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therisingkings · 1 year ago

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I Still Hate You

With Damen out of town, Nikandros is forced to join Laurent at a gala. However, someone slips something into Laurent's drink that leads to Nikandros having to give him some "special" help. Don't worry, they still hate each other.

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*****

“Do not panic,” Laurent said, which made Nikandros instantly want to panic. He was leaning too close, his lips right by Nikandros’ ear. “But we need to leave. Right now.”

“What happened?” Nikandros put a critical inch between them.

They were at a gala, a celebration to bring in the new year. Veretain Industries was many things, but at least they knew how to throw a party. Nikandros had been sent on Damen’s behalf, since his friend was busy halfway across the country, cleaning up the mess his half-brother had made at the Akielon Industry.

“I’ll explain later. Just get us out of here.”

“Should I—”

“ Now, idiot.” Laurent was tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides. His glare got Nikandros moving.

Nik said his goodbyes as quickly as possible but didn’t bother to say anything to the host. Henry DeVere was a piece of work. If Nikandros didn’t have to speak to him again for the rest of his life, he’d die a happy man.

Laurent stuck to his side the whole way out, which was odd. Off. When Laurent wasn’t cursing Nikandros, he was actively trying to push his buttons. The only reason Nikandros tolerated him was for Damen. He’d been Damen’s best man at the wedding. He’d promised he’d be there if Laurent needed him too.

So Nikandros gritted his teeth as they waited for their driver. Something was wrong, he knew that much, but Laurent, per usual, was keeping secrets. Maybe it was his uncle. Henry DeVere had made a rather passive aggressive speech at the beginning of the night about the future of Veretain Industries, all without mentioning its heir, who would inherit in less than six months when he turned twenty-one.

Nikandros turned to him. “Is it—”

“Get in the car.” Laurent shoved him towards it as soon as the driver pulled up. He slammed the door behind him and gave a curt order to take them to Nikandros’ apartment.

“Why are we going to my apartment?” Nikandros asked as they pulled out of the parking lot. “Yours is closer. He can drop you off first.”

“No.” Laurent closed the window to the front seats before leaning back. He undid his tie and the top button of his shirt in short, quick movements to take several deep breaths. After a moment of silence, he said slowly, “Someone, I think, is trying to make a fool of me.”

“Laurent, tell me what happened.” The city passed through the windows in blurs of golden and silver light.

Laurent dropped his head against the rest, then rolled it to press his brow to the window. “T’s so cold.”

“ Laurent!”

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I may have been drugged.”

“ What? We need to call the police.” Nikandros was already reaching for his phone.

Laurent put a hand on his wrist. His skin was hot. “No. Just—Stop. Give me… a moment.”

Nikandros reopened the window and said to the driver, “Take us to the nearest hospital. Now. Go—”

“No! He’s overreacting. The apartment, please.”

The driver’s brows pinched, his eyes flicking in the rearview mirror. “Sir?”

“Who fucking pays you?” Laurent slammed the window back shut.

“Overreacting? Are you fucking nuts? No, don’t answer that.” Nikandros pinched the bridge of his nose. “Something is seriously wrong if you’re saying ‘please.’”

“No press,” Laurent mumbled, and all the strength seemed to seep from him as he leaned back against the window. He closed his eyes. “I know this drug. It’s not fatal.”

“You really know how to reassure someone, don’t you?” Nikandros snapped.

“Your feelings are really the least of my concern right now.”

“Aren’t they always?”

Laurent’s eyes opened to thin slits. “Just shut up. Let me think.”

Nikandros clenched his jaw. “Fine.” He didn’t even care if the little brat died. Well, he did, but only because it would hurt Damen.

The rest of the drive was mercifully silent and short. Laurent’s condition didn’t seem to worsen, so some of Nikandros’ anxiety decreased. They went into his apartment building and in the new lighting, Nikandros could see the slight flush on Laurent’s cheeks.

“Are you absolutely sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” Nikandros asked in the elevator.

Laurent’s cool gaze slid over to him. He’d taken off his suit jacket in the car and now clutched it in front of him, hands white-knuckled. “I’m sure.”

The elevator door opened to Nikandros’ penthouse suite. Laurent immediately strode inside, then paused. He looked around. “Do you have cameras in here?”

“Why would I have cameras in my own apartment?”

“Good.” Laurent waited another moment, shifting his weight. Finally, he said, “I have dealt with this particular brand of poison before.”

Nikandros raised a brow. “Okay.”

There was another pause. “It is an aphrodisiac. One of the more powerful ones on the market.”

The blood drained from Nikandros’ face.

Laurent went on, as if now that the words were out, he needed to explain himself. “It’s called hakesh. A Vaskain creation. Old. I recognized the taste in my drink, but it was already too late.”

“Okay…” Nikandros absorbed the information. Had he and Damen messed with it before? No, he didn’t want to know that.

“I suspect… there may be people waiting for me at my apartment.”

Oh. Oh.

“What do you want me to do?”

Laurent held out a hand. “Give me your phone.”

“No,” Nikandros said immediately, pity flooding out of him. The last thing he wanted was those grubby little fingers on his personal data.

Laurent snapped said fingers impatiently. “Mine’s dead. I need to call Damen.”

Nikandros crossed his arms over his chest. “Charge it.”

Laurent turned and took two steps forward until he was in Nikandros’ face. “Would you like to explain to my husband how I was poisoned under your watch, or would you rather me soften the blow? It’s up to you.”

“I hate you,” Nikandros snarled and shoved the phone into his hands.

Laurent strode off in the direction of the bedroom, then slammed the door behind him. How he knew where the bedroom was, having never been there before, Nikandros didn’t care.

He poured himself a healthy glass of whiskey and took a seat at the bar. He’d known Laurent’s uncle was evil, but this was a whole new level. Had Laurent drank more than he did, he could have humiliated himself in front of everyone at the gala. He’d just be seen as overly drunk, unable to control himself.

It was cruel and twisted and stank of Henry DeVere.

The muffled murmur of conversation came from the bedroom. Nikandros took a large draw of his whiskey.

The door opened. Laurent emerged, another two buttons of his shirt undone, and handed the phone to Nikandros. “He wants to speak to you.”

Fuck. Nikandros was a dead man. He took the phone from Laurent. “Hello?”

Laurent retreated back into the bedroom and shut the door softly behind him.

“Nikandros.” Damen’s voice was hard.

Nikandros put his head in his hand. “Damen, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I—”

“Are you drinking?”

He set down the glass guiltily. “Yes.”

“Whiskey?” Damen knew him too well.

“Yeah.”

“Pour yourself some more. Drink it all.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.”

Nikandros did. He finished his glass, then poured another and downed it in a single gulp.

There was a shuffle on the other side of the line. Damen said, “You’re my best friend, you know that?”

“Of course I do,” Nikandros said miserably.

“And you’d do anything for me?”

“Anything.”

“Okay. I need you to fuck Laurent.”

Nikandros almost dropped the phone. “ What?”

“Look, I know it’s—”

“Hold on, hold on. I need another drink before we have this conversation over the damned phone, Damen.”

He put the phone on speaker so he could take the bottle. He debated chugging it, but the last thing he needed right now was alcohol poisoning. He settled for downing another glass.

Damen’s voice came from the speaker. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but we don’t have a lot of options here. I’ve got the earliest flight tomorrow, but I can’t get there any sooner.”

Nikandros set down the glass. He stared at Damen’s profile picture on his phone.

“This drug, it’s got, uh, personal weight to Laurent. It’s not the first time it’s been used against him.” Damen sighed. “It gets very painful, very fast. The only way to ease that pain is with release.”

Nikandros sat back on his stool, head in his hands. “Why can’t he just jerk himself off, then?”

“He’s going to need the normal amount of stimulation, if not more. And he doesn’t like masturbating.”

“I did not need to know that.”

There was another sigh from the phone. “I’m really sorry. Fuck, I knew I should have stayed.”

Nikandros rubbed his face. “This is so wrong.”

“I know. But I…” Fabric rustled. “I’ve seen the way you look at him sometimes. He’s your type too.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he’s your fucking husband, Damen. I would never…”

“I know.”

Silence stretched.

Nikandros tried to collect his thoughts, but they slipped like water through his fingertips. “Alright,” he said after a moment. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

“Thank god. Okay. Keep me on the phone. That’s the only way Laurent wants it done.”

“You owe me big time, got it, you asshole?” Nikandros stood phone in hand.

“Anything you want.”

Laurent was leaning against the doorframe leading to the bedroom. He tilted his head and went inside.

Nikandros followed. He found Laurent sitting cross legged on the bed, not looking at him.

He put his phone on the pillow and took off his shoes.

“You okay, Laurie?” Damen asked.

“I’m fine.”

Nikandros fidgeted. “I could put it on Facetime if—”

“No.” Laurent shifted backwards until he sat in the middle of the bed. He touched his brow. “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

“Okay. Uh.” Nikandros didn’t know what to do. “Do you want to just bend over or…”

Laurent gave an undignified snort. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t aggravate him, Laurent,” said Damen sternly. “Nik, kiss him. You can start there.”

Nikandros put one knee on the bed, then had to pause and take a breath.

Laurent arched a single brow.

So Nikandros moved forward until he could take the little devil’s face between his hands. He started off small, just a bare brush of lips. Laurent’s mouth was warm, at odds with the cold words that usually came from it.

Nikandros tilted his head. The kiss deepened and that wicked tongue was no less wicked than usual. Laurent instantly took control, one hand threading into the roots of Nikandros’ hair. Nikandros grunted as he was pulled by his head further onto the bed. He had to catch himself on his forearm to prevent from squishing Laurent as they laid down.

Laurent kissed him harder. He kissed a lot like Damen, which wasn’t surprising if Nikandros thought about it. Damen liked kissing. He’d told Nikandros that once, after their wrestling match had dissolved into a make-out session and some very heavy petting. Their youth had been full of instances like that, but that had been all it was: youth. They hadn’t kissed since college, with the exception of a very drunk threesome.

Still, Nikandros felt a tingle of familiarity.

That is, until Laurent pulled back and snapped, “This is fucking boring. What are you waiting for?”

“I…” Nikandros had been, against all reason, enjoying the kiss.

Damen said, “Take off his clothes.”

Nikandros wasn’t sure who the order was for, but they both moved. Laurent sat up faster than Nikandros could sit back, knocking their heads together.

Nikandros blinked, then laughed.

Laurent chuckled too as he undid the remaining buttons of his shirt and shrugged it off.

“What? What happened? Why are you laughing?”

Nikandros dropped his own shirt on the floor. “Nothing, D. Just broke the ice a bit.”

“Oh. That’s… good, I think.”

Nikandros grabbed the waistband of Laurent’s pants and yanked those and his underwear off in one go.

Laurent splayed out on the mattress, completely at ease with his nudity. Nikandros took a moment to appreciate the display. Laurent’s revealed skin was creamy and pale, at odds with the tip of his cock, an almost angry red. It was his nipples that drew Nikandros’ attention: a dusty pink, the same shade as his lips.

Nikandros took a deep breath. “What does he like?”

Damen hummed and there was the clink of a belt buckle. “Hold him down when you kiss him. He likes the weight.”

So Nikandros did, taking control of the kiss himself as he pinned both of Laurent’s wrist beneath his hand. He delved into Laurent’s mouth and found the man more pliant than he’d been moments ago.

He trailed off, down the column of Laurent’s neck. “Can I—” he started to say at the same time Damen said, “Mark him up if you want. It drives him mad.”

Laurent made a noise in the back of his throat as Nikandros nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin until it blushed the color of ripened peaches. He shifted further, releasing Laurent’s hands so he could take a nipple into his mouth. Laurent jerked slightly, almost imperceptible, but Nikandros caught the message: not there.

He returned to Laurent’s lips, which were gleaming in the dim light.

“You’ll have to prep him,” Damen said as they kissed. “Three fingers ‘cause he tenses up fast.”

Nikandros pulled back to study Laurent’s flushed mouth.

Laurent’s eyes fluttered open. “What are you waiting for?”

Nikandros stretched over him to fish through his nightstand. He retrieved a bottle of lube and a condom before sitting back on his heels. He gripped Laurent’s thigh and pushed it open, revealing his puckered entrance.

Squirting some of the lube onto his fingers, Nikandros watched Laurent’s face as he eased one in.

His expression was carefully neutral, save for the blush that had begun to spread over his cheeks, then bled down his neck as Nikandros pumped for a few moments before adding a second finger.

He was tight, like Damen had said, and just the feel of the heat on his fingers had Nikandros’ cock hardening to full mast. He curled his fingers and earned the slightest arch of Laurent’s back.

Laurent’s eyes fluttered shut. “He’s taking too long, Damen.”

“Hush,” Nikandros snapped as he pushed in a third finger.

Laurent made a small noise and turned his head into the pillow.

“He has to take his time, sweetheart. We don’t want you to tear.”

Nikandros rolled his eyes. “He is anything but sweet.”

Damen’s chuckle was deep and hearty.

Laurent shifted his hips, pushing Nikandros’ fingers deeper inside of him.

Nikandros withdrew slightly, slowing his movements. He smirked.

Laurent slung an arm over his eyes. “Can you please just fuck me already?” His voice was higher than it had been a moment ago.

Nikandros considered making him wait longer, but he didn’t want him to be in pain, despite all evidence to the contrary. “Damen?”

“Go ahead. Take him on his back.”

Nikandros removed his slick fingers so he could shed himself of his slacks. He rolled on the condom before kneeling back between Laurent’s legs. He applied more lube, to himself and to Laurent’s twitching entrance.

Laurent was still hiding his face, so Nikandros took the offending arm and pressed it back into the pillows beside the phone, intertwining their fingers. Laurent looked up at him with wide eyes, his plush lips parted slightly. Nikandros thought he looked like an animal caught in a hunter’s trap.

Nikandros guided the tip in.

“He likes it slow and steady,” Damen provided.

“Fuck.” Nikandros didn’t mean to say it out loud as he eased himself inside. “He’s so damn tight, Damen. He’s gonna snap my fucking dick off.”

“Laurent, sweetheart, you’ve got to relax.”

“It hurts, Damen,” Laurent admitted in a small voice that Nikandros had never heard before.

“I know, I know. But Nik is gonna make you feel better.” A pause, then, “Why don’t you kiss him some more?”

Nikandros dropped his head to do just that, but Laurent jerked his chin away.

“Don’t kiss me. I…”

Nikandros took his chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing him to meet his gaze. He’d never seen a man look so vulnerable. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to Laurent’s.

And this kiss hurt like a brand, but Nikandros couldn’t pull away. He licked lazily into Laurent’s mouth as his hips began to move in small, fractional thrusts until Laurent relaxed between them.

“Good boy,” said Damen as Laurent moaned into Nikandros’ mouth.

Nikandros pulled out to the tip, then thrust back in slowly, savoring the heat around him.

Damen’s face was still lit up on the screen of Nikandros’ phone. “He likes it when you grind down once you’re all the way in. Don’t be afraid to put your weight into it either.”

Nikandros obeyed and Laurent moaned again and Nikandros had been wrong: he could be sweet. There was no other word for the arch of Laurent’s back, the rush of his breath across Nikandros’ chin. Laurent’s free hand settled hesitantly onto Nikandros’ side, then his nails bit into the flesh there as Nikandros ground himself deeper.

They fell into a rhythm. Laurent’s own hips began to do little circles in time with Nikandros’ thrusts. Damen had fallen silent on the phone, save for the occasional draw of a heavy breath.

Laurent’s nails dug in harder, his face scrunching almost as if he’d tasted something bitter. He began to let out soft little, “ah, ah, ah”s with every movement that stuttered halfway through the sound.

“He’s close,” Damen said, then cursed. “ Fuck. Don’t speed up. Just keep that pace.”

“Yes,” said Nikandros.

Laurent’s back rose off the bed, his heels digging into Nikandros’ backside. Pushing him deeper, harder. Nikandros resisted the urge to pin his knees to his chest and drive him as deep into the mattress as he could. To pound into him until neither of them could form a coherent sentence. He had to keep his head on his shoulders. He had to—

Laurent came hard with a gasp, his legs shaking as he painted his own chest and belly.

Nikandros gritted his teeth and dropped his brow against Laurent’s. He fucked him through the orgasm, slow, balls tightening with every little shift that Laurent made.

Laurent’s breathing was ragged, his legs like vices. He let go of Nikandros’ side to grip the back of his neck and said, “Come in me. Please, Damen, I—”

Nikandros fell face first into senselessness. He unhooked one of Laurent’s knees and forced it up. Leaning back, he snapped his hips brutally into Laurent’s, doubling the pace.

“Ah, fuck, wait. I just came. Wait, I’m—”

“Shut up,” Nikandros growled, leaning his whole weight into Laurent. The edges of his orgasm rushed at him, blinding him, pummeling him. He slammed into the hilt, groaning as his body trembled.

He breathed.

In the aftermath, that was all he could do. Dimly, he was aware of more spend now coating both his and Laurent’s torsos, as if Laurent had come a second time. Laurent’s breaths were like hiccoughs in his ear and for a moment, Nikandros thought he was crying.

He shot up. “Oh my god. Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

Laurent curled into the hand Nikandros had instinctively placed on his cheek. Revealed, he wasn’t crying, but gasping, catching his breath. His eyes, when they opened, were the color of the spring Nik and Damen had swum in as boys. “I’m okay,” he whispered.

“Fuck.” Nikandros flopped onto his back. He didn’t even have the energy to take the condom off.

He was aware of Laurent rising and retreating to the bathroom. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Nikandros knew he should apologize, but his fractured mind couldn’t figure out what for. He hadn’t meant to lose control like that, even if he’d made Laurent come a second time.

He rolled onto his side and discarded the condom in the bin under his nightstand. Cursing some more, he patted the bed for his phone, then realized Laurent had taken it with him.

“...Of course I will. Yeah, yeah, whatever. Love you too.” Laurent returned from the bathroom and tossed Nikandros’ phone at him. “Damen says ‘thanks.’”

Nikandros blinked, then blinked again as he found himself pushed onto his back. Laurent produced a damp rag and wiped his own come from Nikandros’ chest.

“You don’t have to—”

“Just shut up, please?” Laurent sighed, then threw the rag in the bin. He sat on the edge of the bed, clad in one of Nikandros’ shirts. “Damen also said you have to hold me.”

“I… what?”

Laurent nodded. “It, uh, yeah. And I’m not supposed to go home until he gets back. But I can leave if you don’t—”

“No. No.” Nikandros shifted over, making space. “He’s right. I’m not just gonna let you pack your shit and go like this was a one night stand.”

The last part just slipped out, but Laurent didn’t correct him. He laid down awkwardly on the edge of the bed, all long limbs and sharp elbows.

Nikandros pulled him closer. “Are you okay?” he asked again, the words disturbing the hair at the base of Laurent’s neck.

Laurent nodded, then turned over in his arms. “Yeah. Are you?”

“Yeah.” They were practically nose-to-nose.

Laurent set a hesitant hand on his chest. “I wasn’t calling you Damen. I know the difference. I was going to ask him if I could see when he came too.”

“Oh. I hadn’t realized…”

“Really?”

“God, just go to sleep. I just know you’re going to harass me about it.”

A smile curled the edges of Laurent’s lips. “I still hate you, you know?”

“The feeling is mutual.”

#captive prince #captive prince fanfic #damen of akielos #damianos of akielos #kings rising #laurent #laurent of vere #damen x laurent #laurent x damen #my fanfiction #nikandros #laurent x nikandros #c s pacat

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tsuki-chibi · 2 years ago

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Ladynoir July 2023 Day 8: In Another Life

Read all the entries on AO3

–

“Do you ever wonder what it would’ve been like if Master Fu had chosen someone else?” Chat Noir asked.

“What?” Ladybug said, startled out of her half-doze. She rubbed her eyes. She was tired after staying up late working on a design that she hadn’t been able to get out of her head. With the warm sun beating down on her shoulders, it was making her sleepy.

Chat looked over at her. “You know. If Master Fu had been following other kids around instead.”

“Stop making him sound so creepy,” Ladybug said, swatting half-heartedly at Chat’s arm. “He had to follow us around to make sure that we were the right choice.”

“Sure. But do you think he followed other kids around too? I mean, there had to have more than just the two of us under consideration, right? It’s statistically unlikely that he found the two of us and immediately decided we were perfect and didn’t even look at anyone else,” Chat persisted.

Ladybug rubbed her eyes again as she considered what Chat was saying. Much as she disliked admitting it, she supposed that he did have a point. She thought back to that day when Master Fu had told her why he had chosen her. It was a moment that seemed so insignificant in retrospect.

What if she hadn’t seen Master Fu crossing the road? What if she had been too slow to help him? What if she had decided to set down her macarons instead of sacrificing them to save him? What if she’d tripped over her own two feet and failed to be helpful at all? There were so many ways it could’ve gone wrong, and yet Master Fu had based such an important decision on that one, tiny moment…

It made her wonder how many others kids Master Fu had tested in some tiny way, who had been found wanting.

"I guess there probably was. I never thought to ask him about it," Ladybug said finally. “Once he found the two of us, I don’t think he ever looked back.”

“But what if he hadn’t? What if like… in another life, he chose Lila as Ladybug instead?” Chat said.

Ladybug choked on her own saliva. “Wh-what?”

Chat was grinning now. “You know Lila. She can seem really sweet at first glance. You know. Before she opens her mouth and starts lying her butt off.”

“I just – ” Ladybug shook her head slowly. “I can’t even imagine.”

“You know Lila would’ve jumped at the chance to be special,” Chat said. “Though I doubt she would’ve kept it up once she realized it’s actual work.”

“Probably not. I think that Master Fu would’ve done a lot more research. Enough research to know what Lila was really like,” Ladybug said. But she felt a little niggle of doubt even as she spoke. The older she got, the more she realized that Master Fu had been short-sighted in a lot of ways. Maybe Chat was right; maybe they were just really lucky that this wasn’t one of them.

She suppressed a shudder at the thought of Lila having the Ladybug miraculous. Poor Tikki to be stuck with someone like Lila. And that made her think of something else.

“You know,” she said, “that means in this other life, Lila is your partner.”

Chat’s look of horror was so perfect that Ladybug couldn’t help giggling. Obviously he hadn’t taken that thought all the way to the end.

“No! No no no no no no!” Chat cried, holding his hands up as though to ward off something evil.

“Yes yes yes yes,” Ladybug teased. “Just imagine how unlucky you’d be. She’d be your classmate as Adrien Agreste and your partner as Chat Noir. There would be no escape from her then!”

“Noooooooooo!” Chat whined, sinking in on himself. “My Lady, stop filling my head with that. You’re going to give me a nightmare tonight!”

“You’re the one who brought it up!” Ladybug said.

“It was just an idle thought! Not nightmare material!”

Ladybug laughed. “Oh, Chaton, you’re so dramatic. Relax. In this life, I’m the only partner you’re ever going to have.

Chat pouted, but had a hard time suppressing his smile. “Just for that, I think you should pet my hair.”

“Oh you do, do you?” Ladybug said, rolling her eyes. But she still smiled as she patted her lap. Chat scrambled over to her and laid his head on her lap, and she started petting his hair. Shortly, the soft, rumbling sound of his purr filled the air.

Maybe here, right now, they were both lucky.

#miraculous ladybug #ladybug #chat noir #post-reveal #miraculous ficlet #my fics #ladynoirjuly2023

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hoodiehydra · 2 years ago

Note

writing ask game: 17, 20, 31

17: What is your favourite line ever written?

*Casually checks on past fics*

UH-

“OH, YOU’RE THE F*CKING WH*RE THAT GIVES MY DAD SH*T!” Fave hollered, unintentionally giving Alice “emotional damage”.

I WROTE THAT, YES, BUT ITS FOR A GOOD REASON IM SORYYYYYY

but yes it is in a fic of mine.

20: What is your favourite trope to write?

Angst to fluff stuff. Idc if it’s platonic or romantic, but hear me out, the process of going from hurting to finally feeling some needed warmth is actually fun to write since it requires descriptions and dialogue. Both of which I am decent at.

And this goes for any pairing/ trio! It can be between lovers, siblings, parents to children, or friends, it works for all of them. In fact, most of my fics are comfort fics.

21: pick a writer to co-write a book with and tell us what you'd write about.

From tumblr, definitely someone from our squad. Idk exactly who but y’all are good writers.

On AO3, hm… MetalMistress. Her chapters have so much content in them, they can easily keep me entertained for hours reading.

What we might write as part of the squad? Oh, definitely FNF angst. THE FEELSSSSSS

Me and Mistress? Something Bendy related. I don’t know what, but definitely that.

#hydra talks

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recipro-turbo · 2 years ago

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brother mine - year six

Chapter Rating: T Chapter Word Count: 1.6k Chapter Notes: originally posted to twitter here. tensei is 21 in this chapter.

Chapter-specific content warnings: hospitals, child abduction and endangerment

Read on AO3 | Previous Chapter

Awareness returns to Tensei slowly.

He feels like he’s at the bottom of the ocean, several hundred leagues beneath the surface. His eyelids are too heavy, limbs filled with lead. He can’t make any sense of what he hears, doesn’t know who, if anyone, is speaking.

Tensei’s breathing, he knows that much. Every breath hurts, but it’s a muted sort of pain. He focuses on that sensation, clings to it like it’s the only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing him back up.

He wasn’t imagining the sounds. As consciousness slowly returns, he registers voices. Two of them. Tensei might know them… they sound so familiar to him, but he can’t quite…

No. No, he can.

One of them is Manual, the third year from U.A. High currently working with Team Iidaten for his work study. The other… Mother? It sure sounds like her…

Tensei tries to move. Agony spikes up his right arm, near his exhaust pipe. He must cry out, because he hears someone say his name. They’re talking to him, but it gets lost somewhere along the way, muffled by the waves of darkness that threaten to pull him back under.

Opening his eyes is a daunting task, as heavy as his eyelids feel. Finally, finally, he pries them open, the shock of bright white making his eyes sting. He fights to keep them open―if he closes them now, he’ll fall back into the darkness, deep beneath the ocean, right back where he started―and blearily tries to take in his surroundings.

Slowly, so slowly, the world comes into focus. Tensei is in the hospital. There’s no oxygen mask, but he’s distantly aware of the IV drip in his arm. He can hear the beeping of his heart monitor, too loud in the quiet room.

“Senpai?”

Tensei lets out a soft groan of acknowledgement, turning to face the source of the voice. Mizushima hovers at his side, eyes wide with concern. Mother stands behind him, looking every bit as worried.

“Sh-should we call a nurse?” Mizushima asks. “If you’re in a lot of pain, maybe we could see if they can up your pain medication. I mean, they should probably know anyway―”

“Ease up a little, Mizushima,” Mother says. “Give him a second.”

“Right, right. Sorry, senpai!”

Tensei lets his eyes fall shut for just a moment. The nurse can wait just a little while longer, he just needs to remember how he got here. What happened?

-x-

The first thing he remembers clearly is being sent out on patrol with intern Manual. It had been mostly uneventful, helping with small acts of heroics and de-escalating situations before things could turn violent. Then mid-afternoon, Mother―Algorhythma―had radioed the two of them with news of an urgent child abduction in the area. A villain with an unidentified Mobility Quirk, but nothing that Ingenium couldn’t handle.

The child in question? Tenya Iida. His little brother.

Whether Alogrhythma had been aware of that fact, Tensei wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter who the child was, of course, but the stakes felt higher, somehow. He couldn’t fail. He couldn’t be the reason Tenya would never be able to make his dream of being a hero a reality.

The villain was fast. Not faster than Tensei, by any means, but he handled corners a lot better than what he was capable of. That had been enough to put some distance between them for a little while, but when they reached the highway, catching up was inevitable. As he closed the distance, the villain became desperate. Somehow, he did the only thing he knew would send Tensei off his trail.

He threw Tenya off the side of the overpass.

-x-

Tensei’s eyes fly open. He throws himself up, eyes wide with panic, heart monitor skyrocketing. “Tenya―”

“Honey, calm down―”

“Tenya, oh my God, he’s… is he… did I..?”

Time moves in slow motion as the villain throws Tenya aside. His brother’s scream of terror overrides any sense of logic or reasoning he’s capable of. He jumps after him, engines roaring with fury as he rockets over to Tenya. He doesn’t stop until they’re clear of the traffic below them, but now he has a new problem―his engines have stalled, and they’re still several meters above the ground, falling fast.

One way or another, this is going to end badly… but he’s not going to let his little brother die today. As quickly as he can, Tensei puts himself between Tenya and the ground, holds his brother close to his chest, and hopes the airbags the support department installed in his armor work as well as they did in testing.

“Senpai, he’s all right! Tenya’s safe.”

Tensei snaps back to reality, gaze flickering up to his kōhai. Mizushima is motioning over to Tensei’s left…

…where Tenya lays bundled in a too-large Iidaten hoodie, fast asleep.

He lets out a shaky breath, bringing a hand up to brush a few stray strands of hair out of his brother’s face. There’s a bandage on his cheek, small cuts scattered across his skin, and a bright blue cast on Tenya’s arm, just barely visible beneath the gray fabric of the hoodie.

“Tenya’s very fortunate he came out of this with a broken arm and a few scrapes,” Mother says. “But you… Tensei, you could have died. What were you thinking?”

Tensei opens his mouth to argue―what kind of fucking question is that?―but Mother is quick to cut him off. “Your engines stalled mid-air, Tensei. If your airbag system had malfunctioned, that fall at your speed would have killed you both. What. Were. You. Thinking?”

The fight leaves Tensei far faster than he wanted it to. He looks back down to where Tenya lays. “I didn’t think,” he says, voice just barely above a whisper. “I moved.”

Mother’s expression softens. “Keeping your emotions in check on the job―especially in situations where someone you care about is in danger―is difficult. But it’s an important skill to learn, Tensei. When someone’s life is on the line, keeping a cool head is what ensures everyone involved makes it home safe.”

She looks like she wants to say more, but one of the nurses pokes her head into the room. “Glad to see you’re awake, Ingenium! I hate to interrupt, but I need to check your vitals.”

Tensei knows this conversation isn’t over, but Mother lets the topic drop for now. Before she steps away to let the nurse go about her business, she wraps her arms around him tightly.

For the first time all night, Tensei notices how distraught she truly is.

“Thank you,” she whispers, “for getting Tenya back to us alive.”

Never one to get in the way of someone else’s work, Mother pulls away after a moment. “I’m going to call your father and let him know that you’re awake. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

Not long after Mother steps out and the nurse leaves to let him rest, Mizushima heads out―“Villain attack or no, I’ve still got an essay due tomorrow!”―leaving Tensei alone in a too-quiet hospital room. Tenya still sleeps peacefully at his side, despite his earlier outburst. A sad smile finds its way to Tensei’s lips… of course nearly dying would take a lot out of someone, especially a kid Tenya’s age.

“I’m sorry,” Tensei murmurs softly, bringing his hand down to rest on Tenya’s head. “I’ll work hard to be a better hero, Otouto. For you.”

Tensei can feel himself growing tired, his latest dose of painkillers beginning to kick in. He makes an attempt to get comfortable without waking his little brother, but the soft shifting of fabric tells him that he’s failed in that department.

“...Niisan?”

“Hey, little man,” Tensei murmurs, looking down at Tenya. Sleepy red eyes meet his gaze. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

Tenya sits up, the Iidaten hoodie slipping off his shoulders. Tensei feels a pang of guilt seeing the cuts and bruises that litter his brother’s skin, but takes some small comfort in knowing that this could’ve been much worse.

“How’re you feeling, Otouto?” Tensei asks. “I know everything that happened had to have been overwhelming for you.”

He remembers Tenya didn’t give the villain the satisfaction of screaming or crying, no matter how scared he had to have been. No matter how much distance had been put between them, his little brother’s faith in him didn’t waver for even a second. He had been so brave, and―

There’s a sob.

Tensei pulls Tenya close without a second thought, ignoring the way his right arm protests. “Oh, Tenya…”

“You’re hurt,” Tenya manages to squeak out.

“I’m hurt,” Tensei acknowledges, “but I’m alive. I’ll get better.”

“My fault.”

“No, no, no, Tenya. This wasn’t your fault.” He presses a soft kiss to the top of his brother’s head.

“You got hurt saving me!” Tenya sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry―”

“Shhh, shhh.” Tensei tucks his head beneath his chin, using his good arm to rub his back. “It’s part of the job, Tenya. You’ve seen me get hurt before, and sometimes it was because I helped someone. Do you think it was their fault?”

“No,” he whimpers.

“What makes this any different?”

Tenya sniffles. Tensei figures his logic must be sound, as his little brother doesn’t offer any argument. Satisfied, he moves to lay down, bringing Tenya with him.

“It’s late,” Tensei says, tugging the thin, white blanket over them. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?”

He hears a sleepy hum, but nothing more. In moments, Tenya is dead to the world, head resting on Tensei’s chest with his ear over his heart.

With the last dregs of his strength, Tensei drapes his good arm over his brother protectively, then allows sleep to take him.

#boku no hero academia #bnha #my hero academia #mha #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #iida tensei #iida tenya #recipro fics #series: brother mine #hospitals #child abduction

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separatist-apologist · 2 years ago

Text

A Crisis Of Faith

Memories feel like weapons

Summary: Dathomir has unmade you. And my misplaced loyalty has allowed you to lead the Nightbrothers astray. Unlike the Jedi - The Nightsisters of Dathomir do not turn on their kind. Our bond is eternal.

Merrin has spent years living on Dathomir with only Malicos for company, dedicated to fulfilling her end of the bargain they made. All she wants is vengeance.

She never expected Cal Kestis

Chapter 1: Give Me Back My Girlhood

Read on AO3

TW: canon-typical violence, emotional manipulation/abuse

She heard him before she saw him.

Merrin pressed herself further into the cavern, back against the stone. Boots scuffed the steps, climbing ever upwards towards her. She didn’t want to see him—or anyone.

“Send him away,” she whispered to the sky. To her sisters.

Only silence responded. Somewhere just outside the flap of her dwelling, a rock clattered down the cliffside.

“Merrin?”

A horned red and black head peered into the gloom. Viscus stepped in fully, walking towards her with his half-naked body. Merrin resisted the urge to count the scars in favor of staring at the dust-covered floor. Someone had once cleaned it meticulously.

He crouched before her, a bowl of stew in his broad hands. The nightbrothers didn’t know what to make of her–or what to do with her. Merrin didn’t, either. Mother had kept her from them while her sisters had spoken of their inherent inferiority. Viscus didn’t seem inferior. He was kind, he kept her fed.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

And neither was she.

Merrin took the earthen bowl from him, still cowering against the wall, swallowing the warm concoction without tasting. She knew what they thought about her. Weak, foolish, young. She’d heard them talking once, had crept out to listen. In hushed whispers they’d wondered how she had managed to survive when everyone else had perished. She knew even Viscus wondered if she hadn’t chosen to protect herself over everyone else.

They didn’t know her mother had hidden her in a wall.

“I saw what you did today,” Viscus murmured, lowering himself beside her. Merrin didn’t move, though she was afraid. Every day he came closer, coaxing her to speak as if she were one of his pets. It was starting to work, too. She wanted to trust him.

Merrin was miserably lonely.

“That must have been hard,” he added. Her spoon clattered loudly into the half eaten bowl. Merrin didn’t dare look at him. They weren’t supposed to watch her.

“Let us help you,” he tried, scooting close enough she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was all wrong. She swallowed, her heart pounding frantically in her throat. Viscus was safe, he wasn’t like the others. She could trust him, she could be near him—

She skittered across the room, knocking the contents of the bowl on the dirty floor. Viscus sighed, the only sign he was losing patience.

“You’re a little girl, Merrin. The brothers are starting to feel insulted that you won’t let us help you.”

“This is my burden,” she said. Her first words in a year. Viscus blinked and she wondered if he’d thought her incapable of it. “I have to do it alone.”

“Says who?” he challenged. She saw the glint of teeth, the flex of corded muscle. The nightbrothers were unchanged, even after the massacre. They’d fought back, had lost people, too. Merrin felt no resentment that they hadn’t been singled out for slaughter.

Ignoring the mess she’d made, he tried again. Hands outstretched, Viscus came towards her again. Merrin trembled when he reached for her calloused hands, rubbing the pads over her skin soothingly. It wasn’t his nature and they both knew it. He looked uncertain, his touch icy. Affection was not in the nightbrothers repertoire.

He valued strength, and watching a little girl bury the preserved bodies of her fallen sisters made him feel weak. He didn’t understand the task at hand. None of them did. They’d burned their dead long ago before moving on, but to honor her sister required Merrin to construct a burial pod. Only she knew the prayers, the songs. And only she possessed the magic to hang them for their loved ones to collect.

The nightbrothers would get through one before they lost patience and demanded she do things their way. Let them feel weak. Better than shaming her fallen sisters.

Merrin lifted her chin.

“Says me.”

A savage grin lit up the dim space between them. The nightbrothers were restless and looking for a leader. And since Viscus knew she’d speak, Merrin decided to ask a question of her own. “What of the outsider?”

It had been Viscus who’d told her about him months ago. He’d crashed in the swamp and from what Merrin had seen at night, seemed to be going insane. She heard him talking to himself, mumbling about order and he’s looking for me. She pitied him.

“He is not strong enough to withstand Dathomir,” Viscus told her, dropping her hands as he looked over his shoulder. “We cannot execute him without your permission.”

“Execute him?” she asked as visions of laser swords swam in her vision. “I–”

“It is a kindness to end him now,” Viscus tried, though there was no compassion in his voice. She knew better to expect it and still Merrin’s chest ached with its absence.

“I will consider it,” she murmured, well aware her answer did not satisfy him. Still, Viscus did not challenge her. Briefly, Merrin wondered if Viscus wasn’t offering her pity, just as she did the outsider. If he knew he could strike her down and she wouldn’t try and stop him.

He was their leader. Brother Viscus respected the old ways. Even if it made no sense, letting a child make decisions no one had ever prepared her for. Merrin felt small, sitting in his shadow. Their eyes met for only a beat before Viscus lowered them, inclining his head as a show of respect.

“Your exile is self-imposed, Merrin,” he reminded her.

She only nodded, drawing her knees to her chin.

And waited.

The blotting red of the sun gave way to near violet dark. A heavy moon hung ominous in the sky. Merrin knew enough to know it was a warning. That didn’t stop her from creeping from her room so she could drink in the cool air of Dathomir. The world itself seemed to perk up at her presence. A playful, warm wind ruffled the strands of her silver hair before caressing her cheek lovingly. It made her heart clench painfully, reopening the bleeding wound in her chest. No one saw the way blood puddled around her feet, but Merrin felt it. Sometimes so acutely she couldn’t understand how no one else did. The world was different, so fundamentally changed and Merrin found it jarring that the others could not sense it. Could not feel what she did.

See what she saw.

Sometimes Merrin thought the planet could feel her pain, if only because she felt its pain, too. Even with boots covering her feet, Merin could feel the dark churning of the magicks that had long governed her home. Like a root system anchoring her to the physical—a beating heart just as real as the one in her chest.

She couldn’t cut herself off from it, though Merrin had considered it more than once. She simply did not know how. Instead, she embraced it, letting the magick fill her chest until she was all but drowning in it. If she couldn’t numb herself to the pain, let her feel all of it. Her sisters were given no relief, after all.

Why should she?

Why should anyone?

It was what drew her out, her curiosity burning a wildfire through her. The wanderer, trapped in the swamp as he slowly went mad. How could she make a decision regarding his fate if she didn’t even know him? That was what Merrin told herself, at any rate. Truthfully, she couldn’t stand the thought of one more body in need of burning or burying.

Merrin liked the swamp, though she hardly went anymore. It was teeming with writhing, uncontrollable life. The planet practically pulsated in the humidity, covering the landscape in a thick, red-tinged fog that held all manner of secrets. Hardly the place for anyone that valued their sanity to spend all their time.

The whispering silence could have driven even her to madness. Merrin made her way down, down, down, boots silent over the ground as she stepped to the twisting, thorn-covered branches below.

He was easy to find. Dressed in odd, tattered robes, he was older than Viscus by at least a decade, maybe more. Still young, though gray had begun to pepper through golden brown hair. His face was scratched from his crash, blood dried over his clean shaven jaw. She was careful as she crept closer, inspecting him warily.

He spun, blue eyes piercing her even through the magick shrouding her. “I know you’re here,” he whispered, betraying his own fear. “I can sense you.”Merrin sat on the branch she was crouched on, letting her legs dangle over his head. She couldn’t reach her from her perch. It was safe to reveal herself, she reasoned. She exhaled a breath, blowing away the magick that shrouded her.

“Who are you?”

Despair flooded through his vacant eyes. “No one. Nothing,” he added. “Alone.”

“Me too,” she whispered, feet swinging around her. The metallic tang of fear burned her nostrils, all but paralyzing her. He tilted his head, studying her just as carefully as she studied him.

“You’re a little girl,” he commented, awe coloring his voice. “How does a child come to be alone?”

She looked down at her hands. She had no intention of answering that. She didn’t have to. He knew. Stepping forward until his face was almost beneath her swinging shoes, he offered her a smile. Merrin blinked, hating the way hope bounced through her chest lightning hot. He was an outsider.

He’d smiled.

“Go on, then,” he murmured, nodding towards the inky sky. “You don’t need to worry about an old fool.”

“Will you be okay?” she asked, unsure why she even cared. He turned again, looking at the swamp with the same glazed eyes. “What’s your name?”

“You’re a nightsister, right?” he asked, asking a question for a question. Merrin nodded her head before she could think better of it.

“A rare thing,” he added, more to himself than to her. It made her uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t pin.

“You should leave this place,” Merrin told him, clambering to her feet carefully. He didn’t turn to look. She’d seen that look in his eye before—Viscus often wore the same. Still, it meant he hadn’t gone insane. If he were smart, he’d fix the ruined ship he’d abandoned at the far end of the swamp and go back to wherever he came from.

“Malicos,” he called. “Taron Malicos.”

Merrin swore she heard a chuffing laugh trail after her as she left him down there.

Alone in the dark.

[one year]

“Merrin!” Devron’s voice echoed through the basin. “Merrin, you come down here right now!”

She didn’t move from her place on the temple floor. She’d just lit her bundle of dried mushlings and had no intention of leaving until she finished her prayer. Smoke curled towards the steepled ceiling, drawing patterns in the air for her to read.

Merrin closed her eyes, stretching out with her senses. The roaring darkness rushed in, greeting her with a near playful wash of power. She arched her neck, letting the familiar thrum of Dathomir hum through her blood. She was getting better at letting it in, filtering out the cold until the settling warmth kept her steady.

She seemed to recall that was the way of things. Letting too much in, letting the dark steep through one's body, led to ruination. She couldn’t be certain, of course. She had the texts, though they were written in the ancient language and Merrin only knew bits and pieces. She was trying to teach herself, but she was not particularly patient, which meant she often became too frustrated and quit.

“Merrin!” Devron’s voice roared. He was going to wake one of the chirodactyls and then they’d all be in trouble. She shut him out, focusing on her feelings. On centering her anger against her desperate need for peace. Balance…or something like it. These brief moments offered her a reprieve.

Of course one of the brothers wanted to ruin it.

“Merrin, you come down right now or I’ll drag you down!”

“Ha!” she laughed, breaking her concentration. The smoke scattered from her face, seeking refuge in calmer shadows. Huffing a sigh, Merrin brushed the dirt from the spider silk tunic wrapped around her body and marched to the yawning mouth of the cliffside temple.

“What is so important?” she demanded, hands on her hips. She could see him on an adjacent mesa, arms crossed over his bare, tattooed chest. Scars marked his skin, proof he was worthy of the position he held among the ranks of the nightbrothers.

He was annoying, just like Viscus was. Always trying to force her to lead them like the old days, in the old ways. Merrin was not their leader.

“Get down here,” he ordered, his voice bouncing off the endless cavern around them. She took a step into nothing, a thrill racing up her spine. Her next step was just behind him. It was childish, maybe, to delight in his irritated spin.

And Merrin, as everyone liked to remind her, was still a child. “You called?”

A near purple scowl darkened his face. “We’ve come to a decision regarding Malicos.”

Malicos. She’d spoken to him a few times in the year since he’d arrived. The Nightbrothers grew restless with each passing day he was allowed to remain. They hungered for blood—that was plain enough. Merrin did not. She’d been putting off her decision regarding his fate indefinitely.

Who cared?

“Have you come to brag?”

“I’ve come to–” he gritted his teeth, turning his head with a grimace. “To ask for your help.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Where is Brother Viscus?”

“Tracking the prisoner. We had him in the dungeon, but—”

“But what?” she demanded. Malicos was, at best, a doddering fool more prone to talking to himself than causing true harm. Stupid, for staying on Dathomir, but no threat to Viscus’s power.

“He killed several brothers and escaped,” Devron mumbled, his anger apparent. Merrin blinked. In her whole life, even before the people with the laser swords came, the nightbrothers were the strongest warriors she knew.

“How?” she asked, some of her bravo slipping to fear.

Devron only shook his head helplessly. “I–”

Silence settled between them. He didn’t know. Merrin tilted her head to the red-tinted sky, letting the sun warm her skin. “What do you want me to do?”

“Use your magick–”

“What magick?” she demanded angrily, letting power bubble in her veins. She hated that they all knew she had it, that they expected her to fix all their problems with a wave of her hands. She could barely fix her own.

“You’re a coward, Merrin,” he snapped. Brother Devron lacked all Viscus’s tact. She surged forward, shoving at his chest with her hands. It caught him off guard, causing him to stumble, but not fall.

“You’re a child,” he hissed. Everyone’s favorite insult.

“Fix your own mess!” she snapped, turning haughtily.

“You’ll abandon us, then?” he called after her.

“Like you did to me?” she replied without thinking. It was the cruelest thing she could think to say. The nightbrothers had their staves and Merrin, her words. She whipped her head around, unbound strands of her silver hair catching across her eyes. It didn’t stop her from seeing the flash of hurt in his yellow eyes.

Some of those scars had come from trying to stop the massacre. He wore them as a badge of shame like all the survivors did.

“Brother, I—” Merrin extended a hand, but Devron waved her off angrily.

“I hope you take half as much care with my body as you did with everyone else,” he hissed. Her heart squeezed, that familiar, lonely ache washing through her. She could have gone after him and apologized if she’d wanted.

But she didn’t. Merrin could not imagine Malicos escaping. She couldn’t imagine him killing anyone. Viscus would handle it.

Play it safe. Go back to the temple, continue your prayer.

She turned her head towards the cliffside, ignoring the towering temple overhead for the carved-out archway that would take her to nightbrothers settlement. The dungeon was there—and Malicos, too, perhaps. Merrin hesitated.

She had no right to interfere and at the same time, every right. Going to see them might make them think she was ready to be their leader. In a million years, Merrin never would be. Maybe it made her a coward, shrouding herself in that layer of shimmering warmth until she might as well have been nothing and no one. She’d just go and see–she didn’t have to do anything.

Merrin ran, pushed by a sense of urgency. It was as if some invisible hand shoved, telling her to go faster, until her lungs burned from the need of air and her legs ached. Merrin half-tripped down the stairs, sending a deluge of loose stones to the bottom of the hidden settlement. The nightbrothers had moved further inward after the attack, seeking better defense. Sharpened wooden spikes served as an outer wall while the thick, sandstone cliffs kept casual interlopers from recognizing what lurked within.

By the time someone came looking for a fight, the nighbrothers would already know. Could flood out in whatever direction they chose thanks to carefully carved tunnels. Merrin slid her way down a rather narrow channel, her slim shoulders brushing against the rock on either side. The nightbrothers would have to shimmy, holding their breath to keep from being trapped.

Merrin stepped into the settlement with dread. The stench of death permeated the already musty air. Merrin nearly stumbled over the sprawling body of one of the nightbrothers. The death he’d been offered looked painful, even to her overtrained eyes. Deep gouges on his face made it seem as if an animal had ripped into him.

The pooling blood beneath his head made her think his insides had been melted. Eyeless sockets dripped the congealing substance down his open face, obscuring who he’d once been. Most disturbing, at least to her, was the horn on his head that seemed to have been broken off so forcibly, part of his skull was also missing.

She couldn’t reconcile the sort of creature capable of such brutality. Merrin turned away, looking from the carved settlements to the center square. A thick ring of Nighbrothers were formed around Malicos. Merrin crept closer, her heart pounding so loud she couldn’t hear the jeering.

They offered Malicos respect. It scared her, watching them pound their chests.

More, when she realized it was a bleeding Viscus in that center ring. He was on his knees, blood dripping from a wound in his stomach she was sure was fatal. She could see his every slow heartbeat.

Malicos took the knife scattered at Viscus' knees—a Dathomirian blade, likely made by Viscus’s own hands when he completed his trials into manhood. Merrin pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her scream as Malicos carved into his own chest some strange, arcing symbol of power. It must have been painful, given the roar that slipped past Malicos’s clenched teeth.

The sound only excited the nightbrothers watching, their eyes alight with unmistakable bloodlust. Merrin was rooted in place, pinned by the glazed look on Viscus’s face. He shouldn’t have been able to see her—no one else could.

But she knew, as he died, that he was aware of her presence.

“I warned you,” Malicos warned Viscus, striding towards him with powerful steps. Blood stained his teeth, dripping from chapped lips onto the tangled mass of silver hair growing from his face.

“You will bow before me.”

“The nightbrothers will never kneel before you,” Viscus spat, blood hitting Malicos in the face. Chin jutted in the air, he was prepared for a warrior's death. She wanted to reach out with her magick and take his pain and knew to do so was to dishonor him. She held his gaze, instead. Viscus offered her the barest incline of his head, a sign of respect.

She accepted with a nod of her own. Merrin did not flinch when Viscus' own knife slashed over his neck, or when his right horn was broken from his head while he gasped uselessly at Malicos’s stained boots. She stayed, creeping closer and closer, until she’d slipped through the crowd unnoticed.

Malicos had turned to the nightbrothers, offering a grand speech of a new dawn. Merrin had no capacity to hear it. Not as she took Viscus’s hand in her own, lacing her small fingers through his powerful palm. How often had he extended that very calloused hand? And how often had she rebuffed him? She didn’t dare speak, lest Malicos figure out she lurked in the ever-present shadows of Dathomir.

Viscus opened his mouth, trying desperately to take a breath of air that wasn’t coming. With her other hand, Merrin cupped his cheek like she’d seen the other sisters do to the sick and dying. Hoping she did it right and that it comforted him. A wet groan escaped him, and then his spirit faded. She didn’t trust the nightbrothers to honor his sacrifice. Those that had witnessed what happened were too busy kneeling at Malicos’s bloodstained feet.

And the rest would follow suit, out of blind obedience or fear. Merrin stood, gathering her magick to take Viscus with her. It glimmered green, drawing attention to her presence.

“Merrin—!” Malicos roared, but it was too late. He couldn’t follow her up to the sacred temples. There was no fire lichee to climb, no stairs. Only those who commanded the magick of Dathomir were allowed entrance.

She would light the pyre herself.

One last burial.

“You’re avoiding me,” Malicos accused, catching Merrin by surprise. He was good at that. Her eyes glanced at the healed scars carved into his bare chest. A long necklace of hanging, broken horns grazed beneath his ribs. Proof of his power, of his status. He might have the nightbrothers, she thought bitterly.

He didn’t have her.

Malicos ran a hand through his wild, graying hair. A year and a half on Dathomir had done him no favors. The planet exacted a price on all those who tried to conquer and claim it. Malicos was no exception. He crept to the edge of the dizzying drop, resting a hand on the spiraling grave thorn Merrin sat on. She let her legs dangle into the mist, wondering just how far into the planet that drop fell.

She could find out, if she liked. She didn’t have to stay.

“You’re killing nightbrothers again,” she replied, turning to look at the setting sun.

“Ah, so I have,” he agreed softly, his voice almost remorseful. “You’ve stopped burying them.”

Merrin didn’t know what to say to that. Guilt might crush her if she ever admitted why. Ash seemed to have settled permanently in the back of her throat, choking her as she slept. Death was all around her, the only consistent companion she could count on.

Merrin sighed.

“Will you talk with me?” he asked her in his coaxing way. “I am growing concerned about your melancholia.”

She shrugged. “What do you want to talk about?”

When it became clear she wasn’t going to move and ordering her might send her scattering high into the clouds where he couldn’t reach, Malicos chose to make his displeasure known in a different way.

“You disappoint me, Merrin,” he told her. Fear seized her, threatening to wash her away. Heart pounding, palms sweating, Merrin was taken back to the day Viscus died. If someone as powerful as him could be cut down, she could be, too.

“Why?”

“You spurn my every overture of friendship. Of care. No one is looking after you and I worry about you, Merrin. Alone with the dead…that’s no life for a young woman.”Young woman.

Not child. She turned to face him, some of her fear ebbing into hope.

“You want to be my friend?” she asked, some skepticism coloring her words. He offered her one of his disarming smiles.

“Of course. I want to help you.”

“Help me with what?”

“I know who killed your family,” he said, his words ringing through her. Merrin couldn’t stop the strangled scream that erupted through her. He knew. He’d spoken, then, with the nightbrothers and pieced it together? Merrin pushed off the grave thorn to land heavily at his feet.

“Who?” she asked, too breathless for her liking. “Tell me, so I might have revenge.”He reached for her face, his calloused fingers grazing her cheek. She let him tilt her chin until the sun glanced off her skin. Beneath her feet, the world rumbled a warning.

She ignored it.

“They were called Jedi,” he said somberly. “I suspected, but then I found these.”

He gestured towards the wide belt on his hips. Twin silver hilts hung on either side, a match for the weapons Merrin had seen as a girl. He unhooked one, igniting it quickly with his thumb. She skittered backward, falling to the cracked earth beneath her so hard her bones rattled. The humming red blade was so close to her face she could feel the heat.

“This is the weapon of a Jedi,” he told her, watching her from where he stood.

“Put it away,” she pleaded, trembling in fear. He hesitated, and for a moment Merrin thought that was how it ended. Just like her sisters before her, cut down by that terrible blade.

He took a breath, his thumb sliding back over the toggle. Merrin stayed where she was until he clipped it back to his belt.

Jedi.

“Let me have it,” she whispered, clambering slowly to her feet. “I want to see it.”

“You don’t touch it,” he replied, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Ever.”

“Are you keeping it?” she asked him. Would he learn to use it? Something about the energy it emitted made her think it was connected to the planet, though she might have just imagined that.

Might have been channeling that old fear so deeply that anything connected to the event felt alive.

He crouched beside her, forcing her attention back to his face. “I want to help you get revenge, Merrin.”

Revenge.

“How?”

He helped her to her feet, squeezing her hand gently. Cold shocked through her at the touch, drawing her from his grasp. She didn’t want him to touch her.

“Give me some time,” he told her, acutely aware of how badly she wanted it. Merrin’s desperation must have been written all over her face. “You are so talented and still could use some help.”All the air rushed out of her. “I don’t need help,” she told him, catching the pity that snagged over his features.

“Even I need help, Merrin,” he insisted.

“With what?” she demanded, refusing to think of what he’d done to Viscus. “What could you possibly need help with.”

He gestured around them, turning in a half circle. “The magick of Dathomir.”

Guilt slicked through her veins, slimy and cold. “Magick?”

He flexed his long fingers, lifting a nearby boulder with ease. Merrin stared unblinkingly. “How?”

“How, indeed,” he murmured, releasing his grip. Merrin almost felt betrayed.

Half relieved.

She wasn’t alone.

“You’ll teach me, and in exchange, I will orchestrate the downfall of the Jedi. You will have your vengeance.”

“You swear?” she asked, hedging closer.

“Sweet Merin. I swear on my life.”

He extended that callused hand. The very same that had cut Viscus’s throat, that had removed the horns he now wore around his neck. Merrin ignored every instinct screaming she walk away and took it.

His fingers curled around her wrist, holding her again. She hated it.

She craved his approval.

“You’re wise, you know. For your age. Wiser than most, I’d say,” he murmured, brushing a strand of wild hair off her face. Merrin nodded, breathless from the praise. Furious with herself for being so easily swayed.

Desperate for more.

“Get some rest,” he told her, releasing her entirely. “Tomorrow, we start.”

Merrin bit her bottom lip so hard blood flooded through her mouth. She waited for him to turn his back, to walk towards the carved entrance that would take him into the cliffs.

Only when she was back in the temple, high above the world and everyone in it, did Merrin let herself admit that she might have made a deal with a devil. Her magick—that of the nightsisters—was sacred.

Merrin pulled out an earthen bowl, lit a bundle of carefully dried mushlings, and waited for the familiar smoke.

She offered her sisters an apology.

“Forgive me. We must ally with Malicos.”

#cal kestis #merrin #merrical #cal x merrin #look i can make tswift for anything #but this song belongs to her and i stand by that #if you come looking at my blog for more just know this is all i have #anyway this is self-indulgent #just a little treat for me #by me

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darlingshane · 3 years ago

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Rating: G // Ship: Shane Walsh x F!Reader // WC: 1,316

– @gabymiller requested – Would you write maybe a cute little fic series of modern au Shane Walsh x reader and they have a baby girl and Shane is worried about sending her off to kindergarten and just cute little at home fam moments.

A/N: I tried my best, hope you like this! Since you said series, this sparked a few other scenarios but I’m always open to other suggestions. You can also read on AO3.

Part 1: First Day Jitters

Shane's anxiety about your daughter's first day of kindergarten is somewhat contagious. The thought of leaving your five-year old in the hands of strangers just for a few hours has been eating him up, and you in the process, for days and there is nothing you can do about it. Only thing you can try is keeping it together for the sake of your baby girl, Willa.

It's a big day for her and you wouldn't want to make her more nervous than necessary.

Compared to Shane, she's cool as a cucumber and overly excited to see what's awaiting after all the things you've told her to prepare her for it. She's already met the teacher a few days ago and has a couple of friends in her class.

Being used to waking up on her own before any alarm goes off, getting her out of bed and feeding her breakfast is not a problem today, and when Shane arrives from his night shift at 6 in the morning, you're still asleep and she's already peering out her bedroom's door, as soon as she hears him climbing the stairs, greeting daddy good morning with that same mischievous smile tugging at her lips that she inherited from him.

“Mornin', sweetheart, what are you doin' up? Are you nervous about school?” he crouches in front of her, pushing her curls away from her sleepy face.

“Uh-uh. I'm hungry.”

“Yeah? You wanna help daddy make breakfast?” She nods as his hand extends out for her to take before standing up, “c'mon, but you gotta be quiet; mommy's still asleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

She quietly follows him into your bedroom, leaving the door open to have the light from the hallway guide his way into the dark room so he doesn't have to turn the lights inside.

They find you soundly asleep on your side of the bed and Willa quickly forgets about the not waking up mommy rule, crawling directly on top of the mattress with no regards whatsoever, having those exact intentions and stirring you up into semi-consciousness.

“Sh, sh… Will, let mommy sleep. It's still early,” he puts his bag down by the closet.

She frowns at him playfully, hushing, “was just gonna give her a morning kiss.”

“Hmm, you both need to work on your stealth skills,” you say hoarse before clearing your throat, extending an arm to your daughter who is fast to jump and smooch your face, “good morning, stinky breath.”

“I don't have a stinky breath,” she giggles against your cheek.

“I tried,” Shane huffs, bowing to kiss your temple, “I'm sorry, baby.”

“It's okay,” you hug Willa, snuggling her to your chest while he slips out of his uniform and yanks some sweats on.

Dividing duties, Shane takes care of breakfast while you make sure she has everything ready to go before joining them at the table.

Like father, like daughter, she's devouring a bowl of cereal with milk as fast as Shane drinks his coffee from his big 'Best Daddy' mug.

With plenty of time to spare, you take your time with yours, observing how unusually quiet Shane is for someone who never shut ups, watching over her with nothing but pure adoration. You can tell how those fears rise again as the clock ticks away those few moments left until having to drive her to school.

When Willa settles on the couch to watch her cartoons for a few minutes, you cover the back of his hand with yours, fondly squeezing to have his head tilt in your direction.

“Hey, she's gonna be fine.”

“I know…” he dramatically sighs like he’s holding by a thread, “but she's still a baby. She should stay here with me. I'll teach her everything she needs to know.”

Your lips curve up, “she's not and you can't.”

“I can try,” he quips before sipping from his cup.

After breakfast, you lay out a few outfits for her on the bed and have her choose what she wants to wear. She's just starting to grow a little more independent and you see that she dresses herself with the occasional help when she needs it. For today she's picked denim shorts, a dark, blue blouse with little red flowers, and velcro shoes.

Shane does her hair, gathering it all in a ponytail; even though she prefers you to do it cause she says daddy always pulls her hair. You've already taught him how to braid and everything, but you show him again how to do it gentler because the next couple of days it'd be up to him to do this and everything else alone since you’ll be at work.

Right before leaving, you take a picture with your phone of Willa with her cute red backpack by the door to mark that milestone before leaving the house. Then, you take one more shot when she reaches for Shane's hand as they walk up to the car in the driveway.

You pull up a block away to walk up to the building the rest of the way.

Up until that moment she was feeling pretty brave. She has you and Shane holding either of her hands when she stops on her tracks in the middle of the sidewalk. It must have been the amount of kids and parents herding in the same direction that leads her to look at you, a little scared, and grip tighter around your hand.

“What's wrong, sweet pea?” You glance at her.

“I don't wanna go alone.”

“We're going in with you, baby, and we'll stay as long as you need like we said, okay?”

“And you're gonna come back for me?” She looks up to Shane then, who seems like he just got his heart broken by the way she says that.

“Yeah, sweetheart, of course we're gonna,” he reassures her, releasing her hand to hoist her up in his arms instead with minimal effort, “mommy and daddy are always always gonna come back for you.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart,” he hugs her tight, as her arms fold around his neck.

You smooth your palm on Shane’s back before resuming your walk.

She stays in Shane's arms up until you arrive at the doors where you meet the Grimes– Rick, Michonne and their little boy RJ, who happens to be in her class, which is reassuring to know at least that she has one friend already.

“First day jitters?” Michonne asks you, as all of you make your way inside together to find the class.

“Yeah,” “Yeah,” you sigh heavily, feeling all of a sudden that same pang of anxiety Shane had earlier.

“Don't worry, it gets easier,” she knows from experience, having gone through that already with Carl and her 8 year-old twins from her previous marriage.

Once you're in the class, the teacher greets you before allowing Willa and RJ to sit side by side in a round table with space for at least four more children.

As they get comfortable in their seats, you take another photo with your phone of both kids smiling widely, and free the space to observe how they do from the back of the classroom while more people arrive.

So far, everything's good. She just chats up and laughs with RJ while your hand finds Shane's.

There's still a couple of minutes left before the bell rings and the teacher gives you one last opportunity to say goodbye. A few parents start leaving without worries, while others still cling to their agitated children.

You go over to the table and give her one more hug.

“We gotta go now, baby. Be good and listen to Ms. Greene, okay?” you gently cup her face and she nods.

“We'll be back before you know it,” Shane adds, pulling her into another hug, kissing her hair, whispering, “I love you, baby girl.”

“Love you too, daddy.”

#shane walsh #shane walsh x reader #the walking dead fanfiction #jon bernthal #the walking dead #no za #fluff #family fluff #dad!shane #raising willa series #darlingwrites #look i made a moodboard #how rare of me

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years ago

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Black

Prompts: After POF, Roman takes over the abandoned color black. He becomes the hated side that Virgil used to be. By most, anyway. Janus and Virgil are concered. Patton chooses to ignore it. Romans room is really cold? and boy is he touch starved - anon

(Sanders sides Prompt) Any one of the sides is touch starved. fluff. (You dont have to do this just thought I might ask) - anon

Hello there!! I just wanna say that I love your work and I think you’re such a talented writer. Idk if this is a weird ask but would you consider writing Roman angst with the song “it’s OK I wouldn’t remember me either” by crywank as like inspiration? Thank you so much <3 -anon

buckel up babes this one's a doozy

Read on Ao3

Warnings: implied/reference self-harm by way of self-negligence, pretty intense self-hatred and neglect that could verge on suicidal, but NO ONE DIES, everyone's fine at the end, we don't break shit and not fix it in my house

Pairings: it is platonic found family hours

Word Count: 5697

Do you know what no one ever tells you about the color black?

It’s seamless.

There are no cracks, no tears, no imperfections, because everything’s so dark you can’t tell what’s a trick of the light and what isn’t. Everything blends together. At first, second, even third glance, it’s perfect. Pristine, even. It hides absolutely everything. It’s intimidating, honestly, that level of deception. The way it can make anything look like it’s meant to be there, as if to live the colorless and lightless life is all it was ever destined for.

Darkness has always found a way of feeling like home, even to the ones who are afraid of it.

You either die the hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.

Roman hadn’t wanted to go to the wedding. He didn’t want to go, but it’s what Patton wanted. It’s what Thomas would’ve wanted. If Roman hadn’t been so loud. But it hurt, it did, when they said that they shouldn’t go to the callback because there was such a slim likelihood of Thomas winning. Because Roman couldn’t win. But Roman wasn’t supposed to be the villain and do something bad so he sent Thomas to the wedding.

Bruises were supposed to be yellow, or green, or purple, not black.

But if he had yellow, green, or purple bruises, he would’ve blamed a yellow, green, or purple Side. And that was bad.

So he hid them, because as he learned, no one was looking for them anyway. Patton cared when he didn’t show up to the video and then he was there and oh, having someone there, even if they only cared a little, was like rainfall in a desert, it was wonderful, Roman would’ve sung if he thought it wouldn’t make everything worse. But Roman was good, so he never complained, and he did his job to the best of his ability.

But what if his job was bad?

But there are two Creativities, a Roman and a Remus. And no one else liked Remus, because Remus was bad and Roman was good. But Remus isn’t bad, he’s just the opposite of Roman. And Roman didn’t want to be Remus because Remus was bad. But Remus isn’t bad.

Creativity isn’t bad.

Bruises aren’t supposed to be black but they can’t be red.

Roman isn’t supposed to be the villain but what else do you call someone who laughs at vulnerability, who scorns people’s earnest attempts to help, who single-handedly ruins someone’s life?

Roman isn’t supposed to be the villain, but bruises aren’t supposed to cover every inch of his skin unless he deserves it.

His skin burns. It crawls and aches and screams and darkens into bruises. His throat aches from the wordless screams and the horrible things he’s said to everyone. He’s been so selfish, he’s tried to make everything go his way, tried to make it about him, not about Thomas, because everything they do is supposed to help Thomas, help Thomas, that’s what they’re supposed to do, they’re supposed to help Thomas, not themselves, why is he doing this, why is he doing this?

Because he’s the villain.

Roman cries.

What else is he supposed to do?

He cries until the tears grow thick, sluggish, oozing out of his eyes until he can’t see anything but them, until his breath grows thick and his chest heavy. He cries until he has to struggle to open his eyes because of how swollen they are, how globulous the tears have become on the ends of his lashes. He cries until his head splits and his chest wails from the pain he isn’t supposed to have but deserves, deserves every little bit. He cries until his body is consumed by the bruises.

His costume is a straightjacket. He needs it off. The white hurts now, it burns his arms and cuffs his wrists. He doesn’t deserve it so he rips it off. Every seam that he ruins is another bruise. The rips are so loud they burrow into some soft part of his brain and live there. The white is still imperfect because it’s on him.

Only when his costume lies in tatters around him, his sash torn off and thrown away, far away, does the white look pure.

He cries himself to sleep with a smile on his face.

Far, far away, a black hoodie is tugged back into the Conscious Mindscape.

When Roman wakes, his head is full of static.

His lungs inflate and collapse on autopilot, driven by the merciless pump of some distant machine, turning the crank to draw air in and out, in and out.

His hands are numb, fingertips rubbed raw and inflamed from tearing relentlessly at fabric. He turns them slowly and it’s like watching himself in a video game.

His face is cold. He paws at his cheeks and feels sticky residue, etched into his skin. His eyes stick slightly when he blinks and he doesn’t know if that’s just his face or if there’s something else.

He is swathed in black fabric, an old threadbare hoodie that has gone years unloved, untouched, unseen. It’s selfishness that makes him tug it closer, feel a faint bubble of pressure on his screaming body.

He should get up, he should go make sure he hasn’t hurt anyone else with his tantrum again, he should apologize.

But…what would be the point?

Like Patton asked, does there come a point when someone keeps apologizing so much that you just have to admit they’re bad?

Roman isn’t good. Has he ever been?

Something interrupts the pleasant numbness and it shoots from his chest to the soft points at the base of his wrists, making his hands tingle. He decides he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want it. He wants everything to stop.

He’s selfish, they all know that, he’s just going to end up hurting them anyway, so why bother trying to fix it?

Apathy, his tired brain supplies when he lies there, unmoving, on the ground, for hours and hours and hours, unwilling and uncaring to fix things.

But that can’t be right. Roman is here because he cared too much, he did too much, he was too much. How can he now be the epitome of not caring at all?

If only he never cared, if only he wasn’t so attached, if only.

If only he had been Apathy, maybe he wouldn’t have been so hurt.

His pride got him here. His pride, his wants, his his his. He wanted everything and burned down the things that would’ve helped him get there because he couldn’t do it right. He is the villain and villains always have too much pride.

Pride. Apathy.

Prapathy.

Apride.

I’m not Creativity anymore, he thinks to himself as he lies there, still on the floor as his chest aches and his eyes sting and the sticky residue drips down his cheeks onto the bruises. He stares and stares and stares at the wall and a faint part of his mind that exists outside of the static realizes he never did get around to fixing that crack in the baseboard.

Pride, apathy. It doesn’t matter. There’s a much easier word that he can use to describe both of them.

Wrong.

—————————————————————

“I don’t know, Thomas,” Logan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I don’t think that’s a valid solution either.”

“But it makes sense,” Virgil protests, shoving his hands into his pockets, “all we have to do is not talk to anybody else—“

“But that will hurt their feelings!”

“But we won’t hurt ourselves.”

Janus and Patton look at each other for a moment before Patton sighs and scratches the back of his head.

“I—I don’t know, this…this feels weird.”

“None of us are happy about this, Padre,” Virgil mutters, “but it’s the best solution we’ve got.”

“Real high bar we’re setting there, isn’t it?”

“Listen, Snake Face, if you’ve got a better idea—“

“Virgil, enough.” Logan shakes his head. “We need to keep thinking.”

“We’ve been at this for an hour, Logan,” Thomas says cautiously, “I don’t know what else you think we’re gonna get to.”

“We’ve already passed the optimal point for productivity, yes.”

“Oh, well, we can’t just give up now!” Patton puts his hands on his hips. “I’m sure if we just keep at it for a little longer—“

“You said that half an hour ago, Patton.”

“And I’ll say it again!”

“Because that’s going to make everything go much easier.”

Thomas sighs as the Sides fall back into bickering. Normally, this wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary—pretty much all they do is argue back and forth—but Logan’s right. They’ve made almost no progress. He finds himself staring at the TV.

Why is he staring at the TV?

He frowns, tilting his head. It’s literally just his TV. Why is he so fixated on it right now? It’s not like it’s gone anywhere, it’s sitting right where it always is. He stares at it most of the day, why is it so weird that he’s looking at it now?

Wait—

“Guys,” he interrupts, still staring at the thing he’s not supposed to be able to see like this, “where’s Roman?”

The room pauses. Then Logan sighs.

“Oh, of course, that’s why we’ve been having such a hard time coming up with solutions, we don’t have Roman.”

At Virgil’s side-eye, he glances around to see similar looks of disbelief on the other’s faces.

“What?”

“Did you…did you just admit we need Roman?”

“He is Creativity, it makes sense that if we are struggling to be creative, he isn’t here.”

“Okay, that makes more sense.” Virgil shakes his head. “Thought you were admitting he was important or something.”

“Please, his head is big enough as it is.”

Janus hides a snort.

“Why didn’t he show up earlier,” Thomas asks, “he’s normally one of the first of you to get here.”

Virgil shrugs. “I dunno, I haven’t seen that much of him lately.”

“Is he…okay?”

“Who the hell knows, he’s Roman.”

“My guess is he’s been in his room,” Logan says, glancing at Roman’s usual spot, “I haven’t seen him either.”

Thomas doesn’t miss the way Janus and Patton glance at each other. “If you two have information now might be the time to share it.”

“Roman…hasn’t come out of his room,” Patton says after a beat, “not since…”

“Wait, he hasn’t come out since the wedding?”

Janus shakes his head. “I’ve barely seen him open his door.”

“That doesn’t…normally happen, does it?”

“No,” Patton says, “and, uh, he doesn’t normally ignore us either.”

“Ignore you?”

“We’ve tried knocking. It doesn’t work.”

“Perhaps Thomas can summon him,” Logan offers, “you have more power than any of us do, he’d have to answer you.”

“Well, here goes nothing. Creativity!”

Someone pops up in front of the TV.

Someone in a white costume with green embellishments and a mustache.

“Remus?”

Remus glares at them, his Morningstar at his side, his costume white, pristine, and light.

“What the fuck have you done with my brother?”

—————————————————————

It’s been weeks.

The fans have accepted Remus as Creativity. They think that the videos are better than ever. They think this was Thomas’s plan from the beginning.

There is one end card where the Sides are watching a movie and some of them spot a dark figure in the corner. Who could this be? Is this the mysterious orange Side everyone has been waiting for? Is this the Side that’s been hurting Thomas so much?

Zoom and enhance. It’s Virgil’s old hoodie. They’re sitting where Remus used to sit. They’re not staring at the screen, they’re looking at the others. What could this mean?

Someone spots the faint outline of a tiny crown perched atop the figure’s head.

And then, well, then it all makes sense.

There was always one Side that messed up everything, that made everything more complicated. There was always one Side that, if you thought about it, you could trace everything back to. There was always one Side that was told he was making the bad choice and yet, never seemed to learn.

They start to put together timelines, evidence, essay-length meta posts on how of course, this is the plan, why didn’t they see it before? Those that had disliked him from the start crow about how they were right, how everyone doubted them but look who’s laughing now. They point out how he’s become a Dark Side, maybe he was always a Dark Side, and how incredible would that storytelling be? To warn against the pressures of society’s expectations, the idea of good versus bad, or authentic versus forced. How of course, they’re wearing Virgil’s old hoodie because they’re the hated Side now. How they’re not looking at the screen because that’s not what they want, they want to be a part of the famILY.

Vitriolic rants. Accusations. Vent fics. The unsympathetic tag is overflowing.

Because who else could the villain be?

—————————————————————

Roman lives in the cold now.

His fireplace isn’t lit anymore. The door to the Imagination doesn’t work anymore. The blankets on his bed aren’t thick enough anymore. He drifts through a haze where only the emergency systems in his brain are online, where only the awareness needed to sleep, breathe, and move the little bits he needs to move are present.

He doesn’t know that there’s nothing behind the red door anymore, that when Janus and Virgil come to knock on it, worried, or when Remus storms through the Imagination and tries to knock it down by force, there’s nothing for them to find.

He doesn’t know that a new door, a black door, leads from his room to the hallway, far away from any of the other rooms. He doesn’t know that it’s so dark back here that no one would be able to tell there was a door if they didn’t put their nose right up against it.

He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care.

A new kind of ache settles in his bones now. Pain is an old friend, but he’s yet to give suffering a proper handshake.

He misses when he could go and ask someone for help.

He misses when Patton would turn to him without any judgment in his eyes, without any ‘well, you know, kiddo—‘, without any ‘let’s start off with—‘, just the soft words of I’m here, I’ll help you. He misses being able to walk up to Patton’s door and knock on it and know that he would be safe on the other side.

Patton would open the door and soften, his mouth curling up into a small smile as he says hey, kiddo, come in. He would sit Roman down on the bed and press a glass of water into his hands. He would rub his back as he drank, taking the empty glass gently and cupping Roman’s face in his hands. He would ask what’s wrong, sweetheart, what can I do? And Roman would say he just wants a hug, he just wants to not be alone for a bit. And Patton would smile and coo about how Roman was always welcome here, sweetheart, I’m right here, I’ll take care of you. And Roman could fall asleep with his head on Patton’s chest and believe that everything was okay.

He misses when he could walk up to Logan and ask for help and he wouldn’t be scoffed at or turned away, he wouldn’t be looked at suspiciously and asked what he really wanted. He misses when Logan could come to him too and just spend time together.

Logan would knock on his door and ask if you have a moment, would you like to walk with me? And Roman would smile and say, of course, he always has time for Logan, and they could go somewhere in the Imagination and just talk. And Logan would say that’s an interesting idea, I wonder if—and they would walk and talk for hours. And Roman could bustle up to Logan’s door and say I’ve just thought of something, and Logan would open his door and be happy to talk with Roman and it would be okay.

Roman curls up tighter and feels nothing.

He wishes he could have something to miss for Virgil. He wishes they could have bonded over their love of Disney, their want to talk about the things they’re interested in, or even the need to just have someone else in the room with them for a bit. He wishes their relationship wasn’t just spitting barbs at each other, each hoping to hit the bullseye first and knock the other one out of the race. He wishes he could’ve done better.

He wishes he could have something to miss for Janus. He wishes they could’ve done this right, that they could’ve bonded over the want to keep Thomas safe but also have him be himself. He wishes that he hadn’t laughed, hadn’t scorned, hadn’t fallen back on his pride to keep himself safe at the expense of Thomas. He wishes that maybe, just maybe, if he had been a better puppet, then he wouldn’t have been dropped so suddenly.

But as it stands now, more than anything he wishes he could hear them when they say the things they say about him because then he could figure out which bruises were theirs and take comfort in knowing that they still touch him in some way.

The bruises are a constant now. From the online hate to the casual remarks from the others to the way that Patton hasn’t even tried to come find him anymore—he can hear that, you know—he can’t turn over without landing on a new smattering of bruises. The hoodie helps to cushion the blow a little bit.

He misses Remus.

Remus was…

…Remus was everything.

Roman misses his other half. Roman misses his brother. Roman misses his Creativity.

When they were small they would curl around each other as if they could fuse if they focused hard enough. They would wrap their arms around each other so tightly that it would be a pleasant ache when they woke, never minding because they were tighter. Remus was always so warm and Roman hoarded every single bit he could get.

Roman was cruel to push his brother away and now he understands how it feels.

He misses Thomas.

He misses when he was allowed to go and see Thomas. When he could talk to Thomas. When his presence was celebrated or at the very least, tolerated. He misses it. He misses helping.

But he’s helping now, by staying away.

He’s cold.

He’s so cold.

—————————————————————

do you remember what it felt like

to be touched?

press of fingertips against shoulders

bump of a forehead against yours

palms meeting and parting a mere second later

in days gone by

do you remember

warm?

humans thrive off physical contact,

we’re not built to hold each other

at arms’ length.

infants will die

if they aren’t held enough.

and I am so

cold

—————————————————————

Something is wrong and even Patton can’t ignore it anymore.

The Sides shuffle uneasily in front of the red door until Remus raises his hand to knock against it.

“Roman?”

Silence.

“Roman, please, please, just—just say something.”

Silence.

“Where the fuck are you, Roman?”

“Don’t yell,” Logan mumbles, “you’ll make him think we’re angry at him.”

Remus takes a deep breath.

“We’re not angry, Ro-bro, we’re just—just please make some noise.”

Silence.

“…we’re coming in, Roman.”

But they can’t. Because as Remus turns the knob on the door, it falls forward. The entire door comes off just to reveal—

A blank wall. With no sign that there was ever a room behind it.

Thomas can hear the scream.

—————————————————————

Roman hears the scream and can’t move. But he can close his eyes and reach out and see what’s going on. After all, he hasn’t done anything, so something must be wrong if someone else is screaming.

He feels something in his chest twist and snap.

“Re?”

Across the Mindscape, Remus’s head jerks up.

“Ro,” he breathes, getting to his feet and rushing off down the hall as the others hurry after him, “Ro!”

“Remus, what’s going on?”

“Why isn’t Roman’s room there anymore?”

“Where are you going?”

They barrel into the hallway and smack into a black door. Logan’s eyes widen as he realizes what’s happened.

“Roman’s become a Dark Side,” he says, fingers scrabbling where the door meets the wall, “he’s—he’s really hurt, we have to help—“

“Move, L, I’m gonna break the door down.”

“You’re not gonna do it without me.”

“Roman!”

Roman turns his head to look at the door. Are they…here? The hoodie rasps against his undead skin and he winces. There are still bruises.

“Roman!”

The door shudders its frame. He could open it. He could. He just has to reach out and—

“Ro!”

Remus.

The door unlatches and his brother pours into the room, letting out a wail when he spots Roman in the bed.

Janus hisses as soon as he crosses the threshold, this room is freezing. It feels as if no one’s moved for years inside, as if the heat has been sucked out entirely. His gaze flies to Remus, who’s over on the bed, his hands scrabbling at something in black material.

Roman.

“Oh, little prince,” he whispers, horrified, “no, no, no—“

“We have to get him out,” Logan orders, startling Remus into action as he scoops Roman into his arms, “we have to get him warm. His core temperature is too low.”

“Shower? Bath?”

“No, if we shock his system we could make it worse. Janus, I need your heating pads, Patton, something warm to drink.”

Janus and Patton vanish.

“Virgil, weighted blankets, Remus—“

“I’m here.” As Virgil ducks away as well, Remus helps Logan cradle the limp and freezing form of his brother in their arms as they begin to rush out of that horrible, horrible room. “You thinking bathroom?”

“Get him to Janus’s, that’ll be the safest place.”

“Got it.”

Sure enough, Janus has no objection and sweeps them inside, setting down the heating pads as Patton bustles in with two thermos flasks and a mug. Virgil pops back with thick blankets as they lay the cold form on the ground. Roman’s eyes blink sluggishly as he stares up at Remus.

“...Re?”

“Yeah, Roro, it’s me, I’m right here, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here faster.”

“What’s…wha’s going on?”

“You’re too cold, Roman,” Logan says gently, “we need to get you warmed up.”

“Oh…”

“It will be easier if we take a few of the layers off,” he explains, still careful to keep his voice low and even as the others scurry around, “is that alright?”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to unzip the hoodie.” Logan works slowly, patiently, stopping when any flicker crosses Roman’s face. “That’s it, you’re doing very well, I’m almost done.”

By the time he’s coaxed the hoodie off of Roman’s shoulders, there’s a little bit of color back in his cheeks.

“Very good, Roman, you did well. Virgil’s brought a few warm blankets and Janus has heating pads for you, do you think you can sit up?”

“Don’t know.”

“That’s alright, you’re doing alright.” Logan glances up at Janus.

“Little prince,” Janus murmurs, sitting by Roman’s head, “if you can sit up, I can sit behind you and help warm you up, does that sound alright?”

“Okay.”

“Thank you, sweetie, we’re going to sit you up now.”

Logan and Janus sit Roman up slowly, only to pause when the long sleeves of his shirt fall down.

“Roman,” Logan asks, trying frantically to keep his voice calm, “are you hurt?”

“Mhm.”

He bites back the fearful response and patiently asks where, how bad, can he see?

“Everywhere.” Roman lifts his arms weakly. “’S all bruises.”

“…can we see?”

“Okay.”

Logan’s hands begin to tremble as he works the shirt over Roman’s head. He wasn’t kidding when he said everywhere.

There’s barely an inch of skin that doesn’t look bruised black and blue. Patton stifles a cry as he drops to his knees next to them, looking at Roman like he’s never seen it this bad before.

Oh, Roman, how did they not know? How could he just ignore him like that?

“Get him covered,” comes Virgil’s voice, “he’s still too cold.”

Janus grabs one of the blankets and wraps it carefully around Roman’s form. It should help distribute whatever pressure they apply so it won’t aggravate his injuries too severely. He takes one heating pad and scoots forward, bracketing Roman’s legs with his own and wrapping one pair of arms around him to press the pad to his chest.

“Can you feel that, sweetie,” he asks softly, “is that too warm?”

“No.”

“Good, good, little prince, you’re being very brave.” He turns away to reach for another and so misses the little shudder that goes through Roman. “Do you think you can handle another if I press it to the back of your neck?”

“Mm.”

“Let’s try, little prince, and if it’s too much, I’ll stop.”

“Okay.”

“Here we go, sweetie—“ Janus presses it carefully to the base of Roman’s skull, just at the edge of the blanket— “there, does that feel okay?”

“Mm.”

“Good, sweetie, you’re doing so well, so good for us, that’s it, you relax now.”

Roman starts to tremble.

“That’s alright,” Logan soothes, “you’re warming up, it means you’re going to shiver a little more, you’re alright, Roman, you’re safe. You’re doing well.”

It certainly doesn’t seem that way once Roman’s breath starts to come in gasps. Virgil nudges Patton out of the way and sits, gently calling Roman’s name until his gaze snaps to Virgil’s.

“Hey, Princey,” Virgil says slowly, “you gotta stay with me now, okay? We’re right here, no one’s angry, nothing’s going to hurt you. Just focus on me.”

He ignores the startled noises when Roman starts to cry thick, black tears.

“Eyes on me, Princey, that’s it, stay here. We’re just gonna sit here and breathe for a moment, okay?” Roman nods and Virgil starts to take big, exaggerated breaths. “Good. That’s it, Princey, you focus on me and you breathe. It’s okay. You’re doing great. Just stay here.”

When the viscous black liquid slows, Virgil reaches out and begins to tuck Roman’s hair back. A moment longer and he pauses, noting how the scratch on Roman’s face is covered in the thick black tears.

“Princey, can I clean your face off for you? You’re doing really well at breathing, I’m proud of you. Can I help you with the rest of it?”

“O-okay.”

There’s a bottle of micellar water and a pack of cotton circles pressed into his hands. He moves in slow, careful strokes, changing out the circles as often as he needs to. A pile of them grows beside him as he works, doing his best to get all the black off of Roman’s face. Roman just cries.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Patton murmurs when Roman’s cry gives way to a wail, “it’s okay, you cry all you need to, we’re not going anywhere, it’ll be alright.”

“We have you, sweetie,” Janus says against Roman’s neck, “we’re here.”

Remus lets out a broken noise.

“Oh, Roman, you didn’t…”

Logan’s head whips sharply around to scold Remus only for his mouth to fall open in shock.

Remus’s costume is bleeding too. The same black that drips down Roman’s face is slowly coloring Remus’s costume again, back to what it normally looks like. Remus’s mouth is agape, staring horrified at Roman.

“Oh, Ro—“

“What’s going on?”

“Check the bruises on his neck,” Remus orders as Janus pulls back the blanket, “are they still there?”

“They’re here, but they’re…lighter, how is that—?”

“Roman is the Ego,” Patton mumbles, “he gets bruised when—when—“

“Oh, shit,” Virgil curses, before quickly hushing Roman’s discontented mumble, “and with all the hate that’s been gunning for him—“

“Oh, sweetheart—“

Roman lets out another sob and the tears run clear.

“The Ego is kept healthy by positive attention,” Logan says softly, scooting closer and rubbing Roman’s shoulder through the blanket, “you’ve been starving, haven’t you?”

“He’s not cold because he’s hypothermic,” Remus blusters, “he’s touch starved.”

“It’s still not safe to introduce him to direct contact all at once,” Logan warns when Patton and Remus look like they want to rip the blanket off, “we have to take it slow.”

“So what do we do?”

Janus just leans down and presses a kiss to Roman’s temple. “You’re so brave, sweetie, you’ve been so strong.”

They watch as Roman’s tears begin to wash away the black.

“We love you, sweetheart, you’re so important to us.”

“Stay with us, Princey, we need you.”

“You’re doing very well, Roman, we’re very proud of you.”

Roman cries, ducking his head into Virgil’s waiting hands as Remus’s costume colors itself black again.

After a long while, when Remus looks like he normally does, Roman shakes his head and looks up at them.

“Where am I,” and he sounds like Roman again, “what’s happened?”

“You were starving, sweetheart,” Patton mumbles, “and we didn’t notice until it was too late.”

“O-oh,” Roman blinks, “is that…is that why I’m so cold?”

“You’re touch starved too,” Virgil adds, “and we, uh, L said it wasn’t a good idea to try and shock you out of it.”

“Try and drink something,” Logan says quickly as Patton reaches for the mug, “you’ve been crying for a while and you’re dehydrated.”

“Is that…hot chocolate?”

“Your favorite, kiddo.”

Remus sits down at Roman’s side as he drinks, staring at him like he’s not seen him in ages. Which, well, none of them have, really.

“I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Roman repeats, looking sheepishly at all of them, “I, uh, well, the last video I messed up a lot. I, uh, I shouldn’t have laughed at your name, Jan—where are you?”

“Right here,” Janus mumbles, giving him a gentle squeeze, “and you’re forgiven.”

“Oh. Uh, that was easy…are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Yes, it wasn’t great of you to do, but I’m not exactly blameless either and…”

He squeezes him again.

“…you’ve been hurting enough.”

“Logan, you too, I—I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Roman, but I agree. It’s alright.”

“Why are you all forgiving me so fast?”

“Because,” Remus mumbles, cupping Roman’s head and resting their foreheads together, “this happened.”

They all watch as Roman shudders as Remus shows him what happened.

“Oh—oh—I—oh no—“

“It’s over now, sweetie,” Janus reassures, “we’ve got you. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

“C-can I have a hug?”

“Of course, honey, come here—“

“Let’s get the blanket out of the way, L, is he—“

“It should be safe now, yes.”

“Remus, I—oof!”

“I gotcha, Ro-Bro.”

“It’s still—I’m still—“

“Patton, grab that end of the blanket.”

“This one?”

“That’s it, yes.”

The Sides end up swaddled in the blanket, their heads poking out, as each of them pulls a little bit of Roman into their arms to warm up. Janus and Remus wrap around his upper body, mindful of the few bruises that haven’t been healed yet. His legs are in Patton’s lap, as Logan and Virgil each hold on to his hands. The poor thing is still shivering, still shaking, still a little overwhelmed.

But Janus coos into his ear as his head lolls back, Remus holding him tightly. Logan’s thumb strokes over his palm as Virgil lets him squeeze as tight as he needs to. Patton makes sure he’s off the cold tile and he’s warm.

They’re going to have to work out what to do about the fans, about the videos, but right now they need to worry about Roman.

Speaking of Roman—

“I—I need to apologize to Thomas.”

A cry goes up as he says so, Patton reaching up to pat his knee. “You don’t have to do that right now, sweetheart, rest, it’s okay—“

“I won’t—he won’t be able to rest until he knows what’s happened.”

As if he can hear them, they feel the familiar tug of one of them being summoned. A quick glance around shows that if one of them is going, all of them are, so they appear on the floor of the living room, swaddled in the blanket.

Thomas’s mouth drops open and he rushes to their side.

“I was gonna ask if you found Roman, but I—Roman, buddy, are you okay?”

“I…I don’t know,” Roman mumbles, “but I’m sorry.”

“For what, buddy?”

As Roman begins to apologize, for being away, for hurting Thomas, for being selfish, Thomas just shakes his head.

“No, buddy, that’s not all on you. You—yeah, okay, some things happened, but it’s not entirely your fault. You don’t need to think of it like that.”

“Well said,” Logan mutters, “now help us get Roman to rest.”

“So what Disney movie are we watching and how many pillows do we need?”

A lot, as it turns out, is the answer. And they have to bite back laughs at the way Thomas makes a noise when he’s swept into the blanket too. But Thomas is warm and Roman is still cold and the movie plays on the screen.

“Hey, Roman?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re my hero.”

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evertriedsoywithyourpopcorn · 4 years ago

Text

5 Reasons Roman Is Infuriating (And Why I DO NOT have a crush on him)

(Logince with a bit of denying and pining) Read on AO3

My first fic, based on my Logince drawing (If someone ever wants to make anything based on my art, feel free to ask. Making content is hard and people fleshing out concepts is always fun.) Word count: 3641

Tw: Cursing, Food mention, Balloon popping, Remus being his authentic self

Character’s: Remus, Virgil, Janus, Logan, Roman (At the end), Patton (Mainly implied)

~~~

He had everything ready.

"Ahem."

Three heads turn to look at him.

"Logan, I really don't understand why you're doing this. You know I'm literally the Lord of the Lies, right? I can tell when you're lying."

"Falsehood. I am here specifically to prove to you three, the ones that have doubted me the most, what I think of Roman, so that you'll stop teasing me about emotions that aren't even there." Logan says, standing in front of a long classroom table. Virgil, Janus and Remus sit there, each maintaining their own postures and looking at him with disbelieving expressions.

"Logan, we can see your heart boner from here. You really think you can convince us with a slideshow presentation?" Remus picks his teeth, seemingly bored of the idea.

"That's exactly what I'm doing- What? Why would my heart have a boner? It doesn't have the proper parts to do that-" Logan looks lost, clutching the presentation button in his hand.

"It's an expression, Pocket Protector. It means you've got feelings for him." Virgil sighs.

Logan squints at him. "Of course I have feelings for him." Logan looks behind him, to the SmartBoard behind him. The board turns on, displaying the presentation title. "And those feelings are feelings of irritation. My name is Logan Sanders, and welcome to my Ted Talk."

There is a collective sigh from the others.

Logan takes a pointer stick (the one with the little hand on one side) from a holder on the wall, and points at the words on the screen. "This is 5 reasons why Roman is infuriating. And unlike your cognitive distortions may suggest, I DO NOT have a crush on him." He gestures with the stick where the same thing is written. "So, let's begin."

~~~

1. He likes to insist that he's the most handsome side, despite us all looking like Thomas.

It's ridiculous. All of their traits are reminiscent of Thomas's.

There are some mild changes they go through when they aren't summoned, but they are just slight shifts. For example, Janus and Remus both have different long hairstyles, and they all have a bit of a hair color change. Their features do shift too, emulating ones Thomas has seen over his lifetime that he'd associate with their personalities.

However, in person and in the mindscape, Roman really thinks 'he's the sh*t' (Virgil taught him that expression). He flaunts his beauty over everyone else's, strutting like the prettiest peacock in the flock. Sure, he's good looking, but the same level of good looking as all the other sides.

"You're all so handsome. But not as handsome as me." Logan recalls him saying in an episode.

He tries to use it to one-up the other's, even though they all know they look the same. He also enjoys flaunting his ego, attempting to emulate a lifestyle of the rich and famous when he feels like it.

It's rather ridiculous.

"You think he's good-looking?" Remus coos.

Logan glares, and changes the slide of the presentation.

2. He fights everyone all the time. (Except for Patton)

It seems that Roman has made the most rivals out of everyone.

He's rivals with his brother, he's got a rivalry with Janus but with more betrayal behind it, he's got his past rivalry with Virgil, even though now they're the closest friends, and despite making up several times, Logan is also his rival. Patton seems to be fine, despite their post-wedding event. Logan believes Roman is too worried of defending what he believes in against the literal embodiment of Thomas's morality.

"So, you two have tried making up, but have you considered... Making out???" Remus pitches, his smile all teeth.

Logan sputters a bit. "Puh- Wha- I don't think that would work."

Logan has in fact not thought of making out with Roman, thank you very much. Not even when they're so close, passionately arguing about who-knows-what in the spur of the moment, where it would be so easy to move just a little bit closer and connect his lips to the soft pink ones of the prince.

He has not thought about making out with Roman, because he does not have a crush on him. Period. End of story.

The two of them argue a lot. Whether it's how Thomas should spend his day, to the Chicken or the Egg dilemma (Logan knows he's right, by the way, Roman just won't see that the egg came first), to the ideal temperature for a heating pillow, to the best Crofter's flavor. They can range from productive, to stupid, and by the end of it they may just be fighting about nothing at all.

They jab at each other, come up with clever arguments, and although they're technically fighting, it sometimes feels more like a duel.

"Or a mating ritual." Virgil says under his breath.

"These points don't sound very negative." Janus adds, twirling some of his hair with his finger.

"It is negative. We fight a lot. He fights people a lot. Every issue seems to be a battle to him that he can outmatch, despite being better suited as a civil discussion." Logan stands taller, trying to defend his point.

"Well, that makes sense. I understand this point now. Go on." Janus waves his gloved hand in a dismissive gesture.

"Alright." Logan clicks his presenter button, and the slide changes.

3. He's loud. Super loud. All the time.

From singing to dancing to bantering, there never does seem to be a dull moment when Roman is around. Some may call it nice, but Logan would say that's a very polite description. It certainly isn't nice when Logan's trying to get work done, or watch a movie, or enjoy a peaceful breakfast, or most of the time really.

Logan has stopped working outside when he's trying to be productive because Roman will, without fail, come in singing, and then start a little fight with Logan that distracts him from his work and renders him unproductive for a long time because all he can think about is Roman.

"Hm... Wonder why that is." Janus interrupts, rolling his eyes.

"Well, you don't need to wonder. I said it was because of our fighting." Logan nervously adjusts his already immaculately placed glasses, resuming his point to his slide presentation.

It's odd, because sometimes even without leaving his room, he can still hear the sounds of Roman's voice in his head. He theorizes the absence of all that noise is making him subconsciously fill it in ( even though his mind also provides him with clear images of Roman's smile).

He can't escape the noise on movie nights. Roman will sing along to any song, scream at the most poorly-timed jumpscares, and no matter what, criticize the movie. Logan does participate in that last step from time to time.

During dinners, it depends. Sometimes, Roman will come in and do his thing, sometimes he'll make a dramatic entrance, grab a plate and then go off to work on something, and sometimes he won't show up at all, off on a quest in the imagination. Those particular meals are peaceful. Sometimes they feel empty, but so far, no one else has complained. Especially considering with Remus' and Janus' seats added to the table, dinner can be a wild event.

Sometimes, when Logan gets lonely, he'll bring his work outside. Every time, he can guarantee that Roman will be there eventually. He provides a healthy distraction, and he always feels much lighter after a bantering session.

But most of the time, he just can't stand it. How can one be so flamboyant for so many hours of the day? Logan had theorized it had something to do with overcompensation, his need for validation and attention, but then thought it was strange theorizing about his friends and went back to work.

Overall, not the worst trait, but it being applied to every scenario adds to the fact that he is infuriating.

"Hold on, can we circle back to the part where you said you thought of him smiling-" Virgil begins, only to be interrupted by Logan pointing his pointer at him.

"No, we will not. Next point."

4. He makes up stupid nicknames.

And he makes a lot of them. Even during serious talks, you'd think he had forgotten your name and was too scared to ask, so he supplies an abundance of back-ups to make you feel special. And they are quite varied, though all slightly jabbing. There are play-on-words, references thrown about... It would have impressed Logan, had all of his designated nicknames not revolved around him being a nerd.

"Hey Microsoft Turd."

"I need your help, Egghead."

"Listen here, Erlenmeyer Trash-"

"Calculator Watch."

"Oh Book Geeeerm~"

"Sure thing Specs."

Logan actually didn't mind specs, but his point still stands. All insulting, clever, but still stupid nicknames. Sometimes, he wonders if Roman keeps a book of them around. Somewhere in his room, filled with all the names he'll unleash onto his unsuspecting companions. Logan may have tried to come up with a list of his own in retaliation, but he couldn't think of anything Roman would think was clever. He spent almost a full night on it, hair a mess, glasses askew, head resting on his desk as he tried to come up with something at least remotely good enough. It interrupted his perfect circadian rhythm. Never again.

Except for the next night, where he tried the exact same stunt again, but that doesn't matter.

What does, is that all of those factors cause aggravation. He always feels weird when Roman gives him a nickname, varying from annoyance to a strange tingling.

"Are you saying he should stop?" Virgil interrupts, frustrated. "This point is going nowhere."

"I-" He's not sure. Although some of the insults are quite jabbing, Logan does want to support Roman's creative process. Not to mention, the nickname ‘specs’ oddly does hold a place in his heart.

"OoOoOoohhh, I have an idea!" Remus cackles. Although Logan is hesitant, he gestures to continue. "Okay, so pinky swear I won't try anything on you, but just close your eyes, and imagine how this nickname would make you feel if Roman said it."

Logan apprehensively closes his eyes, and Remus does nothing but lean slightly forward in his seat, and puts on his best Roman impression. Which is pretty good, considering they're twin brothers.

"How are you today, my love?"

Immediately, Logan flushes bright red from head to toe, covering his face in his hands and squirms. Remus's cackling intensifies by a tenfold, and the other two are poorly failing to contain their laughter.

"That's- That's- That's... N-not a nickname. Th-That's a p-pet name."

"Awww, but you're blushiiiing!" Remus squeals in amusement.

"Falsehood. N-no." Logan says, not enough bite in it to hold value. "We are going to move on now. That just... caught me off guard." He says, adjusting his tie several times, trying to compose himself. "The point is, his nicknames are stupid, and I don't like them- No, don't look at me like that Remus even that one- so it adds to his infuriating nature." Logan grabs the presentation button and clicks it aggressively to the next slide.

"And now, for my concluding point."

5. He is incredibly and willingly dumb.

Sometimes Logan thinks he wouldn't be surprised by the illogical things Roman would say. And then he gets proven incredibly wrong.

"Much like your... 'illogical feelings', mayhaps?" Janus drawls.

Shush, Logan is talking.

Granted, both Creativity twins have proven to be rather illogical, as they are embodiments of creativity, a force that knows only slight bounds to logic. Only with a defying mind can people push boundaries in the advancement of society. That doesn't mean however that those defying minds need to be intelligent.

"I believe Virgil specifically had called Roman a.." He takes out his special cards, flipping through them. " 'A Himbo'. Judging from his past and present behaviors and from the definition itself, it is safe to assume that yes, he is in fact a Himbo."

One instance he can remember is during a picnic in the imagination. It was Patton's birthday, and Roman wanted to do something special, so he set up a picnic for them all to attend. Logan doesn't enjoy visiting the imagination as much, as when he's there, things become more realistic and that makes him feel like a burden. Regardless, it was for Patton's birthday, and so he decided it would be polite to come along.

Everyone was guided by a trail of flowers to an opening in the forest, where a giant picnic blanket was laid out, pillows thrown around, and a large picnic basket stood in the center. There were many balloons of pastel pink and blue tied around, and the birds were chirping in a joint melody. It sounds almost like Happy Birthday.

Logan, as he approaches, hopes that his influence won't cause ants to emerge, because although that would be realistic, it would also be quite the nuisance.

He and the other's are just dressed in their usual attire, but as Roman emerges from the trees, he is wearing a shiny red party hat to go along with his prince outfit.

Roman immediately goes to serenading Patton and placing a party hat on top of his head, light blue with a little pompom on the top. He ushers him to sit on one of the largest pillows, and then goes around giving everyone else party hats. Logan stills when Roman gets to him last, a dark blue party hat with little stars in his hand.

"Do I have to wear that?" He asks. Although, sure, it does look nice, he doesn't want to seem ridiculous.

"Come on, you're in good company. Please? For Patton?" Roman bats his eyelashes at Logan, who sighs and lets him put the party hat onto his head.

Roman runs off to the birthday boy, and they all sit down. The time passes peacefully, songs being sung and Roman releasing a horde of puppies to the joy of the guests. By the time the food is out, everything seems to be going well, until they're all eating, and Roman pulls out an orange. As he's about to peel it, Logan speaks up.

"Roman, I would advise against that." Which may sound ridiculous to most people, but Logan is an expert on many logical things. ( Orange peels have a flammable liquid in them called limonene, and as both it and a balloon, made of latex, are non-polar, the liquid can dissolve the balloon, thus causing it to explode.)

"Against what?" Roman asks, but he does stop his attempt.

Logan adjusts his glasses, ready to explain. "Eating an orange near a balloon. As I cause the imagination to become more logical, doing so will most likely cause-"

"Oh puh-lease! I'm sure whatever wacky science things you're going to say don't actually work here! I mean, there is plenty of influence to go arou-" Roman, the spiteful side he is, gets even closer to the balloon, starting to peel it. Lo-and-behold, he can't finish his denying before the balloon right beside him explodes with a loud POP. The sound sends him jumping back in fear, screeching to the nine hells, and then falling backwards onto another balloon, scaring him again. Several sides laughed out loud at his pain, while Patton watched him, worried. Logan smiled internally at the karma, before getting up and making sure he was okay.

Roman did spend the rest of the party in a sulky mood, but the party was still a huge success. They had some good food, and while Logan made Patton a flower crown, he fed him forfulls of cake. It was a nice bonding moment. When everyone separated to return to the mindscape, Roman waved them all off from the imagination door. Logan turns back to look at him, but Roman makes no move to follow them all out.

"You're not coming back yet?" Logan asks, adjusting his glasses.

Roman sighs. "No, not yet. I'm afraid this dashing prince has a little bit of cleaning to do. And perhaps an adventure. You never know." He leans on the doorframe, smiling.

"Well, that is correct. I in fact do not know what you'll be doing." Logan nods to himself. "Do you need any help cleaning? I doubt I'll be much help with the adventure, but I do have hands." He gestures to his hands.

Roman looks quite surprised. "Oh, thanks for the offer, specs. I think I've got it all covered though."

Logan offers a hesitant smile. "Alright then. Let me know if that changes."

Roman quickly smiles back, a faint pink dusting his cheeks, and turns back into the imagination and shutting the door. Logan stands there for a moment, but not sure why. It's clear that Roman was not feeling all that great from the balloon moment. Even Logan, terrible at deciphering emotions, can tell that much. Perhaps he needs to let off some steam.

He just can't understand Roman most of the time. They do have so many similarities, being too proud for their own good, but it's almost like they're in two separate worlds. Logan, the learner he is, wishes he could explore Roman's own. Understand it. Understand him, and his way of thinking. Even though Roman is mostly dumb, he does make good points, and Logan tries to prioritize his input, as it's usually what Thomas is hoping and dreaming for as well.

~~~

The last slide shines back at them all. A concluding statement that makes the three watching sides snicker a little bit.

"And I believe he just doesn't understand how much we all think he's great. I swear, he's just so dense! It's so aggravating! How can he not tell that he's worth everything? Why doesn't he understand that we all care for him? That I care for him? He's wonderful, for god's sake! And that I don't mean to hurt him with my critiques. I want him to thrive! I-"

Everything stops. Logan takes a moment of silence. The three sides look at him, each with different degrees of anticipation. One looks pretty much ready to pounce out of his seat.

"...Oh."

And all at once, everything gets strung back into motion. Confetti literally falls from the ceiling as Remus jumps for joy, circling a very mortified looking Logan. Janus, the tired soul, rolls his eyes and lets out a slow, long clap. Virgil just rests his head in his arms.

"I can't believe this. You sit us all down for a presentation you probably double-checked and proofread, like a nerd, and only NOW you realize you were wrong all along? Why didn't you say anything, snake-face?" Virgil complains, sitting up just to glare at him.

"Wo-ow, it isn't as if I was saying that this whole time? No, it couldn't be." Janus deadpans, sarcasm spilling from his mouth like an old, worn, broken dam.

Logan doesn't move from his stand-still spot beside the projector, but Remus manages to bounce in circles around him, cooing. "Lo-lo's got a cruuuush! A crushy crush! A crushed crust of a crush! A crevice cracking ‘cause of the crushed crust-" He was going to continue, throwing expired banana peels around to substitute rose petals, until the sound of the door opening catches everyone's attention.

"Hey losers, Patton wanted to know if you-" Lo and behold, Roman walks in, regal as ever, smiling until he takes in the sight before him. The boring classroom look, contrasted by the amount of confetti that stopped falling as soon as he walked in. Janus and Virgil, wide-eyed and looking at him, completely still. Remus, caught mid dance, frozen in place with a smile. Logan, looking at him in the way one may look milliseconds after being caught stealing government secrets. Roman's eyes flicker to each of them, before settling on the projector.

"Roman. I-I can explain-" Logan starts, but Roman is already reading the words on the screen.

"... 'In short, he saddles me with unnecessary... feelings'? 'Unease, and uncertainty'? Who... Oh my god! Logan!" Roman looks at him, smiling in disbelief and amazement. "I know what this meanssss!" Filled with giddy delight, he sidesteps the table.

Logan gulps as Roman approaches, turning beet red as Roman takes his hands in his two own. "Y-Yes?" He practically squeaks as Roman looks him right in the eyes.

"Yes! Ohhh, this is so exciting!" The three bystanders watch, once again in anticipation, as Roman swings their interlocked hands.

"Yes?" Logan offers a small, tentative smile.

"You have a crush on someoooone! Oh Logan, you should've told me!" Roman smiles, completely oblivious to the internal facepalm of several present members.

"I-I'm sorry..." Logan looks down, slightly disappointed but still too flustered to say anything.

"God save the dense." Janus mutters, inspecting his gloves fingers.

"Don't be sorry! Come, we must make plans! I shall be your matchmaker! This is going to be perfeeeect!" Roman, sings, dancing out of the room and dragging Logan along by their still intertwined hands. The other sides watch them go.

After a moment of processing, Virgil sighs. "Well, I thought that was going to be resolved. Turns out they're both as dense as... dense people." He can't seem to think of any other similes.

"Welp, I'm just happy that they're one step closer to getting. it. on. romantically." Remus punctuates every word with some rather immature hand gestures. “And that they stop dancing around each other.”

"Who do you think Roman thinks Logan has a crush on?" Virgil asks, cogs turning in his brain.

Janus lounges backwards. "Well, let's see... Soooo many options. Either he thinks it's someone outside of Thomas's head, or the simple answer..."

Remus and Virgil both look at him, both with looks of realization.

"Patton."

~~~

#logince #logince fic #logan sanders #ts logan #remus sanders #janus sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #ts roman #implied patton sanders #tw food #oliver writes #i also snuck an ace attorney reference #i was going to wait but i'm just very excited to post this #5 Reasons fic

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sickficsies-and-whumpsies · 3 years ago

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Hello! may I ask sick kawanishi taichi? because it's actually hard to find his version :"D. He gets his hay fever acting up in class all day and causes a fever and headache. Shirabu take care of him since they're classmates and he looks horrible. Thank you!

Hello!! Now that I think about it, I've never even read Kawanishi content, poor guy. I hope this is similar to what you had in mind~

TW: headache, hay fever, coughing & sneezing.

1.1k words, Gen.

ーーー

The voice of his Chemistry teacher blabbering about the TCA cycle almost lulls him to sleep. His head rests propped up on his hands, elbow on the hard, uncomfortable desk as he blinks, trying to make out whatever's being written on the blackboard. Kawanishi has only taken notes for the first ten minutes of the lecture, before entirely giving up.

His head has been pounding without giving him a break since the previous night, and out of the usual seven hours of sleep he normally gets, he's sure he hasn't actually slept for more than three. Not well, either.

Kawanishi slowly moves his hands to the sides of his head, palms flat on his ears that ache and throb. He hisses under his breath, sniffling, eyes watery.

The room keeps spinning, and his eyelids feel heavy and sore. The ache in his head, ears and chest drowns out everything else.

He doesn't even notice how Shirabu's staring at him from his desk. The setter eyes his friend carefully, and rapidly notices his puffy eyes and his cloth tissue crumpled and indubitably damp with snot.

He returns his attention to the lesson, but not long passes before he's startled by a stifled cough coming from the back of the classroom. Most of his classmates, and even the teacher, only glance at the source of the noise for a split second before going on with their duties.

Yet, Shirabu can't pry his gaze from Kawanishi, who looks more and more in agony with each passing instant. Although he isn't familiar with allergies himself, it's not hard to identify the symptoms.

Headache, runny nose, cough, and tiredness, from the looks of it. He doesn't envy him one bit.

Shirabu recalls that Kawanishi has mentioned being on antihistamine medications, but it doesn't seem that the boy has taken them before coming to school.

"Shirabu-kun!?"

He startles, snappung around to meet his teacher's annoyed gaze. "Perhaps you should focus on the lesson. I know you can get good grades, however I believe you might learn something from this, too."

The boy nods, bowing his head slightly, cheeks tinged in red. "Y-yes sir, sorry sir!!"

Someone snickers, yet Shirabu pays no mind to anyone but Kawanishi, who's still sniffling and struggling to hold his cough.

As soon as the bell rings, marking the end of those neverending fifty minutes, Shirabu is quick to catapult himself to his friend's desk, crocuhing next to it.

Kawanishi, whose head now lays above his arms, that work as a makeshift pillow, slowly tilts his gaze towards Shirabu, cocking an eyebrow in confusion.

"Kenjirou? What're you...?"

"Did you take your meds today? The antihistamine ones." he asks, pragmatic as always. "You know your hay fever's bad, so why didn't you?"

Kawanishi looks like he's about to say something, but a wet cough cuts him off abruptly. Shirabu timidly reaches out with his hand, rubbing soothing circles on his friend's trembling back while he coughs and sputters helplessly.

The middle-blocker reaches for his water bottle with the hand that isn't pressed against his mouth, and shakes his head, regretting the action as it throbs harder.

"Why not? Did you run out?"

"C-couldn't." Kawanishi replies once the coughing fit comes to an end, "Test later. Meds make me sleepy."

Shirabu sighs. Right, they have an English test coming up in the fifth period, he'd momentarily forgotten about it.

"Still..." he fumbles for words, "Your health is more important than a test. You look like you can't breathe."

"Th-that's because it's true." Kawanishi coughs, cheeky. Shirabu lets his shoulders sag, just a bit.

"Listen, I'll make you a deal. We still have a bit more than four hours until the test, so how about you take the meds, rest in the infirmary and come back for it later, if you're up to it?"

"W-what aboutー" a sneeze, then another, then a cough, and a groan. "M-my head, fuck..."

Shirabu doesn't even wait for his friend's final answer. He turns to a classmate, explaining the situation and asking her to warn the teacher. Then, he starts to rummage insise Kawanishi's bag, retrieving the meds, and his bottle.

"Let's go, Taichi." he calls, gentle.

His friend slowly stands, chair screeching against the linoleum, but as soon as he's up, he sways. A hand immediately shoots for the desk, grip tight to steady himself.

Shirabu's got his other arm, a concerned look in his honey eyes.

"You good? Do you need to sit back down?"

"N-no, no, m'fine, just tired." Kawanishi hums, straightening himself. Shirabu still doesn't let go, and the two of them make their way towards the nurse's office.

The walk is painfully slow, Shirabu being forced to stop dragging Kawanishi more than once as the latter doubles over and coughs, or sneezes, or moans in agony.

"You should've stayed in bed."

"You sh-should've let a professional cut your hair."

Shirabu snorts. The fact that Kawanishi's well enough to joke around is a huge relief. Luckily, the infirmary isn't far, and the nurse is kind and quick as he allows them in, instructing Kawanishi to take off his shoes and to loosen his tie before he shows him a free bed.

Shirabu and the nurse exchange a few words, and soon the setter joins Kawanishi, handing him a pill and his water bottle.

"Here. I told the nurse about your hay fever, but he's said he will have to check your temperature and blood pressure anyway, for safe measure. I'll be back in three hours, to see how you're doing."

Kawanishi swallows the pill. He then turns to face Shirabu, "Thanks, man. Sorry for the h- ha- the hassー" a forceful sneeze cuts him off.

"It was no hassle. Now rest." he says, offering a kind smile before he leaves the office, Kawanishi fast asleep.

ーーー

Shirabu doesn't visit him three hours later. Instead, Kawanishi blinks his eyes open to the warm, tangerine sunlight filtering through the infirmary shutters, and only then he sees his friend walking towards him, his own and Kawanishi's school bags and duffel bags thrown over his shoulders.

"Oh, you're up." he chirps.

Kawanishi frowns, face hurting. "What time s'it?"

"Oh, like, 6:30PM? I let you sleep in, since the nurse said you needed to rest more. Ah, the teacher said that you can take the test once you're well, it's no problem for her." Shirabu says, nonchalantly. "I know you're mad at me for tricking you, so I'm treating you to sukiyaki."

"You think food can solve this?"

"Can't it, though?" Shirabu grins.

Kawanishi's stern expression sobers up a second later. "...I get to pick the place. And I want ice-cream later, my throat hurts."

ーーー

Let me know how I did with this one!! And, anon, if you have an AO3 please let me know, so that I can gift this fic to you next week!!

(August 25, 2021)

#my fic #haikyuu sickfic #haikyuu!! sickfic #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#sickfic #sneezing #coughing #headache #kawanishi taichi #shirabu kenjirou #shiratorizawa #sickie kawanishi taichi #caretaker shirabu kenjirou #hay fever #anon request

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qlala · 3 years ago

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pleeease can we have more teacher barry au? or kidfic? my crops are dying

Alright, sorry for the slight delay on this one, but please know that you're a menace and I kept thinking about it and then I wrote this for you all in one sitting.

It's both teacher!Barry (though still set in the canon universe!) and coldflash kidfic. <3 I just put it up as a prequel to "good cop, bad cop" on ao3, since I guess it technically is that? Although, if you guys have opinions about what order the series should be in, I'd interested to hear it!

“Barry?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve got something in your hair.”

Barry hid a wry grin, and glanced over at Len—at least, glanced as far in his direction as he could manage. Two small hands were holding his head still, though Henry did let go of one handful of Barry’s hair to reach out when Len stepped around the coffee table and stood in front of them.

“Alright, kid.” Len bent down and hoisted Henry off Barry’s shoulders, and both of them ignored Barry’s indignant yelp when Henry didn’t quite remember to let go of Barry with his other hand in time. “I like the hair too, but he’s gotta move his head to”—Len propped Henry on his hip and reached out to steal the top page from the stack of papers in front of Barry—“grade pop quizzes.”

“Those are midterms.” Barry stretched, then tipped his head to one side with a muffled crack.

“Then you’re going easy on them.” Len took advantage of his distraction to hand the paper to Henry, who scrunched it in his hand with a broad smile.

[read on ao3, or continue reading below the cut]

“Len!” Barry recovered the paper in a sweep of yellow lightning, and Len traced his trajectory from the fading after-image even as Barry tried to smooth out the test on the arm of the couch.

“So feet on the coffee table are allowed when the Flash does it?”

“Language,” Barry reminded him, without looking up.

Henry, ever the trooper, was taking the loss of his prize in stride, and Len rewarded him by bending his knees to let him reach for the next paper in the stack.

“Leonard.”

“He’s working on his reading.”

“He’s eighteen months old.”

Len read the upside-down paper Henry was offering to him. “Another year for whoever’s test this was, they might be at his level.”

Barry got the same ruffled look he always did when he was torn between defending his students and agreeing with every hyperbolic praise Len had for their son. Eventually, he landed on, “You’re not helping.”

“I disagree.” Len accepted the paper from Henry, turned it right-side up, and finished skimming it. “You’ve got a typo in question three. That’s why they’re all putting ‘hydrogen.’”

Barry yanked the exam back, despite having a stack of identical ones on the table in front of him. His eyes went wide as he looked over it at Flash speed, and then he said a word that made Len cover one of Henry’s ears with his free hand and tut.

“You shape the minds of the next generation with that mouth?”

Barry wasn’t listening, too busy dragging his hand down his face, his fingers ending up in an annoyed fist over his mouth.

“Can you please,” he said slowly, evenly, with the couples-shrink-approved, conflict-management voice that always made Len smirk, “give Henry his snack.”

“With pleasure.”

Barry leveled him a glare, but it was without heat, and he tilted his chin up in a clear request for a kiss when Len passed behind the couch again.

Len obliged. He could feel some of the stress drain out of Barry’s shoulders when he drew his fingertips over the edge of Barry’s jaw with the hand not still supporting Henry.

“Hi,” Barry murmured when Len pulled back, at least a full minute later than he’d intended. “Missed you.”

“I was gone an hour.”

Barry’s answering smile was crooked, with an unabashed dimple that Len refrained from tracing his thumb over; he had a reputation to protect. “You know, you could just say it back sometimes.”

“Fine.” Len smirked as he tweaked a cowlick that Henry had left in Barry’s hair. Then he met Barry’s gaze, all false sincerity, and drawled, “Hi.”

Barry rolled his eyes. He couldn’t hide the wry smile even when he turned his head away for a second, though, and he gave Len a playful glare. “You know I meant—“

“Hi!”

For a second, neither of them moved. Then Barry reeled back with something like panic in his eyes, alarmingly contagious, based on the way Len’s heart tripped into fourth gear. “Did he just—“

Len hoisted Henry up to sit on the edge of the couch, and they both stared at him. He ignored them both for a few moments, small hand squishing the cushion before he watched it slowly expand back to its original shape. Then he noticed their eyes on him, and looked up with a beatific smile. “Hi!”

Barry was off the couch in a bolt of lightning, then back a heartbeat later with his phone out, talking so fast he was nearly incomprehensible. “Twice, Joe, I swear, he looked right at us—“

Len got a glimpse of Detective West’s patient expression on the phone screen as Barry waved it toward Henry. “Barr, you said that the last three times. I told you, kids talk when they’re ready. Iris didn’t say a word until she was—“

Barry turned the phone and held the screen out to Henry. Len bit back a reflexive objection; they’d agreed, no screens until he was five (and it’d be eighteen if Len had his way).

Henry reached out for the phone, all Barry’s reckless confidence when confronted with anything new.

Tinny over the speakerphone, West’s voice said, weary but unflaggingly affectionate, “Hi, Henry.”

Barry let Henry have the phone—and that time, Len did shoot him a look—and Henry flattened a tiny palm over West’s face on the screen. Then he tilted his head thoughtfully, lifted his hand, and chirped a delighted, “Hi!”

Barry swept him up with a rush of static that made Henry shriek with laughter, phone forgotten in an instant. Barry deposited them both at Len’s side with a breathless grin, and Len didn’t quite manage to disguise his own smile as a smirk when they looked up at him in unison. West’s voice was still coming from somewhere nearby, but Barry could fish the phone out from between the cushions later. For now, Barry was getting suspiciously bright-eyed, and Len lifted Henry out his arms before Barry could set the kid off crying, too.

“Who had ‘hi?’” he asked. He ruffled Henry’s hair, already overdue for a cut, dark and curling up at the ends. Henry only allowed it a moment before he started to fuss, his snack clearly not forgotten despite the excitement.

“Iris,” Barry hiccuped. He wiped the heel of his hand over both cheeks, then said, “She had ‘hi’ and ‘bye.’ She’s gonna be insufferable.”

“She’s gonna be rich,” Len countered. “Mick put ten grand on ‘Flash.’”

Barry shook his head on a laugh. “You did explain to him that we’re specifically not letting people say that in front of him? Given the whole”—he gestured, with a glimmer of lightning that distracted Henry into a fresh smile—”child’s grasp of a secret identity?”

“And deprive the pool of his ill-gotten gains?” He passed Henry back to Barry and tapped him on the tip of his nose. “Never.”

“She’s just gonna put it in a college fund.”

Len hummed, and didn’t mention the account he’d already placed a quarter mil into at the credit union downtown.

Barry’s eyes narrowed all the same. “What was that?”

“What was what, dear?” Len leaned hard on the pet name, flat and sarcastic, but he knew even before Barry straightened up that it wouldn’t work.

“That ‘hmmm.’ That was an I’m-not-telling-you-something ‘hmmm.’”

Len was saved by the bell, literally.

Someone leaned hard on the buzzer to the front door. A second later—and utterly predictably, given the number of metas in the family Len had married into—Wally West phased through the door, bouncing on his toes and looking around the room before he even finished setting Iris on her feet.

“Joe says Iris won,” he said.

Barry tore his suspicious gaze away from Len to blink over at the new arrivals. “Joe knew about the pool?”

“People on six different earths knew about the pool, Barr,” Iris said. She leaned on Wally as she toed out of her work heels. “Now, give me my favorite nephew. Can you say, ‘journalism school,’ Henry?”

Barry let her scoop Henry out of his arms, his brow still furrowed. “Wait, six different earths? How much was in the pool?”

He sounded a hair indignant, and Len took the opportunity to snake an arm around his waist and pull him back against his chest.

“Say the word,” he murmured against Barry’s ear, smiling when he felt him shiver. “I’ll get you triple by dinner.”

He felt Barry’s heart speed up where his back was pressed against him, and Len nipped the shell of his ear to cement his victory.

“No felonies,” Barry reminded him, but his voice was breathless, and he didn’t disentangle himself from Len’s arms.

“Mm, forgot again,” Len lied. “How about we send Iris and Wally to show Henry’s first word to Joe in person, and I make it up to you?”

A blush was climbing steadily up Barry’s neck, and he’d already shown his hand when he said, “The midterms. Progress reports go out Friday, I have to—“

“Telling me the fastest man alive can’t grade a stack of ninth grade chemistry tests before third period tomorrow?”

“They’re for my AP class,” Barry gasped, and he caught Len’s hand where he’d been tracing his fingers down Barry’s stomach. But he cleared his throat, then said, “Iris? Maybe you wanna bring Henry to the station? It would make Joe’s day.”

Iris gave him a knowing look, but her eyes were warm when she shared her smile with Len. “Mm. I bet it’ll make someone’s day.”

“Singh’s, probably,” Wally said, where he’d been drawing increasingly elaborate flowers of static out of the speed force for Henry’s fickle amusement. Then he glanced up. “Oh. Oh, you meant—yeah. Alright. I’ll grab the diaper bag. And congrats, you guys. On the first word, not the—“

Iris patted his arm and interrupted with, “The station, Wally?”

Wally ducked his head on a nod and gave them both a sheepish grin.

“Make sure your father doesn’t arrest my sister,” Len said. “She’ll show up as soon as she gets the intel out of Cisco.”

“No promises,” Iris said. “But I’ll give him the heads up. Bye, boys.”

The after-image of Wally’s lightning hadn’t even dissipated when Barry dropped his back against Len’s shoulder, one foot tapping rapidly. “Are we bad parents?”

Len nosed at the corner of Barry’s jaw and slid his fingers under the hem of his shirt. “No.”

“Maybe we should—should’ve, uh, reinforced it, more. He might get—confused. He said ‘hi,’ but we—oh my god, did we even say ‘bye?’ Len—“

Len spun Barry and pushed him back against the couch, then kissed him to distract him from looking anxiously at the front door. “You’re overthinking this.”

“I’m overthinking this,” Barry agreed. “No, I’m not. Len, his snack—“

“There are snacks at the station. Joe has a drawer full of Cheerios.”

Barry slid a hand through his hair, gave one last jittery look toward the door, and then slumped back against the couch with a laugh. “You’re better at this than me.”

“Already did it once,” Len said, smoothing the worry out of Barry’s brow with the pad of his thumb. “And look how Lisa turned out.”

It didn’t land the way Len had aimed it to. Barry gave him a warm smile instead of an alarmed look, and Len had to tick his gaze away for a break from the earnestness in that expression.

“Yeah,” Barry said. “Yeah, okay. Now maybe we could, uh, stop saying our family members’ names for a little while?”

Len rolled his eyes, but he allowed Barry a brief smile as he hooked his fingers in the front of his belt. “I thought you’d never ask.”

[❤️ Link to Ao3 ❤️]

#coldflash #my fics #leonard snart #barry allen #the flash #teacher barry au

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directionoftime · 3 years ago

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Hi! How are you? Hope you’re well!

Sorry if I’m bothering you but I came across you fics and Im dying to read Storm Cloud but me, as silly as I am, I try to avoid to read unfinished stories cause I got attached to the stories and don’t know how to live without an ending to it….

So, all of this to ask if you please may consider writing the end of it…

Also another question: the number of chapters changes from ffnet and ao3, why is that? It’s due to the those sites structure to post?

Tá

Hi Anon,

Ah Storm Cloud... my first great love, and my greatest tragedy... and now seemingly cursed to wander the interwebs unfinished and loved only at a distance.

The early days of SC being written (where I'd update somewhere between a few days/week) was great going, I got to about the 200-250k mark no problems but life took over, I had to move (jobs/country) and life in general just got stressful in ways that parasitised my creativity. In addition to this, the story just stopped getting any engagement, the comments before (and on other stories like I Missed Again and Go No Further carried over a lot of the same readers and we had some great convos) But as my update turn around slowed, they dropped away - and I completely get it: the longer the update schedule you forget the nuance of the chapter/story and your interest wanes (I've been guilty of this myself more than once!) Soon, the only kind of comments I was getting were (quite literally): "more! XD"

"kill urself, virgin s---"

As you might imagine, neither of those particularly helped my already struggling creativity. In the earlier days of writing SC I was in some difficult situations and the good interactions offered me some level of positive social interaction I had precious little of in real life (this might sound weird, but the people I worked with were... hmm... unkind, shall we say).

I had no one else in my life who knew I wrote, or if they did assumed it was something silly, stupid and time wasting. They dgaf about anything I was doing.

So, to address your point of saying you only like to read finished stories: yes, I do understand that - it is frustrating beyond words to read so much of a story and get invented for it to just... end. But, if you can, think of it from my perspective (and other fan-fic authors) for just a moment:

You're expecting me (in context of SC) to run a hyper marathon with no support, no engagement, no feedback, nothing until it's done. [context: I estimate SC to be complete at 350k - that's a 700 page novel!] And then, maybe, I can expect a single comment (which may or may not provide feedback, offer anything kind to say, or any kind of useful positive comment) in return? Doesn't that sound just a little skewed to you?

I'm not attacking you here, I just tying to illustrate that writing takes time, effort, creativity, hard work and a lot of emotional labour (if you're really putting in effort, you need to understand your character, get into their headspace etc - this will vary a bit between authors tho).

In the midst of writing my longer form stories -- I cannot express to you what a well-spring of creativity and passion directly came out of reading comments from my readers. Even when I thought myself out of ideas, I'd read some lovely comments and the sparks were FLYING BABEY!

This has been hashed out by others in past, a probably much more eloquently, but we don't get paid, we have other pressing life responsibilities that no, cannot wait for fan-fiction.

I and others have said: comments are our 'pay'

I write because I love it, but I ALSO love engaging with others about my writing, writing stories that offer people a chance to practice emotions, or follow interesting stories, maybe it's just a free piece of fiction that lets them escape their "real life" for a few minutes - and the stresses there in. There is something magical there, writing a story that someone else loves? That's some lifting the veil of the universe sh-t right there!

There are a million reasons why we write and why we read - and why we (as humans) derive so much pleasure from it.

You get to decide how you interact with fandom (that's really only your choice and I don't mean this in a 'i think ur wrong' kind of way) so I'm not telling you do this or not do that, but I do just want you to consider this perspective the next time you pass over a story because it's "not finished" There is a person on the other end of that story -- the author -- and your willingness to skip over their story, might just be the thing that creatively starves them.

But to answer your question? Eh... maybe. It's been so long even I'm out of the loop of SC and can't really remember some finer points, so it's up in the air I'm afraid. (Diff chapters? Uh might just be because my posting there hasn't kept up whilst I was trying to edit typos/stupid mistakes etc)

I have some original novels and stories I'm working on atm anyway and I've just finished my Masters so I'm currently burnt out to fu-k.

Fandom we're the only ones keeping it and each other alive - please don't be afraid to spread some love!!! <3

#anon #fandom #storm cloud #naruto #kakasaku #thanks for the ask anon #no offence/hate meant #mean this only honestly for what feels kinda sensitive to me atm

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wren-ravenheart · 4 years ago

Text

You Tried So Loud To Love Me

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Hanahaki Disease Relationships: Jaskier/Valdo Marx Rating: T Content Warnings: Minor blood Summary: Jaskier absolutely could not stand Valdo Marx for even a second. He was pretentious, too pretty for his own good, and had a terrible habit of writing sonnets and songs about the color of Jaskier's eyes and the swoop of his hair that he was absolutely certain were some sort of masterfully crafted insult to his person and reputation.

Tucked under a cut again for Length, though this one is over just over 2k words.

Cross-posted to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31171259

There were exactly three things in life that Jaskier was absolutely certain of. Things that he could continue to count on even when the rest of his life was attempting to fall to pieces around him.

That Belleteyn is the best holiday.

That Toussaint is Hot and Pretentious.

And that Valdo Marx is an asshole.

Even when his pockets were empty, his lute strings snapped, or he suddenly found himself caught up in a mild court scandal that he assuredly had no part in, he could always rely on those few things. It was easy to keep moving forward when one was propelled by Pettiness and Lust. Even if he could never give an exact answer as to why he hated Valdo so much when pressed. Really now, you wouldn’t ask why the grass was green or the sun warm, so why would anyone ask Jaskier why he couldn’t stand that fluffy little upstart?

It was assuredly not because the rival bard did indeed stand two inches taller than him and was criminally handsome. Nor was it because he had a perpetual perfect smile on his face that refused to budge even when Jaskier threw his best insults at him. And it most assuredly was not because the thrice-damned bastard had written not one but Two Sonnets entirely about Jaskier’s eyes and hair and he absolutely could read the undertones of mocking that clearly lay within. No, it was clearly none of those things that irked Jaskier to his very core.

What kept his petty hate-fueled animosity going was the absolutely nonsensical crush he had on the bastard. A crush he had worked hard to snuff out with wine, women, and a few other bards who weren’t nearly as annoying as Valdo. A crush that clearly had not gone away with time. A crush that was currently trying to hurtle it’s slimy little self all the way into actual, ugh… Love.

Which made it even more frustrating than usual that Valdo was suddenly not his normal bubbly self, greeting Jaskier warmly and loudly as he strode into their mutually favorite tavern in the middle of Oxenfurt. He looked tired, and quiet, and barely glanced at Jaskier before shifting his gaze back into the pint of ale in front of him. Not wine? By Melitele, what was wrong with him?

“Well, well, look who the alley cat dragged in. Ale will go straight to your gut, Valdo. I’ll steal back the title of prettiest bard before you know it.” He sniped as he leaned against the table’s edge and smiled with too many teeth.

Valdo cut his eyes up and then back down. “Good day, Jaskier.”

The smile dropped from Jaskier’s face and he narrowed his eyes. “Good day? That’s it? Valdo, are you ill? I did take the title back already, didn’t I? That must be it! I’ve never seen you like this. Ah, it must be such a burn to know you’ve finally been bested by a true bard and exposed for the talentless hack that you are.” As he spoke, he gestured grandly with his hands. Valdo only winced once at the mention of being ill and firmly kept his gaze on his mug.

“Everyone already knew you’re the attractive one between us, Jaskier. No need to rub it in.”

Jaskier ceased his obnoxious flailing and took an actual seat at the table with him. He crossed his arms on the table in front of him and leaned in, lowering his voice to avoid being overheard. “Okay now you’re actually worrying me. I was expecting snide sonnets on my unruly mop and ‘lustful gaze’. Jabs, put-downs...anything but this. You are actually sick, aren’t you?”

Valdo slammed back the rest of his ale and stood up abruptly. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in shock as he was glared openly at by his once-rival turned unnatural crush. “Leave off, Jaskier. Go bother the brothel workers.” And with that final gritted out jab, he stomped out of the tavern.

Jaskier was still staring in shock at the empty spot before him when the barmaid strolled by.

“You’ll catch flies, you leave your mouth open like that, boy.”

He clicked his mouth shut and quickly made his own way out and back to his lodgings.

This just wouldn’t do. What was Valdo’s game? Was he finally making good on all of Jaskier’s assholish attempts to make them public nemeses? Maybe Valdo could read minds; realized the strange feelings the bard had begun to have towards him and decided he was thoroughly disgusted by him.

Jaskier let himself slink into the beginnings of a depression and decided he’d just have to try and shake that off and find out what was going on with his Fri… Rival.

He followed Valdo whenever he could, ambushing him after lectures and hunting him down in pubs. He startled him so fiercely one of these times that the other bard broke down into what sounded like a very painful coughing fit, enough that caused him to pull out a handkerchief to cough into until his lungs settled from the surprise. He found this odd, and then odder still when as he went to ask after his well-being, Valdo abruptly shoved the handkerchief away and growled at him. Growled! Like some angry dog! And left Jaskier once again staring after him as he stomped away, agog.

A month later, Jaskier’s persistence had turned into straight up concern. Valdo was less angry with his antics and instead seemed constantly tired. There were bags under his lovely brown eyes and his hair had turned greasy and less kempt. He consulted these odd symptoms with a friend studying medicine and she mentioned it sounded like some sort of wasting disease. Jaskier was only familiar with a few of them, but none of them sounded like a pleasant time.

So, while still firmly trying to convince his brain that Valdo was still an absolute Arse and absolutely did not deserve his time or affection, Jaskier made soup. Warm pot nestled in the crook of his arm, he marched up to Valdo’s residence and knocked firmly on the door. No one answered. He knocked again. Deep coughs followed by the sounds of mild choking came from within and Jaskier decided basic decorum was right out the window. He pried open the door and rushed inside, looking for the source of the distress.

And there was Valdo; laid out on a lounge chair looking even worse than usual and slowly lowering a cloth from his mouth. There were flecks of blood on his lips and it appeared as if he couldn’t draw a full breath. Jaskier plunked the soup pot right on the floor and went directly to Valdo’s side.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were so ill?” He asked softly, dropping all the pretense of being a rampant jerk.

Valdo just looked at him sadly, too tired to muster up his recent attempts at dismissal. “I did not want you to know, Jaskier. You’re like the sun. So warm and happy. I could not bring myself to have you worry so I pushed you away.”

Jaskier’s eyes went a little wide and he reached out to take Valdo’s hand. It was so cold in his own, and he could make out the fine bones in his fingers. A wasting disease indeed. He rubbed his thumb over the other’s knuckles and shook his head slightly in dismay.

“I’ve been a right arse to you for years. Look at us. Idiots to the bitter end.” He murmured wistfully. “Is… is there anything I can do to help? To ease anything at all? I, uh… I made you soup. I thought it might be… nice?”

Now it was Valdo’s turn to look surprised. He squeezed the hand in his and looked over at the pot on the floor. “You made me soup? You’ve never made me anything.”

“Okay yes. Fine. That is true. I’m a complete and total jerk. My feet should not be gracing your illustrious doorstep, my knees not fit for your carpet. I’m sorry, okay? You’re talented. So talented. I’m at a loss without your poetry to bounce my own works off of.”

At this confession, Valdo cracked a little smile. “Maybe there is hope for you and I after all, dear Jaskier… You see, I ha-” A painful coughing fit cut him off abruptly, the force of it causing Valdo to nearly curl in on himself, clutching the cloth to his mouth as his body attempted to forcefully remove whatever was clearly killing him. Jaskier kept his hand firmly in Valdo’s as he tried to rub the other’s back in comfort. The touch seemed to help in some small way, and the hacking died off. Valdo slumped backwards panting, the hand with the cloth falling into his lap.

There, amidst the spattering of blood, lay small bright yellow flowers. Jaskier gasped loudly and shook his head.

“No, it’s a myth. It’s not real.”

Valdo attempted to clear his throat as he bunched the cloth with the flowers up and tried to hide it from view. “You of.. Of all people… .should know the… power of a story… where they come from...the truths hidden in the tales….We’re storytellers.. It’s.. poetic in it’s own way…”

“It’s a tragedy born of the old stories, is what it is. Wasting away from unrequited love? It’s madness. No one actually dies of a broken heart.”

“I’m not heartbroken, Jaskier. I’m simply in love with someone who is my sun and sky… and who absolutely cannot stand me. It will make the most glorious tragedy. I have already begun to write it.” Valdo smiled brightly as he caught his breath better and shifted to sit more comfortably. He squeezed his hand once more before letting it drop. “With any luck, I will finish it before I can no longer write.”

Jaskier stared into the middle distance over Valdo’s shoulder, taking it all in. It all seemed too outlandish to be real. Things that happened in tragedies and stories never actually happened in real life. Soulmates weren’t real. Kisses didn’t break curses. And people didn’t suffocate slowly on flowers for being rejected. But as he slowly shifted his gaze back to the pale, but still softly smiling, face of the absolute nuisance that was Valdo Marx, at lot of things clicked into place for him.

He had never hidden pithy put-downs into his sonnets. He had never crafted masterful insults through his songs. He had honestly and truly sung from the heart and he had called him his Sun. Valdo had been unashamedly, unabashedly, in love with him from the start. He was coughing up small yellow flowers… Buttercups...and had slipped back into waxing poetic over it all. Lord, the fool was fully gone on him. And he had been nothing but the most righteous arse over it all, so very full of himself and sure that the other was somehow mocking him and jealous of his talent.

Turns out it was Jaskier himself who was the pompous wastrul and talentless hack. He shuffled forward on his knees until he was flush against the lounge. Valdo looked over at him and lifted an eyebrow in question. A beautiful eyebrow set in a beautiful face that Jaskier was tired of pretending he wasn’t also long gone on as well. What was it that the storybooks always said saved the day, woke the princess, broke the curse? Ah… yes…

Jaskier set both hands on the cushion of the lounge and angled himself just right to gently lean forward and press his lips right against Valdo’s own. The man below him went very very still. His lips were soft, but the lack of any response twisted something uncomfortable in his gut and he slowly broke the kiss and moved away, eyes cast downwards.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Jaskier, what-?”

They spoke at once. Jaskier looked up and noticed color on Valdo’s cheeks, his mouth slightly open and his eyes nearly comically wide in shock. He swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat.

“I’ve been a right arse to you, but I love you, Valdo Marx. And I do not wish to see you suffer a moment longer. It will kill me too.”

Valdo’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a deep exhale. Jaskier panicked for a brief second, wondering if he had actually killed him, before he sucked in a very long and full breath and opened his eyes again. They shined with unshed tears and Jaskier had a moment to admire the sight and the warm feeling at finally giving in before he was being tackled to the ground in a crushing hug and warm tiny kisses were being pressed to whatever skin the other could find.

A laugh erupted from them, and Valdo’s kisses shifted from surprised, affectionate pecks, to soft and tender kisses meant to explore the other’s skin. Jaskier shifted slightly under him and set a hand to his chin, drawing him back to his own lips to continue the kissing. Valdo hummed happily and nearly melted into what he hoped was now his new Beau. The university community was going to have a field day with this.

Jaskier rolled them over and slowly moved his head away. Valdo attempted to chase after one more kiss, making him chuckle. “As much as I am enjoying making out on the floor like we’re back in year one… are you sure? Are you alright? You were coughing up most of your lung a minute ago.”

Valdo smiled up at him and reached up to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “Yes, my love, I am quite well now. You’ve restored me and I suffer no longer. Now the story I write shall have a happy ending. A proper fairy tale after all.”

“Well, if you insist. Though I would be grateful to continue this discussion somewhere that is not the floor.”

Valdo’s laugh was bright and filled him with warmth as they both got to their feet and he began to tug Jaskier in the direction of a more private space. “Anything for the prettiest bard in Oxenfurt.”

And wasn’t Jaskier pleasantly surprised when Valdo took it upon himself to demonstrate just how much better he now felt, repeatedly and with vigor. As it turned out, stories always had more truth to them than he had ever expected, for this cursed ailment was most assuredly soothed with a Kiss.

~End~

#jaskier/valdo #jaskier #valdo marx #hanahaki disease #witcher rarepair summer bingo #prompt fill

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my-happy-little-bean · 4 years ago

Text

Do The Cooking By The Book

pairings: LAMP/CALM words: 6013 warnings: swearing, alcohol, implied panic attacks, small burn mention, general angst summary: patton bakes when he’s sad and nowadays, no amount of chewy chocolate chip cookies would be able to cover that up.

or: the five times patton bakes something for the others and the one time he can’t.

a/n- hello! welcome to part 2 of that series i mentioned before called ‘let’s indulge bean in their slightly low quality, very personal fics’ (maybe i should actually make this an actual series on ao3 lol) :’)

i have been having a bit of writer’s block between this patton/janus one shot and golden slumbers (there's just o n e more scene i need to figure out, trust me it's haunting my every move), so i decided to write a bit of a fresh warm up instead! and by warm up, i mean i started writing it in the beginning of july and it somehow spiralled into a big thing, like they always do :’)

inspired by my declining mental health and my unhealthy obsession with baking focaccia at 2 am :)

p.s – later there's a [1] that's supposed to be a footnote but the formatting just said no so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

read on ao3 ~

enjoy!

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

~ patton’s chewy chocolate chip cookies ~

ingredients:

2 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking powder

1 teaspoon baking soda

0 teaspoon club soda

2 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, softened (or melted, like my heart around my honeybees <3)

1 3/4 cups packed dark brown sugar (must be working out ;) )

1/4 cup granulated sugar sugar, honey honey (except no honey :P)

2 large eggs, room temp.

2 teaspoons vanilla extract (and not any extra-ct ;) )

2 cups Virgil-esque chocolate chips*

*semi-sweet! ^v^

––

“Holy shit, Pat.”

Patton smiled, all toothy and wide. He was still standing beside the couch Roman was lounging on, holding up the tray with his pastel blue oven mitts.

“You like it?” he beamed. Roman nodded, scrambling over the armrest to grab another.

“Umfh, yeah,” Roman replied, crumbs spilling out of his mouth. “Ovfiously.”

“...What?”

Roman quickly swallowed and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Patton laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “No worries! I think it’s a- dough -able.”

“...If you weren’t holding cookies right now, I'd say that you suck. But you're holding cookies, so..."

There was a pause that Patton quickly filled with laughter, even if it suddenly felt like he was struggling to carry the sound out of his chest and into the air.

Luckily, Logan walked into the room before Patton could say anything that was affected by the spontaneous pang in his chest. His eyes lit up upon seeing him.

“Logan!” He cheerily dashed over to the other side of the room, holding up the tray to Logan’s face. “A treat for my smart cookie?”

Logan reeled back slightly to avoid getting hit by the edge of the tray. He pushed up his glasses.

“Ah, thank you, dear. But I do believe it is too early for copious amount of sugar consumption–”

“Just try one, cookie-tita,” Roman cut him off, “you and I know that you want one.”

Logan frowned at him over Patton’s shoulder, then looked back at Patton. He gave Logan the widest smile he could muster, which made him sigh.

“While Roman’s reference was a bit of a stretch–” He eyed the cookies one more time, then looked back at Patton– ”I suppose I will agree to half a cookie.”

“Goody!” Patton said brightly. “Or should I say, gooey?”

“You shouldn’t.”

Logan picked one cookie up and took a small bite. His eyes softened, which made Patton’s heart melt.

“...Oh sweet Einstein,” he muttered, grabbing one more cookie off the tray before making a beeline to the coffee machine in the kitchen. Patton just smiled to himself, admittedly a bit proud.

Before he turned around to go see if Logan needed help, he heard shuffling coming up beside him. He looked over and smiled.

“Virge! You’re awake!” Virgil pulled one side of his headphones up as Patton presented him the tray. “Cookie?”

“Uh, sure.” He took one and nodded when he had a few bites, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Thanks, Pat.”

“No problemo!” he chirped, wandering back to the living room. Virgil trailed behind him, now slipping his headphones around his neck.

“Did you bake these this morning?” Virgil asked as Patton set the tray on the coffee table in front of Roman, who readily lunged at it. Patton turned and smiled brightly at him.

“Yeah! I mean...it was technically morning, heh.”

Virgil blinked in that knowing way Patton was all too familiar with. Patton mentally cursed.

“What do you mean by technically–”

Before he could say anything else, Patton clapped his hands together.

“Well, I’m glad you all liked the cookies.” He tried not to think about how loud his own voice suddenly was. “Feel free to finish them!”

Roman frowned, mid-bite of his third cookie.

“Don’t you want any, sweetheart?"

“No no! I chip-ed in so much effort in baking them that I tired myself out, heh!” He faked a yawn. “I’ll just go to my room!”

Roman just laughed, stuffing another cookie in his mouth with a shrug. Logan wandered back from the kitchen, conjuring a book as he walked and nodding at Patton. He grabbed another cookie and sat on the couch beside Roman, leaning against his shoulder.

Virgil just looked at him as he left, eyes narrowed and steely.

They’re so perfect, Patton thought as he sunk out to go to his room, leaving the three of his boyfriends alone with a wave. Perfect just the way they are.

Without me.

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

~ ‘i got ya’ focaccia ~

ingredients:

for the garlic-infused mixture

1/2 cup extra-virgin, PG-rated olive oil

2-3 minced garlic cloves

0 garlic gloves (haha i’m hilarious)

1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme or 1 teaspoon dried

1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary or 1 teaspoon dried

1/4 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper

for the bread

1 cup warm water

2 1/4 teaspoons active dry yeast (1 packet)

1/4 teaspoon honey honey, you are my candy girl–

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon fine sea salt (maybe it’s wearing some nice clothes!) (sea what i did there? i’m funny, aren’t i?)

––

Virgil heard a soft ‘ shit ’ coming from the kitchen.

Don’t panic, it’s probably all fine, he thought, slowly walking towards the entrance to the kitchen. It’s totally not some burglar, ready to steal all our spices and blow them into my eye, making me blind. It can’t be, we’re not even real so how could there be a burglar–

As he neared the dimmed light coming from the kitchen, however, a quiet sob broke through his thoughts.

A chill ran through him. The sob was muffled, squeaky, and admittedly a bit pathetic in terms of how there was an attempt to cover it up. Almost like the sound a puppy would make when someone accidentally stepped on their paw.

All too familiar.

“Patton?” he murmured, turning on another light in the kitchen.

Patton was hunched over the counter space beside the oven, next to a saucepan on a burner; which was emitting a strong garlic and herb smell.

That wasn’t what Virgil was focusing on, though; but rather the way Patton held his hand close to his chest.

Patton spun around on his heel when his name left Virgil’s tongue, his eyes wide and glazed over, like a deer caught in headlights.

“Sh– Virgil! Hi!” He laughed nervously. “What are you doing here? It’s like, 2 am!”

Virgil dug his hands in his sweater pockets. “I’m always up at 2 am. What are you doing here?”

He watched as Patton’s smile forcefully tugged at the corners of his lips.

“I’m baking focaccia! Wanna join?”

There was a slight crack in his cheeriness. Virgil took a step closer.

“What happened to your hand?”

Patton looked down at it, then held up his index finger, which was slightly red.

“Just accidentally brushed up against the pan!” he chuckled. “It was still hot. ”

“How could you brush up against the pan,” Virgil deadpanned, hopping onto the kitchen island. “Roman’s asleep.”

Patton blushed as he ran his finger under cold water.

“Grab the flour and pour a cup of it in that bowl,” he said, shaking his hand dry and going back to the stove. “I think that the yeast and honey had enough time in the water. I’m just about done with the garlic stuff.”

“Okay, honey,” Virgil hummed, already scooping the flour in the measuring cup.

Patton turned to face him over his shoulder with a smile.

“Gosh, you get funnier at 2 am, kiddo.”

Virgil shrugged. “It’s easy to cater to your humour, babe. Though no one does it as good as you do.”

Patton’s blush intensified, and it made Virgil feel a little more at ease that he could still make him flustered like that.

“So really, Pat,” Virgil asked, stirring in the flour as Patton went over with a smaller cup of the garlic-infused mixture. “Why are you up so late baking focaccia of all things?”

A pause. Patton finished pouring in his cup before turning his back away, his head low.

“No reason!” he said brightly, though Virgil suddenly felt edges of darkness to each word. “I thought it’d be nice. Plus Roman loves my focaccia. Thought I could surprise him!”

A pause. Virgil wanted to press him more, but there was something about Patton’s cracked smile that advised him against it. He knew a warning when he saw one.

“He likes anything you bake him, babe,” he said instead, adding salt and the rest of the flour before beginning to knead the dough in the bowl. “You could bake him a frog and he’d be grateful.”

“Now Virge, I think you’re mixing the twins up again,” Patton giggled. Virgil smirked, even if he felt like he shouldn’t. There was such heavy air in the kitchen; a positive emotion wouldn’t last a second.

“You sure you’re okay, Patton?”

When Patton finally faced him, it felt like the air was sucked out of him. Now that he was standing under the light, he felt like he saw all of him more clearly. There were dried tear tracks running down his cheeks. Did he always have those? And under his eyes were bags of purple, dark and stormy; clear evidence that maybe Patton had been late-night baking before.

However, that broken smile was what haunted Virgil the most.

“I’m just peachy, Virge!” he chirped, conjuring up a towel and covering the bowl of dough Virgil probably over-kneaded. Patton’s eyes seemed to drill right into his own. “ Positive.”

Virgil numbly nodded as Patton clapped his hands.

“Well! Now we wait!” He smiled again at Virgil. “Want some coffee?”

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

~ mushy gushy marshmallows ~

ingredients:

marshmallow base

2 cups of sugar

1/4 cup corn syrup

1 cup water (1/2 for for dissolving gelatin)

7 tsp / 3 packets of gelatin

1/4 tsp salt

1 1/2 tsp of vanilla extract

dusting powder

1 cup confectioner’s sugar

1/2 cup cornstarch

*note to future patton: don’t make these, actually. they suck.

––

“Fuck!”

Logan heard the curse from the kitchen, lifting his head from his book and immediately smelling for any smoke.

“Patton?”

There was no smoke. Instead, just another string of curses. Logan sighed; it was not like the moral side to swear. But reprimanding him didn’t sound like a wise idea.

Instead, he set his book down on the coffee table in front of him and wandered to the kitchen.

“Is everything oka–”

He stopped mid-sentence and looked at the sight in front of him.

Surrounding him was a sugary mess, with many bowls of gelatin and water littering the entire counter. Logan could only assume they were failed attempts at whatever was being made today.

In the middle of this mess was Patton, holding the hand mixer up in the air with tears streaming down his face.

“...Let’s put the hand mixer down, shall we?”

Logan moved forward before Patton could even respond, slowly lowering his hand that held the mixer. Patton just sobbed, dropping it on the floor in defeat. Logan tried not to panic at the suddenly broken hand mixer. Logically, they could summon a new one. It was extra energy, sure, but it was fixable.

However, he wasn’t quite sure he could fix the sight in front of him.

“Is there something wrong, starlight?” he murmured, ushering Patton toward the kitchen table. Patton just sighed.

“It’s the stupid marshmallows.” Patton threw his apron onto the floor as he sat down. “I just don’t get what I’m doing wrong. I tried everything. And they– they just suck.”

Logan blinked, almost dumbfounded. In all the years he spent together with Patton, he had never seen him so distraught. Not even his arguably-worse decisions elicited a response similar to the frustration he was currently witnessing. Patton always wore a smile and carried on. Any mistake was just a mistake; nothing more to it.

So what was different here?

“I even tried summoning a candy thermometer,” Patton continued. Logan tried his best to be present, even if his worry was slowly overtaking all of his senses. “Those things are stupid! I thought–”

“Hey,” Logan finally said, cutting Patton off by holding his hands into his. “Let’s slow down for a minute, okay?”

When Patton looked up at him, his heart broke.

Patton’s eyes were glassy with tears, some kind of foreign look not too far behind his irises. The absence of his smile was even more unsettling.

He looked completely different; as if someone took one of the loves of his life and replaced him without even leaving a trace.

Suddenly, he was filled with what he only assumed was longing.

“Patton,” he said slowly, looking down at their intertwined hands, “please don’t worry about the marshmallows. They’re just marshmallows. Clearly there is something else that is–”

He cut himself off as he heard Patton’s breath hitch. When he looked up, there was a faraway look in his eyes.

And that was when it clicked. That foreign look…

It was fear. Fear and guilt, all wrapped up in one.

The face of someone who just got caught.

Patton quickly pulled his hands away from Logan’s, stumbling onto his feet and muttering something about cleaning up later under his breath as he sunk out.

Logan blinked, taken completely aback. He quickly re-evaluated every word he said that could have led to him leaving.

“They’re just marshmallows.”

Logan winced. Shit. Perhaps Patton was still in his ‘in his feelings phase; not his ‘in need of rational solution’ phase. He should have known better and now, Patton was further away from him than he was before.

Logan then thought about the guilt that struck Patton’s face before he could confront him; the fear in his eyes when Logan dared to dig a little deeper.

Patton wasn’t far away, actually.

Patton was just gone; and Logan didn’t know where to look to find him.

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

~drunken bitter butter rumcakes~

ingrdents:

for the cupcakes:

1 cup of choped picans

1/2 cup coconut flake

yellow cake mix, lots of it probs

some vanilla puddin apparently? i dont know why

eggs i dont care how much fuck it

1/2 milk

vegetable oil (optional cuz it sounds gros)

rum

for the bitter rum glaze:

some butter and sugar

more rum

rum

for the frosting

confictione confecion confectioniser’s powdered sugar

soft buttter

vanilla extract

rest of the bottl eof rum probably

––

It only took a crash from the kitchen for Roman to realize that Logan and Virgil were right: something was wrong with Patton.

Virgil had been the first one to express his concern, and it was right on the day Patton baked them all cookies. Patton had since baked many more cookies; which for some reason, only intensified his worry. Roman didn’t think much of it at first. Virgil, bless his soul, always held a bit of his paranoia close to his chest. Plus, Patton’s cookies were the best! There wasn’t much to complain about. A few days later, Virgil mentioned something weird about Patton’s focaccia; but even that admittedly didn’t raise any concern from Roman.

It was when Logan mentioned the marshmallow incident that Roman knew something might be off.

The two had warned him that going to the kitchen late at night could possibly bring some less than ideal sights, but that only drew Roman closer; like a beautiful moth attracted to light. If Patton was truly upset, Roman had to be there! He knew that the others didn’t know much about navigating the small crises Patton would have every now and then, but Roman did! It was Patton, after all! Roman had experience — and he just had to play it by the book.

But when he finally walked into the kitchen upon hearing the source of the crash, he was greeted with something he never quite saw before.

Patton was on the ground, holding a long, glass bottle by its neck and a bowl—with all its contents—was splattered on the floor beside him.

Roman stood there, almost dumbfounded. Patton didn’t even realize he was there before he looked up and blinked a few times.

Then, Patton started to cry.

“Oh, sunshine,” Roman murmured, sitting next to him on the floor. The strong stench of alcohol filled the air beside Patton, and Roman saw a glimpse of a rum label on the bottle. It was half empty.

“M’sorry,” Patton mumbled under his breath, immediately resting his head on Roman. “Didn’t–” He hiccuped– ”Didn’t mean to make noise.”

“Shh, mi amor, it’s okay.” Roman stroked his hair slowly, going through the familiar motions of comforting his boyfriend. “I understand. Let me help you, okay?”

Another sob wracked through Patton’s body.

“I– I don’t deserve your help.” The words came out in a slur. Roman had a slight feeling that Patton didn’t use all the rum in his bottle for baking.

“Nonsense! Of course you deserve help,” Roman whispered, twirling a strand of his hair. “I’m here to help you. I always am.”

Patton leaned into the touch, though the weight of his head seemed heavier than usual; like he was unintentionally pressing himself onto Roman, limp against his shoulders.

“S’fine,” he said after a few more teary hiccups, trying to push himself onto his feet. “Gotta– gotta finish cupcakes. Tryna new recipe.”

Roman frowned. “The cupcakes can wait until tomorrow, Patton; I’m going to bring you to bed and clean up–”

“No!”

Roman jumped at the sheer volume of Patton’s voice, suddenly nervous that he’d wake the rest of them up.

I can handle this myself, he thought. I always have been able to, this isn’t different.

“No, I don’t– I don’t need your help.” Patton stumbled up to his feet, leaning his arms on the kitchen counter like it was a life raft. He buried his head in his hands. “I don’t need your help, I don’t need anyone’s help, I just need– I just need to finish this, then–”

“Darling, I don’t think–”

“No thinkin!” He pushed his index finger onto Roman’s lips. “No thinking, that’s for Logan. Tonight, we’re not thinking of anything– not thinking about anything anymore.”

Roman was taken aback.

“Patton, we can continue,” he said gently, “but only if you sit down first and let me grab you some water, okay?”

Patton lifted his head to face Roman, his eyes red from the tears.

“Why do you take care of me?” he suddenly asked, his voice a small whimper. Roman froze as he continued. “Why do– why do any of you care?”

“Patton, I–”

“I don’t do my fucking job right anyway,” Patton hissed. “I’m– I’m broken junk in Thomas’ brain! I can’t even do the right and wrong thing, I can’t– I can’t make him happy. I can’t make you guys happy– ‘n I love you guys! God, I can’t even make stupid cupcakes–”

“None of that is true, Pat,” Roman tried to protest. “You make us extremely happy, you make me– ”

“You’re a liar!” Patton cried, turning on his heel to stare at Roman, whose heart dropped. “You’re– you’re a fucking liar, Roman.”

The air suddenly felt too thick for both of them to be breathing. Patton must have noticed that because as soon as the words left his tongue, he covered his mouth with his hands with teary eyes.

“...Patton, please sit down. You’re not thinking straight.”

“M’not–”

“I know.” Roman tried to keep his voice levelled as he spoke. “Just...just sit down, okay? We’re going to talk it all through.”

Patton just stared at him blankly for what seemed like an eternity before finally speaking up.

“I’m sorry.”

And before Roman could plead for him one last time, Patton sunk out, the bottle of rum still in his hand.

Roman blinked at the spot Patton once stood in, all shaky and teary like he was facing an inky, twisted nightmare. His words echoed in his head and while Roman knew it was best not to take it all to heart, he still felt the sting of each curse.

What kind of a hero was he?

He then looked at the splattered mixture on the floor and sighed. It looked a lot like cake mix. And if there was rum in that, it probably would’ve been good. A shame, really.

His eyes then spotted a book on the kitchen counter, open to a page that had a bit of rum on it judging by the smell. Roman frowned, going over to grab it. He closed it to look at the cover.

It seemed to be Patton’s recipe book, judging by the baking-themed stickers littering the blue cover. When he opened it, he was greeted with pages of ingredients and instructions to make some of Patton’s signature baked goods. The first few pages made Roman smile; there were puns besides some of the ingredients and even cheesy references to him, Logan, and Virgil. It seemed very Patton-esque.

But as he went further through the pages, the tone seemed to shift. There was an absence of puns for one of the recipes, and Roman knew he could’ve at least hit a few. And when he got further than that, he just stopped writing measurements all together. The rum cupcake recipe, which seemed like a recent entry, was barely decipherable.

He flipped back a few pages and saw words scratched out; sentences that didn’t belong in a typical cookie recipe. And the corners of some of the pages were crisp, as if water dried on them over time.

Roman’s breath hitched as he closed the book. Something was wrong, and for the first time he didn’t know what to do.

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

~ whats good-berry muffins ~

ingredients

who

cares

theyre

just

stupid

muffins

berries, probably

––

“Roman, he did not mean what he said,” Logan said as Roman paced in front of him. “Perhaps you caught him at a bad time.”

“A bad time?” Virgil echoed incredulously, turning around on the couch to face Logan. “Dude, he was wasted. That’s not a bad time, that’s a ‘code red’ time.”

“Besides, shouldn’t you be advocating for intervention, lo -ve of my life?” Roman asked, still pacing. “You seemed pretty upset about the now-called ‘marshmallow incident’.”

Virgil gave Logan a look and Logan looked down, almost embarrassed.

“...I have since realized that my actions were not ideal, but that is to no fault of my own. Holding guilt does no good, and neither does intervening when one does not want to be...intervened upon.”

“Okay first off, even Janus lies more subtly than that.” Logan didn’t make eye contact with him, but stiffened at Virgil’s words. “And second of all, Patton needs support. We’re supposed to be there for him – not just waiting for the most dire sign. The plane is crashing, Logan; you can’t just put your seatbelt on and wait. You have to do something.”

“Actually, if an airplane is crashing and you are instructed to put your seatbelts on, it is of your best interest that you–”

“For Odin’s sake,” Roman groaned. “I love you, my nerd in shining armour; but you got to learn what a metaphor is.”

Logan fell quiet as Roman continued.

“We need to do something. This isn't a typical Patton dilemma. And I know he doesn’t want to talk about it just out of the blue so we can’t confront him. We have to figure out a way for him to trust us.”

“He loves us,” Virgil grumbled, though hints of anxiety singed the edges of his words. “Shouldn’t the trust be there already?”

“Virgil, he loves us an infinite amount,” Logan said reassuringly, finally settling back into the chair. He pushed up his glasses. “In fact, he probably loves us too much to want to worry us or cause us any emotional strain.”

“But it wouldn’t cause us– well, whatever you said!” Virgil protested. He slumped over, his elbows pressed into his thighs. He looked defeated. “I just want to help him. I can’t stand seeing him like this.”

“I know, stormcloud,” Roman murmured, sitting down beside us. “But...but we can do this. Together. We always have and now, we will.”

Logan nodded, tapping his shoulder so Virgil could rest against it.

“Roman is correct. Besides, we do not even have to confront him. Perhaps confrontation is where part of this issue stems from. The trust is there, we just have to remind him that we are willing to, given that we are his partners. We just need to make a comfortable environment for–”

Suddenly, Virgil felt a small tug in his chest; as if something was pulling him downwards. His eyes widened and his breath hitched at the sensation. He knew where it was coming from.

“Guys, it’s Patton. Something’s wrong.”

In a flash, he sunk out, Logan and Roman soon following suit. Roman pulled out his sword just in case.

When they rose, they found themselves in Patton’s room; though it was less bright than usual. The fairy lights were flickering and swaying against the walls and the frames were all askew. It looked as if it was struggling to keep itself together.

And in the middle of the room was Patton, on the floor and tugging at his hair as he cried, heaving into each sob. Surrounding him were boxes of half-summoned muffin mix, as well as some sugar slowly fading out of existence. In front of him was his recipe book, tearstained and ripped at the edges.

Virgil immediately went to Patton’s side, scooping him up into his arms. Patton made no effort to protest, his body still clenched up from all the energy he was spending summoning the ingredients into his room. In the corner of his eye, he could even see the beginnings of what would be an oven.

“Patton,” Virgil heard Logan breathe out, still standing in the same spot behind them, almost in shock. “You are spending too much energy summoning all these things, your room nor your form cannot handle it. Why don’t you just go to the kitchen?”

Patton sobbed even more, tugging at his hair and curling up into Virgil’s chest. Virgil looked up at Logan over Patton’s hunched shoulders and just shook his head, his eyes flickering between him and Patton.

Logan then made a small ‘o’ shape with his mouth, slowly approaching the two on the floor and sitting cross-legged beside him. He made an attempt to lower Patton’s hands from his hair. Eventually, it turned into him rubbing small circles in Patton’s back with the palm of his hand, softly whispering “it’s okay” under his breath as he moved closer to him and Virgil.

Roman dropped his sword onto the floor and followed suit, grabbing a fluffy blanket from Patton’s bed and going behind his three boyfriends, laying the blanket over their shoulders as if he was shielding them from the unstable room surrounding them. He hovered over their shoulders for a while before kneeling down and hugging all three of them.

And as the ingredients slowly disappeared around them, the room began to fix itself. Patton could breathe a bit slower now, yet the others curled up into him like the warm blanket they were surrounded by.

Eventually, Patton realized that he was no longer crying; yet everyone stayed.

And then, Patton fell asleep; and they stayed for that too.

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

~ Don’t Forget-ti That We Love You Funfetti Cake* ~

Ingredients:

For the cake

1 and 2/3 cup (210g) all-purpose flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

1/4 teaspoon baking soda (because so-da one for us!) [1]

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup (1 stick or 115 g) unsalted butter, melted

3/4 cup (150g) granulated sugar

1/4 cup (50g) packed light brown sugar

1 large egg

1/4 cup (60g) yogurt

3/4 cup (180ml) milk

1 Tablespoon (15ml) pure vanilla extract

2/3 cup (90g) sprinkles (nonpareils not recommended**)

For the buttercream

1 cup (2 sticks or 230g) unsalted butter, softened to room temperature

3–4 cups (360-480g) confectioners’ sugar

1/4 cup (60ml) heavy cream

2 and 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract

salt, to taste

*Virgil actually came up with this and thinks its so lame so thats why that’s the name LOL ~ Roman

[1] Roman wrote this pun but I am making the executive decision to retract this comment from the original script because it is not a necessary part of the recipe.

**can you tell that lo was the one who wrote the recipe ~ v

––

Patton tried his hardest to fight the pull coming from the kitchen.

It’s been a few days since the others found him in his room after his failed ‘bake muffins in isolation’ mission and Patton hadn’t dared to bake since. After all, if that incident wasn’t a good enough warning, the other times they found him in the kitchen were. He couldn’t let them see him like this again, what ‘this’ was.

The others thought they knew he was upset about something, but Patton didn’t know how to tell them that he didn't even know what he was feeling. He wasn’t upset, he wasn’t stressed; he was just feeling every feeling, all at once.

And he didn’t know what to do.

Baking was the only thing he could do when he felt like this. He longed to see a smile on Virgil’s face; to watch Logan actually eat and enjoy it rather than talking about how it didn’t matter that they ate; to laugh as Roman scarfed all of it down and ask for the recipe. The recipe book was actually going to be Roman’s gift for their anniversary. It made his heart ache even more knowing that it wasn’t good enough for him anymore.

When he felt everything or nothing at all, he would just bake and watch as the people he loved were filled with joy; and Patton, selfish as it is, would bask in the sunlight they radiated. If he kept baking and kept making them happy? Well, their light could never disappear.

But then, it did.

And Patton couldn’t bear to stand in the darkness of that kitchen anymore.

Still, the tugging persisted. Patton secretly hoped that him pitying himself would guilt whatever force was summoning him to the kitchen into giving up its pursuit.

Patton sighed, tugging the strings of his cat hoodie a little tighter so that the hood with wrap around his head. Maybe if he didn’t show his face, no one would see that he had been crying for an hour or so.

When he sunk out, he was met with a warmly-lit kitchen and a small cake in the middle of the dining table.

Patton frowned, walking towards it curiously. It was a very...rustic cake, if rustic still meant ‘messy’ in baking terms. The icing was a bit rough around the edges and he felt like the writing in icing was supposed to say “WE ❤ U” but the heart looked a bit like...well, Patton didn’t want to say.

Still, it was rather cute. There was a small plate beside it with a fork and a slice of the cake, dots of sprinkles baked into it. Patton smiled; it seemed to be a funfetti cake! His favourite!

Patton took a bite out of the cake without really thinking about it, his smile only growing at the sweet taste.

That was when he saw the book.

It laid neatly beside the plate, open to a page he didn’t quite remember writing. On it were various scribbles of bright red ink mixed with blue ink, along with a note written in pencil at the bottom of the page. He recognized the handwriting immediately as he picked up the book and began to tear up.

“Virgil, if he does not want to be summoned you cannot–”

Patton looked up from the book and saw Logan and Virgil suddenly at the entrance to the kitchen, stopped in their tracks with their eyes wide. They stared at each other for a brief moment before Virgil huffed, breaking the silence.

“See, Lo?” He kissed Logan's cheek and went on his tip-toes to ruffle his hair, much to Logan’s dismay. “Patton always comes down for cake.”

Patton dropped the book on the table and went over to sweep the two in a big hug, warm and tight and filled with love. Virgil fell quiet, but hugged back as Logan chuckled, patting Patton’s back.

“I sincerely hope the cake is to your standards, Patton,” he said as he pulled back. “I know that the aesthetics are not...well, they are not ideal; Roman spent so much time planning that he forgot to take into account the amount of time we’d actually have–”

“Logan?” Patton said, his voice still scratchy from being close to tears. “I love you. It’s perfect.”

Logan smiled brightly, the light from it almost blinding Patton.

“You guys didn’t have to bake for me!” Patton rubbed at his eyes with a small laugh. “I know baking a cake is no easy task, especially a funfetti cake!”

Virgil shrugged. “Logan led most of it. I kinda just made sure the kitchen didn’t explode. You know how those two can get."

Patton giggled. “Of course.”

“Roman should be on his way shortly,” Logan said, pushing up his glasses. “He is acquiring a few blankets and pillows from his room.”

Patton perked up at the thought. Roman’s blankets were made of the softest, most delicate velvet. The idea made his chest warm up.

“You guys did all of this for me?” Patton asked, his voice small.

“Of course we did, Pat.” Virgil held Patton’s hand and kissed it softly. “We love you. And we want to be here for you; even in the less-than-ideal times. You would do the same for us.”

“But we do not expect you to dwell on your emotions if you do not feel comfortable doing so,” Logan continued as he went over to the dining room to grab the cake. “If you would like, we can watch Disney movies and eat cake and provide a distraction. However, we want to reassure you that we are here to listen to whatever is troubling you, so whenever you feel comfortable, please do not hesitate to reach out.” He paused. "We do not have to find a solution right now. We can metaphorically 'sit in the feelings' for a while."

Patton smiled as Logan arrived at his and Virgil’s side. He kissed Patton’s shoulder softly before making his way to the living room, where Patton could hear Roman rambling about what movie would be the best to watch; and he heard Logan’s rebuttals come after.

And walking out of the kitchen and into the living room could only be described as a slow-moving blur. Patton watched as Roman spotted him and swept him up into a big hug, startling Virgil who was later brought into the hug as well. He watched as Logan gave them an amused smile, patting the blankets Roman arranged under a pillow fort in front of the TV, the opening to Tangled—Patton’s favourite—playing on the screen.

“I love you guys,” Patton murmured as he sat in the middle of the pillow fort, a plate with cake in front of him. Logan sat beside him with a nod, kissing his head as he summoned four forks with a smile. Roman and Virgil found their way somehow into the tangled mess of each other, cuddling against Logan and Patton until they were the closest humans, or sides, could ever get.

And no one complained when Patton paused the movie when Eugene got stabbed, crying a bit and telling them about how that scene sort of reminded him about what he felt the night before. No one left when Patton began to spiral a bit from that and sob into his cake, finally admitting to them his thoughts and how he had just been feeling everything.

And then, everyone stayed; even after that.

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