wondered how he managed to still bring something up. Watched him cry in the front seat of the car in pain and lay so still, sleep so deeply she thought he was dead. They do the walks the doctor said would help but unless she’s supposed to be harnessing the sun to shoot into his veins alongside the poison they pump into him she’s not sure what else to do. How much more do they need to take? She’ll give them an arm or sell her soul but there has to be some sort of answer. A place, an option, some time, or someplace where they get to win. So Dave can make them a celebratory dinner Aaron won’t eat but it’s not about what pasta is chosen. It’s about the giant, flared office chair that Derek will roll him out on a little too fast. Smiling no matter how propped up by pillows that he has to be and with as many blankets and layers of clothes that he wants until he’s warm. So that he can rest his head against the side, curling into himself as he falls asleep to their laughter.

It’s about winning.

Fuck, she just wants to beat this.

“Emily? You with me, kid?”

She snaps back to reality. To the hall. “What? Yeah, yeah.” She walks over to the chairs along the wall, falling into one and folding into herself. Letting her head fall into her palm. “I’m here,” she mumbles.

Dave is sitting up in his bed, working his body into motion. “I know you said he’ll be fine,” and honestly, he does believe her. “I’m going to come down there, okay? You don’t need to be alone and I’ll bring real coffee, don’t drink whatever they have.” The doctors have Aaron, he’s in the best place that he can be. Emily is in the worst. “Okay? Does that work, Emily?”

She nods her head, humming, before pushing her hair back again and forcing herself upright. “Yeah,” she rasps. “Yeah, that’s okay.” She wipes her mouth, moving up her face and drying the tears sliding down as best as she can. If not scoffing at herself for crying in the first place. “I’ll see you in a second?”

Dave sighs, nodding. “Yeah,” he replies. “I’ll be there. Hang in there, kiddo.”

She has two degrees, you know. A bachelor’s degree in Criminal Justice and a master’s degree from Yale.  She’s not stupid or oblivious but the ability to obtain a college education has never been a good determinant of intelligence. To compare her ability to compartmentalize her life recently would lend some light to her naivety. She might have gotten the grades to get into Yale (and more importantly the money) but here she is sitting at the hospital refusing to see what’s right in front of her.

What good has college done any of them?

He could have owned Roy’s old shop in town and raised Jack there instead of here. Where the local kids run around with no shoes or shirts and he greets each of them by name and exchanges good grades for candy bars. With a back porch that he stands on at eight-thirty calling Jack home for the third time until sweaty and breathless his son pops up with a grin and rushes right past him into the house for water. Where Haley watches him build swing sets and trampolines for birthdays and Christmas with a smile and a shake of her head because Aaron’s the farther thing from handy but he’s going to get this damn thing built.

He probably would have made it so much longer, cancer or not.

But he doesn’t want that, no matter what she convinces herself. That life she just captured wasn’t his, it wasn’t a choice he’s ever had. He’d never be okay there where his father’s ghost could latch onto him, where it would follow him into his own grave, and, if he wasn’t careful, Jack’s too. He got away because it was the only way he’d be able to live and Haley decided she didn’t want to live without him and after all this time he doesn’t want to live without her either but he has. And, if he had a choice, he’d keep doing it.

“Aaron Hotc--”

She stands, nearly zombified with her sluggish amble. The night has worn her down. After spending way too long sleeping in his office chair and managing to wake-up to every little bump and hitch into the night only for this to happen-- she’s on edge. “Yes?” she responds to the doctor. “That’s me, I’m here for Hotch. For--For Aaron.”

The doctor nods, “good, good. He’s doing well. We’re giving him steroids for the pneumonia. I’d like to give you a projected release time but I’m afraid I can’t do that until I see how he takes to the steroids. The pneumonia will need to clear up  a bit before I suggest sending him home again.” The doctor flips Hotch’s chart closed, tucking it under his arm and motioning with his head for her to follow. “I can take you back to see him if you’d like.”

She nods, pulling out her phone to send Dave a text, and lets him lead her back.

They give him back to her worse than when she left him.

His dark blood is harrowing where it’s pooled and splashed along his pale skin. They’ve managed to poke another hole in him, she’s not sure what this one is for, but she sighs and prepares for his confused pain over it. He’s attached to so many machines that it should be daunting but after sitting and watching chemo dribble into him for hours they are nothing. She knows they don’t hurt, maybe emotionally as she watches his heart rate and knows the beat is too fast to be safe. They don’t hurt him, though, and that’s all that really matters.

They’ve been lucky, as lucky as they can be considering. They really haven’t spent that much time in the hospital and even less time compared to when they’re all active duty and not on varying levels of “in” and “out” of the field. Less time than when they’re chasing serial killers around. Maybe they were taking it for granted or maybe luck is just sand in an hour-glass and it was really only a matter of time before it started pouring in the other direction.

With a sigh she slides into the chair they’ve left at his side. There’s no doubt in her mind that this is the first domino, she’s read about it plenty. The nosebleed a while back, the first one when he was still working, was what she thought would start them off and it terrified her to see it so soon. Having this time, though, has allowed her some naivety to believe the domino might never fall. That the things every blog she’d read had to say, every book, and pamphlet and article, was wrong. Not Hotch. That wouldn’t happen to him.

But this hospitalization will end it all.

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

He thinks about death less than he had before. All he has is death, it’s of little importance these days in its abundance. Experiences concern him a great deal more. Life often feels like an endless source, no matter how much you take when you return you will find it full and swelling with its richness. In reality, it’s a stopped sink and they’re scraping the bottom. Everything they have is numbered and he watches them find mindless reasons to be here. Reid with his endless facts, spending hours explaining, again and again, each element until Aaron’s tired mind can understand. Never commenting about how these are all things Aaron had, at some point, understood. Maybe a matter of days ago, maybe longer but now he watches Reid silently, with little clarity. Garcia hides things around the room so that she can sneak in long after visiting hours are over under the disguise of getting something “oh, please, it’s super important” to sit with him. He enjoys hearing her coming, smiling without even opening his eyes and knowing it’s her. Her happy giggles as she greets him with a kiss to the temple and a soft retelling of her slick little plan.

He taught JJ to dance before her wedding, which feels like forever ago now. He remembers how hesitant she’d been to place her hand in his, anxiously messing up every move, and stepping on his toes so many times he’d started to think she might take them off. He convinced her to dance in socks for the sake of his toes and so that she could master the motions. It had given them both the perfect distraction, if not selfish, to have to think about what they knew Emily was planning to do. At her wedding, she’d made him dance with her again, beaming the entire time and he’d be lying if he said he was immensely proud of how far she’d come. She didn’t step on his toes once and when they’d parted she’d kissed his cheek and thanked him.

Now she comes in here and forces him up and into motion. The doctor says he should spend more time trying to keep active, even if it’s just a stroll up and down the hall or moving from the bed to the wheelchair and going outside for a moment. JJ makes him dance. He’s clumsy now, lacking the control he’d had not that long ago. Now she’s the one reminding when to step and she takes it far easier on him than he had on her. Pushing until he can’t stand it and the two of them just lean and sway but this time she has no hesitation stepping closer to him. No second thoughts about wrapping her arms where she wants them and hiding her face against his shoulder when she cries.

He sleeps well after her visits and the weary weight of his limbs, though painful, is solidifying. He can feel his body, take some sort of ownership of it before the night calls him home and he twists and turns and is lost to it once again.

The greatest joy he can obtain is not in a direct action so much as a lack of action.

“You have pneumonia, not an identity crisis, let me cut the beard.”

After they cut what was left of his hair off he kept shaving for… autonomy reasons. A way to maintain the semblance of control over his life and his body. Mostly, though, because there’s something about the simple, repetitive nature of shaving that soothes his mind. So he’d continued to shave, the one thing that started this whole mess.

“Look at that pretty boy,” Derek jostles Reid the most about it. “Hotch can still grow a better beard than you!” And it’s funny, it really is, and sort of astonishing. The doctors brush it off, it happens, they say, which is fine. The beard, though thinned, covers his gaunt cheeks and the sickening pallor of his face. In the right light, it does draw more than unnecessary attention to his poor color but they stick to seeing it as some sort of win. Some way in which Hotch has overcome… a way to ignore the ways he doesn’t.

Plus, Emily hates it.

“Oh leave him alone,” Dave always defends him.

He only keeps it because Emily hates it. It’s the little things, you know?

Everything they do, everything he does, is just a tactic to ignore the pneumonia. Coping is, well, it’s not going well for them.

The snow does not let up and it starts to complicate their days. A foot accumulates and it just keeps going and that love Emily had for it is starting to dissipate. She gets snowed in, too much snow falling and she can’t get it cleared to leave her house. It’s really not that big of a deal that he spends a single day alone but it does scare her about what could happen if no one is there.

She calls him but he’s started this awful habit of not picking his phone up or forgetting to charge it. He doesn’t answer.

He considers this perfect timing.

He doesn’t sleep well that night at all. He can’t get comfortable and maxed out on painkillers and his oxygen at a poor level but stable, each second feels like hours. A nurse comes in every so often, coaching him through breathing deeply and evenly, but he ends up with a nebulizer or a coughing fit. He does fall asleep for a few hours a little after one in the morning. Chest aching from the coughs, a sharp cutting pain across his ribs, he’s too tired to stay away. He’s vaguely away of people moving around him, the mask coming back down over his face.

When he wakes, just a few minutes before Emily calls, he’s in a panic. Laid out on his back, sucking in weak, thin breathes around lung fulls of fluid. There’s a moment, suspended, light-headed where he feels the hands of various staff members on him. They speak to him but he’s moments behind, hearing their warning but not understanding until his brain is on fire and he’s sitting more upright than he had been before.

He tries to pull in a breath and can’t. On the right side of his chest, is a sharp pain that increases to stabbing when he tries to keep breathing. His chest tight like a vice, as if decreasing the size of which his lung can expand.

“Just keep breathing Agent Hotchner.”

He watches the doctor pull out a needle, his vision swimming out of focus as he’s reclined back.

“The needle aspiration isn’t going to work--” It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s helping. “Hand me a scalpel.”

His last thought, just as the scalpel breaks his skin and the doctor grunts as he manipulates the wound he’s just created, is that Emily is going to be fucking pissed when she comes back. He’s just not sure if that anger is going to be pointed his way or theirs.

Derek comes through and spends his day shoveling everyone’s drive-ways with this wacky machine she’s never seen before and hits her house first, freeing her. As grateful as she is, she sends him off with a rushed appreciative tap to the butt and leaves. Luckily most of the machines they brought in have been taken away. That doesn’t mean they don’t tell her what happened.

“We had to intubate--”

She can see him in the bed from here. His hospital gown just sort of thrown over his chest and loose, oversized material leaves him bare enough that she can see the tubes and wires sneaking here and there. Crossed and varying in color and size. Her eyes are drawn to the chest tube-- a thin white thing that protrudes between his ribs, the gown raised to leave it easily accessible. Though she knows it’s not life-threatening, it’s a taunt just being here. For now, it’s a wound easily fixable. It’ll take longer for his body to heal but it’ll go away eventually. It’s just the beginning.

“He’s alright now?” Calm overcomes her and instead of seething with the anger that she feels, all she knows is this strange gratitude that it wasn’t all somehow much worse. That she doesn’t have to come in and see the tube, his head extended back and body motionless. Not even his breaths his own. That he’s just beyond this door watching whatever daytime TV channel Reid left on last time he was here.

The doctor is expecting there to be more of a fight, there typically is. All he finds is a weary, tiredness. “He’s doing much better. His oxygen has improved and we hope to move on from the mask this afternoon to something less obstructive like a canal.”

She nods, “and the chest tube? When can you take that out?”

The doctor smiles, realizing his potentially hopeful news. “The fluid from his lungs is draining nicely, so with some luck and if he continues to react well to the treatment we’re considering removing the chest tube and releasing him by the end of the week.”

She knows better than to get hopeful, she nods. “Okay.” She nods her head towards the door, “can I?”

The doctor nods and she leaves him there in the hall.

“I see you’ve been busy.”

He means to nod but winces, moving his left hand over his chest to lightly touch the ribs the tube sits between. “Something like that,” he says, pulling clumsily at the mask until he manages to pull it down under his chin. “Still enjoying the snow,” he motions to her coat, a single finger and a grin pointing out the small collection she has of it still on her.

Her sigh is answer enough and she bats it away, flicking some at him for good measure. “I hate it,” she puffs, falling into the chair beside him. Being here again, having him just a foot away soothes her nerves more than she thought possible. It makes her feel kind of silly for being so anxious in the first place but then she looks over and sees the tube and the deep angry wound around it and remembers why she was scared in the first place. “What’re you watching?” she asks, standing back up. She goes to the little closet near the door, pulling down on the blankets the nurses showed her are kept there. It’s nothing to her, all of this, and him it’s all just so… normal.

Careful to spread one over him, she pulls the other around herself. Waiting a few hovering seconds for him to tuck himself underneath it and settle before she sits back down.

With a tired sigh, looking every bit as exhausted as she feels, he mumbles, “Judge Judy.”

She glances at him, smirking because he’ll never admit it but he loves Judge Judy. Loves the mindless drama. It is nice, though, and she soaks it in. She couldn’t sleep last night and couldn’t sit still in that house without him. She’d washed all the bedsheets, made the beds, washed dishes, and even mopped. All for the night to fall and for her to, once again, find herself stuck. Can’t sleep and can’t relax.

“I missed you yesterday,” he admits, watching her eyes drop shut as she falls asleep.

She hums, squishing herself deeper into the chair. She’s not ready to admit just how much she missed him-- okay, maybe she’s a little dependent on him but it’s hard not to miss someone you see every day. “I’m sure you did,” she sneaks a glance up at him, smiling. “Poor old Hotch, nobody here to eat his jello or sit around and watch Judge Judy with him.”It makes him smile and that’s worth everything. “I missed you too.”

Her phone goes off and she spares it a glance before frowning. He raises an eyebrow and she shakes her head, “Reid.” She answers it and hears exactly what she knew was coming. She nods her head along as he speaks and agrees to help him. “Okay, be there in a second. See ya.” She pockets her phone. “He’s a genius but he can’t drive in the snow. He needs me to come pick him up.” Leaning down she kisses Aaron’s forehead and rolls her eyes. It’s snowing hard still and she’s driving Hotch’s SUV so she can get through it and besides he wants to come here anyway so it’s not that big of a deal. One ride isn’t going to kill her. “Behave,” she mumbles, poking his arm and she means and he knows it. “I love you but I will kick your ass when I come back, got me?”

He glances at her and moves his eyes back to Judge Judy, “I got ya.” It doesn’t occur to him to return the sentiment. This is the third time she’s told him that she loves him and he hasn’t said it back once. Not verbally and he’s slacking in the “showing” it department. But he hasn’t got the fear that she does, he doesn’t think he’ll run out of time to say it back to her.

That makes him just as naïve as she is.

@laiba-the-person, @emily-hottie-prentiss, @unionjackpillow, @clockedstar, @baumarvel, @blakeprentiss, @qvid-pro-qvo, @aaron-hotchner187, @ssalavellan, @lazyhater

[midnightmoonkiss]

Sweet Temptations

Izuku Midoriya X Reader

Summary: The rain certainly provides the perfect atmosphere to nap in.

WARNINGS!: none

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 3.8k

A/N: It was raining a few days ago when I was taking a nap, so I decided to conjure up a self indulgent fic >~<

Just To Clarify:

Izuku is your fiance

you both live together in a house in the mountains

commute to work is probably a pain but oh well

The sprinkle of rain pitter-pattered gently on the roof of your shared home, dribbling off of the sides and thumping against the flat, smooth rocks strategically placed beneath.

Drip.

Drop.

Drip.

Though it was faint, the splashing of its drizzle in the koi pond just beside you could still be heard, even through the paper shoji dividing the two seperate spaces. The fresh yet blissfully familiar earthy scent of it seeped in through an open, wood-framed window not too far from where you sat, rain splattering noisily onto the vibrant red maple leaves just outside of it. The sweet sound molded together with the soft jingle of chimes swaying in the light breeze to create a beautiful melody that soothed your soul more-so than any show ever dreamed of doing.

Downpour was always best in the spring, the cool atmosphere welcoming it with loving arms. It always gave you a good excuse to stay bundled up on the plush couch, sipping at a freshly made cup of herbal tea. 

The wide TV just in front of you idly played something you couldn’t quite remember the name of, becoming more of background noise as your eyes always seemed to travel back to the droplets lazily flowing down the foggy glass of the window, dripping down onto the wet frame.

Surely the water would seep inside soon, traveling slowly down the wall just to puddle on the tatami mats, but the fresh air it provided was too good to pass up for something so mundane. 

Besides, it would take a long time for that to actually occur.

Days like this were the ones you found yourself loving the most.

A day to relax your bones stiffened by adult duties, letting the sounds of nature wash over your tired being. 

A day to not have to worry about anything.

No responsibilities, chores are already taken care of, work all done.

There was absolutely nothing of any importance that needed your immediate attention.

The lack of work wasn’t the only good thing on this fine day, though.

It was the peace and quiet.

A perk of moving into a home a ways away from the bustling city was the relative stillness, as well as the much-needed privacy.

That, and being surrounded by wildlife.

The place was a traditional Japanese home, or similar to it as the realtor had said. Surrounded by trees, flowers, well-placed stones, and babbling brooks. 

Living in a house like this was always a dream.

Perhaps thats why you were able to convince your lovely fiance to live here.

Tatami floor mats cushioned your near every step, the woodwork filling the interior the house becoming a sight for sore eyes every time you happened to notice the beautiful craftsmanship.

Everything was pristine.

New, yet held that comforting sense of tradition you always wanted.

A place where you could build a life with your handsome husband-to-be.

Yawning, you placed your tea cup onto the coffee table before stretching out on the couch you had lounged around on for far too many hours, arms rising high above your head. A satisfied groan left your lips the moment your back popped, the sickening crack being far louder than you had originally anticipated.

Boy, was your posture in true shambles.

The bone king quaked at your very feet.

You snorted at the thought, hopping off and stretching your legs out for a moment.

A quick press of the button turned the forgotten television off with a jingly bleep.

No point keeping it on when a new quest had opened up for your curious soul.

The quest of: Finding Izuku and annoying him.

Honestly, who would you be if you spent too long willingly away from him?

His sheer presence was far too calming and therapeutic for you to ever even consider such a foolish option.

Or perhaps you were just as love-struck with him as you were when you first had met.

Besides, knowing him, your big man probably desired your company as much as you suddenly did his.

So, grabbing your cup of tea, you slid your tan slippers on over your Christmas-themed fuzzy socks, wrapping your cozy (F/C) blanket around your shoulders before setting out on your little adventure.

It was around noon, the sun high in the sky shining as brightly as it could behind a plethora of darkened clouds. He always seemed to like reading around this time, his internal clock making his fingers itch for something to grab and run his eyes over.

Oftentimes his fingers swept through news articles on his phone or turned a delicate page of a random book that previously caught his brilliant green gaze at that old book store at the edge of the city that felt, in many ways, like a home you never knew you needed.

The store's calming ambience was the key inspiration for the fairy lights and various decorations scattered about your home, especially that kotatsu that sat in the middle of your living room.

Your feet padded gently on the tatami as you made your way around the house, first checking his little office hidden away in the back. It was hard not to cringe at the state of it. Papers were scattered everywhere and overflowing from the poor trash bin, random maps sprawled out on the desk, notebooks filled with notes and ideas to the left of his old, squeaky chair. It was a mess. Did he ever clean this place?

You were tempted to do so yourself for a split second, before realizing everything was in a specific place for a reason. A reason unknown to you, but known to him, as he explained sorrowfully the one night you did clean his office. He was a messy boy, forever and always. At least with his work. His mind ran too fast for his hands to keep up half the time, resulting in.. chaotic messes only he could comprehend.

Blinking, you slid the door shut with your foot, sipping at your drink as you carried on your search.

The house was quiet, save for the ever-present pattering of rain against it, giving no real indications of his true whereabouts.

Typically you could rely on his persistent muttering to swiftly locate him, but today was as silent as ever. No doubt the atmosphere got to him as well, making him want to relax somewhere and listen closely to the soft rainfall whilst doing whatever he pleased.

Humming, you checked each and every room you came across upstairs first, looking for the man you loved oh-so-much.

As time ticked on and minutes flew by, you found yourself getting pouty, fingers thrumming against the now empty mug as you continued searching.

Where on earth could he be? Sure, the house was a bit big, but you had already managed to cover the entire upstairs floor and the majority of the bottom. Calling out to him would be easier, he’d no doubt reply in that cheery tone that graced his voice whenever he spoke to you, but you wanted to find him on your own. Surprise him to a degree.

His senses were sharp, and he’d hear you the moment you came a few meters near him -  no matter how quiet you were, but that wasnt going to stop you from trying to surprise him.

Plus, calling out his name didnt quite seem appropriate. The still, chilly air would be ruined by your voice, and you couldn’t help but subconsciously want this search to go on until you yourself found him with your own eyes, and not use his voice as an aid.

After checking a few more rooms, you sighed heavily, head thumping against the wall as your resolution crumbled beneath your feet.

Was it really worth it? Being silent?

You weren’t even a ninja or some vigilante, you were just a bakery owner who never needed to sneak around, especially their own living space.

With a huff of aggravation, you walked to the kitchen. Holding an empty mug was pointless and served no purpose other than getting in your way, so naturally you decided to get another drink.

Oh, what to choose?

There were so many options to choose from other than tea.

Well, not really. More like, an endless amount of tea and three other things. Probably. 

Coffee? No, no, even if you were feeling a bit sleepy, now was not the time for a caffeine high.

Oh!

What about hot chocolate?

Yes! Absolutely! 

This cold weather certainly called for a nice, hot cup of a sugary sweet, chocolatey drink to warm your tummy and renew your resolve.

As you were mixing the cocoa powder into your warmed up cup of milk, watching with childish glee as the dark brown swirled with white for a moment until it mixed into a nice tawny brown that reminded you of delicious brownies, a distant noise caught your attention.

Your head instantly perked up, eyes flying up to peer out the large window in front of you.

Rain continued to pour softly down onto the wet and muddy ground, momentary water halos forming as they splatted down onto the darkened pathement.

A car zoomed past, throwing muddied water up onto the far away end of your driveway.

Ah.

So it was a car.

It was hard not to feel disappointed at that, partially because you had hoped it was Izuku giving away his location by accident. 

Though he could be quite loud at times, that man had the power to be quieter than a kid told to wake their parent up in a bit to do chores.

With a discontented sigh, you placed the spoon into the sink, sprinkling some tiny marshmallows into your drink before walking off to continue the man hunt.

There weren’t too many places left inside for you to check, and you managed to do so in only a minute or two.

Truly, you were dumbfounded.

Where could he possibly be?

Did he take his car and go somewhere?

No, no, he would have told you if that were the case, and you would have seen him exit the front entrance as well.

So where?

You stopped in your tracks, being slapped upside the head with sudden realization.

Of course he wouldnt be inside huddled away like a lonely hermit on a day like this, no, he’d enjoy it! Breathe in the earthy fresh air as it enveloped him. 

He loved the rain far more than you did, so it made sense.

You smiled, taking a big sip of your hot chocolate as you suddenly knew exactly where he was.

It was hard to say you didn’t feel like a complete idiot for missing something so simple as you walked back to the living room.

There was always one place he liked to hang out at during a nice day.

On the engawa hovering over the koi pond.

You stopped just in front of the shoji screen, excitement already sparking in your system.

You rocked back and forth on your feet as you took a breath to calm your racing heart, the goofiest smile etched upon your face.

Your fingers dipped into the slots used to open the door, 

One.

Two.

Three!!

“BOO!” You screeched like a banshee down at the man relaxing on a cushion by the edge of the wood, glasses tipping off his nose as his focused eyes stayed glued to the book in his hands.

“Ahh!” He playfully shouts in response, a smirk upon his lips as he notices your exasperated state slinking down onto your knees on the polished floor with a look of utter defeat upon your cute face

“I was trying to scare you..!”

Came your complaint, eyes boring into his own as you pouted.

“I was scared. I screamed!” Izuku chuckles, shoulders shaking as he couldnt control that goofy smile of his.

If he was trying to look convincing, he was failing horribly.

You huffed at his antics, he was far too cute to even pretend to be mad at.

You should have known better, though, trying to scare the number one hero in his own home was like trying to scare someone who knew you were coming from a mile away.

Plus, you knew that before you even realized where he was.

It was to be expected of such a talented guy.

After sliding the shoji shut to keep the warmer air in, you crawled over to him. His upper back rested comfortably on a wooden support beam as his legs sprawled out in front of him, a leather book perched on his lap.

“So, what are you reading?” from the looks of it, it seemed to be an older book of sorts, the pages a yellowish-white and the cover boring no text.

You were now sitting beside him on your knees in what would’ve been shoulder to shoulder if he wasn’t so much more taller than you, sipping at your drink once more.

It was simply too good to resist.

“It was described to me as a ‘classic’ at the store. It’s a book filled with multiple fairy tales, each having a sort of.. theme or moral told in ink at the end. There's got to be at least twenty or so in here..” he spoke with enthusiasm, eagerly showing you the one he was currently reading.

“‘The Little Mermaid’?”

It grew increasingly rare for children to know the tale of The Little Mermaid, or at least, the adaptation of it that was shown on a screen. It was a fairly old film, one you remember your grandparents speaking briefly about with joy, but still a very beloved one. A joyous little tale of a red-haired mermaid seeking the love of a prince. How cute.

But why on Earth was he reading a children's book, then?

Not that you’d ever judge him, it was just that his taste was generally more.. Sophisticated. To a degree, of course.

“Yes. But this is the original one. The true tale of ‘The Little Mermaid’, the one filled with pain and gore.”

“P-pain.. and gore?” Well now that certainly didn't sound like a children's book. Is that why it's called a classic?

He hums, thumbing through a few pages, “It’s kind of inspiring. Each step she took felt like she was walking on glass, but she never gave up on being with her prince. I think, at least, I haven’t really finished it yet.”

“Are all the originals that horrifying?” you looked down at the book with disbelief, certainly not expecting each dream-like fairy tail to revolve around a horror story.

“Some are worse, some are better, but it’s a nice read.” he shrugged, going back to his original place in the book and nudging his glasses back up on his nose.

They always did make him look so gosh darn cute.

His eyesight was as perfect as the sky was blue, but for reading? He needed glasses. They were those cheap kinds found at bookstores, but damn if those black frames didn't pull his handsome face together.

He looked so attractive, even in this dulled lighting.

You’d expect someone to look gloomy when it rains, the shadows casted by the caliginous sky and stormy clouds bringing out the sadness buried deep within someone's soul and causing them to frown. Something mystical yet scientific. The rain always brought misfortune and sorrow, but Izuku has and forever will be that sun that never stops shining brightly no matter what. That optimism despite even the toughest situations always affected the way he looked, and boy did he always look irresistible. Even in this rainy overcast, he still smiled and sparkled with enthusiasm

Just another thing to love endlessly about him

You couldnt tell, but you were currently staring at him with lovestruck eyes and the dopiest smile that ever existed plastered on your chocolate coated lips.

Izuku found himself grinning along with you as his face stayed forward, peaking at you from the corner of his eye.

Your mug of hot chocolate was seemingly forgotten as you hugged his large, muscular arm, an act he certainly didnt mind if the light flush on his cheeks were anything to go by.

“You’ve got a chocolate moustache, princess.” The boy pointed out, lips pressing into a thin line to push down any giggles rumbling in his chest.

“W-what! Really?” oh, how embarrassing. How the hell did you get it on yourself? You weren’t a kid, only kids got those, right? Oh dear.

Just as you were about to wipe it off with your blanket still draped around you, Izuku turned, gently cupping your cheek and gazing deeply into your wide, (E/C) eyes.

Oh man.

His eyes.

Up close, they were the most beautiful thing you ever did see.

Age certainly did affect them, but not in a negative way. No, they were still as captivating as ever, but now there were tiny specks of brown you’d only truly see if you were this close to him, but god did they bring those eyes together. It was like staring into a forest coated in morning dew and shimmering with the blinding light of the sun.

Addicting. You’d certainly be the first to say you could stare into them for hours and never get bored.

“Here, let me.” his tone was softer than ever, yet held a bite of playfulness.

Eyes slipping closed, you nuzzled your rosey cheek into his scarred palm, an act the man you loved couldn't help but find utterly adorable and innocent.

Honestly, you were expecting him to wipe it away with his thumb or something, but the moment you felt something warm and wet lick across the top of your lip, you erupted with laughter.

“Eww! Izukuu!” you nearly choked on the words from how hard you found yourself laughing, weakly pushing his face away.

“What do you mean ew~” That teasing tone he always seemed to use on you during moments like these resurfaced, “i’ve done much ‘grosser’ things to you than just licking your lip, darling.” 

Face burning from embarrassment, you whined loudly as he gingerly pulled you into his lap, your thighs on the sides of his own, placing the book down beside him just so that he could hug you close to him.

It was impossible not to relax instantly into his comforting embrace, the blanket previously doing next to nothing to protect you from this chilly air, but his body was like a heater in itself.

So, so warm.

“You’re forgiven.” you mumble against his neck, unintentionally sending sweet shivers down his spine.

“You s-sound tired..” the bashful man stuttered in that cute way he always seemed to do when flustered, hand idly rubbing up and down your blanket clad back.

“Mm.. just a little.” You didn't even realize how tired you were until you had a chance to sink into his warmth. Perhaps searching all over the house for the past half hour wore you out more than you’d like to admit.

Plus.. the calming rain certainly wasnt helping.

It was much more intense out here than it was when inside, the splatter of it hitting the pond not as muffled as before, mainly due to the fact that the pond was so close you could reach out and touch it if you so desired.

Which you didn’t.

Because then you’d get wet.

The sheer thought of getting cold water on your warm skin made you cringe, huffing through your nose just to nuzzle it into the crook of his neck.

Breathing in his scent was like being slapped with all the good things in your life.

He always had a bit of a musky scent. It was hard to tell if it came from his sweat or just natural scent, either way- it wasn’t all that bad when paired with his shampoo and conditioner.

Always one to use, for lack of better words, green scents. Planty scents. Scents that made you just want to bury your nose in his dreamily soft, fluffy green hair and stay there all day, carding your fingers through the locks just to hear his satisfied hum.

In a short conclusion, not only did he radiate manliness, but he also smelled manly.

Isn’t that what his friend, Red Riot, would say? Manly?

It was hard to describe him as anything but that.

He certainly grew up quite a bit after his years at UA, growing taller and becoming even more buff as he got to work on the field more. Age 18 was certainly a convenient time for him to have a growth spurt. And here he was now, 25, littered with scars you always pressed loving kisses to whenever you got the chance, and as handsome as ever.

But he knew you liked his scent, because you would often tell him that. Especially when he got out of the shower. It was actually hard for him to get dressed because you were clinging onto him, enjoying the lovely smells as he desperately clutched at his towel and whined.

It was very easy for him to compare you to a baby sloth, something that always clung to another. It was cute, and he always adored the attention, something he lacked growing up.

Even now, he knew exactly what you were thinking as you sighed happily. Your body seemed to slump against his, fitting into his arms like the puzzle piece he had always been looking for. He’d be damned if he ever lost it.

Pressing a tender kiss against your temple, he smiled the moment he noticed your breathing slowly getting deeper.

“Falling asleep, hmm?” he whispered, “I guess you do nap around this time.”

As expected, he didn't quite get a response other than a simple hum.

You really were too cute.

But he couldn't blame you anyway, it was the perfect weather and place to take a nap.

It wasn't often he was able to nap with you, so you must be inwardly jumping for joy as his heartbeat and soft thumps of rain against the roof lulled you to sleep.

You always felt so.. protected and safe in his hold. And that wasn’t just because he was a hero, no, it was something more primal, like whenever you were in his arms you were always drowning in the feeling of love and safety.

Maybe it was something more than that, but you were far too tired to actually come up with any logical explanations.

So instead, you finally let yourself drip into dreamland in the warm embrace of your beloved, letting gentle chimes swaying in the wind and the relaxing sound of rain be your guide.

And Izuku?

Well, he went back to reading his book, using your lovely ass as a place to rest it.

[saturatedboy]

Slaughter of the Ram

Chapter 2 (Lord Heisenberg x Male!Oc)

Words: 3.8K

Smells of wet pine and a slight whiff of burning tobacco drifted around in Leonardo’s mind. The endless darkness that consumed his mind had turned and twisted into small patterns of purple and blue dots dancing around. Harshly, Leonardo had inhaled through his nose and realised his breath through his mouth, the noise coming out sounding more like a growl than a groan. The exhale of his breath had swooped back into his mind through his nostrils, them flaring at the intoxicated smell of alcohol. The sudden remembrance of the alcohol had alerted his brain, pain soon aching in his head area. Opening his eyes steadily, the blurred vision had shown shapes of brown and red in different shades and lighting. Being careful, he forced his eyelids to stay open and scanned the front of his sight lines, the pictures coming clearer through the sleepiness that had glazed over his eyeballs. Upon a wooden wall were different shapes and colours of bottles, all of them being alcoholic beverages- some even Leonardo didn’t know. Looking a little to the left, the barman from the night just gone was stood cleaning glasses, refilling some for the distance laughter that came from a booth that was behind Leo. To his right, he could see more of what his head way laying on, the bar top stretching on a little more until it rounded of by a 90-degree angle.

Regretting all decisions in his life for a split second, Leo used his hands that were previously rested on the slightly sticky counter and pushed himself up. Feeling a wave of relief wash over him as the bones from his neck cracked at the sudden movement. A delighted sigh came from between his thin lips, his tongue gliding over them both after to make his lips moist with his own saliva. Although the relief that had come over him felt amazing from within, his physical appearance had showed no relief for his own body as he was slouched over on a stool, hair messy and unkept tidy, small amount of saliva drifting down his chin and clothes all crinkled. Still in effect of the alcohol, his body swerved sideways about, his mind doing flips and his stomach rumbling for the loss of a meal. “Bar...bar tender!” He called out, being careful to not slur his words. The bar man looked over at his frame, only to look back at the glass he was drying and placed it down, walking over to the now hung-over Leonardo. Once there, he leaned his forearms on the bar and stared amusingly at Leo.

“Let me guess. Water right Leo?” He chuckled out, already walking away to go fetch the poor soul a glass of water and to take some medication for his head. Leo looked down, ashamed for people to see him like this in his aftereffect state.

“Yeah...a water will do fine thanks.” He replied as the tender had placed the glass down, filled half way to the brim with water. The water was clearly cool, the glass already having fresh droplets of water gathering on the outside of the glass itself. Being thankful, Leo nodded and grabbed the glass, almost moaning as the cool liquid fell down his throat.  

“Here take these,” The tender held his hand out, two pills being present, ”Their medicine for your headache.” Leo once again nodded, unable to speak a ‘thanks’ as he was already downing the water fully this time, using his free hand to grab only one of the pills. The tender closed his hand and went back to his original position, going back to cleaning glasses and serving the early birds who crave for alcohol to keep them going through the day. Leo placed his empty glass down and went to looking at the small pill between his fingers. Thinking nothing bad about it, he took it down dry swallowing and using his mouth to have it slip easily down. He just had to wait for the effects to keep in.

Looking off to the side now that he was more fully awake, Leo wasn’t surprise when he didn’t see the star guest of last night not next to him however. A slightly pang of guilt washed over him, had he made him leave? No, that thought was quickly shaken off as a loud voice came through then now open doors of the entrance. “Where is he- OI! Leo, no time to slack off!” The female's voice was clearly angry, and held so much of authority when saying his name out loud. Groaning and rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand roughly, Leo could only slightly whine when he felt the pull of his shirt became balled up in his friend Catherine’s grasp. “I knew he wouldn’t stay. Tch- trust a Lord they say. Fuck that never again.”

The pull on his shirt had Leo falling from his stool onto the ground, his knees buckling under him as his upper body was thrusted upwards from the iron grip Catherine held him in. ”Get up, we have to get to the school gosh dammit.”

“What’s got you all worked up?” Leo yawned, ready to listen to whatever has placed his best friend in such a foul mood. However other than getting an answer, he was met with provoked eyes as she flicked his forehead, letting go of his shirt making him collapse fully to the floor. Huffing, Leo pulled himself back onto his feet using the stool he had previously sat on to balance himself on his two feet. Watching Catherine storm away, Leo looked back at the tender and waved before following his childhood buddy.

The air was chill, not many villagers was up at this hour of the morning. Being quick on his feet, Leo caught up with Catherine who still hadn’t talked after getting him. Weighing his options, Leo kept quiet, whatever was going on in Catherine’s head she would tell him when she was ready with it. Instead of talking about her problems, Leo decided to create small talk to sooth her mind and his. “So, the children are out and here we are going to work still.”

“Of course, Leo, we are teachers. I’m just hoping my fresh order of food has come from the Duke.” She speaks, lifting her umber dress at the front as she and him came to the cobble stairs that lead towards the school itself. As they walked, they chatted, amongst throwing a few giggles here ns there. The mood did certainly brighten up as the sun had also, becoming brighter and clearer in the sky that was misted with fog.

At the school front, both Leo and Catherine had sorted their clothing, patting it down and straightening collars. “How I look?” Leo questioned, throwing his arms to the side in a presentable manner and showcasing his clothing from yesterday.

“You look like the same yesterday only this time you looked as though you just ran through a forest bush,” Her remarks never failed to make him chuckle, his smile never leaving his face as neither did hers. Nodding and slightly agreeing with her, they both entered the school through its double doors. The school was fairly small, only having one level to the building. It contained a total of 4 classes, an assembly room and toiletries. The head’s office being placed near the reception. As they opened the heavy doors, a man stood at the reception desked looked up, flashing a toothy grin with his stumble beard.  

“Glad to see you both in work, aren't nothing like staying inside on a cold day.” He said, his gruff voice echoing around the partially empty space. Catherine only waved, giving Leo a hard smack on the back as she walked off down the hallway to the side, turning into the first classroom on the left to start her own work. Just before Leo could speak, her voice screaming about how the order hadn’t been delivered was heard. The noise made both grown men laugh.

“Morning there, I’d be off. Have a good day.” Leonardo said, running his fingers through is hazel hair as the man behind the desk replied with a ‘good day to you too.”. Taking the same and only hallway that Catherine did, Leo walked right down it and entered the very last classroom on the right. When entered, he shut his door and walked past the small desks that were standing towards his own rather large one. When seeing his desk, he noticed something. ‘Where are my papers?’

Hitting his head with his hand, he rushed out his classroom and walked down the hallway towards the entrance. Just as he passed Catherine’s room, she popped her head out. “Whilst you're out there go pick my order up from the Duke please,” and off she went back in leaving no room for any protest against her request. Going along with it, Leo had rushed and left the school whilst getting the receptionist to stare at him with a questionable look and from another teacher of the building. He sped walked through the entire village that he grew up in and rounded about towards the Bar which was starting to become a fairly visited place of his. Clenching his chattering teeth as the coldness picked up, he entered the bar and walked towards his once seated place. A sigh left his lips as he saw his messenger bag untouched under his stool. “May mother Miranda have mercy on me,” he muttered, grabbing his bag and pulling it around his shoulders. Walking back out after looking through his bag, Leo kept his eyes firmly on the path he had to follow. Keeping lightly on his feet in case of any unseen ice, the young man had walked in the opposite direction of the school to head to the outside perimeter of the Village. Walking through the cold, he stuffed his hands into his pockets of his trousers, being careful to not prod himself with the pencil that had normally sat in there.

Although the sun was out, its rays of warmness had no touched the scratchy skin of Leo’s. Instead, he was given the sky’s shivers as he felt a snowflake swirl In front of his face. ”Snow, my favourite weather,” he muttered sarcastically, already feeling unimpressed however slightly better after taking the pill to help with his headache. Wandering around through the day was always better than night, there was no need to be scared of the mountains his village was nestled between. Some people from his village had even climbed the mountains, overlooking the view to see other parts of the land that seemed to stretch further than he had ever thought. It is a sight to forever hold though, everyone that had the wonders of being on top of the mountains had witnessed the true feeling of being free.

Leo smiled at the memory of him and his own family travelling up there once. He was about 8 at the time and was gifted a pencil and book to write in for his stories for his birthday. The climb was awful however, his small legs felt like collapsing but with his father by his side, he managed through it. He remembered reaching the top and grabbing his small book from his coat pocket, just so he could write everything he could see. Villages, lakes, a factory, castle and eve a vast forest or woods. He didn’t know what it was at the time but he felt onto of the world. He felt like he ruled over everything. “I should visit them soon,” the memory of his family had him thinking about them. They had been out of contact after he got his teaching job because he was trying to start his own life by himself. A faint smile brushed on his lips as he walked nearer to the mountains front, where carts would travel to and from to get to other villages.  

The sound of hooves clapping against the stone ground had Leo smiling even more. ‘Finally,’ he thought as he spotted in the distance the cart of horses, a jolly voice accompanying them both. Striding towards the cart, Leo saw the horses first as the cart was turned like it had only just entered his village quarters. Cupping his hands, Leo blew hot air into them and rubbed them together, their friction creating warmth for him. Just as he placed his arms back to his sides, he moved past the horses and walked to the front, only to stop quickly as he saw more than one familiar face.

“Ah Leonardo, please come come. I'm sure you've came to collect the order for Miss Chef aren’t you,” The Duke joked, laughing slightly at his own humorous tone.  

“I am indeed or else I’m sure the children will be coking me next sir,” Leo replied respectfully, standing next to the other familiar face all whilst maintain eye contact with the Duke.

“I’ll be with you in a second Leonardo, just speaking with the Lord here is all. Please excuse me for a second whilst I gather your order Lord Heisenberg.” Leo and the Lord Heisenberg watched as Duke had entered into his cart, the slight shake of the cart moving from his weight and rummaging through whatever was in there. Both men stood in silence, the only noises being the clicking of the hooves or the whilst from the wind that was picking up slightly more as each second flew by.  

Lord Heisenberg next to him had rummaged through his coats pockets to take out a cigar and lighter. Lighting the cigar, he flipped the top of the silver lighter back over the wheel and dropped it back into his pocket. Taking the brown cigar to his mouth, he took a deep inhale as the end of the stick flamed brighter. Taking it out from between his lips he blew the smoke into the air, not slightly bothered if it went into Leo’s direction. “So, you’re ‘ere being an errand boy?” He grumbled out, taking another inhale of his cigar.

Leo relaxed slightly, finding the voice to the Lord to be rather comforting after the events of last night. “I’m no errand boy, I forgot my things and, on my way out, my friend asked me to get her order. Just doing a favour is all.” Leo and Heisenberg stood in silence one day, the atmosphere around them becoming calm as more snowflakes had decided to create their own routine about dancing around them.  

“So, a teacher huh? Must be strange teaching up there with all the demons running around.” The joke had made a small chortle escape between Leo’s lips, a smirk finding a way onto Heisenberg’s as he heard the male’s laugh.

Leo turned to face Heisenberg, looking a little up since he was about an inch taller than him. “They learn quick, already reading one of my favourites. I wouldn’t say they are demons; I would quote them to be foxes for the many excuses they come up with when they don’t hand their homework in.” Heisenberg had thrown his cigar somewhere into the snow behind them having finished it. The after taste had swarmed his mouth, making him suck on his top lip to get the dry texture fairly moist. Running his rather thick muscle tongue over his lips, Heisenberg had dazed down to stare at the young man next to him.

“Foxes huh? Quite the metaphoric person ain’t ya.” Leo shook Heisenberg’s words off, finding no need to try change his mind about him. Writing and saying such words were just natural to his lips, any other way seemed more foreign than he would want. Silence had struck around them, their final words being lost through the now chilly air that had rained snowflakes.

“Excuse the wait gentlemen, I have gathered both of your orders,” The large man had left the comforting warmth of his cart to sit on the outside ledge, holding two large bags in both of his clammy hands that were littered with many rings. A sweet smile was plastered onto his face, eyes beady as he leaned forward and gave the respectful bag to each of the other men. “It was a pleasure doing business with both of you. I shall be arriving here next week again Leo. Would you like anything whilst you’re here?” The Duke had asked, placing his now empty hands onto his stomach whilst leaning slightly back.

Thinking for a moment, Leo had returned the sweet smile back to the Duke. “Do you have any pots of ink and any parchment paper? I'm running low on both.”

“Ah yes, I had restocked them before I came here. How many would you like?”

“Just 2 pots of ink and about 2 books of the parchment paper please as well.” Leo waited as the Duke had travelled back into his cart, his horses neighing at the moment. The cart moved left and right, making Leo take a step back in case of any sudden jerk movements. However, his move did not go unnoticed by the Lord.

“Awww, is the writer scared of movement?” He teased, smiling as he swung his bag of equipment over his shoulder whilst leaning on his large hammer with the other. Leo ‘tsked’ and closed his eyes.

“I am merely looking out for myself sir, if something were to happen- especially in this weather- I'd rather be prepared.” Leo spat out, not meaning his words to be accompanied with such venom, it wasn’t like he had anything against Lord Heisenberg. His words had made Heisenberg chuckle out loud, finding amusement with Leo the villager.

“Here we are,” Leo silently thanked the world as he heard the Duke’s voice. He wanted to get going soon, the chill was starting to hit him badly and his fingers wrapped around the bag of food he could only guess were becoming numb. “2 pots of ink and books. That'll be 150 Lei please.” The Duke leaned forward and handed the materials to Leo, who took them in gratitude.

Just as Leo reached down into his messenger bag to gather his money and place his things in there, a small pouch was thrown into the Duke’s hand. ”Here, I’ll pay for him. Think of it as a way to pay back for the enjoyable night I had.” Heisenberg spoke, turning to Leo and tipping his hat. Leo moved his hand away from his bag and rubbed he back of his neck sheepishly.  

“It was only a couple of drinks; the bar is always filled with guys like me.”

“Oh, really now? Please, you weren’t the one moving away from me now were you.” Leo held back his tongue, looking the other way from Heisenberg’s direction.

“If that’s all gentlemen I shall get going. Safe travels the both of you.” The Duke had waved at both men, pushing himself back into his cart one last time and shutting the doors leaving both Leonardo and Lord Heisenberg alone once again. With snow falling around the both of them, Leo had agreed with himself to start heading back to the school.

“This has been fun but it’s time for me to leave and head back. Safe travels Lord Heisenberg.” Leo had spoken, adjusting his grip on the bag of food as he threw it over his shoulder. He walked away, back turned-on Heisenberg and started his walk back to his home village. As he walked, he listened to the footsteps that followed him. This continued for about 2 minutes before he sighed, rolled his eyes and turned to face whoever was following him. “Shouldn’t you be getting back to the Village of Shadows?” Leo asked, watching as Heisenberg had followed him with a shit eating grin.

“Now now, and here I thought we were beginning to become friends,” The smile never faltered off his lips as he said that, finding the faint blush on Leonardo’s cheek from the cold sort of nice to look at. Something new.

Leo shook his head gently and turned, walking away from Heisenberg not even caring anymore if he followed him or not. However, he thought being followed by a Lord would be comforting- absolutely not. He felt his stomach do turns, his head ache was starting to come back and his hands were becoming warmer as his grip around the food bag was becoming less loose. “So, you just wear thin layers in this cold?” The Lord asked, walking alongside the younger male. Leo shook his head again, his hair shaking along with him.

“I would be wearing a coat but someone had taken me away from the warmth of the bar and took me straight to work. I would of gone home and got my coat but no, work is very import around the village.” Heisenberg silently nodded, looking ahead as he let Leo lead the way back to the Village of the Ram.

“You got a lover?” The sudden observed question made Leo trip slightly, he managed to catch himself however before any harm could be done. A blush raised from his cheeks to his ears as he started to run his mouth dry.

“A lover- gosh no. I-I haven’t even got time for those kinds of things. I’m a writer, my life is dedicated to spreading the word and I have work to do, children to teach. They are the future; they must learn the history and how to read and write.” Leo sighed, feeling slightly guilty for speaking so quickly. “Anyway, no woman in the village can woo me. Maybe Catherine but not me. I don't even love women like that.”  

Heisenberg quirked a brow at his words. ‘Don’t like women like that? How...peculiar.’ The Lord smirked, placing his own bag in the hand of his hammer and swinging his arm around the shoulders of Leo, making him slightly jump on contact.

“You don’t need to love women, you can just have a night stand and-” Leo pushed Heisenberg away, adjusting his shirt and placing his collar straight.

“Gosh no- just no. I don’t like women like that, simply. I like guys.” He put it simply, now walking with heavy footsteps and deep ragged breaths. ‘Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck’ Leo chanted in his mind, finding now that his own actions may cause him to get harmed.

“So, you’re gay.”  

“...Yes, I’m gay.”

“Eh okay.” The answer from the Lord left Leonardo speechless. Not many people in the village really supported his rights of love, thinking a man and woman should be together to bare children since foreigners never come around. Just to know the Lord Heisenberg, apparently one of the top Lords ever was okay with him liking men, had a rather shocking effect on Leo’s mind.

“Okay,” he repeated, smiling a little at the acceptance he was given off a Lord. Looking far ahead was the opening entrance back home, back to his home village. Being slightly more comfortable with the Lord trailing behind him, Leo turned his head and showed his smile at Heisenberg, who in favour smiled back. “Welcome back to the Village of Ram,” Leo said, turning back to face the entrance again with a slight skip in his step.

[blu-archer]

Warmth

Hi... So, It’s 00:44. I should be editing photo’s for the day a head but I did this instead. I really shouldn’t have but... it happened... (If there’s grammatical errors... this is why.. forgive me.)

Because procrastination has just kind of merged itself as a part of my very soul and essence as a human being at this point. 

This is just a short thing to be honest, and its technically a ‘sick/snz’ thing, but really it felt really short and comes across as more as a comfort, small filler type thing... but it was fun to write sooooo anyway..

enjoy I guess

Caretaker: ???Jimin/Jin?? I don’t really know 

Sickie: Yoongi

word count: 2568.

.

.

“Huh’ishh… snf… Huh’ihishew… huh’igxnsh!”

“You sneeze one more time and I’m sending you home.” Jin said warningly from his seat at the front desk.

Yoongi rolled his eyes, merely sniffling until he could get the chance to blow his nose. He didn’t remember the stores shelves being this dusty, but perhaps Namjoon just hadn’t had time to clean up while Yoongi had been away. He’ll have to do a deep clean once his magic has rested enough to manage it.

“I’m serious Yoon.”

“Jin. You don’t work here.” Yoongi replied dryly, not sparing the elder a glance. “and I own this business. You can’t send me home for sneezing.”

“You own half this business.” Jin corrected, clicking away at the latch on his pen as he stared through the gaps in the shelves at where Yoongi rubbed at his nose before putting up more jarred charms. “and I am married to the owner of the other half, which means I am also the owner of the other half.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It does. You wouldn’t know because you haven’t married Jimin yet. What’s mine is Joon’s and what’s Joon’s is mine.” Jin grinned teasingly.

Yoongi knew that he was mostly joking, just twisting things to get his way, but it was still somewhat relevant in some areas. Namjin was a typical ‘we’ couple the second after Jin had gotten Namjoon to love him more than his plants, which honestly hadn’t been that difficult.  

“Does that mean that Namjoon can go treat kids at the school, like you. You’re the nurse right.. does that mean Namjoon has the same qualifications?” Yoongi asked, his words laced with building congestion.

“Don’t make jokes like that. Joon would never be able to manage working with children, no matter how much he loves them.” Jin shook his head. “Poor baby would be so terrified of hurting them or something, probably wouldn’t be able to put up with half the rascals I have to deal with. Teenagers are the worst, and when it comes to creating excuses to get out of class... don’t get me started.”

 Yoongi joined him by the desk, having finished most of the restocking of the shelves. It was technically supposed to be Jin’s day off from work – which usually meant that Namjoon would call in for the day off as well, but they had had a last minute call pleading for someone to come charm and heal sections of a park that had been set a light a few days prior, and well… Namjoon wasn’t going to decline that. He had even taken Taehyung with him. Hopefully nothing gets set on fire again.

But that meant that Jin had welcomed himself to lurking around the store, “helping” Yoongi with the daily routine and customers. Helping had turned into pestering very quickly.

“This is proof that it’s not true then.” Yoongi shrugged, reaching for a serviette that had come with the lunch Jin had ordered in to blow his nose.

He pointedly chose to ignore the exasperated look that flashed across Seokjin’s face.

“How’s Jimin?” Jin’s tone wasn’t as curious as the question posed. “Still sick?”

Yoongi refused to meet the witches gaze as he cleared his throat and reached for his iced coffee. It was more like watered down coffee now, but he required any form of caffeine that he could get.

“He’s still a little sick, but he’s going back to work tomorrow.” Yoongi pursed his lips as he thought back to when Jimin had told him the day before.

The hybrid had put a real fight when Yoongi had suggested to take another few days to rest. One would have thought he had told Jimin to quit or something. He understood his boyfriends need and passion to do his job, but from what Hoseok had mentioned to him, it was precisely the fact that Jimin worked too hard that got him into the mess he had been in any way. He just wanted to make sure that his boyfriend was taking enough time to recuperate.

“You don’t think that maybe… he shared?”

“What?”

“Yoongi..” Jin sighed. “Your nose is red. You’ve been coughing and sniffling all morning. You also haven’t taken off Jimin’s hoodie – which you usually do before opening because you don’t like mixing potions and other peoples’ scents over his, and don’t even try to tell me that your voice hasn’t been cracking since you entered that door.”

Yoongi looked away, taking another sip of his drink. “Could be allergies. ‘s dusty…”

Jin didn’t even have to say anything. His deadpan expression and tightly drawn lips told Yoongi enough about what the elder thought of that suggestion.

Maybe he was getting sick. After all, he and Jimin hadn’t exactly worked hard to prevent any contagion – especially after Yoongi had convinced the younger to let him be more helpful in all matters of care. It would actually make a lot of sense, but he couldn’t bring himself to want to acknowledge it. Jimin would feel so bad if he knew that he’d gotten the warlock sick, especially if it happened right before he had agreed to return from sick leave.

“I can’t go home. Jimin will feel guilty.”

“That is stupid reasoning.” Jin pulled a disapproving face. He looked at his friend, then shook his head. “I’m being serious Yoongi. You should rest now before it gets worst. We can close the shop for the day, Namjoon can continue tomorrow like he has been and Jimin would feel better knowing that you didn’t try hide this from him. You know that he will see you not telling him as some sort of annoying guilt thing. Don’t make a small thing big. He’ll probably be so happy to do whatever you young couples do now days again.”

Yoongi grimaced but didn’t waste the energy on commenting on Jin’s overly wistful words. Rather he put his mind to the customer that had just warily entered the store. He wasn’t going home. He had made up his mind and nothing Jin could say would change it.

**

“Kit’en?” Yoongi snuffled wetly.

Groaning and clearing his throat as he locked the front door behind him. He was about to call again when a deep, congested sneeze ripped through his throat – much louder and harsher than he liked. He really shouldn’t have stayed the full working day. He should have accepted Namjoon’s offer to have him just continue working the store for today and onwards, but if Yoongi was anything – it was stubborn. Of course he regretted it now though.

He walked into the kitchen and swallowed some of the medicine Jimin had been taking before he went to find the hybrid, who had remained silent. It was a bit odd that he hadn’t replied when Yoongi called, but it wasn’t rare enough for him to be overly concerned. Just curious…

It was when he couldn’t find Jimin in any of the rooms that his worry began to rise.

He called out again as he quickly paced through their cottage, being met by nothing but silence. He even tried to call but following the muffled ringing of Jimin’s phone lead him to their rumpled, vacant bed. In a final moment of panic, he called forth his magic, letting the icy chill of it flood throughout his body until a blast of wind shot off of him with staggering force. Usually he wouldn’t use his magic so raw, much rather preferring to have a physical object to make the effects easier to deal with, a skill that had been adapted centuries before from witches to fit a warlocks needs without the risk of magic drainage, but he didn’t stop for a moment to think. The magic had left him so abruptly that he had to lay a steadying hand on the wall while he breathed icy white breaths for the brief moment until the surged wave returned to him with just as much impact as it had left him with, causing him to break out coughing for air while the room tilted and swayed beneath his feet before returning to its previous temperature and stability.

Jimin was outside… in Yoongi’s studio?

That couldn’t be right. Jimin didn’t really go to the studio unless Yoongi was there. In fact, he was sure Jimin had told him that he didn’t like the studio space at all – something about there being too many scents.

Why would he be there now?

 He took a second to catch his breath before he went on his search. His nose had just started to run, and no amount of sniffling was going to help him. His head pounded against the cold, but he ignored it as best as he could.

None of it mattered.

What mattered was that it was cold. His studio specifically was always cold to a degree, and Jimin was uncharacteristically in there.

 “Love?” Yoongi called as loud as he could as soon as he passed the entrance, his voice cracking over the single word.

“ ‘oongi?”

Yoongi came to an abrupt halt just outside of the tiny, makeshift library that he stored all of his spell books in to see the familiar form of his boyfriend curled up on the oval windowsill with a blanket and pillow tucked around him as the dying sunlight painted his skin.

His hair was a mess and he swiped at his mouth and eyes languidly as a yawn broke widely across his face.

“Hey.” Jimin greeted with a warm lazy smile. “Good day?”

“It could have been better.” Yoongi answered honestly, moving into the small space so that he could wrap his arms around Jimin. The hybrid jumped at the icy feel of his skin. “I thought you didn’t like my studio.”

“It grew on me. Was the only thing that strongly smelt like you for a while, so it became more comfortable for me…Why are you so cold, what happened?”

Yoongi shrugged, his cheeks warming has he realised his actions may have been a bit impatient. There were other spells that he could have used, weaker ones that relied on words and physical additives rather than actual core magic, which would have left him with more energy and just overall less affected. He’d been unnecessarily rash.

He sunk his face into the hybrids chest, somewhat admitting defeat while forcing the younger to be pushed up tightly against the window as he was embraced. He felt fingers run through his hair and an ill-timed cough shook his entire frame. Jimin froze and Yoongi caved with two soft words. “I’m … sick.”

“Oh, baby…”

He felt Jimin card his fingers through his hair again, harder this time, letting his nails scrape lightly against the Warlock’s sculp as he held him close. Yoongi took as deep a breath as he dared. He couldn’t smell the usual spicy aroma that hung around the younger, but he melted into the bundle of warmth that was Jimin, succumbing rather easily to the uncomfortably angled yet intimate embrace.

“I’m so sorry I got you sick… we should have been more careful.”

“I’m fine.” Yoongi said, his voice muffled before he pushed away from Jimin so that he wasn’t bent in an awkward standing/leaning position any longer. “I was more worried about you, but you look better.”

“I feel better, mostly. There are still moments when I feel bad, but it’s a big.. improvement…” Jimin yawned, pulling his blanket up to smother it, then chuckled as Yoongi broke into a mirroring action, sniffling and resting lazily against his bookshelf afterwards.  “We should probably head inside now. Get something in you before we go to bed.”

Jimin gradually got to his feet, stumbling a bit as he stretched before opening his blanket to properly engulf Yoongi in its warmth with him. Jimin could feel a bundle of heaviness, completely unrelated to his cold, settle in his chest as he listened to Yoongi sniffle thickly on their way back into the house – making a quick dash when they had to cross yard with the cooling breeze. The warlock had a lot to catch up on in terms of his work and this was quite obviously going to set him back a bit further.

Not that he seemed to mind.

Jimin seemed to be more stressed than his boyfriend about the matter. To compensate for resulting in getting Yoongi sick he had tried to collect a bunch of blankets and soft materials that he had scattered around the house during the day, working to make a more comfortable setting for Yoongi in their room once he had gotten the warlock to lie down there. He had successfully gathered water and at least three of the fluffiest blankets they owned before Yoongi had him trapped beneath him against the mattress.

The warlock had distracted him from his coddling after sneezing openly to the side with enough force that Jimin had reached out to steady his seated figure with concern, only to be tugged onto the bed and rolled on top of with the accompaniment of all of the blankets he’d piled on the elder moments before. He had wanted to complain, that he needed to make food for them or to get them the medicine, even if Yoongi had mentioned that he’d already taken something – or at the very least more tissues, because they’d definitely be needed those. Yet Yoongi had merely rested his cheek against Jimin’s shoulder, sniffling into the base of the hybrids neck while he wrapped his arms tightly around the dancers frame.

“Yoon… you need food…”

“ ‘need you.” Yoongi whispered lowly, yawning into Jimin’s chest. “I missed you today… just… just stay. Please.”

Jimin snuggled down, embracing the warlock as entirely as he could. Their limbs becoming a mesh between the blankets. If this was the comfort that his boyfriend needed, then who was he to protest?

Even as Yoongi drifted off to sleep, the ice that had filled his veins from earlier thawed with the warmth that bled through him by the mere presence of the Calico cat. The dying sunlight still blared down on them, but neither of them could bring themselves to care. If anything, it helped in making the pair sleepier. Jimin rubbed his nose through Yoongi hair and down over his cheek, pressing soft lips to the elders temple, then his cheek, then nose.

Yoongi squirmed and let out an amused groan, pushing Jimin away before pulling him close once more. He’d never get used to the effect that Jimin had on him. How a simple gesture made him feel as if he could wield all the magic in the world. He’d tried to explain the empowering feeling before, but he had never been able to put it into words.

“I’m sorry.” Jimin whispered, pressing a final kiss to Yoongi’s head. Although his tone had dipped into the same seriousness from before. Then in an even softer voice, he added. “Love you, Yoongi… ”

Yoongi was already half asleep, his body giving in after the events of his day, but the tender words pushed him further. He slipped into a dark content sleep, filled with that familiar warmth and spicy scent that he had grown to depend on.

He’d let out a soft sigh, barely catching Jimin’s final words of ‘rest well’ before he was completely submerged into his dreams.

[much-obliged-timothy]

Dad Tim & Uncle Rhys Part 7

I had an absolutely soul-crushing, exhausting day at work and needed to write something soft. This didn’t come out the way I planned at all, but that about sums up my experience as a writer. I plan to make a master post for these shorts soon! And you can find part one here! 

Rhys had reluctantly accepted that he’d somehow gotten himself dragged into a weird relationship with the Lawrence family.

It was why he was currently making his way to Tim’s house. Tim had invited him over for dinner and drinks. The two did have a little business to discuss, but the whole evening was largely casual.

Rhys had considered refusing, but one look at Phoenix’s excited little face and he knew his fate was sealed. The kid had taken a noticeable liking to him, even as Lorelei tried to steal away his affection for herself. Rhys wished she’d win it already.

Still, he wasn’t as moody as he expected when he knocked on the front door. He’d been in the house only twice before, once when Tim was sick and once to drop off some paperwork for Tim to sign.

Tim answered the door, wiping his hands on a towel as he stepped aside to less Rhys in. “Hey, Rhys. It’s almost ready. Mind keeping an eye on my kid while I switch over the laundry? He keeps getting close to the stove.”

“I knew you invited me here just to babysit,” Rhys said, shaking his head.

“Just go make sure my kid doesn’t cook himself to a crisp for a few minutes,” Tim said, waving him away. “Wine’s on the counter if you want to help yourself.”

Rhys made his way to the kitchen. Phoenix sat on the floor, tattered bear tucked safely into his lap and toy gun in hand. He was firing it off at a paper target hung up on the wall on the other side of the kitchen.

“Boss guy,” he said, looking up at Rhys. Phoenix pointed at the shirt he was wearing, a little Atlas T-shirt Rhys had gifted him. “State a’ the art. I dressed myself.”

His mismatched socks and the plaid shirt he wore unbuttoned over the Atlas one, which also didn’t match, definitely proved that. “So I see. I like your shirt. Where are the glasses?”

Phoenix pointed to one cupboard. “There.” He pointed to another. “And those are the hard day glasses.”

Rhys opened the second cabinet and pulled out a wine glass. “I take it Tim calls it that?”

“Uh-huh. When dad gets a hard day glass, it means I get an extra scoop of ice cream to shut my mouth about it when mom calls,” Phoenix said.

Rhys set the glass down and uncorked the wine. He poured himself a generous helping, then sighed and poured a glass for Tim too to be polite.

He turned back and nearly had a heart attack. “Phoenix!” 

He lurched forward, snagging Phoenix’s shirt as he reached for the heated oven. He yanked the boy back, wrapping an arm around his chest.

“What the hell? That’s hot! That’s very hot! It’s-” He peered at the temperature, “425 degrees hot!”

Phoenix squirmed against him, effortlessly slipping out of Rhys’ hold. “It’s warm. I just wanna warm my hands.”

Tim poked his head in. “Phoenix Lawrence, are you trying to touch the oven again?”

Phoenix held up his hands. “They’re cold. I just wanna warm ‘em, dad.”

“You’re your mother’s son, you absolute headache,” Tim groaned, coming into the room. “Your hands wouldn’t be so cold if you hadn’t left the toy gun outside all damn day. It was freezing out today. That thing is never going to fully unthaw. Give it to me.”

Phoenix handed it over and Tim turned the sink on, letting the water get hot before running it over the toy. Phoenix tried to pull himself up onto the counter to watch, but failed.

Rhys sighed as Phoenix turned to him expectantly. Some part of him was admittedly touched, as Phoenix despised being touched by almost everyone but Tim. It was a sign of trust for him, something he didn’t give away easily after the trauma he’d endured growing up.

Rhys lifted the kid into his arms, letting Phoenix watch. When the gun was returned to him, he smiled wide and squirmed until Rhys set him down. He scooped up his bear and resumed his practice shots, Tim easily maneuvering around him. 

“Hey, uh, I’ve got to ask about the bear,” Rhys said, nodding to it.

“Oh. Right, a few weeks before he was born, I thought…” Tim shrugged helplessly. “I dunno, I just thought he should have some toy or something to comfort him. So I fought my way into one of the gift shops and got him that bear. Everything had Hyperion on it, nothing I could do about that. But he took right to it. Rarely goes anywhere without it, and doesn’t want a replacement. He had a blanket, too, but one of the scavengers destroyed it in a fight when they found my hideout.”

“He tore it,” Phoenix said, looking upset. “And he stabbed dad and dad bled all over it.”

Tim knelt next to Phoenix and ruffled his hair, smiling sadly. “Yea, sorry about that, pal. But we’ll find you another one, someday. If you weren’t so picky…”

“It was my blanket!” Phoenix said.

“I know, I know. Sorry I bleed when I’ve been stabbed in the leg,” Tim said. “I’ll try to keep my blood in my body and off your possessions from now on. Now, help set the table while I get the food. And if you get near that stove again, I’m going to...do...something...uh, something that’s...a stern dad thing to do?”

“That’ll show him,” Rhys said.

“Oh, shut up.” Tim stood up and began to get the food together as Phoenix tried to set the table.

“Tried” was the key word. He was too short to reach most of the tableware, and had to drag a chair around to each cupboard. Rhys finally took pity and helped him, passing down whatever he needed.

When they were done, they gathered at the table, passing plates around and piling them with food. Tim wasn’t the best cook in the world, but he’d taken to it well enough. 

“Hey,” Tim said, kicking Phoenix under the table and nodding to Rhys. “Tell boss guy what you did today.”

“I almost read a whole book by myself,” Phoenix said, eyes wide with pride. 

“He’ll be putting in his application as soon as he can read the questions,” Tim said, but he gave Phoenix a proud smile.

“Uh...where is he? School-wise, I mean,” Rhys said.

“Ahead in some areas, behind in others. We taught him how to read certain signs in the casino, and Ember taught him the alphabet. He’s really good at math, and verbally he’s pretty advanced for his age. It’s just reading and writing he struggles with,” Tim said. “We work at it every night. We do at least two hours of homeschooling a night.”

“You do?” Rhys was surprised to hear that; Tim had his assignments done so fast that he had to be working on them at home.

Tim nodded. “Yea. I bring him practice sheets to do while I work during the day, and we go over them at night and then do some lessons. I’m college educated, remember? I’m no teacher, but I went online to learn how to teach my kid myself. And Ember calls to do lessons with him.”

Rhys had to respect that. Tim could be so flippant sometimes that it was easy to forget how seriously he took raising his son. 

“Hey, um, Tim?” Rhys said. “You’re doing a great job raising him. You’re a good employee and a good dad.”

Tim seemed surprised. “I...thank you, Rhys. Thank you.”

“He’s the best dad!” Phoenix said. “‘Cept he takes forever in the shower.”

“Brat,” Tim said affectionately. 

They ate, Tim and Rhys talking their business. Phoenix was quiet as usual, not interrupting them and instead entertaining himself in a way that wouldn’t distract them.

When they’d finished the meal, Tim brought out ice cream, Phoenix’s face lighting up. Tim handed him a bowl, but he reluctantly shook his head, pointing at Rhys.

“Boss guy first,” he said.

“Me first?” Rhys said.

“Dad said guests are s’posed to get food first,” Phoenix said. He hesitated, then blurted, “But save some for me. Please.”

“I’m not going to eat the whole thing!” Rhys said indignantly. “You’d have to roll me out of here.”

Phoenix watched anxiously as Rhys scooped himself ice cream. He took a generous portion, Phoenix leaning forward a little as if he was going to complain. A look from Tim had him pouting but staying quiet.

Rhys let him sit in his misery for a moment longer before passing the bowl to him. “A thanks for setting the table.”

Phoenix smiled widely, taking the bowl. “Wow! You don’t suck, boss guy!”

“Uh, just say thanks,” Tim said with a sigh. “‘You don’t suck’ isn’t the compliment you think it is.”

“Oh,” Phoenix said. “But he doesn’t suck. Look at all the ice cream he gave me, dad.”

“Yea, we’ll just not tell your mom you ate that much in one night,” Tim said, passing another bowl to Rhys. “Schooling I’m on top of, diet I’m working on.” 

They ate their ice cream, Phoenix babbling on happily about the school lesson Tim had given him today. He was trying to tell Rhys about the story he’d read almost by himself.

When they’d finished eating, they all cleaned the kitchen together and shifted out to the living room. Phoenix sat in Tim’s lap on the couch, clutching a juice box in one hand and his bear in the other. 

“Be right back,” Tim said, nudging Phoenix off himself. “I just have to use the bathroom.”

He disappeared down the hallway. Phoenix sipped at his juice box before looking at Rhys.

“Boss guy, if I learn how to read good, can I help at work?” he said.

“Read well,” Rhys said. “Not ‘read good’. Right, not the point here. Why do you want to help at work?”

“So dad can sleep,” he said. “He gets up real early sometimes to get work done.” He fidgeted with his juice box. “‘Cause of me. ‘Cause he’s busy helping me. I wasn’t s’posed to listen, but I did and I heard mom tell dad he’s gonna work himself to death. I don’t want my dad to die. I wanna help him.” 

“That’s just a figure of speech. He won’t actually work himself to death,” Rhys assured.

But...Phoenix was right. Not only was Tim readjusting to life outside of the casino after fighting for survival daily for seven years, but he was also readjusting to having a busy, demanding job. And on top of that, he was a single father, raising his oops kid who was suffering much of the same trauma as him.

Rhys considered it. Tim rarely missed work, enough so that when he did, Rhys knew it was serious. He came early and stayed late. He left work and schooled Phoenix at home. He really had no free time for himself. His life had become work and parenting. He had no one to watch his son for a day so he could take a break.

Shit. Rhys thought back, realizing how quick he was to dismiss Tim’s obvious signs of exhaustion. The constant coffees, the bags under his eyes, the energy drinks, the way he needed to get up and pace a bit if he sat too long, his occasional quick temper. 

“Phoenix, you’re just a kid. It’s not your job to worry about your dad,” Rhys said. “He’ll be okay.”

“But-” Phoenix started.

“Let me worry about him,” Rhys said. “Do you trust me to make sure he’s okay?”

Phoenix hesitated, clearly torn. His dad was the most important person in his life. He wouldn’t trust Tim’s safety to just anyone.

But Rhys must’ve really won the kid over, because eventually, he nodded. “Yea, okay. But I’m gonna learn how to read so I can help! I promise!”

When Tim returned to the room, Rhys glanced at Phoenix. “Hey, Phoenix, there were some chips in one of the cupboards. Can you get them, please? You can have some. I’m making that call even if your dad says no.”

“Yea, fine, I already let him eat like shit. What’s one more snack?” Tim said, waving Phoenix away.

“Gotta let me, or I’ll tell mom you swore again,” Phoenix said, heading into the kitchen.

“Tim,” Rhys said, leaning forward. “Do you want a day off?”

“Huh? Nah, don’t need one. I’ll fall behind,” Tim said. “And Phoenix likes going to work with me.”

“No, I mean…” Rhys shook his head a little. “I mean from work and from watching Phoenix. Just a day. Or even an evening.”

“What, with my abundance of babysitters?” Tim said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll watch him.” Oh, god, he was regretting it already. But Tim deserved it, so Rhys plowed on ahead. “I’ll take him for a day so you can have some rest. He can come to my office for the day. You can sleep in, or go out or...whatever.” 

“You’d do that?” Tim looked amazed. “You’d really do that for me?”

“Yes,” Rhys said. “You’re kind of a pain in the ass, but you’re my employee and you work harder than anyone else I know. And I guess we’re...kind of...friends?”

Tim sat back. “I...thanks, Rhys.” He looked down at his wine. “Maybe...fuck, maybe if you wouldn’t mind just, you know, just taking him for an hour or two, just…” He sighed. “I’m a shit dad. Just so I can sleep in one morning. That’s all I need to recharge.”

“You just want to sleep in an extra hour or two?” Rhys said. “You don’t want to go out?”

“I’ve got nowhere to go,” Tim said. “My life changed the moment Ember told me she was pregnant. Phoenix is my responsibility, whether he was an accident or not. He’s gotten so much better since we came here, but he still has a long way to go. That’s my job to be by his side through it all, even if it’s exhausting. Honestly, Rhys, I’m not ready for time alone right now. I’m still working through my own shit from the casino. Having him with me keeps me grounded and reminds me why I have to work at getting better. But I could really, really use a little extra sleep one day.” 

Rhys laughed. “Sleep it is. You name the day, and I’ll come pick him up and take him into the office.”

Tim smiled, small but sincere. “Thanks, Rhys. You’re a good friend.”

Rhys was spared answering that as Phoenix came back in, pulling himself up next to Rhys and holding out the bag of chips. Rhys opened it and let Phoenix have a handful.

“Hey, why not read that book to me?” Rhys said.

“Really? You’ll let me?” Phoenix said.

“Well, obviously. You’ve got to get better at reading, right?” Rhys said, winking.

Phoenix beamed. “Dad! Where’s my book? Gotta read for boss guy.”

So they all sat together on the couch, Phoenix in between them. He read painfully slow and struggled often, but he managed through most of the book with little help from Tim and Rhys. They let him pick out another book to try, and Rhys found himself spending the night helping a little boy learn how to read, Phoenix determined even when he screwed up or got stuck. 

And two days later, Rhys picked him up from the house, Tim still fast asleep upstairs. He brought Phoenix to the office, telling the boy to close his eyes and hold his hands out.

When Phoenix opened his eyes, he found himself looking at a soft blanket with the Atlas logo, and “Phoenix Lawrence” stitched into the corner of it.

The smile on his face and the fierce hug he gave Rhys made it all worth it. He was suckered into this family, and as he hugged Phoenix back, he didn’t even mind it anymore.

[kingonafiftymetreroad]

Fic Rec Post

Hey everybody! One of my secret santas asked me what my favorite fics are so I decided to make a full blown rec post just for them. These are a little all over the place so I hope you can find something that you enjoy here! ☁️✨ 

Please make sure to read all tags and warnings before reading a fic. And don’t forget to kudos/comment!

🌙 The Finish Line (Is A Good Place For Us To Start) by LoadedGunn 122k

Louis Tomlinson, one-time Formula 1 World Champion, is looking forward to the 2013 season. He’s got Zayn in his garage and Liam in his ear, he’s got Cowell Racing backing him despite former indiscretions, he’s got experience and the best race car out there. Not to mention he’s the only racer they have, after Oliver dropped out late last year.

It hasn’t occurred to him that Oliver would have to be replaced by February. That is, until he finds himself at a party celebrating Harry Styles leaving Ferrari for Cowell. Harry hotshot Styles, who broke a record last year and is probably looking to make a big splash. Harry Styles, who is talented and somewhat intimidating. Harry Styles, who left Ferrari for reasons unknown and seems kind of lonely and harmless in person. Lonely, harmless, hot as fuck. Whatever.

The first thing Louis does is take him under his wing. From there it’s nine months of slow-burning romance, the past catching up to them, turning into the human puppy pile that is OT5 and a lot of feelings until, of course, reaching the finish line.

🌙 a promise lives within you now by sarcasticfluentry 46k

A Lord of the Rings-inspired Middle Earth AU. Louis is an Elven prince, next in line to become King of Mirkwood, and Harry is the orphaned Human boy who grows up alongside him. They fall in love, but Louis’s obligations to the throne, Harry’s mortality, and impending war threaten to tear them apart.

🌙 if you're for real and not pretend by brownheadedstranger 21k

In which Harry works in a bakery and Louis can't seem to find what he's looking for.

🌙 Into The Blue by zarah5 117k (story is locked, ao3 account required to read)

AU. In which Louis is Harry's scuba instructor and quite happy to provide the requested special treatment, pun fully intended. It can't be all that difficult to convince Harry that they're on the same page, right? Also, Niall and Liam may or may not be dating, and Zayn is surrounded by emotionally stunted idiots. He bears it with dignity.

🌙 Don't Unplug Me Or Shut Me Down by slashter 7k

Louis scowls. "He's a photography student. He works with gorgeous models and probably breaks hearts with his smile. I'm a nerd. I earn my money fixing broken crap, and for some stupid reason, I like it. He wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts, he's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers, et cetera, et cetera." Louis sighs. "I swear, the coolest thing I've ever done is wear contacts."

Basically, Louis is a self-proclaimed nerd who fixes things and Harry seems too perfect to keep breaking as many things as he does.

🌙 You Are The Blood by sarcasticfluentry 175k

A seventh-year Hogwarts AU in which Niall gets all the girls, Liam goes on a journey of self-discovery, Zayn falls in love, Harry wants something more, and Louis tries to figure out once and for all why he, a Muggleborn, was sorted into Slytherin.

🌙 this must be what all the fuss is about by youcomecrash 3k

"You're sweaty," he mumbles matter-of-factly. Louis opens his eyes and raises his head from between his arms. Harry's just staring up at him with a lazy expression and Louis kind of wants to kiss him to sleep. "That's because it's a hundred degrees in here, babe."

🌙 I Fell From the Sky For You (Like a Shooting Star) [by louserz] by waddupjordan (orphan_account) 8k (This was originally posted on tumblr by @louserz and this person had permission to post it on ao3 for the author. if the original author sees this and wants me to take this off of my rec post please DM me and I will. This fic displays elements of depression and homelessness although it is not tagged that way so please take caution in reading this. I don’t want to accidentally trigger anybody.<3)

Harry owns a bookstore, Louis is homeless, and apparently even shooting stars fall in love.

🌙 Sail Across Me by iwillpaintasongforlou 21k

Harry is a prince that is about to be forced into marriage against his will and running away to sea seems like a much better option. Louis is the captain of the infamous pirate ship The Rogue and he has a thing for helping defenseless creatures. Especially when they're as pretty as this one.

🌙 but maybe im just in love when you wake me up by theonewiththelarrystories 6k

lazy morning sex, prompted by Asher: "like a whole sleepy sunday morning vibe of waking up together and then louis pulling a sleepy harry into a warm bath and louis washing harry all over. a bit of body!worship, louis gently working conditioner into harrys curls and him practically purring. Then louis taking it slow with kisses on harrys neck and gentle touches and then fingering harry until hes whining with his head thrown back against louis’ shoulder little needy noises coming from his perfect fucking lips. and then harrys boneless and content while louis leads him back to their bed and spreads him out face down and rims the fuck out of him until hes screaming and then he fucks him gently and then they cuddle on the couch and harry wears louis’ white sweater and louis calls him ‘sweetheart.’"

🌙 strawberry milk fic by Wankerville 158k (3 parts)

This is a 3 part story. The 1st part was originally written alone and then the author added the rest. You can just read the 1st part (19k), and you’ll still be satisfied without feeling added pressured to read the whole thing. Please read all the tags and warnings for each fic beforehand!

🌙 and we live like legends now by soleilouis 16k girl!direction 

harry works at a juice bar, and louis is the cute girl that skates at the park right next door.

🌙 Through Eerie Chaos by MediaWhore 102k (story is locked, ao3 account required to read) @mediawhorefics​

For as long as anyone can remember, Old Hillsbridge Manor has always been believed to be haunted. Everyone in the village agrees and keeps a respectful, fearful, distance. New in town after a bad breakup and an internship that led to disappointment rather than a permanent job, Harry Styles figures taking pictures of the decrepit building could be a great new creative project. Or at least a much-needed distraction while he searches for a job and crashes at his parents’ new house. No one warned him about the apparitions though; about the music, the laughter, the people who flicker and vanish when you call after them, the echoes of a past that should be long gone… Harry has never believed in spirits but even he can admit that there’s something weird going on. What starts as mere curiosity evolves into a full-blown investigation and soon enough, Harry finds himself making friends with an aristocrat from the 1920s and struggling with finding the best way to tell him that he’s dead.

The Ghost Hunter AU where Niall lives to prove ghosts are real, Zayn is a skeptical librarian and Harry gets caught up in a century-old mystery and catches feeling in the process.

🌙 jump in the deep end by istajmaal 5k 

Louis’s stomach lurches as he closes the last bit of distance, Harry’s nose settling between his arse cheeks and pushing them apart. Harry’s lips brush against the puckered skin around Louis’s hole in a kiss and Louis lets out a whine so high-pitched he barely recognizes it as coming from himself—what if I'm not clean enough, what if Harry hates it, what if Harry pushes me away—but then Harry’s long, wet tongue swoops in a circle around Louis’s rim and Louis feels like all the breath is knocked out of him. He grabs for Harry’s hand, still digging into his thigh, and squeezes over it, until Harry releases his vice grip on Louis’s thigh and laces his fingers through Louis’s.

or, Louis's arse is a sensitive subject, so Harry approaches it gently. With his tongue.

🌙 the wheel breaks the butterfly by embodied 4k girl!direction @aliensingucci​

“Out with it, Styles,” Louis groans. Harry’s suddenly regretting this whole thing, and she’s sure she’s beet red now, so she just blurts it out so fast she’s not sure if Louis even understands her right away.

“I’ve never gotten head before.”

AU. harry and louis are roommates. girls' night ends a little differently than usual.

🌙 you flower, you feast by stylinsoncity 18k

He's King of the Underworld, but don't assume Louis has it all. He could stand for some excitement in his monotonous, eternal life and maybe, even.....a soulmate.

(Despite not having a soul.)

And along came "Harry".

🌙 you change, water sea by got2ghost 4k girl!direction (ziam with side larry)

“Zayn wants me to teach her how to make a girl squirt,” Louis says, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. Liam chokes on the water she’d been swigging from her thermos, which makes Louis throw her head back and laugh. Zayn’s brows pinch together and she pats Liam gently on the shoulder, muttering, ‘you okay babes?’

🌙 The Case Of The (Definitely Not Haunted) Styles Mansion by BriaMaria 40k

“So there’s a sense of humor buried beneath all that condescension, huh?” Louis said when he’d stopped laughing.

“It’s not condescension, it’s intelligence. I understand you might not be able to recognize it yourself,” Marcel said, then slapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh god, I’m sorry.”

Louis stepped closer, his eyes on Marcel’s face. “For being an asshat?”

“For being rude,” Marcel said, from beneath his palm.

Louis shifted a half-step closer until he was at the very edge of Marcel’s personal space. It felt like he was nudging at it, asking to be let in. Marcel flushed hot for no reason.

“Lucky for you it takes quite a lot to actually insult me,” Louis said taking one step closer. Too close. Too close.

Marcel met Louis’ eyes. Those blue eyes that reminded Marcel of poetry instead of science, lyrics instead of formulas. They were so pretty he wanted to drown in them.

---

Or the Nancy Drew AU where Marcel is a man of logic, Louis is a private detective who believes in ghosts, and the Styles Mansion is definitely, absolutely, positively *not* haunted.

🌙 You are the Lyrics by TheIfInLife 4k @larryficwriter​

or, Harry wears lingerie for the first time and Louis definitely approves.

🌙 Wild at Heart Ain't Hard to Find by QuickedWeen 11k girl!direction @becomeawendybird

Louis and her best friends Niall and Liam always take an annual vacation together. This year Niall has picked Redwater Canyon, a small tourist town where everyone lives like it's the Old West. There are saloons, stagecoaches, and limited access to WiFi.

The town boasts tours, excursions, activities, and the hottest woman Louis has ever seen in the form of the local blacksmith.

🌙 Withdrawal Was the Weeping by QuickedWeen 11k girl!direction

Confined by life and society, Harry spends her Sunday afternoons walking aimlessly about the countryside as it's her only source of freedom. One Sunday she is aided by the most beautiful woman she has ever met, but not everything is as it seems. Was it a trick of the light? Was it Harry's own active imagination? There is nothing to do but try to find her again.

🌙 i must admit i thought i'd like to make you mine by disgruntledkittenface 50k @disgruntledkittenface​

Louis fell apart when her ex broke up with her and moved across the country. Just as she’s starting to move on, Zayn comes back to town for their mutual friends’ wedding – with a new girlfriend as her plus one.

Blindsided and scrambling to save face, Louis lets herself get talked into a fake relationship with her new friend Harry. Their arrangement makes Louis feel pathetic and embarrassed, but it’s only going to last a few weeks. She just has to get through the wedding – what could happen?

🌙 tempted by the fruit of another by disgruntledkittenface 3k (zayn/louis/harry)

Zayn didn’t mean to look. And she certainly didn’t mean to watch.

It’s just that Louis and Harry are the worst hosts in the world; they’re in their bedroom, clearly fucking (again), and so loud that Zayn can’t concentrate on her game of Among Us in the living room. Liam has killed her twice. Liam. So she just went down the hallway to make sure their bedroom door was at least closed.

It wasn’t.

Zayn stumbles into a world of possibility when she stays with Harry and Louis for a few weeks.

🌙 I have more favorite fics but they are not included here due to them being deleted from ao3. They’re saved in PDF form both on my laptop and my phone (I go back and read them all the time) so if you’re interested in those you’re welcome to reach out to me and ask privately and I’ll share what I can.

This turned out a lot longer than I had expected. If you read through the whole thing thank you! ✨

[author-morgan]

Deimos!Alexios NSFW Alphabet 

Deimos!Alexios x Fem!Reader

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Deimos is steadily getting better when it comes to aftercare, just as he is getting better and learning how to show affection. He doesn’t act aloof anymore and starts taking time to tend to you. He’ll check for any scratches and soothe the angry-looking love bites on your neck and chest with soft kisses. Deimos helps you clean up too. While he’s not one to cuddle, he still drags you into his side (and if you want to curl up to him he’s not going to stop you).

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite body part is his arms because of how strong they are —he can easily pin you down with them and have his way with you. You also like his arms, but Deimos’ thighs are surely sculpted by the gods. There have been times when he’s let you get off by riding his thigh.

Deimos’ favorite part of you is your hands. He likes how much smaller they are than his and how delicate they look against his skin, especially near the scars on his torso and back. He also enjoys how talented your hands are when they’re struggling to wrap around his thick cock. A close second for him is your stomach —Deimos likes how soft it is, a reminder that you aren’t a warrior, and how it rolls and creases as he bends your body like Hephaestus does hot iron in his forge. He thinks it’s a glorious sight to look down and watch his seed paint your belly.  

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

The Cult may not have told him everything —but deep down he knows he’s only a weapon and they want his bloodline erased (why else would they be hunting his parents and sister?). He knows that if you bear his child the Cult will either twist it into a monster like him or leave it to be exposed. For that reason, Deimos mostly finishes on the inside of your thigh or your stomach. If –for whatever reason– he cannot control himself and cums inside you, he’ll make sure you’re supplied with silphium or wild bird’s nest to prevent conception.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

It makes him feel a little guilty, but Deimos takes pleasure when you struggle —mostly trying to fight for control, or at least to be able to touch him when he pins your hands down.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Before you, whispers were that the Cult provided their champion with prizes for his victories —a night with some unfortunate soul or souls— to quell the monster until morning. The first time you lay with Deimos, he left you wanting. He knew how to please himself, but not another. It’s a tedious process to teach him the workings of a woman’s body, but after some time he learns what you like (and don’t) and ensures you’re never left wanting again.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

It’s basic, but his favorite ways to take you are with you on your back —legs wrapped around his waist— or on all fours (or bent over a table). Deimos does get a certain thrill when you’re on top of him, but he likes being in control too much for those moments to last long.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Deimos is serious and it’s reflected in everything he does —including when he has his way with you. You don’t mind as it’s his nature.

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s the face of a powerful organization and image is important to him, even for areas not seen in public. He keeps everything tidy —once he’s comfortable around you, sometimes he’ll even let you help.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

For the longest time, he tried to remain detached, but soon his emotions started getting in the way. That’s when the dynamic started to shift between the two of you —his kisses and touches become softer and linger a little longer and he holds your gaze longer, making sure you’re satisfied.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

For the most part, Deimos controls his compulsions well and rarely ever jacks off. He suppresses his desires when he’s away —he doesn’t need the distraction when he’s trying to sway a leader or change the tides of war— but when he returns, his pent up desire is released like a flood.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Besides an obvious kink for being in control, Deimos also has a kink for marking you as his. He likes seeing the shallow indentation of his teeth on your shoulder, the purple-red hickeys on your neck and breasts, even the light bruises on your hips. (Deimos won’t ever tell you, but he enjoys it when you mark him too especially when your nails break his skin and leave scratches over his back.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

There’s a spot south of the Temple of Apollo that’s always quiet with a view of the sea —he likes to take you there and have his way with you with the moon and stars as witnesses. When you’re there, Deimos tends to take things slower, is gentler, and you might even dare say bordering on romantic. While that’s his favorite place, he’ll take you just about anywhere if he wants you bad enough —in a fort or leader’s house, in one of the antechambers of the Cave of Gaia, on a ship at sea— anywhere.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Three things can easily get Deimos riled up. 1) When you shake your hair free from a braid or let it down from a pinned style it drives him crazy and he wants nothing more than runs his fingers through it. 2) Back and neck rubs, mostly it’s unintentional as you’re just trying to help soothe his tight muscles after a stressful mission or long day of training. Though sometimes when you’re feeling brave your hands will slip around to his torso, pressing into his abdomen —if you do that, Deimos is on you in seconds. 3) Seeing you for the first time after being separated will get him going too.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Deimos isn’t going to do anything that could seriously hurt you, sure his hands leave a fair share of bruises on your hips and thighs, but he’ll never do anything that could truly injure you. After all, the Cult has made it very clear that he will not receive another prize should anything befall you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

It was clear when you first met Deimos that he preferred receiving over going down on you —in part because he never had a partner up until you that made him want to return the favor. He still enjoys having your mouth wrapped around his cock, his hand tangled in your hair. When you're sucking him off, it gives you a sense of power and pride to have one of the strongest men in the Greek world completely at your mercy.

When Deimos goes down on you, he always acts like a starved man at a feast —pulling your legs over his shoulders and holding you against his mouth. The stubble of his jaw scraping your thighs, his warm tongue against your clit, and rough fingers pressing into you, curling and stroking. He doesn’t stop until you’re writhing, unsure if you’re pulling him closer and pushing him away.  

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He tends to be on the rougher side even if he’s taking things slow, but if you’re ever in pain or uncomfortable he’ll make small adjustments to make sure he doesn’t hurt you. On rare occasions, you can get him to truly take things slow —it doesn’t take long before you’re begging him to go faster and deeper.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Deimos isn’t opposed to a good quickie. Most of the time he pulls you aside for a quick fuck when he has to leave suddenly and isn’t sure when he’ll be back.  

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Deimos is down to experiment to some degree, mostly it’s trying new positions (he’s always going to be the one in charge though unless you manage to catch him off-guard). He only takes risks when he knows you’re okay with it. One time he had his hand over your throat and you’d laid your over his, squeezing his fingers. That’s how he found out you enjoyed the light pressure of his hand wrapped around your throat.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He has the blood of the gods running in his veins —he can easily go three to four rounds before he’s spent and tends to last far longer than a typical man. Deimos has been known to keep you up to until the early hours of the morning.  

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

There’s an olisbos lying around somewhere (it’s molded after his likeness though he’s never expressly mentioned that, but every time the cool, smooth stone slips into your heat it always feels familiar). There are a few long strips of silk lying around, too —Deimos only uses those if you’ve been especially ill-behaved.  

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He’s not much for teasing. There’s still ample foreplay between you and Deimos, but it never feels like teasing. You’ve gotten away with teasing him before, like when he was training you to use a sword though once he realized what you were doing, Deimos pulled you aside —his stiff cock pressing into your stomach.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s not particularly vocal during the act. Mainly he just grunts and groans —sometimes right before he cums, soft moans bordering on whimpers will escape his lips. You notice once he’s free from the Cult he becomes a little louder, less controlled, and eventually, he even starts panting and breathing your name like a broken prayer.

W = Wildcard (a random headcanon for the character)

One of his favorite things is after he gets back from an assignment or training and is bathing. He loves it when you start massaging his scalp, working down to his shoulders and arms, around to his back. Soothing his tense muscles and tracing over his scars. Eventually, you always end up in the water, too —with him lazily thrusting up into you, hands holding onto your hips, face pressed into your breasts, and your hands threaded into his matted hair. Now that you think about it —bath sex is one of your favorite things too.  

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Deimos is well endowed. He may only be a demigod, but his cock is that of an Olympian god —15 cm with an equal amount of girth. When he’s completely hard, it curves slightly to the left with swollen veins running from base to head.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He has a healthy sex drive —maybe even a little higher than an average man. When he’s not off somewhere doing the Cult’s bidding you can expect to have sex two or three times during a week, unless he’s in a bad mood. His libido is always higher once he returns from being away from you, though.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

If Deimos is beyond the point of exhaustion, he can fall asleep almost immediately, sometimes while still laying on top of you (it takes practice to be able to shimmy part of his weight off of you without waking him). Other times it takes hours for him to fall asleep —even if you’re already sound asleep lying next to him, and sometimes he doesn’t sleep at all.  

[vulturhythm]

let us waltz for the dead - two

part one

- - - - -

They say that the devil is in the details.

Things can change with an instant's notice - there one second, gone the next.

They say that to lay with the devil is to sell your soul.

A fitting end.

- - -

The lower floor of the tavern is largely darkened when Geralt descends the stairs, only the fireplace lit. It's bewildering at first - after all, it isn't terribly early in the morning. The dull light of the tavern, combined with the stormclouds and rain outside, lend a gloomy atmosphere to everything, one that has unease twisting low in Geralt's stomach.

"Out of luck if you're looking to head out," comes a gruff voice, and Geralt looks to the bar, only partially surprised to see Nivellen there, wiping it clean.

Funny thing, cleaning something that hasn't been used.

"Come again?" Geralt asks as he crosses the room, settling onto a barstool and watching the damp rag move across the smooth wooden counter with passive interest.

Nivellen hooks a thumb at the windows, but doesn't look away from his task. "Storm washed out all the roads for miles around. Doesn't look as though it'll clear up any time soon, neither. Your horse would get bogged down, sure as anything."

Geralt heaves a sigh, frustrated by the confirmation, though not exactly surprised. "It came on fast," he remarks, gaze straying to the window nearest him. He could barely see the trees for the pouring rain, falling from the clouds in thick curtains that turned the world a murky gray and black. "Won't bother you if I wait it out here, will it?"

Nivellen merely shrugs, saying in a tone that, while not unkind, is nonetheless indifferent, "Long as you've got the money, you can stay for a week, for all I care. Breakfast served half-past nine, lunch at one, dinner at eight. Gonna cost you."

Of course it will.

Shaking his head, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his purse again. "Get a lot of traffic here, then?" he asks idly, counting out the notes for another night's rest.

"Decent amount," Nivellen grunts, disinterested. "Why?"

Geralt shrugs, setting the money down and pocketing his purse once more. "There was a man last night, said he spends plenty of time here. Thought it was interesting."

The barkeep falters, looking at him with a gaze that's not quite critical, not quite concerned. "Second thought, you might better not stick around."

That gives Geralt pause. "Pardon?"

"Nothing but trouble, that kid. If he's taken a fancy to you, well... more's the shame."

Frowning, Geralt looks up once more, uncertain as to how he's meant to take that.

Nivellen cocks a brow. "Just telling you how it is," he says, oddly curt now. "Plan on wantin' breakfast?"

Taken aback by the sudden change in demeanor, Geralt shakes his head. "I'll eat at one," he replies. "I should... I should go check on my mare."

The bartender seems satisfied with this, merely nodding and redoubling his efforts to clean what must be an immensely stubborn spot that Geralt simply cannot see. "Remember the stallion," he warns dismissively. "He's - "

"A biter, I remember," Geralt finishes, sighing as he stands. "I know."

As he turns to leave, reaching for the front doorknob, he realizes that the strange glint he'd seen in Nivellen's eye is not unfamiliar at all -  no, it was pity.

- - -

When Geralt steps outside, he realizes immediately that this is not a storm that intends to show any mercy to whatever happens to be in its path. The wind is fierce in and of itself, driving the rain into his skin with force that stings. He grits his jaw, grateful that there are barely three yards between himself and the stable awning. Still, he does not look forward to crossing that scant distance.

Biting back a sigh, he makes a break for it, dashing toward the awning and having just the presence of mind to marvel at just how fucking wet he gets in the span of maybe five, six seconds. He stops short once he's under cover, sucking in a gasp for air and shaking his now-drenched hair from his eyes.

If the roads weren't washed out by midnight, they sure as hell are now.

Geralt shakes himself to dislodge some of the excess rain clinging to his skin and coat, heading inside. He's greeted by the warm glow of a lantern above, somehow just as bright as it was last night when he came to put Roach away. The stable is split in half by a wide, cobblestone corridor; there are places in the floor where the stones have crumbled away, and he can see the wood and dirt beneath. Three wide stalls line each side. To his left, Roach whinnies in greeting, and he approaches with a soft croon.

She sticks her head out over the door to butt against his shoulder, and Geralt softens, smiling to himself as he brushes her forelock smooth. "Hope your night was less eventful than mine," he tells her, resting his brow on her own when she settles. Roach merely snorts, and he hears her pawing on the other side of the door.

He rests there for a beat, enjoying this moment of peace - this moment of warmth, when the world outside is so strange and harsh. A louder, deeper snort and accompanying nicker draws him from his reverie a few moments later, and he looks up.

The stallion Nivellen warned him against is in the stall to Roach's left. Funny. Geralt is certain he was across the corridor the night before...

As he straightens up, the stallion snorts once more, tossing his head. He's a draft of some sort, a big, beastly black thing, but there's enough fleetness evident in his frame that Geralt suspects he's a foxhunter of some type or another.

Lord knows he's got the spirit for it; you'd have to be deaf not to hear the way he's pacing in his stall, tail lashing and head reared back.

Geralt watches him with no small degree of wariness, wondering who thought it a good idea to move the stallion across beside his mare.

"Watch yourself," he says in quiet warning, leaving Roach for the saddle racks in the corner of the stable. He grabs Roach's brush from the saddlebag, heading for her stall and undoing the latch to slip inside. It pleases him to see that the hay net and water trough are freshly filled; evidently somebody here is in charge of the stables. The evening before, he had found the stall in pristine shape, as well - fully stocked, clean, ready for use. Patting Roach's flank, he sets to work, brushing away the night's worth of straw bits stuck to her coat.

Roach, for all that she enjoys a good bit of fun now and then, is always docile when Geralt needs her to be, and now is no exception. She stands with her head low, nibbling thoughtfully at the hay. Geralt hums a mindless tune to her as he works, though he knows better than to turn his back entirely on the stallion in the other stall; he keeps his body turned, one eye on the black beast.

At last, he moves to Roach's opposite side, the red mare now between him and the stallion. The larger horse seems to calm some, and Geralt permits himself to relax, focusing the majority of his attention on Roach once more.

This proves to be a mistake barely five minutes later.

A clamor of hooves and a blur of movement is all the warning he gets before the stallion is lurching against the stall divider, before the stallion's head is snaking for Roach. Geralt hears his mare squeal, steps back when she kicks, soothes her with as much calm in his tone as he can when she's sidestepping into him.

Geralt curses under his breath as he rounds Roach once more, letting the mare back off to the opposite side of the stall and putting himself between the horses once more. The stallion is nearly screaming now, blood on his teeth and head tossing as he paces in place. "Never taught manners, were you?" Geralt asks irritably, watching those wild eyes roll.

He glances back over his shoulder, seeing the bite wound on Roach's neck. Sighing, he backs toward her, sets a hand on her quivering side and speaks low until she begins to calm. All the while, his eyes are on the stallion, that black coat glistening with sweat as though it had been pushed hard after a fox for miles.  "No manners at all."

The stallion merely snorts again, and Geralt can practically feel the disdain in the sound. He shakes his head, trusting Roach to stay out of reach as he leaves the stall, heading once more for the saddle racks. He carries salve in the saddlebags at all times, although he has to admit, this is the first time Roach has been attacked by something apart from mosquitoes or horseflies.

It's as he returns to the stall that the stallion strikes again. Geralt is reaching to open the door when the bastard lunges, slamming into his own door with a loud thud and lashing out. Harsh teeth close over the wrist of his extended arm, and Geralt nearly doubles over with pain.

He strikes the stallion between the eyes, hating himself for an instant, but drawing back in relief when the black beast lets go, recoiling with a squeal that hurts Geralt's ears. "Try it again, and I'll hit you harder," he mutters, mostly to himself, backing off a couple of steps to survey the damage.

The skin is torn, blood dripping steadily, but he guesses he's fortunate that the bite isn't any deeper than it is already. Geralt sighs, eyeing the stallion warily as he slips back into the stall to tend to Roach. The beast is eyeing him much the same, retreating back into the corner of his own stall with a frustrated switch of his tail.

Good riddance.

- - -

The rain has shown no signs of easing up when Geralt leaves the stable; if anything, it's pouring just as hard as it was the evening before, rain tumbling from the rooftops and beating its way down through wind-bowed limbs and leaves. Geralt sighs as he stands beneath the stable's awning, bracing himself to run. He hadn't planned on rain when he'd set out for Cintra - his coat lacks a hood or cowl, something he would have truly appreciated at about this time.

Steeling himself against the cold onslaught, he rushes for the door of the Black Dog, relieved when it opens easily under his own weight. By the time he's crossed those scant three yards, he's virtually drenched once more, and he knows it'll be a welcome relief to be able to sit down before the fire. He lets the door swing shut behind him as he stalls on the rug just beyond, letting the worst of the water drip off him here as he gives the tavern floor a cursory glance, halfway expecting to see Jaskier lounging by the hearth, or, at the very least, Nivellen behind the bar, preparing to offer up a dish.

He sees neither.

In fact, he sees an entirely unfamiliar face behind the bar - a young woman with hair that's so deep a shade Geralt isn't sure if it's red or brown, chopped short and curly and uneven. She's leaning on the countertop and nursing a tankard of what Geralt can plainly smell is ale; there's a platter of food in front of her, much too large for one person.

Geralt blames surprise on the way he falters, more than anything, staring for a good half-minute.

The woman cocks a brow at him when she lowers her tankard, and lets the silence go on for another moment before she says, with a laugh that's short and sudden, "You act as if you've never seen a girl before."

Called out, he clears his throat, shaking his head to clear it as he heads for the bar. "I was expecting Nivellen," he replies, a little gruffly, and the woman shrugs, giving him a cursory once-over as he sits down across from her. "Your name...?"

"Renfri," she replies, doing a flourish-y gesture with one hand, then gesturing to the platter in front of her. "Hope you don't mind sharing."

Geralt glances down at it - cheeses, meats, pastries, a loaf of bread, all laid out in an aesthetic pattern Geralt knows better than to give Nivellen credit for. It's obvious that Renfri has already sampled the former, mostly because she reaches for another little cube of aged cheddar as Geralt watches. "Not at all," he says, and he finds he means it; Renfri seems a curious sort, certainly a better conversationalist than Nivellen. "Is it customary to dine with your guests?"

Renfri snorts, shaking her head as she pops the cube into her mouth and turns toward the wall behind her. "When there's only one guest in the entire tavern, yes," she says over her shoulder, voice slightly muffled. "What're you drinking?"

He hesitates a moment as he reaches for a pastry first. Maybe Jaskier is part of the staff, then. "Water is alright for now," he says. "Never was much for day drinking."

Nodding, she turns away from the selection of spirits and reaches instead for a simple pitcher, filling up a tankard with practiced ease. "I see the fucker bit you," she says, jerking her chin toward the wound on Geralt's wrist. "Nasty old thing, isn't he?"

Geralt glances automatically to the torn skin of his arm. "Yes," he sighs, taking the tankard from her with a grateful nod. "Looked hungry, so I figured I'd feed him while I tended to Roach, and, well - "

" - and he whipped around and bit you," Renfri says; she speaks with the sort of firm authority that makes it plain she's dealt with the stallion before. She leans her weight onto the counter once more, cocking a playful brow as Geralt reaches for the knife resting beside the platter, slicing into the bread. "Lucky he didn't take off more of your arm than he did."

He gives a weary hum, close enough to laughter, taking one of the slices and making a rather awkward little sandwich with the meat and cheese. "Have you worked here long?" he asks her, taking a bite. "Building looks like it's pretty old."

Renfri shrugs then. "Long enough," she says; the vagueness of her reply doesn't escape Geralt, but he chooses not to comment. "Longer than the grouchy old bastard usually up here."

Geralt lets the corner of his mouth tip upward in a half-smile; the description is apt enough, he has to admit. "So, ah... you know the staff well?"

A sort of veil comes down across her eyes, but she nods regardless, cocking her head to the side. "What makes you ask?"

"Well, the, uh..." He pauses there, unsure if there's any less crass way to explain things than there was a boy who very enthusiastically seduced me last night. "The younger man who works here? He's an... interesting sort."

Renfri hums then, low and amused, and Geralt falters, recognizing the glint in her eye as the same spark of pity that Nivellen's had held before. "Ah," she says, her tone suddenly flat in the instant before she seems to pick back up her smile. "Jaskier."

Geralt nods, oddly relieved, and finishes off his makeshift little sandwich. "Does he, ah... make a habit of associating with the guests?"

"Unfortunately," she sighs, although there's something different about her now, something... off. "A habit he won't be broken of, let's call it that."

"A habit," he repeats dryly. "You sound as if this is a constant issue."

Renfri scoffs, and the shake of her head is almost resigned. "To put it lightly," she replies. "If he bothers you again, I suggest at least pretending to have some degree of decorum and leaving him behind."

Geralt feels a flush rise to his cheeks, and he clears his throat. "I'll make an effort," he replies, deciding he can guarantee at least that much.

The woman nods, though she doesn't seem entirely convinced; to be fair, Geralt himself isn't the most confident in his ability to reject the boy, should he approach him again. "See that you do," she replies simply. "I trust you'll be leaving once the storm passes?"

A response is on the tip of his tongue, but as if eager to join the conversation, a peal of thunder comes from overhead, deep enough that it rattles the tankards and glasses hanging upon the racks at the back of the bar. Geralt pauses, brows cocked in a mirror of Renfri's expression as they watch the vessels, then meet eachother's gazes.

"If the storm passes," Renfri amends with a weary sigh. "Well... I've got to go tend to things in the back, but by all means, eat what you will. I'll clean up later."

Geralt nods, the softest huff of laughter escaping him as he watches the irritated way Renfri adjusts the vessels that had slipped from their previous positions. It's easy enough to tell that Renfri is the one responsible for much of the order in this place - Nivellen likely wouldn't have given the skewed things a second glance. "I suppose I'll see you around?"

Renfri offers little more than a shrug as she grabs her drink, already walking out from behind the bar. She rounds the corner to clap Geralt on the shoulder with surprising force, and he turns his head to watch her, seeing her gaze on the rain-battered windows. "We'll see," she says, and that's that. She turns to leave, disappearing down the other hallway by the hearth.

Geralt watches her retreat until he hears a door open and close. With a thoughtful exhale, he looks up to the tankards and glasses hanging from the racks.

One glass is cracked.

- - -

Geralt retreats to his room once he's finished off the platter, pleasantly full and ready to spend the afternoon in peace and quiet. Were it a nicer day, he would have taken joy out of exploring the property, or even just the halls, but as is, he finds he wants few things more than a chance at rest - and a chance to bandage his wrist, for another thing.

The sense of something being off is the first thing to hit him as he unlocks his door. He pauses there, with it halfway open, frowning to himself. From here, he can see little more than the bed, which looks just the same as always. The window is shivering under the force of the rain and wind, but he doubts it will give.

At last, he shakes his head and pushes the door open, stepping into the room.

It takes only a glance for him to realize that, indeed, he was right - something is off.

Geralt's gaze darts immediately to the mirror.

The crack is gone, and so is the blood.

He has no words for the strange feeling that settles in the pit of his stomach.

Swallowing bewildered nerves, he pushes the door closed behind him - slowly, as if to move too quickly is to alert whatever strange imp breaks and replaces mirrors - and approaches the dresser, holding his reflection's gaze.

Surely he imagines the way his eyes look brighter, the rest of him darker, in the newly-mended glass.

Geralt stands there, evaluating the glass, listening to the wind and rain beat against the window. He stands there, holding his gaze, until the room seems to darken at his back, until his mind begins to play its little tricks - until his face begins to morph, twisting into a facsimile of itself -

- and then, just as his eyes become the brightest spot in the shadows, he blinks, and the trance is broken.

A worker must have come to check the room, he decides, turning away, and replaced the mirror.

The only explanation.

He heads for the washroom, glancing down to the bite in his wrist. It's ceased to bleed, something for which he's grateful, but he realizes the pain has only barely abated.

With a weary sigh, he holds it beneath running water, watching with a strange sort of fascination as the flow turns first crimson, then pink with time.

He loses track of the minutes that pass, jarred back into reality by the sound of footsteps in the outer room.

Geralt pauses, lifts his head, meets his eyes in the washroom mirror for an instant - sees movement in the reflection, in the doorway.

He turns in a rush, uncertain as to what he expects.

He sees nothing.

The unease in his stomach is something nearer to fear now.

Shutting off the water, he turns to face the doorway, wounded wrist hanging at his side.

It came for the scent of blood.

The thought enters his head unbidden, and Geralt blinks, shaking it away. There's nothing there.

Nothing there, either, when he walks into the main room, when he glances around.

Nothing except that mirror, a hairline crack spiderwebbing its way across the glass.

- - -

He spends the rest of the afternoon in quiet, sitting in bed and watching the rain fall.

He gives no thought to the quiet sounds coming from the washroom.

Just a rat, most likely.

- - -

Eight o' clock arrives at last, and Geralt has never been more eager to flee his lodgings than he is when he goes downstairs to see if, by chance, dinner is any more or less eventful than lunch had been.

The fire within the hearth has been lit once again, and Geralt cannot help but be relieved; it really is amazing, the difference a fire can make, in making a place feel more like a home. Nivellen is once again behind the bar, and there's a plate of what looks to be roast chicken and vegetables in front of him. He looks up when Geralt approaches, motioning toward the plate with an awkward half-smile.

"Kept it warm for you," is his simple, weary greeting.

Geralt decides not to take too much offense from the way Nivellen seems less than interested in conversation now, ever since this morning. "Thank you," he says, heaving a sigh as he sits down on what's quickly become his usual barstool. "Are you - "

But before he can finish his inquiry, Nivellen is setting a glass of madeira in front of him and turning to leave, heading for the same door through which Renfri had disappeared earlier in the day.

For a good few seconds, Geralt simply stares after him, trying to decide what, exactly, he did to offend the grizzled bartender so profoundly.

He shakes his head to clear it, picking up a fork and tending to his dinner.

- - -

It's just as Geralt becomes aware of how eerie this room is, completely empty and all but abandoned, that he feels a new presence, one that's slipping onto the barstool just to his right. Startled, he looks over, nearly choking on his latest mouthful when he recognizes Jaskier, leaning an elbow on the counter and regarding him with a cunning little smile.

"Do you make a habit of terrifying guests?" Geralt asks, once he's gotten past the risk of asphyxiation. He clears his throat, reaching for his drink and swallowing a generous dose to ease the new pain. "Where did you come from?"

Jaskier ignores both of these questions, gaze fixated on Geralt's lips as he drinks. "You're still here," he says, and there's a strange little note of glee in his tone.

Geralt hides his frown, remembering the way Nivellen and Renfri had reacted at the mention of this strange little thing. "The roads are likely washed out," he replies, setting his fork down. He wonders, absurdly, if tonight will end the same way as the last. "I'm waiting out the storm."

Jaskier hums in reply, tilting his head to the side; Geralt glances down, watches as the young man's hand comes to rest on his knee. The slow brush of his thumb sends a tremor up Geralt's spine against his own will. "Drinking alone again, I see."

"Not very many others in this tavern," he points out, and Jaskier laughs.

It's the prettiest sound Geralt has ever heard.

"I would join you," the little thing replies, and as he drops his gaze to where he's running his hand up higher, Geralt feels a spike of need drive itself through his frame, "but I've already sampled the finest brandy, and I don't imagine I should drink any more."

Geralt gives him a cautious glance, biting his lip against that strange desire. He doesn't understand how Jaskier caused it so damn easily, when Geralt can surround himself with the finest company and still encourage a bit of a chase before he beds anyone, or allowed them to bed him. "Sounds like a wise decision," he says, and clears his throat.

Jaskier's hand is nearly upon his groin now, resting high on the juncture of his thigh. Geralt is tense, willing his body to remain unaffected - but he's fighting a losing battle. The moment Jaskier's fingertips brush along the bulge of his cock through his trousers, his breath catches, and he says, in a voice that sounds half-strangled, "Are you always this forward?"

The younger man shrugs.

That's all the answer he offers before he's leaning up and in, capturing Geralt's lips in a kiss that feels of searing heat.

- - -

Tonight, it's Jaskier who has Geralt pinned to the door of his room, and it's Jaskier whose thigh finds a place between Geralt's own.

Geralt chokes on a moan of the younger man's name when Jaskier deepens the kiss that already threatens to devour Geralt alive, digs his nails into Jaskier's arms to keep himself steady as he rolls his hips down onto that slim thigh. "W - wait - bed - "

Jaskier makes a noise of discontent, tangling both hands in Geralt's hair and drawing him in deeper, deeper, licking into his mouth and rocking his hips until Geralt is moaning against his lips, rutting onto his thigh like he's in heat, goddamn him. At last, all of a sudden, Jaskier breaks away, leaving Geralt bereft when he steps away and says, "I want to fuck you tonight."

Geralt is still as good as fucking reeling, his world spinning around him in a cloud of lust and confusion; he pauses to catch his breath, steadying himself against the door at his back as he stares at Jaskier.

The little thing is wearing the same clothes as the night before - an undone chemise and trousers that hug his frame so damn perfectly they have Geralt's mouth watering. He remembers the shape and size of Jaskier's cock from their romp, feels a tremor go through his frame when he imagines that cock inside him. Swallowing, he nods, and Jaskier brightens.

There's something to be said for the firmness of Jaskier's grasp when he guides Geralt to his hands and knees on the foot of the bed, those slender hands planted firmly on his hips once they make quick work of his pants. Geralt breathes out shakily, tips himself forward to rest his head on folded arms, braces himself against the initial sting when Jaskier slips a finger inside him.

There's plenty to be said of the skill of those goddamn hands. Jaskier has him panting before long, pushing back onto his hand with ragged sounds he doesn't know if he's ever made before - has him moaning aloud when he crooks his fingers up to brush over the nerves deep inside his core. Geralt's hips buck, and he lifts his head for just an instant, meaning to look back over his shoulder, but he catches a golden gaze, and falters.

Positioned like this, he's facing the dresser - he's facing that goddamn mirror - he's holding his own gaze, and kneeling just behind him, Jaskier is watching him with predatory eyes, a half-cruel smile twisting his once-soft face.

Geralt feels fear rush through him when Jaskier winks, those cornflower eyes flashing too bright, but before he can take in anything more than the absence of the cracks across the glass, Jaskier is twisting his hand once more, and Geralt is moaning aloud, eyes falling shut.

"D - darling," he fumbles out, his voice ragged with need, and the next crook of Jaskier's fingers is harsh, digging into his spot with enough force that Geralt fucking sobs.

"Don't," Jaskier says, his voice low and firm, "call me that."

As quick as the moment passes, it's gone, and so are Jaskier's fingers.

Geralt scarcely has the time to mourn their passing before Jaskier is gripping him by the hips and pushing in slow, slow, rocking in so damn deep that Geralt feels it in his throat.

He falls apart holding his own gaze in the mirror, spilling across the sheets beneath him as Jaskier's face twists into a bloody mockery of a smile.

- - -

As they lay together afterward, spent and satisfied, it's Geralt whose head is upon Jaskier's chest this time. He can't deny the comfort of Jaskier's fingers combing through his hair, nor of Jaskier's embrace, holding him steady after the younger man took him apart so entirely.

"You left before I did this morning," Geralt remarks at last, his voice hoarse from begging. The shapes in the mirror are but a fever dream, replaced by the welcome ache in his hips, in his thighs. "Had somewhere to be?"

Jaskier pauses, his fingers stilling for an instant. "Yes," he says at length, resuming his motions. "Had to go bed your mother."

The comment is so out of place, so unexpected, that Geralt laughs, lifting his head. Jaskier meets his gaze, cornflower eyes sparkling, lips quirked in a smile. "I can't imagine she's a good partner," Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier merely shrugs.

"Her son certainly is," he replies.

That's all the urging Geralt needs to lean up, stealing another kiss that gradually turns deliberate.

Jaskier moans so prettily when Geralt's cock is down his throat, he discovers.

When he tangles his fingers in sex-rumpled hair to hold him firm, they come away wet and red.

He blinks, and the blood is gone.

- - -

Jaskier is gone in the morning.

Geralt expected as much.

The storm is still raging on.

Geralt expected that, too.

What he did not expect is for the mirror to be once again shattered apart, its surface splashed with blood.

He sits up still in bed, looking at his reflection through a transparent red haze.

Out in the hallway, someone screams.

[yannasunflower]

flux

on today’s episode of “yanna needs to stop writing new things and work on her wips”. i love this show and i wanted to write a lil something that’s been at the back of my mind for a while. always wanted to know what happened while Katara and Zuko waited to hear if they were able to win the war, or if their friends would survive or not. may keep this as a one-shot, may turn it into an actual fic with an Azula redemption arc and actual Zutara shenanigans and politics GALORE. who knows? enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~

Katara is sure he’s dead. She’s never been more sure of anything in her life, to be precise. Azula’s aim is impeccable, Zuko has always been at least a little suicidal, and Katara is a waterbender who is absolutely useless against lightning. Tears are streaming down her face and she’s trying to convince her sputtering heart to keep beating even as she runs toward his prone body, so lifeless, so helpless on the cold, stone ground.

It is no place for a son of Agni.

She falls to her knees and doesn’t stop to listen for a heartbeat, just puts her hands to his chest and prays. The wound is gaping and raw and scorching. She tries to keep her memory from racing to another night on Appa’s back when she held the world’s future in her hands for the first time. Katara hiccups, not sure if she has felt fear like this since Aang took the same lightning bolt in Ba Sing Se. Lightning that put him in a coma for weeks, a wound that didn’t let her sleep for days at a time. 

Aang had been necessary to world peace but right now, looking down at Zuko’s pale, fine face, Katara knows in her gut that Zuko is just as instrumental to the future Aang saw, was willing to die, that they were all willing to die for. The comet is still streaking a path of fire through the sky and behind her, Azula is screaming like a wounded animal. 

Katara flutters her fingers, inhales, holds her breath, squeezes her eyes shut and tries to imagine the heart in Zuko’s chest, one that is red and bleeds just like hers would be if Zuko hadn’t been so damn noble, so honorable. The thought makes her flinch even while her hands stay steady.

And then she feels more than hears the first tremblings of a heart that’s alive. The heart beneath her stirs, beats, skips, and beats again, stronger and steadier with every passing second. She’s sobbing and thanking every spirit out loud she can think of: Agni, La, Tui, Yue, Agni again for saving his son.

Zuko’s body twitches, his fingers curling inward. Katara could jump for joy when his eyes open, still gold and bright. His voice is quiet and low but strong. 

“Thank you, Katara,” he rasps. 

Katara can’t stop herself from throwing her arms around his shoulders, sobbing freely now, unable to imagine a future where his heart had remained still forever. Was it only weeks ago she had wanted to throw him from a cliff?

“I think I’m the one who should be thanking you,” she sniffles when she can finally let go of him, trying her best to give him a big, if somewhat watery, smile. Zuko smiles back, awkwardly like he does everything, and Katara resists the urge to hug him again. 

“Where’s - what happened to...Azula?” his words are halting. Katara helps him sit up, healer eyes careful to catch any wince. 

She jerks her head in Azula’s direction and watches as at first, understanding, then, an indescribable sadness passes over Zuko’s face. She helps him stand at his insistence and when he finally sees his little sister, chained and broken, tears streaming down her face even as she sends fire roaring into the red sky, Katara’s heart breaks. A single word is threaded in Azula’s cries, mama, and Katara’s breath hitches. She looks away, unable in that moment to see anything but a frightened girl she knows she cannot help. A war criminal, a killer, a teenager who was never meant to fight the way she did. 

Attendants are flooding the courtyard. Katara can see the understanding dawning on their faces, many of them scurrying in the direction of what she presumes are the Fire Sages who fled at the first sign of Zuko. She glances at him, sees the grim knowing in the set of his jaw.

“Find the Fire Sages. And someone sedate my sister.” Katara flinches. She does not envy the poor soul tasked with shutting a wild Azula up.

His voice rings through the courtyard, commanding, more powerful than he probably feels, sagging against Katara. She frowns up at him, guiding him to the stone steps and setting him down carefully, gently.

“I need to clean that wound and bandage it Zuko, now is not the time for state matters,” she admonishes, preparing herself to pull more water from the soaked ground. Zuko grits his teeth and she recognizes the way his eyes flash molten gold at her. Zuko is truly the most stubborn person she’s ever met, and she’s met Toph Bei Fong. 

“Scowl at me all you want, I’m cleaning that wound right this second, even if I have to tie you up to do it. Wouldn’t want your Fire Sages walking in on that I bet,” she growls. He shuts his mouth with a click and she gets to work, trying to be gentle, clenching her jaw at every hiss of pained breath Zuko lets out. With Zuko out of immediate danger, her mind wanders to Aang and Sokka and Toph and Suki. Spirits, her father and her tribe’s men. She wonders if Iroh and the White Lotus have recaptured Ba Sing Se, if they ever even had a chance in hell of it. 

Mostly, she tries not to imagine her father’s face if Sokka never comes back. 

“Do...do you think Aang is out there, fighting my father?”

The question is quiet, almost a whisper. Katara pauses to consider it. She manages to flash a smile she doesn’t fully feel at him. 

“Aang always comes through,” she answers. It is as honest one she can give. It seems to satisfy Zuko, who leans back on his palms as Katara rips the hem of her tunic and wraps it around his torso. 

“If,” Katara can’t finish the question. She looks away, at the damaged rooftops still burning, gnawing on her lip. Azula is still shooting blue fire and sobbing and really she knows there’s a comet but how much fire does Azula have? Zuko waits. “If Aang doesn’t defeat Ozai...what will happen to us?”

There is silence for a moment. Katara is afraid to look him in the eye, to even look at his face, so she keeps her gaze focused on wounding the bandage around his chest, tightly but not too much. She ties it off much more carefully than usual, trying to avoid the moment when she will have to look up.

“He’ll try to kill me,” Zuko finally says after a long pause. He can’t run from his homeland again. Her horrified eyes dart to his, mouth open with shock at the mere idea of a father murdering his son. A grin almost curls at the corner of his mouth. Zuko knows that Katara, for all her strengths and intelligence, for all the awful, inhuman things she had seen during the war, he knows that perhaps the one thing she and her brother cannot imagine is that. He realizes, a little abruptly, he has never told any of them how he got his scar.

It’s a story for another day, one bathed in sunlight, where his father’s shadow cannot reach him. He likes to think that day will come, that it exists in his murky future.

The Fire Sages arrive, immediately falling to their knees and pressing their foreheads to the ground, still wet from Katara’s water. She glares at them balefully, disgusted by their spineless cowering and simpering. 

“Prince Zuko,” one whimpers, voice somewhat muffled by the floor. “The Fire Sages welcome your return as the rightful heir to the throne.”

Zuko says nothing. She can’t read his eyes or his face, smooth and imperturbable. With a pang, Katara sees the Fire Lord he could become. She is sorely tempted to tell the cowards to scramble in language she has picked up from travelling some of the coarser parts of the world. But this is not her nation, not her palace, and it is not her crown at risk.

“Sit up,” Zuko orders. He speaks with a new authority, one he never uses when talking to her. She blinks a little. It is hard to keep up with Zuko’s faces and sides at times. “Preparations for my coronation will begin immediately. You will declare me Fire Lord in the next hour. We can have a more formal ceremony at a later date.”

Whatever objections the Sage had been about to sputter died on his lips with one hiss from Katara and a little help from the water rapidly freezing around his wrists. Swallowing, hard, he rises to his feet, as well as his companion, who pulls a familiar object from his robes. 

“An honor, my lord,” this one rumbles and he meets Zuko’s eyes with a little more defiance than the first. Zuko holds his gaze. The air warms by at least a few degrees. While not versed in Fire Nation politics, Katara is somewhat sure the proper address should have been your highness. By the narrow slit of Zuko’s molten eyes, the slight had not passed unnoticed. She shivers. Katara resists the urge to throw the Sage into the ocean, to make him and his hard, dark eyes disappear. He is a viper in a snake’s nest, at home in a court that Zuko has not truly belonged to for years. The hairs at the back of her neck prickle. 

The ceremony is brief and to the point. Katara is beginning to scan the sky for a messenger hawk or some other sign that her brother and their friends are alive. The comet is fading away into the darkening sky. Every moment that passes is painful, agony really. Zuko stands up, shoulders squared and straight, crown gleaming in his black hair. Katara forces a smile, swallowing bile, taking his arm and walking with him to a chamber just a little ways down the hall. When the door closes after a bowing servant, she presses a careful finger to the wound, relieved to find it still closed and not-bleeding. 

Her body sags without permission. She is tired, deep in her bones and blood, with a world to rebuild in front of her. Zuko doesn’t look any better off, the dark circles under his eyes difficult to miss. He plucks the crown from his hair, letting it fall loose around his face once more. Katara brushes an errant strand from his cheek, gently, and she marvels at how Zuko no longer flinches from her touch. When had he begun to look at her with trust in those eyes? When did he stop wincing at every movement she made?

He leans into her touch, just a little, and she allows her fingertips to graze his cheek, enjoying the way his eyes fall shut seemingly without permission. There was a time when Zuko had found it difficult to sleep around her, and there was a time when Katara had stood guard outside his door, stiffening at every noise while he slept. Now, his eyes remain shut and it doesn’t take Toph’s hearing to know his breathing has slowed. 

They don’t move for what feels like days. When he stirs, Katara startles just a little, averting her gaze quickly, praying Zuko hadn’t caught her tracing the thick black (how unfair) eyelashes that fluttered against his cheekbones (too fine, too angled, the bastard even had good bone structure) with her eyes. She stands, wringing her hands, feeling the last of the water in her skin swirling restlessly. 

Katara orders tea and watches with no small amount of amazement as Zuko pours it gracefully. She had nearly forgotten his time working a menial tea shop job in Ba Sing Se. Somehow, the sight of an injured Fire Lord Zuko skillfully pouring her steaming tea is both humorous and disconcerting. 

“We should have heard by now,” she frets as the sky still darkens and time still passes with no word from any of their allies. Outside, she knows the palace is in disarray and the nobles are probably wondering if it is safe to come out yet, but Zuko is in no condition to appear before them as their new Fire Lord, he looks exhausted, La she wishes she could let him sleep. But the world is on fire and Katara is drinking tea mostly to preserve her sanity at this point, so damn the nobles and damn the politics. 

The waiting is almost worse than the fighting. After a few comfortable minutes spent in silence, Katara’s worrying breaks it again.

Zuko flashes her a familiar, exasperated scowl. 

“Stop fidgeting, for Agni’s sake,” he sighs. His tired, overly-patient tone is familiar. Afternoons watching him and Aang work through firebending forms flood her mind. She grins sheepishly. “If Ozai had defeated Aang, we would know by now. That’s not something he would keep to himself for longer than necessary.”

The words soothe her, but only slightly. Because by defeated he meant killed and the thought of Aang’s small, broken body is too much for her to bear. 

“Katara.” Zuko hesitates, and she waits, because they always know when more is coming, they always know when to wait for the other. 

“Thank you, for healing me,” he says and she can’t help but laugh at the genuine, earnest way he looks at her from under those unfair lashes. It’s a boyish expression in a face that long ago lost its roundness.  

“You already said that,” she dismisses him. “And I told you, I’m the one who should thank you. I would be dead if it wasn’t for you. You almost threatened the future of the world to save me.”

Zuko looks slightly confused. 

“You are the future,” he says and damn him he’s done it again. Her heart is sputtering, blood rushing to her cheeks and she briefly considers trying to bloodbend the blush away. Because Zuko’s face, no longer boy-round, permanently scarred by the cruelty of his father, is so damned honest and grateful and la, she is trying hard not to wonder what would happen if she leans forward, just a little.

Zuko’s eyes are more than gold, she finds, especially in firelight, and is this what Agni’s eyes would look like she tries not to wonder, tries not to see that she has leaned closer, unwittingly, or maybe not, her thoughts a jumbled tangle of heat and fear and spirits there’s still a war going on. But she can’t help but notice that Zuko isn’t moving away, is just watching her face in a way that sets her bones on fire and spirits, she wants to touch his cheek again - 

A rapid, soft knock on the door makes her gasp. She throws her body away from him in a ridiculously dramatic motion. It’s only a servant, asking if her new Fire Lord would like food, bowing all the while. Katara takes that moment to straighten herself, gulping in steadying breaths and pushing the stolen moment far, far from the front of her mind.

“Have any messages come for me?” Zuko asks and the servant girl shakes her head. Katara’s heart sinks and from Zuko’s thin mouth, fear is beginning to settle into his bones, too. 

It only takes a few moments of awkward silence after the servant leaves for Katara to start fidgeting again. She has just about made up her mind to take Appa to where the Fire Nation’s fleet had planned to raze the Earth Kingdom to the ground when a servant enters, bowing low at the waist, a sealed message in her hand. 

“Pardon me, Your Majesty, but a messenger hawk has just arrived from Ba Sing Se.”

Zuko grabs the message hungrily, breaking it open and scanning the words before the girl has straightened from her bow. He sighs, deeply, and Katara reads it over his shoulder, nearly bursting into tears again with relief. 

“They recaptured Ba Sing Se,” she whispers. Her hand grasps Zuko’s shoulder and he reaches a hand up to clasp it silently. For a moment, the world straightens. 

“Please bring any other messages directly to me,” Zuko says. The girl can’t quite stop herself from blinking rapidly before bowing low again and retreating, red definitely crawling up her neck. Zuko looks confused and Katara nearly laughs. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she doesn’t think Fire Lords often say please when addressing servants. 

A distant scream sends Katara scrambling for her waterskin and Zuko trying to jump to his feet, failing miserably and crying out as he slumps back. 

“Stay put,” Katara orders him, forgetting for a moment the crown on Zuko’s head. She runs out before she can think too hard about it, her legs taking her to the courtyard, water already rising from the stones, fire burning in her veins because Zuko bled for this palace, these people, before a familiar wolf tail registers in her heart. 

“Sokka!” She definitely screams it a little, nearly falls at least twice as she rushes forward and throws herself into his arms, his healthy, alive arms. He’s on crutches and his leg is bent strangely but she doesn’t care because he’s alive and holding her tight and trembling against her. Suki grunts a little, bearing the brunt of his weight, but makes no complaints, smiling too broadly to feign irritation. 

Aang is standing next to him when she finally pulls back, a tired smile on his young face. 

“Hey Katara,” he says and he sounds his age for once but she doesn’t care because La, he’s alive and so is Toph and Suki and she’s going to cry again. She’s not sure who is hugging who but it doesn’t matter because all of her friends are breathing and here. 

“Where’s Sparky?” Toph asks when they all manage to disentangle themselves. Katara’s eyes widen and she gasps. 

She turns on her heel to find a very injured Zuko hobbling down the steps. 

She runs to him, throwing his arm over her shoulder and shooting him an apologetic grin. 

“Agni, did you think you could face Ozai alone?” he wheezes and she laughs because he is alive, too, and he took lightning for her, and everyone she loves may have just made it out of this war. 

The group rushes forward, murmuring sympathies, arms reaching out to embrace Zuko, and they fall into another tangled hug, tears streaming down faces, Sokka complaining about his leg, Toph grumbling about sappiness even as she slings to Katara like she’ll never let go. Katara looks at Aang and his grey eyes are still alight with something that is all him, all Aang the airbender, and he smiles at her the way a child who has not been ravaged by war would. 

Questions and answers will come later, as will healing and scars and hard work and negotiations. In the light of the lanterns and the moon and the small spots of fire the servants have not yet put out though, Katara clings to her family and begins to realize that the war that killed her mother is over. The war that took her father, took Aang’s people and Zuko’s innocence, took Azula’s soul. It is over. 

She is alive, they all are, and they are breathing in a new life, a future. Together.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

A Family of Five- Part 2: Like Sugar, With Salt

Calum and Harlowe’s marriage hasn’t always been easy, but it has always been filled with love. This is a collaborative experience with In Sorrow and In Joy. Dad!Calum. Black OC.

CW: Over the course of this series, there are mentions of pregnancy, therapy, and postpartum depression. There is also 18+ Content (Smut)

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No one has my permission to repost my work of fiction. This includes translations as well. 

__________________________

Harlowe is still laying in bed. The alarm went off hours ago. She managed to get up, change her clothes. Calum made her eat with him and the kids. But the second she could escape, shower, and change again, she crawled right back into bed. The TV plays. Normally she would be watching it, but it’s more like the TV is watching her. The afternoon has settled in nicely, a bright clear day. She knows she ought to get up. There’s laundry to do. There’s lunch to fix. The very least is laundry. The absolute minimum. Calum can’t do it all himself. Laundry, she can do laundry. Throwing her feet to the floor, she pushes up. Just do laundry. Just do laundry. 

She walks into Te Koha’s room first. His toy trains lining the molding of his floor. He likes to think this is cleaning, since it’s not in the middle of the floor. He’s stubborn that way. Her and Calum have both collectively just let this happen. It doesn’t interfere too much and she’s glad at the very least that it’s not cluttered in the middle. There’s a path--and it works. Pulling his tiny hamper, she drags it behind her in, leaving it near the door before checking Esha’s room. Even though she’s still barely a toddler, she has her own hamper. Harlowe thought it would be frivolous but Esha wants everything Te Koha has, his tiny shadow. 

Grasping both hampers, she carries them down stairs. There’s no one inside. There’s not a giggle or chuckle or the twinkle of Pepper’s tag. It’s unusual for sure. But it’s not crazy. Just noteworthy, the silence settles thickly. Just the barely audible hum of fridge. She walks over to the kitchen window and sees Calum bouncing Esha as Te Koha runs around with his airplanes, Pepper runs behind him. Koha spies her from the window and smiles. His chubby cheeks lift as he waves. “Momma!” he shouts.  

She leans over the counter, pushing open the open the window. “Hi baby!”

“Will you come outside today?”

The question hurts. Things have gotten so bad again. Harlowe knows that. She just never thought her children would notice. Just go out for him. Go out for him, Harlowe chants to herself. She nods.. “I gotta put some clothes in the washer, but yeah, I’ll come out.”

The smile on his face radiates. He cheers. “Need help? I can help?”

“No, baby. Mommy’s got it. Keep an eye on Papa Bear for me. Make sure he doesn’t step on my rose bushes,” she adds. 

“I can hear you, you know,” Calum gripes. Koha laughs, but resumes his running with the toy plane. Calum steps closer to the open window. “If you don’t feel like coming out, don’t push yourself. Take it one step at a time.”

She exhales. It’s good for her. Just for a little bit. “I should go out.”

Esha whines in Calum’s arm, reaching for something below. He sets her down. “Okay, baby girl, I know. Down, I know.” She trots toward Koha. Calum turns back to Harlowe. “Let me know if you need anything, okay? Please?”

“I will.” He eyes her, head tilting forward. “I promise.” He knows she’ll suffer in silence. They both will. To a fault. Even if it’s bad, but that’s just who they are. A cry starts up; Esha. Doesn’t sound particularly bad, it’s more like a startled cry. 

Calum jogs over. “What happened, baby girl? You’re okay.”

“She just tripped,” Koha says. 

She leaves the window open. The small chirps and sounds of life help, make her feel less isolated. She sorts their clothes by colors and tosses them into the machine. The kids have a special detergent and she grabs it, always a little shocked by how heavy it is. The washing machine begins to rumble. She rests her hands onto it, feeling the vibrations shake up her hands and arms. She is still alive. Right? 

The back door is unlocked from when Calum took the kids and dogs out. She wonders if Calum knew that she needed a moment’s silence. Or maybe he was worried. If the kids watched her fall apart for too long, would they become hyper concerned? Would they want to do nothing because she was doing nothing? What was she teaching her kids? Her forehead falls into the glass of the door. She can’t teach them that. She can just water the flowers, right? 

There’s still lunch to fix. The kids will be getting hungry soon. She can get to that right? Calum’s here. They’ll get that that. She twists the doorknob, stepping onto the warm wood of the deck.  Koha rushes up the porch steps, wrapping his arms around her legs. Brushing her palm over his back, she sucks back tears. Koha’s only ever wanted good for her. He deserves his old mother back. Not her now, covered under a thick blanket of tired, of doubt, of shame. “We didn’t water the flowers yet, Momma. Do you want to do that? Can I help?”

He starts to pull back from her. Harlowe’s quick to wipe her tears from her face. “Yeah, let’s go water the flowers.” The walk to the garage door. It cranks after she types in the code before they walk inside, Te Koha takes hold of her hand. Harlowe gives it a squeeze, smiling, however briefly down at her son. A spitting image of her. With Calum’s soul. 

Things were better when he was first born. Harlowe had gotten pregnant with Te Koha well before she and Calum had ever considered getting married. But it didn’t matter. Besides, Harlowe will never forget the day Calum did propose, down on one knee in the middle of her empty apartment. He was sweaty for sure, having helped move her out so she could stay with him. She was swollen, stomach, ankles, feet. Everyone that looked at her was afraid she’d pop at any second. But it was Calum who popped instead, on his knee, to take her hand. 

He was going to do right by her. After nearly fucking things up. He couldn’t loose Harlowe a second time. Her pregnancy with Te Koha was fine. There were aches and pain for sure. But she felt fine. She was fine. Te Koha was a fairly easy baby. And now there is just a fog. Esha wasn’t a worrisome baby. She was stubborn and a opinonated, even at two. But she wasn’t difficult. It was just Harlowe’s brain. Her brain was making things hard. 

“Momma?” Te Koha asks, taking his water can from her hands. He can see the frown pulling down his mother’s face. 

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m sorry you’re sad,” he whispers. “I promise to be good.”

She gasps, a short explosion of air before her chest squeezes. She kneels in front of her little boy. His brown eyes are teary up like mine. Cupping his face between her palm, she brings his attention to her. “What’s happening to me is not your fault. It’s not Papa Bear’s fault; it’s not even Esha’s fault.”

“Then what happened?” He sniffs, wiping underneath his nose. “You were so different before.”

“Momma’s had some serious health issues. It’s…. been hard on me. But it’s not your fault. Please, please, please don’t think it. I wish I wasn’t like this. Mommy wishes she could be her old self. I am so sorry.”

“Is there is anything I can do to help?”

“Just keep being you baby boy. Just keep being you.”  She wipes the tears that have fallen from his skin. “Do you still want to help me water the flowers?”

He nods. “Yes. I always do.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Let me grab my can.” They walk to the hose, Harlowe filling Koha’s up first. Then filling hers. He trails behind, waiting for the every other plant that Harlowl leaves to him.  He sticks his tongue out a little, watching as the water slips over and splashes onto the ground. Harlowe pauses occasionally to pluck the dead leaves and weeds around certain plants. Te Koha follows suit, under the careful eye of his mother. This is the mom he remembers. A soft smile on her lips when he pulls hard at a weed and successfully uproots it. A small cheer of pride echoes from his chest. 

“Need any help?” a voice says behind me.

Harlowe looks over her shoulder. Koha shoots up from his seated position. “Uncle Mikey!” 

Michael laughs, collecting Koha into his arms before picking him up. “Oh, you’re getting big. No wonder Cal’s got arms like fu--freaking Superman. Lifting kids all day is a great work out.”

“Michael, what are you doing here?” Harlowe’s not sure of her own voice. It’s strange for sure. But there’s a glimmer of something light, something like happiness. It is happiness. He’s still the same. With the basketball hat, the fringed hair, the leather bracelets, and the rings. 

He opens his free side to her and Harlowe folds into his embrace. “Cal called me over. Said you were having a decent day. Wanted to check in.”

Harlowe and Michael have, over the years, gotten close. They bonded originally over video games. Harlowe has her degree in psychology and through her willingness to always listen to him they grew closer. Michael isn’t necessarily reserved but he’s not always forthcoming about things. He’s vocal when it’s necessary. Harlowe never judged--she pushed occasionally for him to open up. But she never sneered at him, never berated him over his feelings. She just listened. 

Michael returned the favor. He’s always become a great pillar of support since this funk after Esha’s birth. She had shockingly cried to Michael a couple times about her inability to conceive a third child. She wanted to give Calum that picture perfect family. Her body and mind weren’t ready for that--they were telling her to slow down. She always had trouble listening. 

“It’s been okay,” she says softly, pulling back from his hug. 

“Okay is good. Okay is great.”

“Are you going to help us?” Koha asks. 

Michael laughs. “Sure, why the--why not?” Michael’s still working at censoring him around the kids. Almost five years should’ve been enough practiced but Michael was only the uncle currently with no kids. He didn’t have the filter on all the time.

The three of them settle back down in the front garden. Harlowe pulls out the gardening seat for Michael to sit. He complained about potentially ruining his jeans. “Look!” Koha puts out a bug, nestled into the mulch. Harlowe pulls back his hands a little. Even though he’s wearing gloves, she fears that it could be a snake or spider. It’s not though upon closer inspection. 

By the time they move to the side of the house where the kitchen window is, Calum gazing out of it. “Lunch’s up soon, bud. Come inside and wash your hands,” he says softly to Koha. 

Koha and Harlowe look up at each other. The window is opened just enough. “Can I Momma?”

She grins and looks over to Calum. Hhe sighs, hopping onto the counter and holding out his hands. “Fine, you two are definitely fucking Aries.”

“Swear jar, Papa Bear,” she laughs, sliding off the gloves and hoisting Koha up. He grabs Calum’s forearms and he slides in through the window. Calum sets him down. “Wash your hands now. I don’t want to find actual ants on your ants on a log.”

She just barely catches Koha’s laugh as he walks away from the window. “He loves going in through the window. Why not let him live a little?”

“Because then he’ll think it’s normal to climb in through the windows,” Calum laughs. 

“You saying it’s not?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, missy.” They share a laugh. Including Michael. He’s used to their shenanigans. “You coming in for lunch?” Cal asks. 

“Once I finish up out here. Shit, the laundry.”

Calum shakes his head. “One load is already done. Second load is in the dryer.”

“I’m so sorry I forgot.”

“Baby, it’s okay.”

She sighs. “I’m just so off. I hate this.”

“Just consider the meds, think about it, okay? I’m not asking you to makeup your minds just yet. But don’t count it out.”

Michael rests a hand on her back, not quite on her shoulder but not quite off it either. “They honestly could help, Harlowe. Don’t eliminate the possibility. I know you don’t want to take meds. I know you can do this without. But you don’t have to.”

“The ACT is helping, I think. I just don’t want to add more to our medical expenses. I’m already running it up as it,” Harlowe counters. 

Calum wishes he could shake his wife sometimes. Snap her out of whatever haze she was in. Or just get her to see that he cares not what dime amount it costs. “You know money is not a problem here.” Harlowe opens her mouth. Calum continues before she can interject it. “Finish up in your beds and then come in and eat. Relax the rest of the day. Think you can finish the beds?”

She nods. It’s been weeks since she’s been out here. Calum tries to do it for her. Harlowe’s picky, picking it up from her mother and her grandmother the particular meticulousness when it comes to her yard. He does what he knows she likes and knows how to keep the basics up  but doesn’t push it too much further. 

He slides off the counter. “Ready to eat little man?” Koha nods. 

Harlowe goes back to her yard. Michael calls into the window for something before handing a bottle of water to Harlowe. “Maybe you should get out of LA,” he says holding the bag for weeds open.

“You sound like Calum now. You guys have been working here for years now.”

“It doesn’t mean that we can’t move, you know? We’ve been discussing going back to Sydney, anyway. Going back to our roots, settling down. Cal and Luke already have kids. LA’s no place to raise kids.”

She rips the weed from the dirty. Some mulch flies up through the hair. It lands and Harlowe stares down at it. “ I don’t want to be lectured at about moving.Then I have to look for a new university to work out. I’ve got three years where I’m at.”

“You’re not tenured. You said they’re already discussing making changes to the Creative Writing department.”

“I love the kids I work with. They’re brilliant. I have great reviews from them. They’d be crazy to get rid of me.” She yanks at out another weed.  

Michael sighs. “They’ve done crazier things before, you know that better than anyone.”

“Even if the band moves back, it will still take me awhile to find work. I can’t force Calum to take care of the bills alone.”

“Harlowe, you’re making fucking bank. Calum’s smart and has been for years now. He could handle everything and more by his income alone.”

He’s right. Calum’s invested some money. Most of those profits go towards savings for the kids future education plans. Advancements from albums and merch sales have also been sitting in savings for them. Her income is chump change comparatively. Calum’s always treated it equally. The sales from her books helps too for kids savings. Her salary covers half the bills.  My income is chump change compared to him.

She could move. Maybe she should. Calum’s been dropping the possibility more and more since everything went downhill. “My family,’” she says softly. 

“They’re going to cause you to go gray.”

A sob chokes her. Her chest squeezes. When did she start crying? When did the tears burn her eyes? I’m so used to being able to handle things. I don’t know what to do.”

Michael rubs at her back, shushing her softly. “You’re allowed to be weak. Being strong doesn’t mean being able to handle everything. It’s about knowing your limits, knowing when you need help.”

It takes a few minutes before the tears subside. The water soothes the ache in her throat. The passing moments are filled with silence. Michael points to some small green leaves, making sure it’s okay to pull before he gets a grip on it. He can’t tell if it’s a new plant or not and would rather not cause her another crying fit. Harlowe nods before clipping off some browning leaves. 

“You are not alone in this, okay? Remember that.”

“Thanks, Michael.” 

She watches, to make sure he gets safely to his car. It’s all the years of drinking as a young woman and knowing that any moment could be someone’s last. It’s the years of being a mother and freaking out whenever Te Koha decides to hide behind a rack or mannequin. She has to see with her own eyes to everyone’s safely. 

When she gets inside, after double checking the lock on the door, she notices  Esha’s standing with her little horse. Her smile is bright. Harlowe does her best to return it as she goes to wash her hands. Esha clambers right behind her, the clacking of the plastic striking the floors. Harlowe steps to get a paper towel. More clacks are heard. 

Harlowe runs in a circle, the clicking following her ‘round and ‘round. She scopes up her little girl, lifting Esha above her head. “You’re getting so big, girlie. I love you.”

She giggles at Harlowe. “You’re not tired?” Harlowe asks. “You should be tired by now. You ran behind Koha today. He’s a fast one. My little zoomer.”

When she looks over to him, sitting at the table, tracing over the alphabet with Calum, he grins. “Nyoom,” he laughs. 

“Down,” Esha pleads. It’s softly at first. Then she repeats herself, more firmly, when the request is not immediately fulfilled. “Down.” 

“So demanding, you’re my child. Lord help you.” Harlowe sets her down and she runs back to her horse. 

Calum chuckles. “Alright, c’mon, Koha. You’re half way done.”

“I’m being Momma’s little zoomer,” he huffs but goes back to tracing. 

Calum turns his attention back to Harlowe. “Make sure to eat.” 

She nods. She’s not very hungry though. She knows she should be. But she’s just not. Her appetite goes most days. “Want to shower first.”

He points to the fridge. He means right now. “Please, baby. Just something. A turkey sandwich and apple. It doesn’t have to be a lot. I even bought pink ladies, your favorite.”

“I smell.”

“Harlowe.”

She knows that tone. She marches to the fridge to find the plate all ready for her. She knows, during the first couple of bites that she won’t get it all down. Something is better than nothing under Calum’s watchful stare. She pretends not to notice his constant glances and gazes out of the same window that Te Koha was lifted through. They both know the other is watching. 

More than half the sandwich is gone and the whole apple is finished. Harlowe tips the plate in Calum’s direction before dumping the core and sandwich remnants. He gives a slight nod. His acknowledgement of what she’s eaten. He worries. Maybe more so than he should. But who can fault the concern? Who can find any issue in the pure love that he carries for her? He wants her to be okay. 

Harlowe walks over to the penmanship study and tugs at Calum’s elbows. “You stink, you know?” he teases. 

She lifts an arm, turning the armpit to his face. “Wanna try something else smart to say?” 

Calum rears back. “God, I can’t breathe. Te Koha, help me. I’m going to suffocate from the stink.”

Koha laughs in his seat. “Sorry Daddy, I have to finish tracing.”

“My own son betrays me,” he gasps, pretending to pass out. No one reacts. “So you all were just going to let me die? Even you Esha,” Calum sits up, pulling her into his chest. He smiles over Harlowe’s shoulder to her. She coos, smacking her toys together in excitement. “Yeah, even you were just going to leave your old man high and dry. No love.”

She stands and walks over. Harlowe end down to pick her up. She reaches for Calum though. “She’s such a daddy’s girl,” Harlowe laughs. 

“I love you,” he breathes into her skin, lips brushing over from the forehead kiss.. “I love you so much. Mommy loves you too. You too, Koha,” he says turning his attention to his son, brushing his fingers through the tight coils. “We love you too.”

“I know,” he says softly. A grin taking over his face. “I know.”

Harlowe decides on a soak. But after her shower. The shower will let her cry if she needs too. Though, after her tears in the garden, she thinks today will be decent. The rose scent of the bubbles starts to invade her nostrils. Her eyes close and Koha’s face fills her dark vision. His tears. His plea for her to get better. Her own children take the blame for her brain’s reaction. 

The sting starts up behind her closed lids. God, she’s so unfit. With lips pressed together, Harlowe tries to quiet the sobs. It’s just about nap time; she doesn’t want to wake them. But God, how unfit. Unable to remember the laundry she had started. Hardly able to keep the yard together and in good shape. Can’t even a fucking sandwich. 

Every second she can sit in bed, she does. Calum must think she’s disgusted with him. Harlowe hasn’t touched him sexually in months. She wants too, just lacks the motivation to go through with it. All her energy is spent before her feet ever hit the floor. Covering her mouth, she lets one nasty sob rip through her. The floor thuds with footsteps; Calum’s heard. Fuck. She sniffles. Pull it together. He can’t see her crying again. He doesn’t even bother knocking, not that he needed to anyway. If he heard the wail, she knows he would’ve broken down the door if necessary. 

“Babe,” he rushes out, settling onto the edge of the tub. “Talk to me, please.”

Her hands tremble; her throat hurts. The words are stuck in the dryness that coats her mouth. Grabbing her towel from the counter, he sets it on his lap before pulling her out of the water. Calum wraps the extra fabric, then holds her to his chest. The rocking motion helps. All she has to do is focus on the back and forth motion. She doesn’t have to think about anything else. 

“Te Koha thought it was his fault,” she breathes. The words are sour. She feels like there is bile on them as she speaks. “He thought he had done something wrong. I forgot about the laundry. I’m barely eating. I’m falling apart. I don’t want to fall apart. I’m not taking the fertility meds like I should. I want to give up; I don’t want to keep doing this.”

Calum finally speaks, voice thick. “Do you want to get better?”

“Sometimes I do; sometimes I don’t.”

“Right now, do you want to get better?”

“I’m just tired, Calum. I’m so fucking tired.”

“You know I’m here for you. You know I care, right?” She nods against his chest. “Do you trust me?” She nods again, clutching onto the cotton t-shirt. He releases a breathe. “Then we can’t stay here. You can’t keep dodging therapy appointments. You can’t skip your meds.”

“I know; I’m sorry.”

Calum kisses the top of her head, or what he can reach of it behind the pineappled afro. “I need some extra hands. We need some extra hands; I know a nanny scares you. But we’re getting out of LA, as quick as possible. I’m calling your parents, see if they can help for a little bit. But we’ve gotta get out of here. I know you’re worried about insurance costs and such. But maybe it’s time to leave the States. My parents could help us; I’m sure they’d be happy to.”

She is small, in that moment she is that eleven year old girl that cried in a bathroom because she heard her parents arguing. She is that eleven year old girl that needed her father’s comforting touch. She is small again, in Calum’s lap, still damp from the shower and bath. She needs someone to help her. Maybe she can stop torturing herself, her husband, and her kids. 

“Okay,” she whispers. “I need the help.” A tiny drop of relief hits her stomach. She needs help. She needs help. She just needs the help. There’s no shame in that, right? There’s nothing wrong in admitting that sometimes the burden is just too heavy to carry all by herself.