#and since they are collapsing that slow fall into one short period of time and writing out numenor's empire
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mariesminnow · 3 months ago
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nanaminokanojo · 3 years ago
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[7:06 PM] Oikawa X You
LOG #8 OF MY HAIKYUU!! TIMESTAMP DRABBLES
CHARACTERS: Oikawa Toru X You WORD COUNT: 1,200+ GENRE: fluff | comfort TRIGGER WARNING: mild separation anxiety SPOILERS: n/a
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A smile unconsciously drew itself across your lips at the feeling of Oikawa's hair between your fingertips. You've always liked his chocolate locks, even more when you were carding your hands through them. You sat on the couch while he was on the floor, shoulders between your legs. He's busy watching a volleyball match on his phone, no doubt knit-picking details from the players he could possibly go against. He's in the zone, and you know he could not be bothered when he decides to concentrate on this particular endeavor.
You didn't mind the stretches of silence between the two of you, satisfied with just being a latent presence moving around him. You understood the pressure that was on him being an international athlete, and if he wants time for it, you weren't going to stop him. It makes him happy. And if he's happy, you can rest easy.
But that wasn't always the case.
You hummed as you bent down slightly, catching his scent in the air as you inhaled deeply. He smelled like summers of old, faded roses and candy floss, the distinct hints heightening over the others depending on the circumstances. At that moment, he was a direct line to things which reminded you of happiness and easier days under the warmth of the sun just as summer gives up to fall.
Unable to hold back, you placed both your arms on his shoulders, burying your nose at the back of his head. You luxuriated in the smooth strands of his hair tickling your cheeks, the scent of his shampoo filling your senses. You nuzzled his nape, lightly brushing your lips on the side of his neck before wrapping your arms around him and propping your chin on his shoulder.
"What are you doing?" he asked, feigning annoyance except that you could hear the smile in his tone.
"Clamoring for your attention?" you offered to which he chuckled. You weren't one to do that, not even where he was concerned, knowing how independent you are that he felt useless where taking care of you was involved. Instead, you took care of him.
"And you think you're succeeding by…sniffing me?"
"The fact that you noticed means I am," you countered. "I love smelling you."
Oikawa reached up, patting you on the head, his eyes still glued to his phone.
You pecked him on the spot just below his ear. "I want my boyfriend back."
"You're holding onto him."
As if on cue, your eyes started to feel hot from behind, that tight feeling pervading your chest as you thought of how limited your time with him is. Most of his days were spent halfway around the world, the chances you could be with him, holding onto him like that, was when you felt dread the most. He will leave again, and you will have to adjust to his absence once more, the phase lasting for a rather long time before you're sure you are back on track again.
"Not for long." You withdrew, holding back the sobs that wanted to break free from your throat. You spoke in a steady tone because you didn't want him to worry. You want him to be happy by doing what he wanted, and you wanted nothing but to support him. But after all is said and done, you're only human, and you craved his presence constantly.
"Y/N, I wouldn't be leaving for another two weeks," he told you gently as you moved out of the couch, your feet hurriedly carrying you to the direction of the bedroom. "Baby, where are you going?"
You did not reply to his query, making a straight path towards the bed where you finally collapsed, curling into a fetal position as your tears silently fell. When you heard him enter the room, you grabbed a pillow and covered your face with it as if it would hide the evidence of your misery. You felt him sit beside you, tugging at it, but you held on tight, refusing to let him see your tears.
Instead of prying it off you, he laid down behind you, molding himself to the shape you've assumed. It was his turn to bury his face into your hair, doing as you did earlier as he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him and planting butterfly kisses on your nape and shoulders.
"As much as I hate seeing you cry, I'm relieved you feel that way at the prospect of me leaving," he told you then, his pretty voice ringing into your ears over the blood rushing to your head.
At that, you tossed the pillow away and faced him. You sniffed. "What's that supposed to mean? I always feel miserable when you leave."
Oikawa's lower lip jutted out at the sight of your tears. "You never show me. The last time I left, you hugged me, turned away and left."
"I didn't want to upset you. You're the one who's going to be on a long flight. You think I want you to see me crying beforehand?"
He cupped your face, wiping your tears with his thumbs, his touch tender and warm. "I upset you this much, huh?"
You shook your head. "Not you. Never you, Toru." You snuggled closer to him, relishing his warmth. "This is why I don't want you to see me like this. I will support you no matter what even if it means we need to be apart. But I do get crazy sad when you're away."
Your words were followed by silence from his end. He started planting kisses on the top of your head, his arms tightening around you.
"I've been meaning to ask you something for a while now," he broke the silence.
Looking up at him, you waited for him to speak further. He met your gaze, his bright eyes swirling with conflict.
"I would like you to come with me if you want to," he began. "I've been wanting to tell you that since the second time I came home, but I don't want you to just leave everything for me. I don't want you to think I don't support your endeavors."
Your eyes widened. "Move to Argentina, you mean?"
He nodded. "I thought it would be nice if we can spend more time together. It's kinda tiring not being able to see and hold you for long periods of time. And I thought it'd be a good way to take our relationship a step further."
You just blinked at him, unaware that he had such thoughts going on inside his head when you've had this agreement before, that if things didn't work out, you would both go your separate ways.
"You have the absolute say on it. I don't want to –"
You cut him short by seizing his lips with yours, hoisting yourself up to run your fingers into his hair and kissing him slow and gentle but with all the feeling of gratitude and love you felt for him. You held onto him, glad that you did for the last four years.
You withdrew, smiling when you saw the dazed look on his face. "I'll gladly leave everything for you, Toru. Hell, I'll learn Spanish for you."
"Yeah? You'll do that?" The eagerness and joy blooming into a smile on his face was unmistakable. That's all you wanted, his happiness. "I promise we'll come home as much as you want. I'll arrange it."
You snickered and hugged him, settling your head on the crook of his neck while your hand reached for his, twining your fingers together. "No need for that. As long as you're with me, I'm home."
-end-
God, that GIF!!! I'm like Fiona in "Shrek" with her little pink diary repeatedly saying, "Mrs. Fiona Charming" except my head goes, "Mrs. Oikawa *insert my name*." お願いだから、寝かせてください 、徹ちゃん。
Thank you so much for reading. Likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed it.
© ORIGINAL WORK BY nanaminokanojo. CHARACTERS ARE INSPIRED BY FURUDATE HARUICHI’S “HAIKYUU!”. [20210825]
PHOTO/IMAGE/GIF/FANART CREDITS TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.
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doctorstethoscope · 3 years ago
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The Right Chapter 6 || Aaron Hotchner x Fem Reader
Happy Saturday my loves! Another short update today but I promise that Tuesday’s chapter will be longer and that you’ll love it. 
contains: canon-typical description of violence, guns, blood
wordcount: 1.6k
“Garcia, tell me you have something helpful.” Hotch groaned into the phone. This case had not been an easy one.
“Hotch, something’s wrong. (Y/N) called me from the station with a theory and then I heard a man and she gasped and the line went dead.” Garcia spilled out as fast as she could. 
Aaron felt his jaw tighten immediately. He placed a hand on Rossi’s shoulder, and the look on his face told Rossi to round up the rest of the team, even if he didn’t know why. Aaron took off towards an SUV, not waiting for the rest of the team. “And you’re sure? The call didn’t just drop?” Hotch asked.
“Hotch., I’m sure. Drive fast.”
“Call the rest of the team and let them know. They’re in the car behind me but they don’t know why.” Hotch said, hanging up the phone and dropping it into the cupholder as he pressed his foot down on the accelerator. 
He was driving too fast, taking wide turns, and he was sure that if you were here in the car with him you would have been commanding you to slow down, with both hands dramatically wrapped around the handle above the passenger side door. But you weren’t here, and he didn’t know exactly where you were, or if you were safe, and so he pressed down on the accelerator even further, pushing the engine well past its intended limits. He whipped the car into park outside the front door of the police station, not waiting for the others before charging towards the front door. 
“Hotch!” Rossi called after him. “You need a vest. Get back here. We need a strategy, we can’t just rush the building.” 
“The rest of you take the back.” Hotch called in response, as a strategy. Looking amongst themselves, the rest of the team wordlessly appoints Morgan to follow Hotch, and he takes off after him as soon as his vest is strapped in. 
“Hotch-- Garcia called while we were in the car. (Y/N)’s theory was that the unsub was anti-government in some way. Like the system had failed him or something.” He explained lowly as they made their way through the empty station lobby, moving towards the back, where the bullpen and their makeshift office was. 
The first thing Hotch noticed was you, the unsub’s hand around your throat and his gun pressed to your temple. You’re bleeding from your forehead, but you’re conscious. The unsub was using you as a human shield. Then, Aaron noticed that in a room full of armed officers, not one had their weapon drawn. The group of them all had their hands raised in surrender. And then he saw why-- one of the officers, bleeding, slumped against the far wall. 
“What are we going to do? Even if the rest of the team can sneak up on him from the back, we can’t take him down without hurting her.” Morgan asked. 
“Just follow my lead.” Aaron said, swinging open the door with his gun drawn, catching the attention of everyone in the room. He locked eyes with you, giving you an almost imperceptible nod, one that said “I’ve got you” without saying anything at all.
“Well well, it looks like your friends did show up!” The unsub said, gripping your neck a little tighter and shaking you back and forth. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner of the FBI. Let her go and put the gun down.” Aaron said steelily, not breaking eye contact with the unsub. 
“Awful rude of you to walk in here and start making demands without even getting to know me, don’t you think?” 
“I know everything I need to know about you.”
“Sure you do. Now, you and Muscles behind you can both put your guns away before you make me shoot another one of these good-for-nothing beat cops.” 
Aaron weighed his options for a moment. If the unsub brandished his weapon at the officers with intent to kill, he and Morgan would have to take the shot. And maybe it would work. Or maybe the unsub would jerk his body just the wrong way, and the bullet that Aaron shot from his gun would tear through your frame, and you’d collapse, blood pouring out of you, and he’d have to lift you off the floor just like he lifted Haley-- he took in a sharp breath and tucked his gun back into the holster.  Morgan followed suit. The door behind the unsub, the one he had dragged you back in through what felt like a million years ago, clicked into place and the usub turned around quickly, meeting the eyes of JJ, Prentiss, Reid and Rossi. 
“Ah, ah. All of you, too. Guns away, and go ahead and stand over there with your friends.”  The team looked to Aaron, who nodded, and then they followed orders. “And not one of you is going to even bother asking my name?”
“What’s your name?” Prentiss asked, not a hint of interest in her voice. You might have laughed if you weren’t so focused on not hyperventilating.
“Alec. Gordon. Not that you care,” He rolled his eyes. “I’m the guy who’s going to take out an FBI Agent in the middle of nowhere, Kentucky. That’s what they’ll remember me for. I’ll matter then.” He spits out. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Reid mumble something. Alec is still ranting and raving, but you’re too dizzy, too breathless, to really pay attention. You watch Aaron’s chest rise and fall, tensing when you realize he’s the only member of your team not wearing a vest. Why wasn’t he wearing a vest? Alec must have felt your muscles tense up under his grasp. 
“Getting nervous, are we? Don’t worry, It’ll all be over soon.” He said, tracing the gun down your cheekbone to your chin. You swallowed, willing yourself not to look at the team, not to let them see your eyes filled with fear in your last moments. Suddenly, Reid speaks, interrupting Gordon.
“Alec, I know someone in power failed you. But taking it out on the people in this room isn’t going to help. Who was it, who did you tell about the abuse you were facing at home, who did you trust enough to share that with, and then they did nothing?” Reid asks, and your face scrunches up in confusion. How had they figured all of that out in such a short period of time? And if they knew all of that, how did they not know his name when they came in?
“Where to start, agent? There’s the principal, who watched my father strike me, the paramedic who corrected my broken arm but never filed a report, the firefighter who responded the first time I called 911 but was too scared to say anything. You all consider yourself to be protectors, public servants, even though you just want power. But who protected me? Not one of you. You’ll all pay for it now.” 
“Alec, she isn’t who you want.” You hear Aaron’s voice cut through the loud pounding of your heartbeat. “You want someone in power? That’s me. I’m in charge of this unit. Let her go, and I’ll let you take me. 
“Hotch!” You gasped, speaking for the first time since he’d walked in. The whole team seemed to jump. You started kicking against the unsubs legs with renewed vigor, even though it did nothing to free you. “Hotch, no! Jack needs you. Stop!” 
He didn’t stop. He stepped forward, not looking you in the eye, but staring the unsub down. “Agent, be quiet. That’s an order.” 
Something in his tone shut you up immediately, and your eyes welled up with tears. Hotch was about to die, in your place, and the last words you were ever going to hear him say were him barking at you like some rookie. And he wasn’t going to know how much you loved him. 
“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to get down on my knees. You are going to put your gun in the air, and you’re going to release my agent. I will hand you my cuffs, you will cuff me, and then you will let all of these people go. When you’re ready, you put that gun up in the air for me,” Aaron said, still not meeting your eyes. You were fully crying now, shoulders shaking even as you stayed silent per Aaron’s request.
“Pass your gun to one of your buddies, first.” 
 You watched as Aaron unholstered his weapon and passed it to Prentiss. Why was she letting him do this? Why were all of them allowing this? Aaron knelt down, and you felt the cool metal of the gun move away from your face and the unsub’s grip on you loosen. You look down at Aaron and his posture is bent, his back arched as he reaches behind him. Without warning, Alec shoves you towards Morgan and you collapse into his arms, instantly hearing a shot ring out in the otherwise silent room.
You tuck into Morgan’s chest, loud, shuddering sobs racking through your body. It should have been you. You wished that it was. 
“We need a medic!” You hear Aaron’s voice call out, and he… doesn’t sound injured at all, actually. He sounds very much alive. 
You whip your body around so fast that Morgan has to catch you so you don’t fall. The unsub is on the floor, bleeding from his thigh. Prentiss has him in cuffs. Hotch is holding the Glock 26 that he keeps in his ankle holster. You look him over once, twice, three times. He’s unharmed. You collapse. 
  @the-modernmary @greeneyedblondie44 @angelic-kisses13 @wanniiieeee @hotforhotchner11  @baumarvel @ssamorganhotchner @zheezs14 @ijustwannaread2k19    @romanogersendgame
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lumosandnoxwriting · 4 years ago
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Call Me When You’re Sober - George Weasley
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Title: Call Me When You’re Sober Pairing: George x Fem!Reader, George x Angelina Johnson (kinda, sorta, not really) Warning: mentions of drug use!! Also some mentions of sexual things like sexting/sending nudes and one mention of a boner. I also use the word tits a few times. Summary: George only seems to have the time for Y/N when he’s high, and that’s just not enough for her anymore. (This is also a modern au where they have cell phones and social media bc why not) A/N: this is for an anon that wanted a fic based off of a tiktok POV they saw and funnily enough that POV ended up on my fyp last week so you can find that here if you want. The only part I was inspired by was Angelina being present, but that part was specifically mentioned in the request everything else is purely from my own brain!! This also includes a bit of Angelina Johnson slander but it does not represent my actual views. Angelina slander is not welcome in this house. Feedback is always welcome and requests are open! Tags: @feltondarling​ @pandaxnienke​ @raerae27​
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The first time it happens Y/N answers the phone right away.
“George? What’s wrong?” she asks frantically, already getting out of bed. It’s three am and George never calls even at a decent hour, so she assumes that something has gone wrong and he needs help.
“Hey, Y/N,” George drawls slowly, like his mouth is moving in slow motion.
Y/N pauses in the middle of her bedroom, her hand hovering above her car keys. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” George certainly sounds off, but he doesn’t necessarily sound like he’s in need of her rescuing. When all George does is giggle in response, Y/N groans. “Are you high?”
“High on life!” George responds, prompting Y/N to roll her eyes. She shuffles back over to her bed and climbs back in, snuggling under the covers. “And maybe a little bit of weed,” he adds with a laugh.
Y/N rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile on her face. George is one of her favorite people in the world, and it’s hard for her to stay mad at him. “A little bit?” she teases. “You sound baked out of your mind.”
George lets out a throaty laugh, and Y/N closes her eyes, making it seem like he’s there in the room with her. They don’t get to see each other often now that they’re both out of school and busy with their lives, and George’s aversion to phone calls means all she has to get her through their periods of time apart are short text messages and stupid memes. Hearing his voice sends shivers down her spine, and if it wasn’t so late she’d be driving to wherever he is to climb into his arms.
“What can I say? Freddie got the good stuff now that we can afford it.” Y/N can hear some rustling, and she figures that he’s laying back onto his bed. “Not like back when we were at Hoggywarts. Remember those days?”
Y/N hums as she lets her mind wander back to their school days. It didn’t happen often, but every once in a while Fred or George would sneak out of the castle down to Hogsmeade to buy off of a guy that works at the Hogshead Inn. They would settle into their dorm along with Lee and after placing some spells on the room and throwing the windows open they’d light up and pass the joint around until nothing was left. The weed was cheap and burned their lungs, but none of them cared. It left them all feeling like they were floating, and they would talk for hours about nothing in particular.
George always got handsy when he was high, and Y/N supposes this is where her feelings for him started. Once the joint burned out George would pull her body close and let his hands roam all over it as he talked with the boys idly. Y/N would run her hands through his hair and scratch at his scalp, her face pressed tightly to his neck. They often ended up falling asleep together wherever they had landed, sometimes it was George’s bed, but it was usually the floor, swaddled in some random blankets and pillows from the common room. Y/N was always the first to wake up, and she’d hug George tightly for one more fleeting moment before sneaking out and back into her own dorm.
“You roll the best joints, Y/N,” George continues when Y/N doesn’t say anything. “Fred is so shit at it. No matter how many times you showed him how to do it.”
“Very sweet of you to say, Georgie,” Y/N laughs. She yawns a moment later, desperately trying to fight off sleep. “Though you were always more fond of smoking from a bowl if I remember correctly.
George yawns too and Y/N can hear him climbing under the covers of his bed. “I am. But smoking joints reminds me of you.”
“George,” Y/N says softly, sitting up in bed. She waits for him to say something, but all she’s met with are his light snores. She rolls her eyes, settling back down into her pillows. “Goodnight, George.” Y/N hangs up her phone and places it on her nightstand before letting memories of George lull her back to sleep.
-
The next time it happens Y/N doesn’t hear her phone the first time. She’s out of town for work, and after a long day she’d collapsed right onto the bed in her hotel room, formal clothes still on and everything. Y/N had ignored her phone the first time, hoping to fall back asleep. But when it started to ring again only seconds after it stopped she picks up her phone and answers the call without bothering to see who it is.
“Hullo?” she answers sleepily, her eyes barely open. She glances at the clock, noting that it’s only 10 pm and figures that it’s one of her coworkers inviting her to go out with them.
“You sound sleepy,” George responds softly, his voice deep and languid. “Did I wake you up?”
Y/N sits up in bed, rubbing some of the sleep from her eyes. “George?”
George laughs. “Who else would it be?”
“Considering the fact that this is literally the second time you’ve ever called me I figured it would be anyone else besides you,” Y/N teases, shrugging out of her suit jacket.
“Hey,” George whines, and Y/N can practically hear the pout on his face. “I called you on your birthday.”
Y/N rolls her eyes. “Oh, you’re right, my mistake.” She pauses as she walks over to the dresser in the room, starting to take off her jewelry. “How baked are you this time?” she asks playfully.
“What makes you think I’m high?” George laughs.
“For one the sound of your voice,” Y/N explains as she kicks off her heels. “And you only call me when you’re high. Oh, and on my birthday,” she adds when George makes a noise of disapproval.
Y/N hears George shuffle around, and she takes the opportunity to put him on speaker so she can put her phone down and start getting rid of the rest of her clothes. “You can tell by my voice?”
“Mhm,” Y/N hums, fumbling with the buttons of her shirt. “It gets deeper and slower.”
“Really?” George asks, sounding surprised. “Does it sound sexy?”
Y/N laughs as she heads over towards her suitcase, taking off her bra as she goes. She starts to dig through the mess, trying to find her pajamas. “Super sexy,” she responds, hoping George is too high to notice how serious she is.
“What are you doing? You sound too far away.”
Y/N chuckles at George’s dramatics as her hands finally land on her sleep shirt. It’s an old t-shirt of George’s that she stole sometime during their last year and never gave back. Whenever Y/N travels for work she brings it with her as a reminder of home. “I’m putting my pajamas on.”
“So, you’re naked right now?” George’s voice is rough, and it sends a shiver right down her spine.
“Practically,” Y/N responds, pulling the shirt over her head. It’s far too large for her so the hem barely brushes the tops of her thighs, but it reminds her of George, and that’s what matters.
George groans, and Y/N can feel her cheeks heating up as she crawls back into bed. “Wish I was there to see.” Y/N can feel butterflies erupt in her stomach and she has to clamp a hand over her mouth to conceal the noise that bubbles out of her throat. “Send me a pic of your tits,” he continues bluntly when Y/N doesn’t say anything.
“George!” Y/N says, the surprise in her tone evident. The butterflies in her stomach are going wild, and Y/N has to remind herself that it’s the weed talking, not George. “I’m not going to do that George.” Although Y/N would be lying if she said she wasn’t tempted to. “Besides I’m already dressed and in bed.”
“What a party pooper,” George grumbles. “Got me all hard for nothing.” Y/N’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of her chest. George has never been this lewd with her in all the times they’ve been high together, and she wonders if it’s because of whatever he smoked or because this is one of the only times they’ve been alone while one of them was baked. “What are you wearing then? A sexy little nighty?”
Y/N has to take a few deep breaths, hardly able to believe what she’s hearing. Part of her wants to tell George to knock it off and hang up on him. But the other part has wanted to hear George talk to her like this since their Hogwarts days and she doesn’t know which part should win.
“One of your old t-shirts, actually,” Y/N responds quietly, giving in to her desires.
George groans, and it takes everything in Y/N’s power not to shove a hand down her panties. “That red one? That I let you borrow and never saw again?”
“You remember that?” Y/N asks softly.
“Of course,” George answers. His voice is slower now and Y/N can tell he’s going to fall asleep any second. Smoking always makes him tired and he was often the target of a few pranks since he would be the first to nod off. “That’s like a guys wet dream. Seeing a girl that’s as pretty and sexy as you are in his clothes.”
Y/N bites her tongue as to not say anything, just listening to George through the phone. His breathing starts to slow down, and within a few seconds Y/N can tell he’s fallen into a deep sleep. She listens to him breathe for a moment, before hanging up and tossing her phone down. She cuddles up in the unfamiliar bed, desperately trying to fall asleep.
-
Every few weeks George’s name pops up on Y/N’s phone usually late at night and he’s always baked out of his mind. Y/N finds it nice the first half dozen times, George’s voice is always calming to her and she basks in the opportunity to get to speak with him. They haven’t seen each other in months, despite the fact that Y/N has tried to catch up with him several times. But he’s always got an excuse ready. At first Y/N understood, the joke shop is his number one priority, but after a while it gets insulting. When George is sober he can barely be bothered to send her a text message but the second he lights up he’s dialing her phone number.
One night when he calls she asks him why he doesn’t just invite her over to smoke. Her flat is only 30 minutes outside of London and he knows that she’d drive to the ends of the earth to see him. But of course he has an excuse. He says that it’s something just for him and Fred, a way to wind down together after a hectic workday. Which makes sense to Y/N, and as much as she wants to push it she doesn’t. If it were any other person she would have given up on their friendship by now. But George isn’t just any average person. He’s the person she cares most about in this world, and Y/N doesn’t want to live without him. So as shitty as it makes her feel to just be someone he calls when he’s too baked to care who he talks to, she puts up with it.
That is until she reaches her breaking point.
-
The last time it happens Y/N doesn’t answer her phone the first time it rings. Or the second time. She’s just gotten home from having a few drinks with friends and the alcohol has made her brave. She puts her phone on vibrate mode and leaves it on her bed as she gets ready to go to sleep. It takes her 20 minutes to get ready and once she’s finally in bed under the covers she picks up her phone to assess the damage.
“What the fuck George?” she whispers to herself, scrolling through the notifications on her phone. She has 15 missed calls from him and a litany of text messages.
Answer ur phone Y/N Y/N I called again Pls Answer me Y R u ignoring me Need to hear your voice Baby Y/N Im gonna call until u pick up Ill keep txtin 2 Baby please Y/N I need to talk to you I miss u Pls
When George’s name and the stupid photo of him Y/N set as his contact picture pop again Y/N sighs and she reluctantly answers. “What?”
“Oh my god finally,” George groans in his usual slow voice. “Why didn’t you answer me?”
Y/N rolls her eyes. “Because, George. I was busy. I have a life outside of you and your stupid little phone calls.” Her tone is harsh, and George is so quiet for a moment that Y/N has to check to make sure that he hasn’t hung up on her.
“Why are you so angry?” he asks a second later, and Y/N can tell he’s upset. Normally she would just drop the subject, but there’s alcohol thrumming through her veins and she’s tired of keeping it all in.
“Because, George,” Y/N sneers. “You only call me when you’re high. You dodge every attempt I make at seeing you and you barely even text me anymore. I thought we were friends George. But in reality you treat me like dirt. You use me whenever you want and then you cast me aside without another thought until you’re high again.”
“Y/N,” George starts, but he gets distracted when someone in the background starts to giggle wildly.
Y/N’s blood runs cold, immediately recognizing that laugh. “I thought smoking was something for only you and Fred, George?” Y/N asks accusatorily, sadness and hurt starting to mix with her anger. “I can’t believe you. Not only did you lie to me, but you can find the time to hang out with Angelina Johnson and not your best friend?”
“I-I’m here all alone, Y/N. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” George stutters. But before Y/N can say anything, the same voice says something.
“Georgie,” Angelina whines. “You’re too far away, get back over here.”
“Y/N, I can explain,” George starts, but she cuts him off.
“Fuck you, George Weasley.” Y/N spits, before hanging up on him. She turns her phone off and slams it down, before burying her head in her pillow and crying herself to sleep.
-
When Y/N wakes up the next morning her head is pounding and her throat is dry, and it’s not just from the alcohol she drank. George broke her heart last night, and she has the dry tear tracks on her cheeks to prove it. Y/N avoids her phone, deciding she’s not quite ready for whatever is going to pop up when she turns it back on.
She gets ready for the day slowly, thankful that it’s still the weekend. Y/N stands in the shower for nearly an hour, just letting the hot water sting her skin. When she gets out she brushes her hair slowly, just looking at herself in the mirror. She can’t help but be as mad at herself as she is at George. George may have treated her like shit, but Y/N let him. She let herself become so desperate for his attention that she played right into his stupid game. And as much as Y/N hates to admit it, she doesn’t regret it for a second. All she’s ever craved was George’s undivided attention, and finally getting it felt so good, even if George was higher than a kite each time. Seeing his name pop up on her phone gave Y/N a thrill each time, even though she wanted more – deserved more. Y/N has always been there for George and all she wanted was for him to be there for her too.
Y/N picks out her comfiest lounging outfit, forcing herself not to automatically reach for the old shirt of George’s hanging in her closet. She’s been wearing it more often these days, craving the comfort of his embrace but settling for the cloth of his shirt instead. But now the sight of it makes her want to throw up.
She’s been up for nearly two hours when she settles back into bed, a hot cup of tea in her hands. Y/N’s not sure if she’s actually ready to face whatever mess George put them in last night, but sooner is better than later. She places her mug on her bedside table, reaching over to flip the framed photo she has of her and George over so she can’t see their smiling faces. When her phone finally boots up the screen shows just her background for a moment, before a barrage of texts, missed calls and voicemails show up. George has called nearly 100 times, with almost as many voicemails accompanying them and he’s texted over 200 times to boot.
Y/N scrolls through them, surprised to find that the most recent call and voicemail are from Fred. She can’t remember the last time Fred initiated a phone call with her, since he’s just as hard to get on the phone as George. Fred prefers to communicate through snapchats and tweets, so Y/N knows something big has gone on if Fred bothered to pick up his phone and make a call.
“Uh hey, Y/N. It’s me. Fred. But you probably already know that. Or maybe you don’t. Whatever, not important. I know this is probably the last thing you wanna hear since he’s left you like a thousand messages, but will you please call George? Or text him. Hell send him an email. He’s sorry for whatever it is he did. I’m not really sure what, he was crying a lot when he barged into my room and I was zooted as hell. But what matters is he’s sorry and he really wants to talk to you. So call him, please. Do it for me, at least even if you don’t do it for him. Okay anyway. Bye.”
Y/N sighs, running a hand through her hair. As pissed as she is, she hates to hear that George is upset. She chooses to ignore George’s voicemails for now, since they’re probably a mishmash of words and sobs considering how messy Fred said he was. She clicks on her text message app, scrolling through the messages George had sent, stopping every once and a while to read a few.
Y/N please Im srry Its sending me to voicemail Did u turn ur phone off Talk 2 me Pls y/n pls baby baby baby im sorry I need you to talk to me I need to hear ur voice Pls Let me explain I dnt care abt angie Not like how I care abt u Y/N please. Don’t do this I fucked up I knw I fucked up Let me make it right Please I love you, please
The last text message shocks Y/N, and she rereads it over and over again until its image is imprinted in her brain. George has only ever told her he loves her one other time. It was the last time they got high together, the night before he and Fred left to start the joke shop. Fred, George, Lee and her were all fairly baked, and after Fred and Lee left to sneak down to the kitchens for snacks, George had turned to Y/N and pulled her right into his lap. He had grabbed her face with both of his hands and looked deep into her eyes. I love you, you know that right? His tone was firm and when Y/N nodded he used his grip on her face to pull her into a kiss. It was uncoordinated and messy, but she didn’t care. He had mumbled the word ‘good’ when he pulled away and in a blink of an eye he’d drifted off to sleep. Y/N had snuck back into her own bed, figuring it was best to ignore it, since George surely wouldn’t remember it in the morning anyway.
A knock at her door brings Y/N out of her thoughts and she tosses her phone on the bed to go and answer it. She’s been expecting a package, so when Y/N reaches the door she doesn’t bother to check to see who it is, and just throws it open.
“You look like hell,” Y/N says when her eyes land on George. She certainly wasn’t expecting it to be him, but she’s truly not surprised. His text messages had sounded desperate and it’s very like George to just show up at her doorstep when she doesn’t want him to after he refused to come over for months. Y/N looks him over as he fidgets, taking in his disheveled appearance. His eyes are sullen and dull, his hair is sticking out in a million directions and his skin is ever paler than normal.
“Suppose I deserve that,” George responds, his voice raspy. He lets his eyes rake over Y/N, dumbfounded by how beautiful she looks even in her lounge wear. It’s the first time he’s seen her in person in over half a year and even though he’s spent much of his free time staring at her Instagram photos, she still takes his breath away. “You look good though.”
Y/N rolls her eyes and goes to slam the door, but George puts his hand up to stop it. “What do you want, George?”
“Just let me explain,” he pleads. “Just let me explain everything and then if you want I’ll go. I’ll leave and you’ll never have to talk to me or see me again. You can delete me from your life. But I can’t let you go without explaining myself.”
“Fine,” Y/N resolves, stepping aside and opening the door so George can come in. She leads him over to her couch and motions for him to sit down. Y/N resists her urge to sit next to him, instead choosing to stand in front of him, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes narrowed. “Talk.”
George clears his throat and starts to fiddle with his thumbs. “I like calling you when I’m high because I say whatever comes to my mind. When I’m sober I think too much about what I’m going to say, and I never end up saying what I want. But when I’m high the words just fly out of my mouth without me thinking about the consequences and I like that. Because there’s so many things I want to say to you that I don’t have the balls to say when I’m sober.”
“Like asking me for tit pics?” Y/N asks with a curt laugh.
“Honestly, yes,” he answers, a blush forming on his cheeks. “But it’s more than that. Like telling you I smoke joints even though I despise them, and Fred can’t roll to save his life because it reminds me of you. Or that just the thought of you not wearing any clothes drives me wild. Or that I find you so ungodly beautiful and so damn sexy, Y/N. And that I love you.” George pauses for a moment so he can just watch Y/N. “Because I do love you, Y/N. So much more and in so many different ways than a best friend should.”
Y/N bites her lip to keep herself from sharing the same sentiment as George. Because holy hell does she love him with every fiber of her being, but he’s fucked up and hurt her in more ways than just his inability to admit his feelings. “Then why keep me at arm’s length, George? You avoid all my attempts to see you, you only ever bother talking to me when you’re baked out of your mind and you lie to me. Out of all the people in the world you had to smoke with it had to be her. You know how I feel about Angelina.”
Despite being roommates and pretty similar personality wise, Y/N and Angelina never really got along. They were always competing with each other, for the best grades in their year, for prefect and head girl, and Y/N is ashamed to admit that they’d fought over a boy or two in their early years at Hogwarts. But by far their biggest competition was for George’s attention. George couldn’t care less about girls during his time at Hogwarts, Fred didn’t either but at least he would sleep with some of the girls that threw themselves at him. George on the other hand didn’t seem to care. The only girl he ever bothered to spend meaningful time with was Y/N, and it drove Angelina up the wall. Angelina did everything she could to vie for George’s attention, including spreading a nasty rumor about Y/N during their 5th year. Much to Angelina’s disappointment it failed miserably, and they pretty much ignored each other from that day on.
“The Angelina thing is not my fault,” George insists. “She came into the shop just before we closed, and Fred invited her up and she accepted. What was I supposed to do?”
“Not let her in your room!” Y/N answers as if it’s obvious. “But this isn’t just about Angelina, I don’t want to talk about her. It’s about the fact that you’ve been treating me like shit, George. I’ve been trying so hard to get through to you and you stop me every time.”
“Because being around you and having to pretend that I don’t have feelings for you is too painful,” George admits honestly. “The only time I’m brave enough to be with you the way I want to is when I’m high. Why do you think I was always grabbing your ass after we smoked? Why I always made you cuddle me? Why I kissed you that night?”
“You remember that?” Y/N asks, clearly shocked. George had never mentioned it again and Y/N figured he was too high to remember what he said and did. It had upset her to no end that George returning her feelings was only a side effect of the weed, but she never brought it up to him in fear of ruining their relationship.
George scoffs. “Of course I do. When I woke up the next morning and you weren’t there I figured you didn’t feel the same way. So, I just never mentioned it, and when you didn’t either I figured you thought I was just being a high idiot like always and brushed it off. I never invited you to smoke after that because I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you. And kissing you once is easy to explain away but kissing you every time we get high pretty obviously means something more. So, I would call you instead. And I’d lay in my bed high as hell pretending that you were there next to me until I fell asleep with you on the phone.”
“Oh, for fucks sake,” Y/N mutters. Before she has a chance to regret her actions, Y/N is throwing herself at George. She straddles his waist and kisses him hard, moaning when his hands land on her bum and give it a squeeze. “You’re such a fucking idiot,” she pants, starting to trail kisses across George’s jaw and down his neck. “But you’re my idiot.”
George chuckles before he grabs Y/N’s face so that he can kiss her again. Their lips move together slowly, and George starts to rub Y/N’s back lightly. “I love you,” he murmurs as their kiss breaks.
“I love you too,” Y/N responds, her head dizzy.
“Does this mean I get tit pics whenever I want?” George asks cheekily, laughing when Y/N slaps his chest.
“Only if you promise to only call me when you’re sober from now on,” Y/N bargains.
George grins at Y/N before leaning in to kiss her briefly. “Deal.”
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kyberphilosopher · 4 years ago
Text
Oʀᴏᴛᴜɴᴅ
Requested?: Yes. Contains allusions to sex and illness, non graphic.
Word Count: 3301
Eren has disappeared beyond the walls, finding refuge with a sick ex-soldier. 
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Orotund: (adj.*) speaking or singing with fullness, clarity, or strength of song or voice. 
.✫*゚・゚。.★.*。・゚✫*. 
 The sickness had spread slowly, but surely. 
You couldn’t tell where you had gotten it from. At first, you had assumed it was simply an intensified version of the flu. However, the longer you took care of yourself, the more you realized that this was far worse. 
Dividing the time into five stages, you began keeping note of what was happening to you during Stage Two. During Stage One, you began to experience relatively short periods of a fever. They’d usually last for days at a time, with you lying in bed draping a wet rag on your forehead. So intense, you could not even get up to urinate or eat, it was difficult not to feel pathetic. 
Stage Two had made the fever die down. You were more than thankful for this, of course, but it had come with it’s own crashing, crushing waves. Stage Two had begun to make you lose weight at a rapid and inexplicable pace. You often frowned at yourself in the mirror, observing how your torso was slimming and shaping around the form of your ribs. It came before the loss of appetite, which only made matters that much worse. 
Stage Three, during which you had met him, was strange. It didn’t directly cause any physical changes to you, but it did indirectly. You grew restless in the night, and exhausted during the day. Riddled with fatigue, the daily chores you relied on for life became troublesome. Drawing water from the well strained your back, and because of what Stage Two had done to your stomach, you lacked the energy needed to keep yourself upright. 
One day, in whatever season it had been, you returned to your cabin to find a stranger inside. Instantly on sight, your pail of drinking water fell from your fingers and splashed against the wooden floors. Your boots and socks were soaked. The knocking of wood against wood made your ears ring as if a bomb had gone off. 
The boy was still, but his eyes were somewhat wide as if he was also surprised. He must not have considered someone was already living in the cabin. Yet, he was sitting at your dining table, watching you with open eyes and open ears. 
Before you could scold, yelp, or simply say hello, you collapse over. The fatigue overpowers you and you crash against your counter in a heap. 
The boy leapt forward on instinct. His right arm wrapped around your back to steady you somewhat, his left hand gripping onto your other shoulder. It didn’t help you too much, as your ankle was already rolling out from under you, but it did keep you from hitting the floor completely. Thus, the boy had at least saved you a head injury. 
“My room,” you croaked with hazy eyes. The hand attached to the arm over his back weakly pointed in the direction of your bedroom. It wasn’t too far away.  You were lucky that he craned his head to see where you were gesturing to, and understood. “I have to get to... my room...”
“Right,” the boy replied.
He hoisted you up, the both of you grunt quietly in unison. And then he practically dragged you across the floorplan of your home, stumbling and groaning all the way. The boy let you drop into your bed on your own, partially kicking him in the process. 
You hum out a sigh of relief. Your head is immediately alleviating itself, and the room is ceasing to spin so quickly. The boy is confused as to the lack of yelling or anger. Instead, he is enthralled with the calm, tired, demeanor of your form. He’d broken into your cabin, eaten your food, and you hadn’t even looked mad. In fact, you looked almost sickly. 
.✫*゚・゚。.★.*。・゚✫*.
Stage Four brought depression. Yes, you already had that. But now your sickness was piling onto the chemical imbalances, adding to the lack of calories, nutrients, and sleep. Whatever strength you had before was dwindling away faster than before, although this time, things were different. 
The strangers name was Eren. Eren Jaeger. He had large, piercing teal eyes, bold eyebrows, and dark hair. At the time of your meeting, it was the length of his shoulders. His palms were wrapped in gauze at the time, but it wasn’t permanent. He’d since removed them, and helped you work. 
Eren was strong. He could repair things that were broken around the cabin and help you with the well upkeep. Sometimes he would go hunting and bring home venison or herbs for you, which was kind. He didn’t ask for much in return, other than you not tell anyone of his presence. Not like you had anyone to tell anyways. 
Eren gave you a ride on his Titan once or twice too. That was something you loved. You were scared at first, but Eren didn’t let anything happen to you. He would lift you up in the palm of his hand so you could reach the fruits at the top of the tallest of trees. Then you’d go home and slice the fruit up for him in a small bowl. 
He slept on the bench in the living room. You’d felt particularly guilty about that part, but your weak body needed all the relaxation it could get. Eren knew that, and he never forced you to share or give more than was even remotely necessary. Really, Eren was quiet most days. He seemed to do a great bit of brooding, but you’d grown accustomed to the presence of another human being, and thus, warmth. And Eren liked you. You weren’t obsessive, didn’t yell for the way he cleaned, didn’t rip up his clothes, or remind him of a fading dream. 
Time blurs together when you’re living on your own in the middle of nowhere, but the boy was with you for more than two months, at least. He figured out that you were sick in that span of time, including that you didn’t deserve to be. There wasn’t much around your cabin to suggest much of past life. Eren didn’t blame you. That’s why he stayed in the cabin as well- hoping to leave the past for a blank space. 
You took care of each other. Your favorite example was on a morning in Spring. 
.✫*゚・゚。.★.*。・゚✫*.
Eren wore a simple brown cloak. No shirt underneath, giving you a much appreciated view of the boys abdominal muscles. Though, you’d probably never get the opportunity to admit you found the boy physically appealing, you took it in. His hair was back in a bun today. The sun broke over the horizon, illuminating his eyes. 
Jaeger held your horse by the reigns. His right bare foot was rubbing against his left shin, tired as the horse began to excrete last nights meal. Eren must’ve gotten up earlier than usual this morning for chores, because the circles under his eyes seemed more prominent. Not that it specifically mattered. He looked handsome all the same. You appreciated the view for a few minutes before starting towards the well. 
First, you set the bucket on the earth where the water is sure to fall. Then, you place both hands on the pump, digging your feet into the ground for leverage. Stage Four has made you weaker than most people. This will take a lot out of you. 
Pushing down, it takes all of your strength to get a single pump of water into the pail. It’s not enough, and sweat is already beading at your forehead. It’s not even hot yet, and something mediocre is nearing you close to death. Your heart strains against your chest, but you ignore it. You have to get the water. 
You push down a second time. Now, the container is half full of the clear stuff. It ripples in the light of the sun like a rainbow. Your head feels like it’s on fire. A slow, dull fire. You have to push a third...
With a final great heave, your blistered hands scrape against the contraption. The water gushes out like a miracle, filling the bucket again. So crisp it makes your mouth water, you kneel to the ground to catch your breath. 
Stop, your heart begs. Stop. Rest. But the responsibility is staring you dead in the eyes, and you can’t ignore it. And you can’t ask Eren to go a day without water. He deserves it. For Eren’s sake, you must do this. 
Although your world is dizzy, you push yourself to your feet. Your blistered fingers wrap around the handle, ready to pick it off the ground without issue. However, water buckets are heavy. There is nothing you can do but struggle to raise it off the ground, tears and sweat pricking at the corners of your eyes and goosebumps appearing at your arms. It’s not even really that chilly. 
Eren was like a God sent. You didn’t fully hear what he said to you, but you felt his arms slide around you to lift you up. “Y/N, do you hear me? You have to stand, alright?” You hadn’t replied. 
Jaeger connected the dots. With one half of his body, he leveraged you up and to your feet. With the other, he grabbed the pail of water and began moving forward. 
It was slow with you practically slumped against him, but he was a soldier. Eren wasn’t about to just let you drop in the middle of nowhere. He wouldn’t let you succumb to your illness that easily, if he let you succumb to anything at all. 
Eren set you on your bed. You had a fever, so he laid a wet cloth across your forehead. He stripped you down to your undergarments as respectfully as one could, laying two more rags on your forearms for extra help. Then he drew you  a bath, knowing the water would be cold for your lingering fever. He never asked for anything in return. 
But, he had set a hand against your shoulder. His thumb ran in soft circles against your hot skin, a comforting, loving gesture. You could feel his long hair brush against your chest as he leaned down to make sure your heart was still beating. Aside from a slight palpitation, it seemed in working order. 
His brushing thumb lingered a moment longer before he let you rest. Even in sleep, you missed it. You wouldn’t forget this. 
.✫*゚・゚。.★.*。・゚✫*.
This leads us into the final Stage. Stage 5. The one where you die at the end. 
“Eren,” you call out softly, watching the curtain windows sheer in the sunlight. 
In response, the boy bows his head to look down at you. His eyes are calm, but bright as always. His hair is half up, half down. Laying between his thighs comfortably, your stomach rumbles from hunger. Despite this, things are quiet. 
“Yes?” he replies.
You swallow dryly. Then you reveal your desire. “Do you sing?”
His right hand comes to rest on your forehead. Yes, you have the fever again. But Eren knows you are in the right mind. His thumb strokes your temple, catching a few wisps of your hair as he does so. 
“Not well,” he answers with the ghost of a smile. “You want me to sing to you?”
You shift, and one of your hand grazes by his knee. “Maybe,” you tease back. Then you frown. “You seem tired today.”
Eren exhales. His right hand lays against your forehead, a mix of concern and something like affection.
“Is it the Attack Titan?” you continue, gazing up at him through soft lashes. 
It was. Eren’s history- the worlds history- was churning around his mind until it seemed like a bunch of mush. You were the only thing that was clear to him at this point. But you were silent. Calm, compared to everything else in the universe. 
“No,” Eren decides to assure light heartedly. His thumb begins to circle around your sticky skin in the little way that it does. “It’s nothing.”
Silence again. 
The warm breeze brushes against the window outside, but it’s not loud. It’s warm from the light of the sun, and the hills of emerald grass span for miles ahead. The sky is as blue as the birds that soar across it. Serene. That was how you would describe the life you currently lead. And blessed be you for leading it as peacefully and quietly as the loud and complicated world would allow. 
“I think I’m going to die soon.”
The quiet was broken with another fracture of quiet. Eren’s heart gave a great, vibrating beat, and then paused. In contrast, you couldn’t recall the last time you’d heard your heart beat. 
All the violent death he’d seen, just for you to die of an unknown illness? 
.✫*゚・゚。.★.*。・゚✫*.
You knew you were going to die at the end. You knew it for a fact. You’d just gotten lucky. 
Lucky, you think as you look up at the man above you. Yeah, I’m lucky. 
His pacing is held back for fear of hurting you. His long, dark hair sways back and forth in time with his thrusts. His face is contorted, mixed with an overwhelming feeling of pleasure and determination. There’s a little clear, slick spot on the corner of his lips. It slips from between, drips down his chin, and onto your abdomen. Eren wants to apologize, but his teeth are gritted together and he doesn’t want to embarrass either of you with shaky words. 
You don’t mind. There’s no need for Eren to apologize. Eren is and always has been a sight for sore eyes, especially for you. And, blessings onto your own soul, you’re getting more butterflies from knowing he’s one of the last things you’ll see and feel than what he’s doing with you. 
Your eyes are glued to his. What color are they? Emerald, like the grass? Blue, like the sky? Could they be teal? Yes, that must be it. Though, sometimes you swear they’re gold instead. 
Lucky. 
You both end up finishing. He keeps himself from collapsing on top of you before asking if you’ll be alright if he bathes. You assure him it’s more than okay as he rubs his thumb over your temple. Some people might be upset at their partner for leaving after what you’ve done, but you understood. Physical contact is hard for soldiers. You know. But Eren promises he’ll be back silently, because he feels guilty about it. 
If you had a bit longer, maybe this wouldn’t be the only time you and the boy could do this. Actually, what had even led to it? What had taken it this long? You’d had dinner. The light from the candles came on, and you’d met his gaze. The rest was all steam and blurs. 
When your living mate returns, your back is facing from him. You’re watching the fresh drops of rain crash against the window, falling from under a dark grey cast. There will be a thunderstorm tonight. You wonder if Eren will want to stay in your bed tonight, or if he’ll insist on taking the bench. 
You feel his hands, previously burning hot, touch your shoulder, now ice cold. The mattress dips under his weight behind you, and then you feel his toned torso flush against you. 
His face brushes against your ear so you can hear him speak softly. “I’m sorry if I took too long,” Eren mutters. A few wisps of hair brush against your jaw, but he’s tied it back now. 
In one fluid motion, a hand of your own comes to stroke at his cheek. “You didn’t.”
His eyes narrow as he looks down at you, before he pulls away to put his face in the back of your neck. His hand remains around you tight, so you know he wants you right where you are. 
You didn’t tell Eren that your time was practically numbered. Maybe it would be weeks, days, or hours. You should’ve told him before you let him inside you, but you’d been a bit distracted. Anxious, too. The moment was worth ruining with something so silly and small. But now it’s done. The only sounds echoing around the cabin is the pitter pattering of the rain, and the oncoming onslaught of booming thunder. 
You have to tell him, you say to yourself as his grip on you tightens. Before he tugs your body closer like a lover again.
Before you can speak, Eren mumbles something against the skin of your neck. “Follow my lead.”
What?
He hums for a few seconds. At first, you think it’s just the hum of insanity, random and undefined. The you realize the changes in pitch are too thought out to be random. It’s a song. 
“...always picking a fight with me...”
It feels hazy, far away. Sort of heavenly. Even with his low, muffled voice, it’s easy to hear the musical tones oozing from the whole thing. 
“...you know I’m bad, but you’re still spending the night with me.”
That line feels more like he’s speaking it into you. It’s personal. 
“...what do you want from my world?”
If you had it your way, or his way, there wouldn’t be anybody else but the two of you and your cabin. Still, this also feels like a genuine question. Maybe it is. 
There’s a dry kiss placed against your shoulder blade before Eren continues the tune. Humming. And then, “...every night I’m out... killin’, send everyone runnin'...”
Eren pulls you closer against him and inhales somewhat sharply. You crane your neck deeper into the pillow, silently wishing that you could feel his swollen lips against it.
  “I know you’re mad at me,” he sings, a bit clearer now. “I have demon eyes.”
Eren’s hand creeps up from your shoulder to your throat, able to choke you if he so wanted. His thumb strokes over your Adam’s apple instead. Eren grants your wish, raising his face so his lips brush over the skin by your jaw instead of the back of your head. A soft kiss is pressed to the area, almost as if he was nervous. 
“...they’re looking right through your anatomy...”, he seems to nuzzle against you lightly, though that feels somewhat out of character. “...your deepest fears, I’m not from here...”
Like before, he pushes his head back into your hair. He groans like he’s stretching before going on. 
“...to me, you’re clear... transparent. You have a thing for me... it’s apparent...”
The rain is falling harder now. 
“...you’re not so bad...”
Eren isn’t bad at all. He sighs against you, his fingers stroking your skin gently. 
“...it’s not something I have to try... oh, for the table, as long as I am able... I’m not trying to be bad.”
I’m going to die soon, Eren.
“No... different.”
He doesn’t continue. Only his thumb continues on, circling round and round in an unknowing attempt to express comfort.
“I thought you said you didn’t sing well,” you whisper into the darkness. 
“I don’t,” he speaks against you.
What a liar. And you, the lucky one for knowing the truth.
Eren doesn’t move positions until you’ve fallen asleep, at which point he eventually turns his back to you in his own slumber. And Eren knew that you were sick, but he also knew that you were capable. 
You weren’t breathing when he woke up. 
.✫*゚・゚。.★.*。・゚✫*.
I guess that’s that. I think I like it but I’m not sure about the ending. Mine aren’t usually so simple. Maybe I should’ve made it less depressing. Eh. 
594 notes · View notes
mandospace · 4 years ago
Text
Keeping Company (Boba Fett x Reader Smut)
Request: If you're still taking requests, would you write a Boba x female reader smut? I headcannon Boba as being really rough most of the time, kinky as hell, and definitely has a breeding kink. I'm not into the entire 'daddy' thing, but am game for just about anything else.
Requested By: @asaucecoveredsomething​
Word Count: 4,658
Warnings: SMUT! If you are under 18, do not interact! Masturbation, slight voyeurism, edging, orgasm denial, fingering, oral (f receiving), slight choking, slight bondage, PinV sex, fluff at the end!
A/N: I am a whore for Boba and I got way too into this while I was writing it. I hope you Boba fuckers love reading this because I sure enjoyed writing it! 
MASTERLIST
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Slave One was silent besides the constant thrum of electricity running through it's wires. It was parked on some obscure desert planet, sand whipping against the metal. Boba had been gone for a week already, hunting down some Twi'lek that had wronged him before the fall of the Empire. Now as king of the crime underworld and ruler of the territory formerly known as Hutt space, Boba didn't want any ‘loose ends’ coming for his throne. So the two of you took off in his father's old ship two months ago, hunting down the various 'loose ends' scattered throughout the galaxy.
You weren't exactly sure why Boba had decided to take you along with him instead of just leaving you at the palace. Not exactly the best fighter, you were positive that you would have slowed him down with your inexperience. When you brought it up to him, Boba just chuckled and snaked his arm around your waist, tugging you to his side with an "I'm gonna need company on those long nights, sweetness."
So you tagged along behind him, excited when you learned your true purpose on his mission. The two of you had been together for some time now, and even though he wasn't a man of many words, you knew deep down that he loved you. You were completely enamored with your bounty hunter-turned-king, and were willing to do anything to please him. So, you said yes to this journey. You said yes to the picture he painted in your head of the two of you wrapped up in each other during those long nights, keeping him company.
Of course, that hasn't happened since he returned from his first hunt. It had been exactly six weeks, four days, and thirteen hours since you last "kept him company."
It was killing you.
He had become very busy with his hunts after that first successful mission, and your alone time practically evaporated into thin air. The two of you had a very, well, physical, relationship and the need you always felt for him grew with every passing minute. The ache you felt between your legs was constant. It was ever growing, it kept building every time he came back to the ship. Just when you thought that he would take care of you and keep you company this time, he would either immediately set off for another quarry or would collapse on the bed in his quarters and fall asleep faster than you could say 'Wookie.'
So, yeah, you were a little needy.
Normally, you would have just taken care of the situation by yourself, but right before Boba had left on his first hunt he made you promise him that you wouldn't touch yourself. "It'll be fun, sweetness," he had smirked at your shocked face. "Just think, it'll make the reward just that much sweeter when I come back to you."
Sure, you had thought to yourself after the fifth time he fell asleep after returning from a hunt. If you actually stayed up to get your reward.
The ache would just not go away no matter what you tried. You took cold showers, cleaned the entire ship, and even tried to learn how to sew his old pair of pants he tore chasing after a quarry. Nothing took your mind off the way your pussy throbbed at night, demanding to be noticed.
You were left with two options. Option number one, you ignore it. Force yourself to go to sleep and just hope and pray to the Maker that when Boba returns, he doesn't fall asleep on you. Option number two, you take care of it yourself. If you broke the 'no-touching' policy, Boba would surely punish you. But only if he caught you, right? He wasn't due back for another two days, so surely you would be fine.
When you made up your mind, a thrill raced down your spine at the idea of disobeying Boba's orders. He was always in charge in every aspect of your relationship, and when you pushed his buttons before, the tortuous pleasure he gave you made you sore for days. While you loved the punishment, it wasn't nearly as good as him giving you what you desperately craved. But you weren't going to get caught, so you had nothing to worry about.
That night, you laid yourself back on your shared bed with excitement. To make the moment more enjoyable for yourself, you had dug through the ship's crates and found a delicious-smelling candle. You weren’t sure why it was on the ship, but it’s scent reminded you of Boba. The thought of him sent a shiver down your body, reminding you of your own mission.
Eyes fluttering shut, you breathed in the scent of Boba. You could feel your pussy throbbing with excitement at the prospect of what was about to happen. Your hands floated down your body, light touch through your nightshirt leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Hand making its way under your waistband, your finger trailed farther south until it met your slit. A soft gasp left your lips at how wet you found yourself. Your panties were already soaked through with desire. When your nail brushed against your clit, swollen with need, you moaned and bit down on your bottom lip. 
You haven’t had any type of release for a month and a half, and you wanted to draw this moment out. Pulling your hand out of your underwear, you tugged your shirt over your head and kicked off your sleep shorts and panties. The ship was cold, and goosebumps raised along your flesh. You could feel your nipples harden at the cold air, peaking in anticipation. Settling back against the pillows, your mind drifted off to Boba. You wished he was here with you, the one to give you the pleasure you so desperately craved. No matter what you did, it would never measure up to what you experienced with him.
Your hands drifted down your body, cupping your breasts. Wishing it was Boba’s large hands on you instead of your own, you brushed a thumb over the hardened peak. A soft moan left your mouth when you gently pinched the pert nipple. Pleasure rippled down your body and settled in your core. Your hands continued on their trail south and you spread your legs wide in anticipation. Two fingers dipped down to your entrance and gathered the slick that was beginning to pool on the sheets. You dragged the wetness to your clit and began rubbing slow circles into the bundle of nerves.
“Boba,” your breath hitched in your throat when a wave of pleasure coursed through your veins. Your left hand squeezed your breast as you flicked the bundle of nerves. You imagined that it was Boba’s thick fingers that were moving down to your sopping entrance instead of your own. Slipping two fingers into your heat, another moan fell from your lips. It had been so long, and you almost cried at the feeling of something in your pussy. While you wished it was Boba’s thick cock instead of your fingers, you made do with what you had available. Boba’s name constantly fell from your lips with breathy moans, wishing your bounty hunter was next to you...
———
The walk back to the ship was long and arduous. It had taken longer than Boba expected to find the Twi’lek that wronged him all those years ago, but he was glad it was finally over with. He didn’t even bother dragging the body back to the ship, there was no use carting around a corpse worth nothing when you already collected on the reward. Besides, Boba was thinking more about a different reward that waited for him on his ship.
When the ship came into his view, Boba sighed in relief. He couldn’t wait to walk up that ramp, throw off his helmet, and wrap you in his arms. These past few weeks were killing him. He wasn’t the young bounty hunter he once was, the hunts took more effort nowadays. By the time he was ready to spend some time with you, he often found himself asleep next to you within a few seconds. Boba ached to be inside you, it had been too long. He originally thought the ‘no-touching’ policy would be a great idea- a way to build up the anticipation and excitement while he was away from you. He just didn’t expect it to be this long of a waiting period.
Boba pressed a button on his vambrace that lowered the ramp. The hull was dark and quiet, only the sound of electricity hummed through the air. He didn’t see you in your usual spot where you waited for him. You must be asleep, Boba figured, and pressed the button again to close the ramp. He couldn’t blame you for sleeping, it was the easiest way to make time pass by faster. Once the ramp locked in position, Boba started to make his way towards his quarters. If you were asleep, he decided that he would join you and get his reward once the two of you had gotten some rest. He had only walked a few paces when a noise stopped him dead in his tracks. He waited to hear it again, trying to discern if it was just a figment of his imagination, but then he heard it-
“Boba.”
He would recognize your voice anywhere. Boba was pretty confident that he could pick your voice out of thousands, but he was damn sure he would be able to if you said it in the tone you just used. Your breathless moaning of his name was his favorite sound in the world.
Boba could feel his cock twitch in his pants at the sound of your moan. He immediately knew what you were doing, but he wanted to see it for himself. He had to catch you in the act if he was going to punish you. So he quietly made his way to his quarters, and stopped just inside the door.
The image of you sprawled out on his bed, naked, hand in between your legs playing with your pussy sent a lightning bolt of lust through his body. His dick pressed against the confines of his pants as he stood there, watching you. Your eyes were closed- you hadn’t seen him come in- and you arched your back in pleasure. Boba’s eyes never left your body, watching the way you thrust your fingers in and out of your wet heat.
“Boba,” you moaned again, biting down on your bottom lip. He couldn’t just stand there, watching you pleasure yourself. That was his job.
“Yes, pretty girl?”
The deep timbre of Boba’s voice through the vocoder of his helmet made your eyes snap open. Immediately, you glanced to the doorway and saw him standing there, full armor on, staring at you pleasuring yourself in his absence. Which you definitely were not supposed to be doing.
“Boba-” you gasped, but he quickly cut you off.
“I thought we agreed to something, princess,” his words dripped from his tongue with lust, the sound making your pussy throb. “No touching while we were apart, right?”
You tried to come up with an excuse whilst you just laid there, fingers still buried between your folds. You were too scared to pull them away. Boba was in charge now.
“Did you really miss my cock that much, sweetness?” His tone was mocking and you couldn’t help but whimper out a measly ‘yes.’ Boba growled deep in his chest. “Hands up.”
Not daring to disobey his orders anymore, you brought your hands up and above your head, resting them on the pillows. Boba stalked towards you before grabbing both of your hands in one of his large gloved ones. He grabbed the cuffs from his belt and cuffed your hands together before magnetizing them to the metal wall at the head of the bed. You weren’t going anywhere.
Boba stood over you, dark visor peering at your flushed face. You squirmed on the bed in anticipation, you knew you fucked up- now was the time to pay for it. “Boba.”
He hummed low in his throat, gloved hand trailing down your neck before resting between the valley of your breasts. You could feel the warmth of him through his glove, and his touch set you ablaze. He had barely touched you, just a single graze, and you were already putty in his hand.
“Please,” you choked out as his hand moved further down your body. He cupped your heat, middle finger gliding through your folds.
“And why should I?” Boba questioned, languidly drawing circles on your clit. He was moving too slow, not giving you the friction you craved. “You disobeyed me, little one.”
Shit, you were really in trouble now. He never called you ‘little one’ unless you really fucked up. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I thought-”
“You thought what?” Boba stopped his movements, pulling his hand away from your cunt. He dragged his fingers back up your body, smearing your slick over your stomach. His hand rested at the base of your throat, squeezing slightly. The lack of oxygen made your head swim even more and caused you to let out a whine. “Thought you could touch yourself and I wouldn’t find out?”
All you could do was nod your head. No use in lying to him now. Boba ‘tsked,’ giving your throat another squeeze. “Guess I’m going to have to punish you, little one.”
He was going to make you cry. “Boba, please, I’ll be good.”
“If you aren’t punished,” Boba moved his hands up to his helmet, pulling it off to reveal his lust-filled eyes. “You’ll never learn.”
His hand groped your breast, flicking your nipple before wrapping his warm mouth around it. He sucked your breast into his mouth, tongue lapping at the sensitive skin. Your back arched off the bed in an attempt to push your chest closer to him. Boba lightly bit down on the sensitive bud, causing a pathetic whimper to leave your mouth. He moved over to the other breast, giving it the same attention before he trailed his lips down your stomach. Settling himself between your spread legs, Boba made eye contact with you momentarily before he licked a broad stripe up your pussy.
You screamed at the sensation of his warm tongue running through your folds. It had been forever since he ate you out and it was your favorite kind of torture. Boba’s mouth focused on your clit, sucking hard on it and leaving you breathless. You tugged at your restraints, wanting to use your hands to pull him closer to your dripping heat. Instead, the cuffs dug into your wrist- surely leaving marks. Boba continued to lick your pussy, giving your clit small, fast licks. He brought his gloved hand to your entrance, easily sinking two of his thick fingers into your heat. His fingers felt so much better than yours did, and the way he thrust them in tandem with his tongue licking your clit drove you crazy. You could feel the heat pooling in your tummy, each flick of his tongue and thrust of his fingers adding fuel to the growing flame.
“Boba,” you whined when his teeth grazed your clit. Your hips began to lift off the bed, trying to get closer to his mouth, but he just slung an arm over your hips and pinned you to the bed. His ministrations on your pussy felt delicious, causing breathless whines and moans to roll off your tongue. He added a third finger, pressing them into your dripping cunt before curling upwards. The leather of his glove just barely grazed against the spongy flesh of your walls, and it felt like you had been electrocuted. Your head leaned back in pleasure, mouth forming an ‘O’ as he pressed against that one spot and sucked your clit harshly. It was too much, the feeling of him giving you attention after all these weeks. You could feel the coil in your belly tighten, and a soft cry left your lips. “Boba, I-I’m going to-”
Just as the coiled spring in your tummy was about to snap and send you crashing over the edge, Boba pulled his mouth and fingers away from your cunt. Eyes snapping open in fury, you stared down between your legs where Boba sat on his haunches. His eyes were dark as they watched your heaving chest. You could see the sheen of your slick covering his mouth and chin. You were furious. “Boba, what the hell?!”
Boba just chuckled at your fury, crawling over your body. Tears were starting to pool in your eyes. It felt so good having him between your legs, and you wanted nothing more than to run your hands over his body. Boba brought his slick-coated fingers to your mouth, lightly tapping your bottom lip. “Suck,” he demanded, pushing his fingers into your mouth. You moaned at the taste of you on the old leather, tongue licking clean his fingers. You made sure to meet his gaze before you sucked on his fingers, hard.
“I want you, in my mouth,” you gasped when he pulled his fingers out of your mouth. Boba just stared at you, and brought his own fingers to his mouth to lick off the remnants of your desire. You squirmed under his gaze, and you could see just how hard he was by the tent in his pants. “Please.”
“Bad girls don’t get what they want,” Boba hummed while his hand traveled down to his pants. He quickly unbuttoned his trousers and shoved them down his thighs a bit. His cock sprang to attention, almost slapping against his armored chest. He was swollen with need and extremely hard. His tip was a lovely shade of dusty rose, and precum dripped down his shaft. You couldn’t help but lick your lips at the sight of him. He was gorgeously thick, and you ached to wrap your lips around him.
He gripped his cock at the base and slowly dragged the head through your wet folds. Your breath hitched in your throat when he brushed against your clit. The need and desire that coursed through your veins made you hot to the touch. Boba just knelt there between your legs, lazily dragging his cock back and forth through your pussy. It brought tears to your eyes and you desperately wanted him to do anything besides just tease you like that.
“Boba.”
“Yes, little one?” He didn’t look at you, just watched the way his cock glided through your folds. You could see how tense he was in his beskar-covered shoulders. You wished you could reach out and touch him.
“Please,” you whimpered. You must’ve sounded really desperate because he finally met your gaze. Boba smirked as he positioned himself at your entrance. “Fuck me.”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest whilst his free hand grabbed your hip. “Anything for you, princess.” Boba quickly entered you with a snap of his hips. The feeling of him stretching you out with his thick cock was slightly painful after all of these weeks. Pain melted into pleasure though when he bottomed out in you with a groan. “Fuck, always so tight for me.”
Boba was practically splitting you open on his cock and you couldn’t do anything about it. You pulled at the restraints but it was no use. You pleaded for Boba to move, and he graciously pulled himself back out of your heat, only leaving the tip in. He rested there for a moment and your chest heaved in anticipation. Just when you thought he wasn’t going to move, he slammed back into you and a strangled cry flew past your lips. Boba set a hard and fast pace, pounding into you with no reluctance. His grip on your hips was surely leaving bruises on your skin, but with each drag of his cock against your walls, you found yourself no longer caring. The feeling of him pounding into you was electrifying, and the desire started to build in your lower tummy.
“Boba,” his name constantly slipped past your lips. You were a moaning mess under him, and you wanted nothing more than to pull his face towards yours so you could kiss him. “Please, I need to touch you.”
Boba grunted with each snap of his hips against yours. You weren’t sure if he even heard you over the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin, but he momentarily pulled out of you so he could reach up and undo the cuffs restraining you. Your shoulders ached from being stuck in one position for so long, but you didn’t care. Your hands immediately went to Boba’s scarred face and pulled him towards you. Lips crashing against his, you moaned into his mouth when he pushed his cock back into your pussy. His arms snaked around your waist and tugged you closer to his armored chest. You wrapped your legs around his waist and moaned at the feeling of him pounding into you deeper at the new angle.
“Fuck, sweetness,” Boba moaned against your lips before trailing them down to suck a mark on your neck. Your hands roamed his back and finally settled on his shoulders, fingers gripping the pauldrons to stabilize yourself. 
“Missed you so much... Been wanting this sweet pussy for weeks.” Moaning at his words, you could feel the coil in your belly tighten. Your walls fluttered around his cock and he could feel your approaching release. Boba reached down between your bodies and began rubbing fast circles on your clit. “Come for me, little one.”
The combination of Boba’s cock pounding into you, his leather-clad fingers circling your clit, and lips marking your neck sent you over the edge. Pleasure crashed into you and sent you spinning with every pulse of heat coursing through your veins. You moaned loudly and your eyes screwed shut in pleasure. The feeling of your walls clamping down on Boba’s cock as he rode out your high made his own quickly approach. His hands gripped your hips tightly as he pulled them up into his hips in time with his thrusts.
“Feel so good,” Boba’s words started to slur with his approaching release. “M’ sweet girl... take m-me so well.” His hips pistoned into yours. “Fuck, gonna f-fill you up, m-make warriors wi-with-“ Boba’s sentence cut off abruptly with a groan as his balls pulled up tight. He buried himself deep in your fluttering heat, releasing his seed. His cum painted your walls in thick ropes, and you moaned at the feeling of his cock giving you everything he had.
Boba’s forehead rested against yours as the two of you came down from your highs. He pulled out his softening cock from you with a squelch, your combined releases leaking out of your weeping pussy. The sight of his cum leaking from you made Boba swell with pride. He loved knowing that he was the only one who could make you feel this way, the only one who was allowed to come inside of you.
His fingers lightly grazed across your skin, rubbing soothing patterns into your aching muscles. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he gathered what remained of his cum that was leaking out of your entrance and pushed it back in with two fingers. He meant what he said earlier- he desperately wanted to make warriors with you. Boba yearned to watch you swell with his child, becoming round from his seed. The image of you pregnant caused a chill to race down his spine, and Boba pressed his lips to yours.
“Missed you, princess,” he mumbled against your lips. His fingers lazily pumped into you, making sure you were stuffed full with his cum. A breathless sigh escaped past your lips at the feeling, and you pulled back from his kiss to look him in the eyes. They were softer now, content to just be here with you.
“How was the hunt?” You absentmindedly asked, rubbing soothing circles into the back of his neck. You could feel the knots and tension that laid beneath the tan skin.
“Okay,” he shrugged, giving your lips a lazy peck. “Got the bastard. Should only be a few more left.” His thumb brushed over your clit, body shivering at the overstimulation.
“Yeah? And then what?”
“Then, my sweet girl,” Boba pressed another kiss to your mouth. “We go home. And we fuck until the sun goes down.”
“I like that plan,” you smiled. The idea of not having to travel for once, to be able to stay in one place with the man you loved was intoxicating- even if it was on a planet like Tatooine. The feeling of Boba pushing his cum back into your abused pussy made another idea pop up in your mind- one that made your cheeks flush.
“What is it, princess?” Boba hummed against your lips.
“I was just thinking,” you started, unsure of how to proceed. “Do you think there’s any good schools on Tatooine?”
“Schools?” The confusion was evident in Boba’s voice. “You want to go back to school?”
“No,” you giggled, lightly smacking his pauldron. “I was just thinking, if we ever have kids, we are going to want a good school.” His silence made you nervous and you began rambling. “That is, if you want to have kids with me. I’d understand if you didn’t, but I-“
Boba cut your ramblings off with a kiss. He wasn’t really a sappy, romantic man, but you echoing his previous thoughts made his heart soar. “Of course we will get them a good school. If there aren’t any on Tatooine, we’ll build one. Right next to the palace.” The words just flowed out of him. “I’ll hire the best teachers. I’ll teach them how to fight, and you’ll teach them how to be kind and good.”
His words brought tears to your eyes. You never knew that Boba shared the same sentiments as you, and hearing how he talked about it made you pull his lips back to yours. It was a passionate kiss, lips sliding past each other’s and tongues licking into the other’s mouth. Boba’s hand retreated from your pussy in favor of gripping your hip. He could feel his cock stirring again.
Before Boba could do something about it though, you were pushing on his shoulder to roll him onto his back. You followed the motion, legs on either side of his as you sat down on his thighs. His cock was starting to harden again at this new position, and the sight of it made you bring your lip between your teeth. You reached out for it, fingers wrapping around the base before slowly pumping it.
“Sweetness, not that I’m complaining, but what are you doing?” Boba’s words fell from his lips with a soft moan. The image of you straddling him and pumping his hardening cock sent swirls of desire through his veins.
“Why wait until we get back to the palace for you to fuck a baby into me?” You slightly lifted your hips and gripped his cock, nestling it at your entrance. The tip of his head pushed in, and you sank your body down on his cock with a moan. Boba’s hands gripped your hips tightly.
“Fuck,” Boba cursed when you started gently rocking your hips on his cock. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Buckle up, old man,” your chuckle evolved into a moan when his tip brushed up against that sweet spot inside of you. “I’m planning on getting pregnant before the sun comes up.”
Your words made a growl rip through his chest, hips jutting up into yours. “We’re just getting started, little one.”
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queenshelby · 3 years ago
Text
The Last Semester – Part Five
Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader
Words: 1,888
Warning: Smut, Age Gap
The Age Gap Issue
It has been ten days since you started dating Cillian and things were great, at least mostly.
Over the past ten days, you spent every single night at Cillian’s apartment, enjoying his company. Neither of you even thought about tuning it down, maintaining distance from each other or taking things slow. It was simply too perfect and there was so much you had to talk about. Then there was the sex. The most incredible sex. You couldn’t get enough of each other.
At university, Cillian managed to keep things professional during the group sessions and largely avoided one on one contact with you during classes. Of course, you had questions for him but, unlike the other students, you simply asked them when you were alone with him, often over a glass of wine or over dinner. The arrangement worked well and, thus far, you haven’t arisen any suspicions.
The deadline was near and secrets didn’t have to be secrets anymore for very long. Cillian’s involvement in your unit was going to come to an end in two weeks and the final assessments for the semester were taking place in as little as four weeks. After that, you could be together without having to hide it.
But there was still one thing that you haven’t quite managed to juggle just yet and this was the difference in age between you and Cillian.
While it didn’t bother you at all, you occasionally noticed that Cillian struggled with it, questioning the feelings he was developing for you.
There was one conversation in particular triggering Cillian’s doubts and that was when you brought up your younger step brothers who were 14 and 12, the same age as Cillian’s sons.
Cillian was rather reserved when it came to conversations about his sons Hendrix and Charlie but, the more he got to know you, the more he told you about them.
You loved that he did share these details with you but, at the same time, it made him realise how you were at totally different stages of your lives and that this might pose problems for the future.
As such, whilst Cillian and his ex-wife Laura had a good relationship with each other after having divorced five years ago, bringing a much younger woman into a step family dynamic at some point was possibly a bad idea.
The other issue that he thought might possibly arise is that you would likely want children yourself at some point. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to start all over again.
In addition to these warranted concerns, there were little things as well that made Cillian feel self-conscious about the difference in age and you couldn’t help but tease him about them.
The Grey Hair
For example, the night before Cillian was due to fly to Dublin to see his sons, he became rather self-conscious about his hair turning grey. It had been turning grey for quite some years but, when you met several weeks ago, he had just finished filming his TV show Peaky Blinders. This meant that his hair was short and coloured dark.
Over the period of six weeks, it grew out slowly, featuring some grey streaks which, this time around, he noticed much more than he ever did.
In addition, Cillian was featuring a few grey hairs on his chest as well and it was that evening, when you arrived at his apartment that you caught him coming out of the shower, his intimate parts covered by a white towel and his chest hair…Gone!
‘Whoa’ you said as you walked inside, noticing immediately that he had shaved his chest.
‘What?’ Cillian went on to ask before giving you a kiss.
‘Why did you do this?’ you pouted, running your hands over his bare chest. ‘I loved running my hands through it’ you said somewhat disappointed as you really enjoyed playing with the small amount of hair on his chest when you cuddled up against him.
‘Well…some have turned grey’ Cillian said somewhat reluctantly and you couldn’t help but laugh.
‘As is expected at your age’ you giggled teasingly before realising what this was all about.
‘Yeah, that really makes me feel better’ Cillian laughed and you pressed your lips onto his for a passionate kiss.
‘I have no idea why you are so self-conscious about a few grey hairs Cilly’ you went on to say, slightly amused.
‘Because you are twenty years younger than me’ Cillian responded and you sighed.
‘Here we go again’ you chuckled before pushing him backwards to sit on the lounge while you stood in front of him.
‘Listen, there are a lot of women younger than me who are very attracted to you’ you said and Cillian recalled the Instagram posts you had showed him a few days ago, which made him shake his head.
‘Also, I really like your grey hair. It’s fucking sexy. You are fucking sexy’ you then went on to say.
‘I am just saying that you could be with someone your own age Y/N’ Cillian responded.
‘And why would I want that?’ you asked. ‘We connect perfectly and you are literally the first person I have ever met with whom I am never running out of conversation. You are intelligent, funny, kind and very handsome. In addition, the sex is fucking amazing. I don’t want anyone else and I want you to let this damn hair grow back’ you demanded all while you seductively unwrapped your dress and revealed your black lace lingerie.
‘Jesus Y/N’ Cillian barely managed to say as you stood there in front of him.
‘I bought it today. For you’ you winked before walking over towards him, kissing him passionately and then unwrapping the towel around him like you were opening a present.
As he sat there in front of you, completely naked, you pulled a pillow from the lounge and put it onto the floor before kneeling down on it, right there in between his legs.
Your mouth opened and you leaned forward just enough to catch the head of his cock between your lips.
‘Fuck, yes’ Cillian swore and you sighed, your eyes fluttered at the feeling of him, fighting to open your mouth wider to take more of him in. He was hot, and you tasted the sweet savory drop of precum that leaked onto your tongue.
Watching Cillian like this was enchanting. You sucked harder, feeling him pulse against your lips and tongue. His eyes widened and he moaned. Oh, you would do almost anything to hear him make that sound. It was an incredible turn on for you. Your tongue swirled around him, flicking the crown and massaging under the head.
‘Oh god Y/N’ Cillian murmured, and he reached for you. You felt his fingers clench in your hair so little prickles of pain burned your scalp. You met his eyes as he pulled your face into his crotch, and his cock hit the back of your throat. Your eyes watered but you kept your eyes on his expression, and watched him fall apart above you.
‘Shit’ Cillian eventually jerked away, wrenching himself out of your mouth. A long trail of spit connected you, and eventually broke, slapping against your chest. You caught your breath.
‘I want you so fucking much’ he growled, his voice strained. He caught you under your arms and helped you to your feet before picking you up and carrying you to his bed.
‘Cillian, please I need you inside of me’ you whimpered and Cillian shoved you against the bed, your back facing him, and you shivered as you felt his hands squeezing at your ass and hips. He stood directly behind you, and you could feel the hair on his legs tickling the backs of your thighs.
‘You almost made me lose it there’ Cillian said as he unclasped your bra, letting it fall to the ground before quickly pulling down your lace panties.
‘I could tell you enjoyed it’ you grinned as Cillian moved one of your legs with his hands, bending your knees one at a time so you were crouched on the bed. He paused behind you, and you closed your eyes, listening to his ragged breathing, trying to stay calm.
Cillian’s finger traced your slit gently, and you gasped and let out a shaky moan as he dipped into your wetness.
‘So wet for me already’ Cillian smirked and you simply nodded. You couldn't talk. You could barely breathe.
Within seconds, you felt the head of his cock press against you, and then he grabbed your hips, and shoved it inside.
You cried out as he invaded your body. A hot flash of something went through you, and your arms buckled under you as you fell face first into the mattress.
You could hear Cillian behind you, grunting and swearing, holding your hips tightly, his nails biting into your skin. He pulled you back against him roughly, and another hot flash of pleasure shot through your body. You felt like you were going to explode any minute.
‘Y/N’ he growled, and shifted behind you, and then you felt his arm snake around your waist and up to your face. He pulled you up and held your chin firmly with his hand. You could feel his chest pressed against your back, like he was holding you tight against him in a hug as he continued to thrust into you.
‘Oh god Cillian yes’ you moaned as he was dropping his head and caught your neck with his teeth. He bit you gently, and then sucked hard at the bite, thrusting deeper and deeper into you in a way that you still couldn't understand.
‘Open your eyes’ he growled into your ear and your eyes flew open. Across from you was the mirror of the nightstand. Your eyes widened and you gasped as you took in the sight of Cillian buried inside your body, holding you close.
‘Cillian’ you moaned again as your whole body caught fire, and burned, and burned. You saw fireworks behind your eyes and your brain went all staticy.
It could have lasted an hour, or been just a moment in time, but the next thing you knew was that your legs began to shake violently and your walls began to clench around Cillian’s hard cock.
‘Oh god yes fuck’ you moaned as your orgasm washed over you and your juices squirted onto the wooden floor.
At the same time, Cillian reached his high as well, thrusting into you with several loud groans as he filled you with rope after rope of his warm cum.
‘Jesus that was amazing’ Cillian huffed just before he pulled out of you gently and you both collapsed on the bed together.
‘So, tell me again Cilly, why would I want to be with a younger guy?’ you giggled.
  Tag List (Cillian):
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whumpster-fire · 3 years ago
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What if The Abyss Was Real?
I haven’t done a dumb “Applying real-world physics to fantasy settings thought experiment shitpost” in a while, I feel like doing one for Made In Abyss.
Okay so long story short, The Abyss, from the manga/anime Made In Abyss, is a really big hole in the ground. Specifically, it’s a circular chasm with an unknown depth estimated to be at least 20,000 meters, but there’s a magical curse that causes any human being attempting to ascend to get sick, with symptoms getting worse the lower you’re trying to ascend from, and if you go too deep you’ll die if you try to return.
Gee... sounds a little bit like Decompression Sickness, doesn’t it? So now I’m curious: would the increased atmospheric pressure in The Abyss be dangerous even if there was no magical curse?
To get this out of the way: a 20-kilometer deep hole can’t exist on Earth in real life - not because lava would come out, because continental crust is usually thicker than that (although the Abyss is on an island in the middle of the ocean so it might be getting into the mantle), but because rocks aren’t strong enough and the immense weight combined with the effects of erosion would cause it to collapse and fill itself in after a while. If there was a hole that deep, the bottom would probably be unsurvivably hot because of a combination of geothermal heat and Adiabatic Lapse (i.e. for the same reason high altitudes are really cold, a really low negative altitude would be extremely hot because any descending air mass will be compressed by the increasing pressure and when you compress air it gets hotter).
But assuming fantasy physics do keep the rocks stable and the temperature normal-ish, would the atmospheric pressure make the Abyss deadly to return from / descend into?
Let’s find out!
High pressure is a hazard divers in the ocean have to contend with, and much like in the Abyss, descending is relatively safe but ascending is the tricky part. It’s very hard to actually crush someone with pressure because the pressure inside and outside your body tends to equalize since we’re mostly made up of non-rigid liquid... gel... stuff. If you rapidly take that pressure away though, you get nasty effects like the solubility of gases in blood decreasing, causing gas to come out of solution and form bubbles which fuck your everything up. This is generally not a worry when going to high altitude because normal atmospheric pressure is only equivalent to about 10 meters of water, but if you go from a highly pressurized atmosphere to normal pressure too fast you can be in danger. In fact, decompression sickness was originally identified in bridge construction workers working in pressurized work chambers called caissons.
So could the Abyss cause that?
Well... the pressure gradient in a column of air is a bit different from in a column of water. In any fluid the rate of pressure change with depth is equal to the weight density of the fluid. In water, this means the rate of change is linear, approximately 1 atmosphere per 10 meters of depth, because liquids are incompressible and their density doesn’t change much with pressure. In air it’s a different story. The pressure change is much slower because gases are less dense than liquids, but it’s nonlinear, because air is compressible - the deeper you go the higher the pressure gets, and the higher the pressure gets the denser the air becomes, and the higher air density means the pressure increases faster. In fact, the pressure grows or decays exponentially with changing altitude!
This can be modeled with a “constant” called the Scale Height - the height it takes for the pressure to change by a factor of e. Scarequotes around “constant” because it isn’t: air density is a function of temperature as well as pressure, and like I said temperature isn’t constant with altitude. It also varies with molecular weight, and therefore with air composition, and therefore with humidity - humid air is lighter than dry air.
Luckily the Abyss has a constant-ish temperature (ish. The 4th layer’s really hot, the 5th is cold, but it’s not like it’s going from antarctic winter to boiling). What about humidity? Well... the thing is, the vapor pressure of water, and therefore the maximum possible partial pressure of water vapor in air at 100% humidity, is a function of temperature, but as the pressure increases that partial pressure becomes a smaller and smaller percentage of the total pressure. Even at the surface, the air won’t be more than 5% water vapor unless it gets above 30 *C, and only about 2% at 20 *C. So the effect of humidity should be pretty small.
So let’s assume we can approximate the air in the Abyss as dry air at... 27 *C because that’s 300 Kelvins and makes my math easier. That’s pretty warm, but the 4th Layer, Giant’s Goblets, is hot, humid, and really big vertically so it probably skews the average upward a bit. This gives us a scale height of about 8800 meters.
So what are the conditions like?
1st Layer: Edge of the Abyss. Depth: 0 meters. Pressure: 100% sea level.
I think the boundary between the city of Orth and the Abyss proper is around sea level? This is just normal air, with no health hazard to humans.
2nd Layer - Forest Of Temptation: Depth: 1350 meters. Pressure: 115% sea level.
So far so good. The air at the bottom of the first layer is a little thicker and contains a little more oxygen, so you might actual feel better going down there. Someone returning to the surface after an extended period of acclimation to the air down there might get mild altitude sickness.
 2nd Layer - The Inverted Forest: Depth: 2600 meters. Pressure: 135% sea level.
The pressure is know about the same as you’d experience at the bottom of a typical public swimming pool. Be careful to equalize your ears! The pressure difference between here and the surface is the same as between the surface and around 3500 meters above sea level, which is pretty darn high! The inverted forest itself and Ozen’s observation camp is probably a bit higher up than this so the pressure’s a bit lower, if somebody rapidly went all the way up to the surface after living down there for months they might get significant altitude sickness?
3rd Layer - The Great Fault: Depth: 2600-7000 meters. Pressure: 135-220% sea level.
This is a pretty tall layer, and by the time you reach the bottom the air is more than twice as thick as at the surface! This also means the updrafts hit extra hard because all aerodynamic forces - lift and drag - are amplified with the greater air density. A falling object’s terminal velocity is around 70% what it is at sea level. If somebody decided to skydive directly to the Giant’s Goblet, they’d still need a parachute but they could use a parachute of about half the area and still make a safe landing - if they weren’t eaten by the giant flying monsters or crashed into the cliff face by the winds.
4th Layer - The Goblet of Giants: Depth: 7000+ meters. Pressure: 220%+ sea level.
The top of the Goblet of Giants is humid and swelteringly hot. While the humid air doesn’t actually contain more water vapor than humid air of the same temperature at sea level, there’s still more air to absorb and conduct heat. The human body might have trouble cooling itself under these conditions, and delvers could succumb to heatstroke very easily. I’m not sure if the body would just adapt to this much oxygen and get rid of red blood cells en masse, so altitude sickness might not get that much worse.
Cooking under these conditions would be strange, because the ambient pressure is now higher than the pressure inside a pressure cooker. Riko would probably have to use specialized recipes to account for water boiling at over 120 *C and the environment basically being a pressure cooker even if you’re just trying to grill something.
4th Layer - Garden of the Flowers of Resilience: Depth: 9,000 meters. Pressure: 278% sea level. The air’s still getting thicker and thicker. The pressure is equivalent to being 18 meters underwater. Decompression sickness might now be a risk if you rapidly ascended to the surface via a gondola. Without a gondola, there’s no way anyone could climb that rapidly. You will not bleed out of every orifice.
5th Layer - Sea of Corpses: Depth: 12,000 meters. Pressure: 390% sea level.
Time to enter the dark, icy depths! The pressure down here is high. A typical car tire is a little over 2 bars above ambient or 3 bars absolute, so if you brought an inflated car tire down here it would be deflated by the pressure. A soda can would also have gone flat long before this depth. The air is now cold, but probably still humid from the sea and water platform thingies all around. This is a dangerous environment because the thick air cools things like human bodies very effectively, creating an elevated risk of hypothermia and frostbite! The Sea of Corpses is a pretty apt name: swimming or diving in this water could turn deadly very fast.
5th Layer - Ido Front: Depth: 13,000 meters. Pressure: 435% sea level.
This is the point of no return! Ido Front’s near the bottom of the 5th layer but apparently the real boundary is below “sea level” a bit. The curse of the 5th layer is loss of senses and hallucinations... which is actually kind of accurate except for the part where you have to ascend to be affected. The pressure down here is close to the limit for recreational scuba diving because breathing air at such high pressures can lead to Nitrogen Narcosis, and delvers would suffer from slowed reactions and reduced mental acuity. However, it’s not severe enough to cause real hallucinations at this depth, at least at the exposure durations for divers.
6th Layer - Capital of the Unreturned: Depth: 13,000 meters. Pressure: 435% sea level. You... can still return from this depth. Divers do it all the time. They have to take decompression stops around every 10 meters - or 1 atmosphere. To create a 1 atmosphere pressure change Bondrewd’s Happy Fun Time Elevator would have to drop its victims to nearly 15,000 meters, near the bottom of this layer and rocket them back up to Ido Front in a few minutes. Even then this is the safe practice because people were sometimes getting sick and occasionally dying. So uhh... myth busted I guess?
7th Layer - The Final Maelstrom: Depth: 15,500 meters. Pressure: 580% sea level.
By this depth, the partial pressure of oxygen should be reaching 1.2 bars assuming the air is mixed with surface air somehow. Oxygen toxicity is now a major concern: the safety limit for exposure duration at this partial pressure of oxygen is about 3-1/2 hours, much shorter than how long a delver would be down there. The true Curse of the Abyss is now setting in, as the amount of oxygen in the air damages the central nervous system, causing seizures. At greater depths than this the high atmospheric pressure would quickly incapacitate and kill a delver. Sufficient breathing gas to descend this far probably couldn’t be carried in large enough quantities to survive navigating whatever the hell is down there.
Interestingly the depth of the 7th Layer actually more or less corresponds to the real-life limits of human physiology, and if there was a chasm this deep in the real world, we would be just as unable to explore the deepest depths without the benefit of modern technology.
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killing-all-joy · 4 years ago
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Dancing at 2 a.m. in our Pajamas...
I was inspired by this prompt by @sanderssides-prompts that I saw two weeks ago. I write really slow, so here it is now. I strayed a bit from the prompt, but I hope y'all like it! It’s really just fluffy Roceit. [Edit: here’s part two!]
(cw: janus is a swear-snake so swearing tw)
Janus rubbed lazily at his eyes. He was beyond irritated—for some reason, his mess of a brain decided it would be a good idea to wake up after only three hours of sleep. It was two in the morning, it was raining outside, and he had a lot to do the following day. His brain was running on very little sleep, but despite the small number of things he was able to consider clearly in his mind, he knew that he would be unable to return to his slumber without a substantial period of leaving his room. He was very well aware that he had to reach a higher state of awakeness than he was at now to be able to go back to sleep. It would never make any sense to him, but he complied because he hated sleep deprivation.
He trudged over to his closet and threw on a yellow sweatshirt over his sleep shirt. Then, clothed in that sweatshirt, a pair of black sweatpants, and fluffy black socks, he sunk out of his room, deciding not to bother with his hat. No one would be in the kitchen anyway, and he had decided with a look in a mirror that his hair, while fluffy as ever, wasn't too horribly messed up from sleep.
He planned on getting a glass of ice water, watching an episode of Avatar: The Last Airbender at a very low volume, pacing the living room a couple of times, and then returning to his room to fall back asleep.
His mind seemed to only get fuzzier; Janus hardly registered his present actions in any shape or form. He walked into the blurred haze that was the mindscape living room, grabbing a cylindrical glass from a cabinet and clumsily sliding on the tiled floor over to the freezer. He opened the door, flinching at how cold the damn thing was for his serpentine physiology. He grabbed three pieces of ice and dropped them into his glass. One fell on the floor at his carelessness so he kicked it under the refrigerator and grabbed another to replace it. He walked over to the sink, and after three incidents of fingers slipping on the metal handle, turned on the water and filled his glass. He hissed and immediately turned off the water when it started to overflow.
He sipped the cold water so it wouldn't spill onto the floor and walked away from the sink, deciding to drink in the living room. He stopped short at the door-less doorway, finally realizing that against his predictions, there was someone awake at this hour and occupying the living room.
Of all people it could be, it was Roman.
Just his luck.
His brain could hardly register just how unlucky that was. Nor could it realize that sinking out would probably be the best thing to do in that situation. Roman, his old enemy, his friend (ish), his crush: hateful, annoying, funny, talented, lovely, handso-
"Hey."
Janus' sleepy thoughts halted. He tried to meet Roman's eyes, but likely failed because he could only make out the vague outline of a face. He tried his best to show acknowledgement, but was too tired to put much effort into it.
"Why are you awake?" Roman asked from where he was sitting on an armchair.
Janus thought about that for a second, his brain refusing to remember at this time. Eyebrows furrowed, he tried his best to retrace his steps. His eyes then fell on the glass in his hand, thoughts calming as they recalled. Janus held up his water glass to indicate that it was dehydration that woke him and then made a noise, trying to ask Roman the same question.
"Ah yes, dehydration: the more vicious demon in the early hours of the morning," Roman said with a strained smile. He then bit his lip, knowing Janus wanted to know his reason for being awake as well. "I, uh, couldn't sleep. Too many exciting thoughts, too little time...the price of being Creativity, y'know?"
Janus did know. Or, at least, he was pretty sure Fully Awake Janus knew. (Fully Awake Janus could not count the number of times he'd got up for a glass of water and ended up finding Remus setting something on fire at some ungodly hour. To Fully Awake Janus, it would follow that Roman would be similar in regards to insomnia.)
Janus made a noise of understanding, shuffling over to the sofa. He clumsily set his glass on the coffee table (the contents almost spilling as he fumbled with its placement) and collapsed onto the cushions.
“Are you sure that you shouldn’t go back to sleep, Boa Conflictor? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were sleepwalking.”
When he figured out what the nickname was saying and why it fitted him, Janus snorted. He shook his head to indicate a negative to Roman’s question. “Need water,” he mumbled, taking a sip from the glass.
“Makes sense,” said Roman, moving from the armchair where he was sitting to the sofa next to Janus. “But you should go back to sleep immediately after.”
Janus shook his head again. “Won’t be able. Tried, first need to stuff.”
Roman chuckled. “’Need to stuff’? We better get you stuffing soon, or else you’ll be speaking a whole new language.”
Janus huffed and rolled his eyes. He never appreciated being teased. He was too tired (and perhaps too in love) to be angry, however.
He continued sipping the glass of water, finishing it quickly with no more commentary from Roman. He set it back down on the coffee table, deciding that he would put it in the sink in the morning when he could walk and think like a normal human being (or, well, side). He pulled his knees to his chest; he always got cold in these early hours.
His plan was thwarted, however, when Roman stood from where he was sitting on Janus’ left, picked up the glass, and headed to the kitchen. Janus made a confused noise before he saw Roman place the glass carefully in the sink. When Roman returned, Janus looked up at him in confusion.
“Didn’t havffe, I could’vve mor’hing.”
“Surprisingly, I understood you there.”
“Thanmkh.”
“You’re welcome.”
Janus buried his head in his knees, wondering what he could do that wouldn’t disturb Roman. He figured the prince would be bothered by him watching TV (and also make a lot of comments on whatever he watched, potentially waking the others), so he pondered over other activities.
He heard music start to play quietly through the room. His head lifted slightly to see Roman set his phone down gently on the coffee table. His bare feet then took two smalls steps to stand in front of Janus, where he offered him a hand.
“You said you ‘need to stuff’ before you go back to sleep,” said Roman, sounding like he was trying to mock him but not fully getting that tone across. If Fully Awake Janus were here, he’d say Roman sounded nervous. “I figured, leading you in a dance could perhaps convince your brain to allow you to sleep. Besides, I could use some physical stimulation.”
Janus looked at Roman’s trembling hand for half a second. He then removed his left arm from where it was clasped around his legs and took Roman’s right hand. As soon as Janus’ hand was in his, Roman brought Janus’ hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. Janus blushed furiously at this and was too tired to figure that he should hide such an obvious display of weakness. He let go of his legs and stood up from the sofa. He lost his balance from the position change, but Roman's reflexes were quick and he didn't let him fall more than a few inches. He pulled Janus to his feet and held him securely in his arms. Janus' face flushed an even darker red than it already was and he turned his head away from Roman, casting his gaze to the floor.
"Look at me," Roman murmured lowly.
Janus complied, despite not wanting Roman to see his blushing. He smiled warily at him, anxiety caused by the possibility of Roman seeing the real reason for his flushed cheeks.
"There we go," said Roman, at the same low volume. Janus noted how he wasn't as hyper or dramatic during these early hours, yet still just as passionate (if not more). "Since you need to do stuff in order to properly go back to sleep, I figured I could lead you in a couple of dances. Unless you think that you would collapse of fatigue like Sleeping Beauty...?"
Janus nodded. "Okay."
Roman grinned, tightening one hand's hold on Janus' waist and moving the other hand to hold Janus'. Janus was allowed a couple of seconds to sort himself into a proper dancing stance before Roman started to lead.
"I sh'ld lead."
"You'd walk into every piece of furniture in this room."
Janus made a wounded noise.
"Only because you've shown just how clumsy you are at this time of morning."
Janus huffed. "I'll st'p on foot."
"I can take it," Roman replied with a teasing smile.
Janus rolled his eyes, tightening his grip on Roman's hand and shoulder so he wouldn’t fall.
"Okay, JJ. One, two, three, four," Roman started counting under his breath to help Janus' walnut brain, "...one, two, spin, four, you're wonderful at this, Snakerella..."
---
Janus could feel his brain start to adjust to being awake and a bit of Fully Awake Janus start to have influence in his thoughts. Well, it wasn't exactly "adjust", because it wasn't gradual.
It was just a bit slower than a snap of the fingers.
Nothing was new in his actions, Roman didn't startle them, hell, it was during the middle of a slow song. But without any obvious triggering factor, his brain abruptly shifted into a more awake state of mind. And he realized his situation.
He was dancing...
...in the living room...
...with the love of his life...
...at half-past two in the goddamn morning.
Janus, still a far cry from Fully Awake Janus but with a lot of his mental capacities, couldn't quite remember the exact turn of events that got him here. Things were a bit blurry, events were splotchy, and he could only remember bits and pieces. So, ultimately, how he—while sleepy and filter-less—managed to get Roman "Princey" Fucking Sanders to dance with him was almost a mystery. He did know, however, that the only way Roman could have agreed was if he was extra sleep-deprived too.
"You like this song, Janus?"
He considered saying the truth, that he wasn't listening; or a well-thought-out lie, that he hadn't heard it before but thought it would fit with a playlist he had; or saying that he'd heard it before and liked it very much. But suddenly, Roman pulled him close and to his chest—and he smelled so good and his white sleep shirt was so snuggly and his hair was just inches away and oh so very soft and Janus was in love, so in love and he couldn't help but make a noise of happiness about their current situation instead of answering the question.
"I'm glad you like it."
Janus almost laughed; Roman mistook his noise for one of confirmation, also implying that he thought Janus was still in his state of Properly Out Of It. Janus had an act to keep up if he wanted Roman to continue being so intimate with him, so he decided he would play along—not more than he needed to, of course, but whenever Roman would prompt him to talk, he’d respond how he would if he had just woken up.
More songs went by, their almost-clumsy dancing that they exerted very little energy in doing continuing with it. Roman rarely spoke, but it was comfortable that way, with Roman just holding him as their feet glided across the floor with only the crescent moon as their witness. Janus knew very well that his emotions were senseless and cheesy, especially at this time of the morning in his current situation, but he almost scoffed when he realized that he felt loved—loved by Roman, and loved in a way he had never felt before. It made him feel warm and hopeful, and if he was fully awake, he would probably vomit. Nevertheless, it was a pleasant feeling no matter how much he didn't want to admit it, so he relished in it, soaking up the unfamiliar emotion he figured he would never get again and savoring it as one does with hot chocolate during the coldest winter nights. It was warm and calming, with an underlying hint of melancholy and bittersweetness. Just like how Janus perceived Roman.
Roman and Janus had differences that they were slowly putting behind them in an attempt to advance into a tentative friendship, so it made sense for Janus to think he would never get this again. He was tired, Roman was tired, and he remembered the dashing prince saying something about 'rousing thoughts' so this was probably serving as a release of all the stress that built up in the later hours. Tomorrow, things would be back to normal, but he would never forget.
The song started to slow to a speed that seemed inadvisable to Janus because the song was already quite a slow song in itself, but he couldn't help but acknowledge that the speed was romantic too. Roman's feet stopped taking larger steps and started swaying.
"Sway with me, mi cielo," said Roman in a voice that was practically silent. "This is the last song."
Janus' face burned from the Spanish nickname Roman gave him. Janus didn't know Spanish, but he was able to piece that it might have been a term of endearment. It was late, so it made sense that Roman would slip up like that, especially since he's the romantic side and their current situation was rather intimate. Of course, that assumption could also be Janus' wishful thinking.
"Thank you for dancing with me," muttered Roman, thumb starting to trace circles on Janus' waist. "I needed this outlet too."
From the way Roman phrased it, it seemed that Janus was mistaken in his assumption that he had convinced Roman to dance with him, that it seemed that things happened the other way around. This made Janus' heart flutter.
He hummed, closing his eyes. "M' ple'srre."
Janus peeked one eye open to see Roman's head turn down and smile at him warmly—lovingly, Janus would say, if he didn't know better.
The song started to come to an end. When the last beat played, Roman guided Janus into a small dip. Roman's happy smile as he stared down at Janus was hypnotizing, and Janus knew that he would fight a thousand wars just to see that smile again.
"Let's go to bed, hm? Neither of us wants to be tired in the morning."
Janus nodded. Roman pulled him to his feet and put an arm around his waist. They walked up the staircase together, Janus leaning his head on Roman's shoulder as they walked.
Janus' room was closest, so they paused there as Roman opened the door and led them inside. He kissed Janus hair and slowly removed his arm from Janus' waist.
“Goodnight, Janus,” whispered Roman, pushing a strand of Janus’ hair behind his ear.
Janus kissed Roman’s cheek. “G’nigh.”
He slowly closed the door, smiling to himself. He knew he would come to remember and regret his sleepy clumsiness in the morning, but he would be thankful for it until then.
~
Taglist: @somehow-i-got-an-account @justanotherhumanstuff @neo-neo-neo @fander-fic-recs
~
Sorry this took so long to finish. I hope you liked it! [Edit: here’s part two again so you don’t have to scroll all the way back up lol]
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innately-pretentious · 4 years ago
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Finally, I Found You. (Klaus Hargreeves x Reader)
Request: Hey! I looooved your Klaus headcanons and was wondering if you could write about when him and the reader are reunited in the 60s??? Totally fine if not, have a nice day!
A/N: Awh thank you so much, I hope this is alright dude! I am really tempted to turn this into a series tho... if you want that?? Even if this is really rough and kind of rushed. Kinda angsty? Kinda sad? Very fluffy. Enjoy!
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Being spat out of a spinning vortex into a dingy alley was enough to stress anybody out, especially after a rather terrifying and life threatening encounter with your sister initiating the apocalypse. Navigating through the twenty first century was difficult enough, but being catapulted into a completely new decade with nothing but your bag and clothes you were wearing just about topped that.
Letting out a cry as you hit the ground and groaning as you rolled over and tried to get our bearings. Glancing around to see if you could locate any of your siblings whom you were with only a few minutes previously, you stood up and brushed yourself off, you began calling out their names. Sadly with no success, there was no response, you were alone.
You continued pacing along the pavement, trying to come up with a plan of action. Deciding you couldn’t improve your situation much from the alley, you emerged into a busy street and began wandering down the road. Progressing along the street, you could not help but take notice of the architecture and clothing surrounding you. Definitely not similar to the modern aesthetics you were used to. Flagging down an approachable looking woman and kid you asked what year it was, sharing peculiar look she confirmed your suspicions. It was July 24th 1962. Brilliant.
Trying hard not to think the worst of your situation, you mind wandered to Klaus. The two of you had hardly been apart for more than one night over the course of your year long relationship, your stomach dropped at the thought of him being isolated in a random time period, unable to contact anyone, nobody to help. A small part of you wished Ben was with him, but you were completely clueless as to how this whole time travel business worked. You attempted to brush that thought aside for the time being, first you had to find somewhere to stay. Sleeping rough with nothing but the clothes on your back did not sound appealing, luckily you had some spare cash in your bag for a room for a few days, giving you sometime to formulate a plan.
The first night was definitely the hardest. Deciding to find the cheapest hotel you could, you booked a room for the night, collecting the keys and collapsing on the mattress. As soon as you got into the uncomfortable bed you knew sleep would not come tonight, the double bed was not helping either. You spent the majority of the night on your side, laying there and glancing at the opposite side of the mattress, where he should be sleeping. It felt too empty without Klaus hogging the blanket. You couldn’t help the collection of memories the two of you shared popping into your mind. Lazy weekday nights, limbs draped absentmindedly over one another, Klaus’ hand tracing soft patterns into your shoulder as you talked about absolute nonsense for hours. Both dreading when the morning came as you would have to leave his arms. Growing up in Hargreeves’ mansion you would constantly sneak into his room, even before you were together. Your ability to turn invisible was a great help, coming to comfort him if your father pushed him too hard again was almost a nightly occurrence. You loved the way he would relax as soon as he felt you lift up the blanket and settle in next to him, knowing he wouldn’t have be alone.
You smiled at the thought of him, he always had to be close to you. Even in his sleep you caught him reaching for you sleepily or rolling his leg onto you in an attempt to pull you closer. You often wondered if he even knew he was doing it or if it was entirely subconscious. After everything he went through growing up it was no surprise he had clingy tendencies. You wouldn’t change him for anything, if he needed you close, you had no problem obliging him. If it made him feel safe you would do it.
It was at this point the tears started to fall. For someone who had been through so much to then be stuck somewhere, unable to reach you, made your heart ache. Tomorrow you would figure something out, however futile it may be, you were determined to at least try and make a life for yourself here.
3 Months Later:
The three months had not been easy, by any means. It had mainly consisted of you on the road, finding work pretty much wherever would take you. Getting the car you were currently driving was a feat in itself, stealing an automobile had never been on your bucket list. You never liked using your power to steal, however, it was your only mode of transport and occasional place to sleep. You always coaxed Klaus not to just take things, he would be shocked if he could see you now, the look on his face would be priceless! On the bright side, you could have picked a worse car, with five seats, a convertible roof and playable radio, you had risen in worse rides.
More memories surfaced in your mind, ones where you took Klaus out for a drive out of the city during the beginning of his sobriety. This started as an attempt to inject a new lust for life into him, show him there was more to the world than just powder in the back alleys. Soon your little road trip became a weekly occurrence, driving with Klaus and losing track of time, just each other for company. You loved him dearly but you both decided it would be more beneficial if you were the one behind the wheel, not that he cared, he was given full control of the music this way. He insisted on having the windows down and the music loud, staring at you with his pupils slightly dilated, feeling doped up on life rather than various pills. You loved how radiant he looked, you even let him get away with wailing along to the lyrics on the radio, at least for a while…
“Klaus, I love you, but I’m gonna need my eardrums in the future,”
“Yes, I’m aware. Why do you think I’m gracing them with my dulcet tones?”
You couldn’t help but jokingly glare at him. Once again he was never to far away from you, laughing and giving your thigh a squeeze as you watch the city disappear behind you, along with his worries.
Dragging yourself back to the present (well, 1962), you gripped the steering wheel, forcing yourself to focus on the road instead of the bittersweet memories you held. They were the only things you had left of him, and you hoped that wherever he was, he was safe.
You decided to return to the town where it all began, Dallas, Texas. You were in need of some new clothes and a quick bite to eat before you got back on the road, in search for another short-term job to earn some much needed cash. A second-hand shop would probably be the most budget friendly option for clothes, ringing the bell as you opened the door, you began to flick through the various fabrics and patterns of clothing. One of the things you loved about this decade was the flamboyant clothing, he would have thrived here. Gathering quite a large armful of clothes, you decided to go try a few on, just looking through your selection one last time before you committed to the changing room.
You were ripped from your thoughts by a loud thud on the window, resulting in you dropping the bundle of clothes you had accumulated during your browsing. Huffing and turning your attention to the window, ready for some kind of confrontation, although, nothing could be further from your assumption.
Your eyes met with the same hazel ones you had been gazing into for the last year, unmistakable hands with tattoos were firmly placed on the glass. His jaw was slack and his eyes were wide as he gawked through the glass. You began to shake as you drank in the sight of him, your chest tightened and you found it increasingly difficult to breathe. You wanted to run into his arms, but you weren’t sure if your legs would carry you. You couldn’t feel anything except the racing of you heart. Time seemed to still as you just stared at one another.
He was the first to break the gaze, tripping over himself in an attempt to reach the door. He forced the door open so forcefully that the bell nearly fell off, it didn’t stop him though. Running down the shopping aisle, pushing the racks aside as he continued towards you, knocking over a few clothing racks, not slowing down as he slammed into your open arms. The impact of the force sending the two of you tumbling to the ground, both of you gripping onto the other in fear they may disappear again. He could feel you shaking in his hold, overwhelmed with the entire situation, he kept his grip firm around you, letting you know that he is here and you are safe. He doesn’t plan on leaving you.
Finally managing to pull his face from the crook of your neck, you held his face in your hands, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. You weren’t aware you were crying until you felt his calloused hands brush away a stray tear from your cheek.
“It’s really you isn’t it?” You managed to choke out, you must have looked insane to the shopkeeper, both of you smiling and sobbing, curled up on his shop floor.
“Of course it’s me, nobody could recreate this amount of beauty and personality twice,” he joked and cracked a smile. That typical Klaus smile you missed so much. Even in a time like this, supposedly sentimental, he still had to get a wisecrack in.
“You’re such an idiot Klaus, only you could compliment yourself in a time like this,” you said, you weren’t sure if you were crying or laughing at this point, but you knew you were finally happy.
“I’ve had to do it myself for a while since you were absent,” he said, you couldn’t miss the subtle sadness that passed over his features.
“Come on then Y/N”, he groaned as he stood up, offering a hand to help you, “We have a lot of catching up to do.”
You glanced up at him before you accepted his hand, his hair was longer than before and he looked healthier, but he was undeniably still your Klaus. You placed you hand in his and let him drag you up, resting his arm around your waist, slightly tighter than he used to. You allowed your head to rest on his shoulder, re-familiarising yourself with his body. The two of you definitely had a long conversation ahead, you allowed him to drag you to the nearest diner, excited to unburden yourselves after finally finding each other.
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mechawaka · 4 years ago
Text
Spring in Derdriu
Tumblr media
A commission for @artsytardis​
Words: 11.7k
Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses
Pairing: Claude/Byleth
Rating: Teen
Mood music: Roses & Revolutions - Dancing in a Daydream
Summary: Five years after the war, Claude is the king of Almyra and Byleth is the queen of United Fodlan - but neither of them had the courage to propose at the Goddess Tower. When Byleth comes down with a sudden fever, they might have another chance.
---
They couldn’t possibly name Derdriu the new capital of United Fodlan, Lorenz had declared the very day after Byleth’s coronation. It would ‘imply things,’ he’d said, aghast that she would even suggest it.
Lo and behold, Ferdinand and Sylvain had expressed similar worries about Enbarr and Fhirdiad, respectively, and what ‘things’ their hosting would ‘imply.’
And Garreg Mach was also out of the question. Archbishop Seteth, recently crowned himself, wanted to keep the reformed Church of Seiros as far removed from political power as possible. Byleth couldn’t make her capital there, he’d insisted. The implications!
So which will it be? her newly appointed cabinet - four representatives from each geographical region, with twelve in total - had prodded, each sect adamant that theirs couldn’t possibly be the permanent home of the new government.
And Byleth, already exhausted despite only being in charge for a grand total of one moon, had replied:
All of them, then.
That day, United Fodlan’s migrating government, colloquially known as the Wandering Court, had been born. Byleth spent one season in each capital - spring in Derdriu, summer in Fhirdiad (on which she was insistent), and winter in Enbarr. In the fall, she and the entire cabinet gathered at neutral Garreg Mach to conduct any business which required everyone’s presence at once.
For five years, the system had worked perfectly. There had been some inevitable pushback at first, mostly from anti-Imperial factions who were upset that Byleth had adopted the old Empire’s ministerial structure, but they had gradually quieted down as the continental economy stabilized and flourished under its guidance.
Moreover, Byleth liked being on the road. She was raised in tents and on horseback, always moving between destinations, and the frequent travel helped soften long days of paperwork and political debate. 
It also let her document certain supply and infrastructure problems firsthand; to this day, Byleth fondly remembered a tiny village on the Rhodos Coast whose inhabitants had sent in an official request for a new bridge - and had been shocked senseless when the queen herself, in transit from Fhirdiad to Garreg Mach, had shown up to build it.
(Petra had put her personal stamp of approval on that one; you only rule what you can see and touch, she’d written of the event.)
Today, though - this season, this cursed spring - the system was not working.
Oh, it had started normally enough. Byleth, once settled in the palace at Derdriu, had taken up her usual duty of hearing the cases which had passed since her last time in residence and breaking any tied votes. 
It wasn’t until her ministers were tying up the season’s work that a heavy rain swelled the Airmid, causing flooding in four different territories and knocking out a siege-battered section of the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Suddenly, they were swamped with petitions: drowned fields, lost livestock, choked roads. All with less than a moon remaining before the court’s transition to Fhirdiad.
In short, Byleth hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours.
Her head was a splitting fissure of tectonic activity, rumbling in the background of every meeting, every hearing, and roaring to life at random intervals that left her gritting her teeth and glaring at Lorenz, wherever he was in the room.
Oh, we simply can’t stay in Derdriu permanently, she mocked him mentally as, again, a searing wave of pain spiked behind her drooping eyes. It would ruin everything, or whatever.
“- and with that in mind, the Merchants’ Association asked us to move the boundary twenty feet down the riverfront,” Marianne recited from an open ledger. She, like all the other ministers, was dressed in a smartly cut, floor-length robe of office that bore the seal of United Fodlan, with her hair gathered neatly at the back of her neck.
“Ministers Victor and Goneril voted in favor of the merchants, while Minister Gloucester and I voted in favor of the fisheries. How do you rule?” Marianne looked up from her record and across their round discussion table. Her eyes were bright and serious at first, but they creased with worry upon taking in Byleth’s pinched expression. 
“Are you feeling ill, Your Majesty?”
This garnered the other ministers’ attention as well. Ignatz pushed his glasses up his nose to study her better, staring in that perceptive, sympathetic way that said he’d already identified all the faults in her appearance. 
Hilda, who’d been twirling a quill pen between her fingers, glanced up and gave Byleth a detachedly brutal once-over, indicating with an arched, sculpted eyebrow that she disliked her findings.
Lorenz, meanwhile, simply regarded his queen with a dry, ‘I told you so’ stare.
“No, no. I’m fine,” Byleth asserted, avoiding everyone’s concerned faces, and especially Lorenz’s. He had warned her against overworking only a week prior, and here she was zoning out like a bored student. She’d get an earful from him later, no doubt, about a ruler’s responsibility to their subjects extending to self-care and time management.
“My apologies. Minister Edmund, please recount the case again.” Byleth pushed herself up, ignoring the pounding rhythm inside her brain. She often paced the length of the room for difficult petitions, anyway, and maybe movement would help ease the pain - but she took one step and the world went sideways.
She swayed dangerously on her feet, catching herself on the edge of the throne. Her legs were soft and wobbly as a dessert jelly; her vision swam with blots of darkness and intense color at random. 
In a hushed, grave voice, she whispered, “Oh, that’s not good.”
“Quite,” Lorenz agreed curtly, having materialized at her elbow to aid in stabilization. He turned to the others, lips pursed and demeanor supremely unamused. “I believe Her Majesty is finished hearing cases for the day. All in agreement?”
Byleth barely registered the other ministers’ responses; her ears were suddenly full of cotton, dampening all incoming sound. Even Lorenz’s voice, so close at her side, was fuzzy and jumbled. She could only nod and follow him out of the throne room, vaguely aware that Marianne had joined them.
When had her headache gotten this bad? It must have been a slow progression, she reasoned as the trio headed toward her chambers, building in intensity during the meeting. She vaguely recalled an old medical lecture of Manuela’s about blood vessels in the brain, and how moving suddenly after a stationary period could cause...something. Something bad, probably.
Not for the first time, nor even for the hundredth, she wished she’d paid closer attention to the other teachers’ seminars back at Garreg Mach.
Lorenz politely turned around while Marianne helped Byleth out of her heavy court mantle and into her gigantic bed, busying himself by preparing a teapot at the dresser.
“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” Byleth professed as she collapsed onto her mattress, allowing Marianne’s white magic to flow over her in a soothing current. “We can re-convene at first light.”
With his back still turned, Lorenz scoffed. “I highly doubt that.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s right,” Marianne corroborated, ceasing her spell and pressing the back of one hand to Byleth’s forehead. “You have harvest fever; you’ll need to rest for at least a week to let it run its course.”
“A week?” Byleth demanded, sitting straight up again. “But I leave for Fhirdiad in two!”
Lorenz brought the teapot over on a wheeled cart, putting his hands on either side and warming it magically. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have taxed yourself to infirmity, hmm?”
At that, Byleth shot him an impotent - and, in all likelihood, given her state, pathetic - glare, but the mere action of tensing her forehead muscles worsened her headache and she fell back onto her pillows, defeated. He was right, damn him.
“Byleth,” he continued, exasperated, dropping all formality as he always did in the absence of prying ears. “Just rest. We designed this government to run in your absence - let us handle things from here.”
Marianne echoed the sentiment with a soft smile, pouring some strong-smelling medicinal tea from the pot. “We’ll see that Ordelia and Hrym are well cared for,” she said, holding out the teacup like a peace offering.
Byleth grudgingly took it.
---
Lorenz squinted down at Byleth’s sleeping form, sprawled and content amongst her blankets, and sighed. No one had ever prepared her for a life of leadership and politics, but she’d risen to the challenge admirably in the last five years. Perhaps too admirably, if situations like this were any judge.
Her problem, he’d decided long ago - and informed her whenever the chance presented itself - was moderation. Temperance. Byleth Eisner tackled every problem with a single-minded determination that, while remarkably efficient during the war, had tended to cause a variety of problems in peacetime.
In that regard, she was quite similar to him. To Claude. And speaking of Claude -
“We had two guards and a trio of footmen at our assembly today,” Marianne observed, keeping her eyes on the bed, but her message was clear.
“Indeed.” Lorenz tapped the heels of his polished boots restlessly against the floor. He could practically hear the wagging tongues from here; he could picture the story of their fainting monarch billowing out from the palace like blood in water, ripe for scenting - and there was one particular green-eyed shark always circling for a whiff.
He forced a long, resigned breath out through his nose, and said dismally, “I’ll direct the staff to prepare the guest wing at once.”
---
Thanks to whatever was in that tea, Byleth slept straight through the next few days. Even when she woke, she was groggy and mostly insensate to the world around her; she recalled Marianne’s visits to administer medicine or urge a few sips of water, but other than that - nothing. Only light and color and sound, all indistinct and running together.
The fever itself wasn’t so bad. She was being treated by the most studied healer in the region, and the rest was good for her, as much as she resisted the notion.
No, what had her itching for freedom, for an escape, had nothing to do with the sickness and everything to do with her own shoddy mental compartmentalization. Byleth had a single unbreakable rule, and it had kept her safe and stable for most of her life: don’t slow down.
Her friends - formerly students, and now United Fodlan’s new ministers - had always struggled to understand what went on in her head, and Byleth had to confess that it was often a confusing place for her, too. That was why she spent as little time there as possible. If she was solving governmental disputes or plotting a route through the Oghmas, she wasn’t thinking about her problems - and for someone that had attended the Jeralt Eisner school of “don’t confront your problems until they literally confront you first” coping strategy, that suited her just fine.
But these hours cooped up in her bedchamber were slow, and Lorenz had taken great strides to ensure that nary a tax report breached its threshold. And when there was no work to do, no roadblock for her mind to chew on, it drifted to contemplation, to nostalgia, and then, inevitably, to Claude.
What would he think of the stalemate between the merchants and the fisheries? That one was easy. He’d find a third option, something neither of the institutions had proposed but that benefited both, and dazzle them with its presentation. He’d find a way to spin the conflict so that it wasn’t about competing guilds, but about the betterment of the city as a whole.
She wondered if he looked different now compared to when she’d seen him last, at the Alliance Founding Day celebration the previous Horsebow. They only ever saw each other in formal wear these days, painted and decorated and utterly without privacy. Had he let his hair grow over the winter like she had? Was it curling near the base of his neck, thick and wild?
Oh, here we go, she thought, rolling her eyes and then squeezing them shut. This was why she kept herself preoccupied; any lapse in activity brought these sorts of ideas to the forefront, and they always turned to indulgent fantasy. Only Claude brought out that side of Byleth - and it made her so paradoxically angry, and afraid, and lonely.
Angry because she hadn’t intended to let him in; he was just there one day, snugly by her side, a few months after she’d joined the faculty at Garreg Mach (and she would always lament, at least a little, that Rhea hadn’t put her with the students instead). Even after he’d admitted his ulterior motives in getting close to her, Byleth never had the heart to be mad at him for it. He was so damn endearing.
Afraid because, as easily as he’d attached himself to her, he’d un-attached. Byleth could admit to herself, alone in her darkened bedroom, that most of her mental evasion strategies centered around one specific memory: that early morning conversation they’d had right before her coronation, in which Claude had spontaneously announced his departure from Fodlan.
(“There’s something I need to do,” he’d said up at the Goddess Tower, and she had been so sure he’d wanted to say more, but instead he’d just...left.)
Lonely because their friendship had never been the same after that. They were both so busy, now, and with so much responsibility - and she missed him. Missed their easy conversation and matching drive; missed the academic dissections of famous battles and the late nights spent comparing various cultures’ names for the constellations. 
Her remaining friends were certainly a balm, and she wouldn’t trade them for the world, but none of them were him. She’d never filled that spot at her side. Couldn’t fill it. Nothing and no one else fit there.
But she also couldn’t ask him back. He was the king of Almyra now, fulfilling everything he’d wanted and worked for and talked about with stars in his eyes - and Byleth could never begrudge him his lofty and admirable goals. Never. Instead, she’d had to accept the possibility that the grand arc of his ambitions no longer included her in its trajectory.
She sprawled out sideways on her bed, letting the warring emotions flood her body. Maybe this was good for her. Maybe, like the fever, she just needed to let them run their course. Maybe these were the natural consequences of escapism and denial.
And it wasn’t like she’d be able to get away from herself any time soon.
---
“Of all the - absolutely not,” Lorenz stated, planting himself in the center of the hall that led to Byleth’s bedroom. “There are procedures, Claude. Royal protocol. You know this!”
But Claude had already danced around him, utilizing that foot speed the mages never needed to master. “Come on, Lorenz, I’m not some Srengan diplomat - we’ve all seen each other covered in mud and guts. What’s a little illness between friends?”
To his credit, Lorenz didn’t ask how Claude had come by that knowledge. Nor were his protestations very vigorous, as if the man had foreseen this exact scenario - and for that, Claude was proud of him. 
That pride wouldn’t keep him from his goal, however. He’d saddled up his wyvern as soon as the words “queen” and “sick” had left his spymaster’s mouth.
“She’s not well. You’ll be interrupting her convalescence - Claude,” Lorenz said sternly, holding his friend by the elbow and fixing him with a soul-searching gaze. “She cannot receive visitors in this state. What’s gotten into you?”
For an instant, Claude’s happy-go-lucky mask slipped. He’d been too pushy, so much so that even Lorenz got a glimpse of the panic underneath - the cold terror that had driven him across the continent and still gripped his heart. He knew it wouldn’t let up until he could confirm Byleth’s condition.
But he was a consummate faker, and so the mask slotted deftly back into place. “Why don’t you go ask her, hmm? I’m sure she’ll be positively overjoyed.”
---
When Lorenz walked in, Byleth was still in the same position, all spread out and despondent. 
“How are you feeling, Your Majesty?” he asked pointedly, and his use of her title - coupled with his formal position near the door - should have clued her in to what he was really asking, but Byleth was far too addled for nuance.
She tilted her head in his direction and flatly, shamelessly said, “Fine.”
Lorenz’s disciplined expression soured a fraction. “Well, that is wonderful news -” his ironic lilt suggested that this news was anything but wonderful, “- because you have a visitor.”
He stepped back to clear the doorway, giving Byleth a look that said she deserved everything that was about to happen. “May I present King Khalid ibn Riegan of Almyra.”
Claude poked his head in much too casually for Lorenz’s theatrical introduction. “Byleth! I brought you some -”
He paused, staring at her depressed-starfish pose. Byleth, in the blink of an eye, sobered completely and experienced all the stages of grief in quick succession.
“- fruit,” Claude finished lamely. Behind him, Lorenz pinched the bridge of his nose.
---
“Claude,” Byleth intoned, dredging up her ‘serious teacher’ voice for the occasion. She’d bathed and changed her clothes since his impromptu arrival - Byleth had never possessed a single modest bone in her body, but, again, he just incomprehensibly brought it out in her - and now she sat on the edge of her bed while he occupied the bedside armchair.
“It was so nice of you to drop in,” she continued, folding her arms across her chest.
Claude laughed anxiously, holding a woven basket full of fruit in his lap half like a shield and half like an offering to an angry deity. “Okay, why do I get the feeling you’re mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you,” Byleth said icily. It wasn’t a lie; it was more like she was mad around him - mad at the space surrounding his stupid, handsome head - mad that he’d shown up, as if summoned, right when she was feeling so sorry for herself about him.
But that was far too complicated to explain, so instead she asked, “What’s your business in the city?”
He brightened a bit, perhaps relieved to divert the topic. “Thought I’d tour the Goldroad - see what travel is really like there outside the official inspection dates.”
Byleth cocked her head to the side, staring out her west-facing window. He referred to the winding trade route that now spanned the Throat, starting at the Locket and ending at a similarly sized fort across the border in Almyra - but that was over a day’s travel from Derdriu.
Following the path of her eyes, Claude went on quickly, “And, you know, I was in the area, so why not visit my very best friend?”
She wasn’t sure she’d classify a seventeen hour wyvern flight as ‘in the area.’ Byleth narrowed her eyes, looking from his rigid smile, to his posture, to the basket he carried, then back to his face, waiting for the actual answer.
“- All right,” he confessed, exhaling deeply. “My spies said you were sick, so I came to check on you - how are you still so good at that?”
She smiled despite herself and pointed at the basket, which he promptly handed over. Popping a dried date into her mouth, she asked coyly, “At what?”
Claude laughed heartily, reaching over to get one for himself, and that simple action propelled them effortlessly into a comfortable, familiar rhythm, dispelling their outer veneers of royalty. 
They traded stories about travel, about new friends, about insufferable opposition; Claude told her about one of his subordinate satraps - which served a similar function to Byleth’s ministers, but with more concentrated local authority - who had threatened to raise an army in his territory over the price of grain, and then panicked when Claude had called his bluff and negotiated a lower price.
(“Did he even have an army?” she asked, completely absorbed in the story and eating sour cherries by the handful.
Claude, with a wide, gleeful grin, replied, “Not a chance.”)
In return, Byleth told him about last year’s failed rebellion in eastern Faerghus, in which a group of Blaiddyd royalists had tried to rally the region’s former aristocracy under the banner of House Fraldarius - and how Felix himself had ridden out to personally disband them.
(“Oof. Embarrassing,” Claude commented, making a face like someone had punched him in the gut. “What did he say to make them listen?”
Byleth snorted and modulated her voice to match the prickly swordsman’s. “‘This is not happening. Leave.’”)
As the afternoon wore on, servants brought in tea service and then dinner - and Byleth’s temporary surge in vitality upon seeing her dear friend started to fade, replaced by the fever-aches she’d come to know so well. Her movements grew slower and her answers shorter, overcast by brain fog.
Claude watched this change in her with considerable worry, helping her back under her blankets after they’d finished eating and re-situating the pillows around her head.
“Oh, stop it,” she chided, swatting away his hands. “I’m not completely helpless.”
He backed off, smiling easily, but stayed within range to aid her again if needed. “I don’t know about that,” he teased. “You know what they say about people who catch colds in the summer.”
“It’s spring,” she insisted, wrinkling her nose, but he didn’t laugh. In fact, there were no traces of mirth left anywhere on his face.
Byleth sat up straighter. “Claude, it’s only harvest fever. Marianne said it should clear up in a few days.”
He dropped back into his chair, resting his elbows on his knees so he could bridge part of the gap. “But what if it’s not, though?”
A nearby Church of Seiros’s evening bells rang out across the palace grounds. The brassy sounds changed with each echo, reaching her bedchamber as ghostly distortions.
“What, you think Marianne got it wrong?” Byleth asked, pulling her blanket up subconsciously.
“No, just -” Claude ran a hand back through his hair, pushing it even further out of its usual style, “- what if it’s related to...whatever Sothis did to you after the siege?”
He’d spoken so quietly that Byleth had to lean forward and slow her own breath in order to hear it. The concern in his tone - the restraint in his clasped hands; the uncertainty in his eyes - made her take a second pass over everything.
She no longer saw a casual check-in made by a concerned friend. Claude had traveled here with speed and intent, and now she knew why; just like their parting words at Garreg Mach had stuck with her, her long and mysterious slumber had probably stuck with him.
(The realization, while illuminating, didn’t hit her as hard as it should have. She thought some version of that truth, formless and undefined, must have been swimming around in the back of her mind for a while. It explained so succinctly why Marianne had insisted on treating Byleth herself, and why Lorenz stood vigil so often outside her room, even though the two had comparably little free time.)
Now that she thought about it, the long-term consequences of merging with a goddess should probably be a bigger concern of hers, too.
“I haven’t heard Sothis’s voice, nor felt her presence, in six years,” Byleth explained calmly, striving for an affect that would put him at ease. “And I’ve been in perfect health, besides.”
Claude gave her a long, lingering look - one that took in not only her face, but her long, mint-green braid and her customary wardrobe, unchanged from her days at the monastery - as if he wanted to commit her current state to memory. Byleth returned it with a confused frown, ready to comment on the odd behavior, but then his usual smile returned in a flash.
“You’re right,” he acquiesced with a little shrug, standing and straightening his riding harness. “It’s probably nothing serious. A few days, you said?”
Byleth’s confusion skewed into suspicion. Claude never let anything go that easily. “Yeah,” she answered slowly, searching his face for signs of duplicity. “Marianne said I’m already over the worst of it.”
“That’s great,” Claude enthused in the exact manner he’d use to win over his enemies, and Byleth’s misgivings quadrupled. “You should get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He was out the door in a flourish of his royal half-cape, paying no mind to the official etiquette of departure. (Byleth didn’t care about such things, but Lorenz was surely fuming about it in the hall.)
She let herself fall, warily, back onto her bed, pondering what Claude could possibly be up to - because he was up to something. It was only after she’d started to drift off, her head nestled warmly in one of about a dozen pillows, that the implications of his parting words struck her.
---
Ignatz rushed down the administerial wing’s main corridor, clutching a stack of accounting ledgers in one arm and several sheaves of operational business licenses in the other. Sunlight was just starting to peek through the hall’s windows, painting slowly elongating bars of yellow on the opposite walls; nobody would be in their offices yet, but if he could deliver his cargo before breakfast, he’d be able to get a head start on his own day’s work -
Thus distracted, he pushed his slipping glasses back up the bridge of his nose - using an occupied hand. Fifty business licenses, previously sorted alphabetically and geographically, drifted to the ground in a fluttering cloud of failure.
“Oh, no,” Ignatz muttered, dropping to his knees and gathering up the papers as best as he could without dropping the ledgers. If he didn’t deliver his cargo before breakfast, that would delay all of his tasks by at least an hour, thereby pushing back tomorrow’s tasks as well, to say nothing of his meeting with the merchants’ guild - 
A head of shaggy brown hair and a pair of leather-gloved hands bent to organize the papers into a messy but holdable pile, then helped to situate it more snugly in Ignatz’s grasp.
In his haste and immeasurable relief, Ignatz threw a grateful, “Thanks, Claude!” over his shoulder as he resumed his flight down the corridor.
At the threshold of Hilda’s office, though, while balancing both stacks with one hand so he could turn the doorknob, he froze and shouted back the way he’d come, “Claude?!”
---
Instead of the usual morning sounds - like the rustling of Marianne’s skirts or the trundling of a breakfast cart - Byleth woke to singing. It originated somewhere to her right, winding and unhurried, and she knew this gentle melody; Claude had taught it to her during the war.
So he really was still here, then. He’d really stayed. 
She opened her eyes just a hair, hoping for a chance to observe him before he noticed that she was awake.
It was still early. All the curtains were tied back and the windows cracked, letting in pale, diffused light and a sea-salt breeze off the bay. Claude stood at her personal writing desk, which Marianne had turned into a makeshift apothecary, weighing a small pile of freshly ground coriander. He was dressed more casually today, having discarded his courtly attire and riding leathers in favor of a belted Almyran-style tunic; his hair was bound in a simple but flattering tie at the nape of his neck.
Byleth watched him work - watched him thoughtfully consider the ratio of coriander to ginger to water, his hand hovering over each as he deliberated. All the while he sang that soft tune, so beautifully laden with memory and affection. 
When he’d finally settled on a mixture, he reached into a pouch at his belt and uncorked a vial of honey, adding a spoonful to the mug. She tried her best to hold it in, but a tiny, breathless laugh escaped her; that rich wildflower honey was a signature of Claude’s home-brews - a sweetener to make his questionable concoctions more palatable.
He jumped and whirled at the sound, his cheeks darkening somewhat at being caught unawares, but Byleth just shook her head slowly, reassuringly, and hummed the next few bars of his song. At once, his embarrassment morphed into a wide, slanted smile, and he turned back to put the finishing touches on his creation.
“What are you still doing here?” Byleth asked, pushing herself up to a sitting position. Her hair must have been a mess, but she had to settle for a quick smooth-down.
Claude chuckled and sat on the edge of her bed, holding out the mug of steaming medicinal tea. “Really? No ‘Good morning, Claude, and thank you for taking such good care of me?’”
She took the cup and shot him a faux-scowl. “Who’s running your country, though?”
“Oh, it basically runs itself.” He waved a flippant hand, staring out a window in the direction of the Throat. “Our scholars say, ‘A king is a great ship’s rudder.’ It just so happens that my ‘great ship’ has a good heading right now.”
Byleth regarded him doubtfully. She knew this proverb, and its wisdom was definitely not intended to excuse literal flights of fancy.
“What?” he asked, rolling his head to the side playfully. “If anything happens, Nader knows where I am. Besides, aren’t you happy to see me?”
Her stern facade - only performative, anyway, since Claude never failed to disarm her - softened. “I’m always happy to see you,” she said quietly, hiding her vulnerability with a big sip from her mug. (It was delicious, of course, after being assembled so skillfully.)
The curious look he gave her in response lasted a little too long, probed a little too deep for comfort, so she followed it up with a nervous, “Where’s - where’s Marianne?”
Claude, ever-insightful, let the moment pass without remark. “She allowed me to perform her caretaking duties in exchange for a little, ah...discretion...on my part.”
That was easy to imagine. Her ministers had enough on their legislative plates without the obligatory fanfare that would accompany an ‘official’ royal visitation - so the last thing they needed was King Khalid, the former leader of the Alliance, showing his highly recognizable face all over Derdriu.
“We’re both locked up, then,” Byleth said plainly. That explained his wardrobe; a casual observer might think him no more than a member of the staff. As long as he didn’t linger in unfamiliar company, he could move freely about the palace.
“Yep.” Claude smiled contentedly, like he’d gotten the best possible end of this deal. (Byleth begged to disagree.)
In a comically professional, woefully unconvincing physician’s voice, he asked, “So, how are you feeling today, my liege?”
Byleth choked on a sip of her tea, cough-laughing and beating her chest to clear her airways. “Much better, doctor,” she spluttered, setting down her mug to prevent any spasm-related accidents. It was true; her head and body aches had been fading with each passing day, and the fever was low enough that she didn’t feel like a boiling crab leg anymore.
“Good, good,” he mused, looking far too pleased with himself. “Then what do you say to a bit of chess on the balcony?”
She gave her sternum a few more good thumps to really get all the spicy ginger out of her lungs, using the extra time to examine Claude more closely. He knew he couldn’t beat her at chess; what was this about? And was it related to - to whatever inscrutable scheme he was currently enacting?
“Sure,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t give up his plans if asked. (Not until the most dramatically poignant moment, anyway.) If she was going to figure it out on her own, she’d need more opportunities for candid observation, and chess should do nicely.
His face split into a grin immediately. “I saw a board in Lorenz’s office. Meet you back here after lunch?”
“Yeah, it’s a date,” she agreed lightly, and didn’t miss the way it tripped him up on the way out. 
---
“You’re still here,” Lorenz observed with the same sort of weary derision one might direct at a persistent rug stain. He stood in the doorway to his office, holding a tea tray and projecting an aura of disappointment.
Claude, who was currently inside said office and in the midst of burgling a marble chess board, hastily clicked all its pieces back down and clasped his hands behind his back. “I am! Very astute of you to notice.”
Lorenz’s eyes flicked pointedly from his uninvited guest to his now-askew board, then he calmly strode around both to reach his polished mahogany desk. “Well, then. Would you join me for tea, Your Majesty?”
The way he gestured to the opposite chair spoke clearly of interrogation, but Claude sat anyway. It wouldn’t be polite to steal a man’s gaming paraphernalia and refuse his company.
“Why, thank you, Minister,” he answered, exaggerating his friend’s formal air, “we are simply delighted by your invitation.”
Lorenz’s poker face had improved over the years, but Claude still caught the subtle tightening of a jaw and the slightest arch of a brow; dead giveaways that he’d still snap at a piece of bait like a Brigidian piranha. Good to know.
“All right,” Lorenz said, clipped, like he’d come to a decision at the end of a long internal debate. “What are you doing here, Claude?”
Claude blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of the question. “Uh, well, Marianne and I -”
“I quite understand the generous arrangement which Marianne has afforded you,” Lorenz cut in quickly, pouring out two cups of tea. He handed one over the desk with the gravitas of a commander handing down orders. “What, precisely, are you here to do?”
Faking affrontation would be a moot point here, Claude thought. Lorenz was chasing down a specific answer, and from the set of his brow, he’d probably figured out most of it.
And that was fair. Despite their rocky interactions, Lorenz was one of the few people that Claude would say he trusted, and he knew that Lorenz felt the same (even though he had a peculiar way of showing it).
However, while Lorenz looked confident in the answer to his question, Claude didn’t even know where to start. How could he sum up this whirlwind?
Should he begin with the primal fear of hearing that Byleth had collapsed? With the breakneck flight to Derdriu, imagining all the worst possibilities in his head? (The mild shock in her eyes as she toppled backward into the chasm; her ensuing five-year absence, silent and absolute.)
Or at the boundless relief - the sheer, joyful knowledge that she had not, in fact, been re-afflicted with Sothis’s ancient sleeping sickness?
Or, should he skip straight to the certainty that he wouldn’t survive another such scare, and the unwillingness to be apart from her for even a second more, political repercussions be damned? 
In the end, holding a steaming, fragrant cup of bergamot, Claude - in one of only a handful of occasions thus far in his life - couldn’t find the right words.
Luckily, Lorenz, who must have witnessed his friend’s rapid expression shifts, found one instead. Gently, and with more sympathy than expected, he asked, “Still?”
Ah, so he had figured it out.
Claude raised his teacup in a silent toast. “Still,” he confirmed, then downed it in one gulp.
“Hm.” Lorenz paused to serve out refills and scones, and Claude knew exactly what his friend was remembering.
(For five years during the war, Claude had periodically returned to Garreg Mach, even though everyone else had given up the search for Byleth. As the visits persisted in the face of increasing danger, one by one, and with varying levels of understanding and acceptance, his friends had all come to the same conclusion: their leader was in love with their former professor.)
“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Lorenz said curtly, but not unkindly. “You have a plan, then? - Oh, what am I saying? Of course you do. The Master Tactician wouldn’t have shown up without a plan.”
Claude, who had been trying to decide if Lorenz was mocking him or not, visibly fumbled his cranberry scone at that final comment.
Instantaneously, Lorenz’s face went from invested concern to mortification. “Goddess above - you don’t have a plan.”
Claude didn’t have the heart to say that his “plans” often sprung from gut feelings like this; that, very often, he was building a bridge to his goals and walking it simultaneously, trusting that there would be another plank when he reached back for one.
In this particular instance, his bridge took the form of an impromptu and extended stay at the palace while he figured out the world’s most diplomatically sensitive marriage proposal. He wanted to tell Lorenz that, actually, he had several possible scaffolds in place, he just hadn’t chosen one yet - but Claude could see the foundational flaws in all of them, and still hovered at the juncture, unsure where to lay the next plank.
“- No, I don’t,” he finally admitted, steepling his fingers on the desk. “I’m taking suggestions, though, if you have any?”
Lorenz took a slow, calculated sip of his tea, giving Claude one of his patented ‘how did you manage to become the leader of anything’ looks. “Marianne assures me that Byleth will recover in a matter of days -”
“I know,” Claude interjected miserably. His timetable was tragically inadequate.
“- And, while your presence here is temporarily acceptable on the basis of friendship, it will become much harder to justify after the palace returns to its normal operations -”
“I know, Lorenz,” Claude said, letting his forehead fall onto the points of his fingers. The pain, he thought, was well-deserved. “Sheesh, you don’t have to rub my nose in it…”
Lorenz laughed softly. “Apologies. I’m simply savoring the moment; it isn’t often you need my strategic input.”
With his face downturned and concealed, Claude grimaced. He supposed he’d deserved that, too.
“But,” Lorenz went on, “I do have a suggestion. Given your limited available time and lack of direction, we should enlist outside support.”
Claude raised his head incredulously. “Your solution is to have more people laugh at me?”
“Yes. Hilda and Marianne, to be precise.” Lorenz smirked and crossed his legs. “And they won’t laugh - in fact, Hilda will be delighted.”
His tone of voice was too amused for the answer to be anything good, but Claude still asked cautiously, “Why?”
“Oh, because I owe her quite a bit of gold, naturally - I thought it would take you and Byleth far longer to act on your feelings, and my money was on her acting first.”
---
Byleth loved the balcony off her bedchamber. It was on the same side of the palace as the throne room, only higher, with a wider perspective of the canal below and a down-angle view of the opposite block. Sitting on it and looking out, with the stone railing acting as an artificial horizon, she really felt as if she were floating above Derdriu; the city sprawled off endlessly to her right, while its great network of canals spilled into the bay on her left, all set in miniature from this height.
A tangy sea breeze teased through her hair, rustling the many and vibrant plants - in pots, hanging from the roof, and mounted in window boxes - that scattered the area. They were in perfect health, she noticed, despite the rarity of her visits, and Byleth wondered if it was some palace staffer’s entire job to maintain luxurious spaces like these, even though some busy official might seldom use them. 
She privately resolved to appreciate the balcony more often.
It didn’t take long for Claude to come whistling through her chambers, bearing a chess board like a server delivering a high-end meal. He put it down on a small, circular table where Byleth’s own board was already set up, then carefully aligned their edges to create a double-long playing field.
(They’d invented this game early on at Garreg Mach after discovering that neither of them felt challenged enough by the base rules. It had gone through several name changes before they’d agreed to just keep the original; after all, if either of them ever mentioned the game to the other, they both understood which (clearly superior) version was being referenced.)
“So, you managed to get Lorenz to part with it,” Byleth commented as he arranged his pieces and sat down opposite her. “What’d it cost you?”
Claude made a face like he’d just licked a lemon. “Oh, nothing much. Just my reputation and dignity.” He laughed it off, but there was a distinct, hollow ring of truth to his words. “Anyway. Sixty-point game?”
She cocked her head, intrigued. Their special rules allowed for custom “armies” to be built from the standard chess units, each with an individual point cost. Byleth personally liked to run an army without pawns - high risk, high reward (usually reward).
“Not forty?” she asked mildly, picking out her standard array plus an extra frontline of knights. Claude would regret handing her such an aggressive opener. “Are you trying out a new strategy?”
He grinned and laid out his own army, which seemed to focus around his sovereigns - and, as usual, contained a robust line-and-a-half of pawns. What he sacrificed in speed, he made up for in defensive surface area.
“I am. I think you’ll really like this one,” he said, playing his first (highly predictable) move. 
That was the thing about Claude, though. Byleth thought his move was predictable right now, at the beginning, but he was a highly intelligent improviser. The long field between armies meant that most of the game was based on ranged path speculation. 
Was a cluster of pieces actually heading toward her left flank, or would it divert to threaten other units at the last second? She’d have to put a metaphorical shield in place for the first possibility, and a sword for the other - and with Claude, it was impossible to tell ahead of time which he would actually pick. 
But, despite the chaos his playstyle caused, its spontaneity was also what made him such a compelling opponent. The tactical element never got stale.
“It’s bound to be more exciting than your rook phalanx idea,” Byleth teased, starting her knights off on their long journey.
Claude gasped like she’d just insulted his mother. “Hey, that was not my fault - it was a good attack pattern in theory!”
She made a tiny sound of agreement to humor him, but remained privately unconvinced.
As usual, they lapsed into silence for the first phase of the game, each trying to dissect the other’s overall strategy. Of course, at this stage, it was largely conjecture; there would be many, many reactive and counter-reactive moves before any two units actually engaged.
The quiet was nice, though. Ships’ bells echoed in from the piers, mingling with street noise rabble and the shrill cries of bay gulls. There was no one to demand her ear or her time - a rare commodity. She could tell Claude enjoyed it, too, by his easy smiles and relaxed posture.
Why had they ever stopped doing this? It dawned on Byleth that it had been years since their last game.
“- Hey, Claude,” she said at the thirty-turn mark.
He didn’t look up from his spread. “Hm?” “What in the world are you doing?”
His green eyes, which had been bouncing between forward pawns, flicked up to her face. “Setting up my midgame?” he half-asked, gesturing to his formation like the answer was obvious. “Why, what are you doing?”
Byleth narrowed her eyes at the board. He’d split his pawns into two staggered ranks with his sovereigns in the middle, like some sort of sandwiched convoy, and the outer ring of mid-tier pieces looked to be guards.
“Your brilliant new strategy is to hand-deliver your king to my army?” she contended, tracing his column’s trek down the board with her hands, then opening them wide, fingers hooked, to mime the pieces being eaten by a sharp-toothed monster.
Claude laughed confidently. “You’ll see. The king and queen together are unstoppable.”
It was certainly an unconventional approach. By virtue of its novelty, it tripped Byleth up several times in the early game - one might even say, around turn sixty, that her opponent had the advantage. But the sheer speed and maneuverability of her knightly vanguard eventually prevailed, and by turn ninety, she had his entire escort block surrounded. 
“Multi-point threat,” Byleth declared, moving in on his rear line. “This was an interesting idea, but I do believe your king is in mortal peril.”
Claude, who’d been standing for the last dozen turns, paced to the other side of the table. (He loved to do that - to see the situation from all angles, like he would in a real conflict. Unfortunately, that expanded perspective could do little for him here.)
“No, I think - listen - he still has his queen.”
Byleth examined the setup again. “Uh-huh, he sure does,” she drawled, trying to understand how that might change their fates.
“I’m just saying,” he went on, crouching so that he could view the board at eye level. “Look how far they’ve already come. Look at all they’ve been through together - it’s not like a little opposition could stop them now, right?”
She crossed her arms, a bewildered smile tugging at her mouth. “Are you seriously trying to Nemesis me right now? My bishops have them both in four.”
Claude gave a frustrated sigh. “No, this isn’t a scheme - well,” he amended, scratching pensively at his chin scruff, “okay, it is a scheme, but -”
I knew it, she thought, vindicated, and grinned accordingly.
“Ugh, forget it.” Claude toppled his king. “You’re right, it was an ill-fated venture that clearly needs outside support.”
Byleth frowned. “What? I didn’t say that.”
He waved his arms like he was dispelling the entire conversation. “Never mind. We’ve still got plenty of light - how about another game?”
---
Later that night, after Byleth and most of the palace had retired, Hilda’s raucous laughter rang out through the entire administerial wing.
“You tried to tell her with chess?!”
She, Claude, Marianne, and Lorenz all sat around a table in one of the meeting rooms, passing around a bottle of strong Faerghan whiskey.
“No wonder she didn’t get it,” Hilda continued, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes (in a delicate manner that spared her makeup). “You know how Byleth is!”
Lorenz refilled his glass, nodding emphatically. “Agreed. Subtlety will get you nowhere in that arena, my friend.”
“I thought it was sweet,” Marianne disclosed quietly.
Claude propped his feet up on an unused chair and dipped his chin gratefully. “Thank you. I also thought it would be sweet. And successful.”
He took a long swig straight from the bottle, much to Hilda’s amusement. “But you were right, Lorenz, okay? So -” he slapped the tabletop in invitation, “- go on. Advise me.”
Perhaps sensing that their friend was already punishing himself enough, no one pushed the teasing any further. Lorenz and Hilda shared a look - one that said they’d already discussed the matter privately - and then everyone got straight down to business.
“First of all, we should discuss the legal ramifications of your union,” Lorenz said, indicating the palace walls. “It’s true that anti-Almyran sentiment has died down greatly since the war, especially here in Leicester, but I fear widespread confusion - how much power would the king of Almyra suddenly have over their territories? Their livelihoods?”
Claude recoiled from the intensity. “Whoa! She hasn’t even said yes - aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves, here?”
(In truth, he had the same worries about his own homeland; it wasn’t like xenophobia was exclusive to Fodlan. His current plan - if she agreed - was to introduce her presence like he’d introduced his own: aggressively and unapologetically, with hopes that the Almyran public would regard it with the same eventual respect.)
The other three gave him bland looks.
“You really, honestly think she’ll turn you down?” Hilda asked in angry disbelief.
Claude gritted his teeth. “I don’t know - I mean, that’s Byleth’s whole deal, right? Unbeatable strategist? You never know what she’s thinking?”
“Oh, Claude,” Marianne said, patting him on the arm. “You should have more confidence in yourself.”
Hilda snorted into her tumbler.
“- Regardless, I don’t want to discuss the politics without her. If she says yes,” Claude emphasized with a stern glance around the table. “I have to get to the actual question first, okay? Lorenz. Ideas. Go.”
The man in question raised his eyebrows. “All right - well, Leonie proposed to me during a horseback ride. She’d painted all of her mounted archery targets with one word each, and in order they spelled out a question...oh, it was very romantic,” he said, his tone warming as he spoke. He then promptly cleared his throat. “But, ah, Byleth isn’t in a physical state for riding, hmm?”
Hilda propped her elbows up on the table and cradled her chin in her hands, recounting dreamily, “Marianne took me deep into the forest at night and professed her love under the light of the full moon. How could I have ever said no to that?”
Marianne hid behind her glass, her face beet-red. “I don’t, uhm, think there are any full moons coming up soon, though,” she managed to squeak out.
“Yeah, you have to do something quick.” Hilda pointed at him with her glass. “Let’s see - we already know it can’t involve winning something, so that’s out.”
Claude laughed sarcastically into the bottle.
“A grand display would not be diplomatically feasible, either,” Lorenz added.
Yeah, that made sense, Claude thought. A single plant in the throne room had brought word of Byleth’s illness to him in under three days - and he wasn’t the only one with eyes here. 
“You should do something that’s meaningful to both of you,” Marianne suggested, her face returning to its usual pallid shade. “Something simple but significant. Byleth would appreciate that, I think.”
Simple but significant.
Claude swirled the idea around in his head at the same time he swirled the contents of his bottle. Significant he could do - had been doing - but simple was another story. Maybe that was his problem; maybe he just needed to go back to the basics.
“And don’t get her a ring,” Hilda said. “I never see her wearing jewelry unless the tailors insist.”
He chewed on all of that, taking slow, measured sips of whiskey. Something meaningful to both him and to Byleth - something memorable, but uncomplicated. No rings, he added mentally. That was fine; as an archer, he disliked having obstructions around his hands, anyway. (And while they were out here breaking traditions, who cared if it was one or one hundred?)
“Hey,” he began, doing some quick calculations around wyverns’ seasonal nesting habits. “How quickly could I get something down the Goldroad?”
Lorenz’s brows knit together. “From the capital to here, I presume, and with the use of your royal seal? Within the week. Why? What do you need?”
Claude grinned, luxuriating in the rush of a good plan coming together. “All right, listen to this -”
---
If she could’ve had her way, Byleth would have chosen to remain in those last days of her fever forever. Her symptoms were mild and unobtrusive, she didn’t have to do any paperwork, and Claude was there; simply put, it was the ideal situation.
They spent four whole days together playing games, mixing various drinks, going for (short and supervised) walks around the garden, and reminiscing about old times - but Marianne’s medicines were effective and all things, even good things, must end.
On the morning of the fifth day, she knew she was cured. Her mind was clear and her body strong, if a little feeble from the bed rest. Everyone else must have been on the same page, too, because Marianne came to greet her after breakfast in Claude’s stead.
“So that’s the end of the arrangement, then?” Byleth asked, trying to keep her voice even and normal.
Marianne smiled softly and pressed the back of her hand to Byleth’s forehead. “Yes. Claude will be returning home this evening, as I’m sure he has many decisions waiting for him there.”
That makes two of us, Byleth thought dejectedly.
“Your temperature is perfectly normal,” Marianne reported. “Do you have any lingering fatigue? Dizziness?”
“Nope. Nothing,” Byleth said, heaving a reluctant sigh. “I suppose I should head down to the audience chambers.”
She really, truly hadn’t meant to sound like a pouting toddler bound for punishment, but that was exactly how it had come out.
Marianne laughed. “Yes, you should - tomorrow.” To answer Byleth’s questioning stare, she pointed across the room. “I think you’ll be too busy today.”
Right on cue, something large impacted outside the windows with a dull, cracking thud. Without thinking, Byleth whirled, ready for some sort of threat - (her sword belt was hanging next to her bed, easily accessible for such emergencies) - but it was only Claude on the balcony.
Rather, it was his massive white wyvern, Sahar. She’d perched on the railing, her sharp claws gouging long scrapes in the stone, and he was mounted on her back.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for that!” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Good morning! Care for a ride?”
Byleth burst out in surprised laughter, too endeared to be mad about the property damage. She looked back, confused and curious, but Marianne just shook her head.
“Go,” she said, gesturing outward. “Have fun. You have my official medical clearance.”
That was all the permission Byleth needed to throw open the doors and run out, barefoot and grinning, to leap at Sahar’s saddle. The seaside wind blasted her hair back and Claude opened his arms for her arrival, bracing in his stirrups to absorb the impact.
They’d performed this maneuver many times during the war; since Byleth preferred to do her fighting on foot, Claude would often sweep down to reposition her more quickly. Even after five years without practice, they executed the pick-up without a hitch: she landed knees-first at the front of the saddle and Claude anchored her, wrapping both arms around her midsection.
In combat, the move had been utilitarian - the fastest way to mount up. Right now, though, it felt more intimate; with no armor, no weapons, and no urgency, they were basically just hugging on wyvern-back.
Byleth quickly turned herself around, hoping he hadn’t seen the blush rising up her neck. 
“That eager to get out of there, huh?” he teased, helping her get situated.
She rolled her eyes and cinched a pair of flight straps around her waist. The fit was snugly familiar, securing her to both the saddle and her fellow rider.
“You know the answer to that,” she replied, glancing down the tall outer walls of the palace. A few people in the canal-side gardens had looked up at the spectacle; they were too far away to see much detail, but this was clearly the queen’s bedchamber. “This isn’t the most discreet escape, is it?”
Claude scoffed, turning his mount skyward with a nudge. “Oh, it’s fine. Not many Fodlanese know about the white wyvern thing. Besides,” he said mischievously, testing the knots on her straps, “didn’t Marianne tell you? Our arrangement is done.”
With that, they were off. Sahar spread her massive wings - leathery and smooth, delicate and powerful all at once - to catch the current, pushing herself off into it and raining stone chips and dust in her wake.
Byleth yelped at the sudden lurch, falling back against Claude, who gladly supported her while they gained rapid altitude in the midday sky. Sahar’s rhythmic wing beats took them high above the notice of anyone in the city, down the palace’s canal and out into the bay.
She watched it all fall away as they climbed. The great trade ships shrank to the sizes of beetles in their lanes; the flocks of gulls that chased them, to mere specks. The ocean itself became an undulating cobalt tapestry, shot through with threads of white and gray.
When they leveled off and the wind died down in their ears, Claude spoke, “Remember when I taught you to fly?”
A series of images flashed in her mind: wrangling a saddle onto an impatient wyvern; losing straps and buckles under flapping wings; falling before she could even take off - so, so much falling.
“I remember when you tried to, sure,” she said, cringing at the memories. Even Leonie, who never gave up on anything, had declared Byleth’s flying skills unsalvageable. “Why?”
Claude laughed a little too hard, like he was recalling the very same foibles. “Nah. You just needed more time - we couldn’t spare any in the war. But now?”
“Are you suggesting,” Byleth said, throwing him a flat look over her shoulder, “that I fall on my ass repeatedly in front of the entire court? It was bad enough when it was just jeering students.”
“No, no, my point is -” Claude directed her attention back to their view of the bay, “- you could come out here whenever you wanted. Get away from it all.”
So he’d noticed her restlessness. Well, of course he did, Byleth admonished herself. He’s Claude.
“That would be...nice,” she admitted, giving him a half-smile. “It’s different, isn’t it? Leading during peacetime?”
He relaxed his hold on the reins and let Sahar go where she would in the open sky; she took full advantage of the freedom, floating into various air currents and skirting low, wispy clouds.
“Yeah, it is.” Claude’s tone was sober and diminished. He prodded gently, “How have you really been, Bee?”
The nickname brought unexpected tears to her eyes; he hadn’t used it since they parted at Garreg Mach five years ago. She’d forgotten how fond and welcoming it sounded - how warm - coming from his mouth.
Byleth faced straight ahead, glad he couldn’t see her expression. It must have been just as regretful and conflicted as her mind.
“I never expected to be here,” she murmured, and in her heart she finished the thought: without you. Her voice barely carried over the wind, but she knew Claude had heard it; he scooted closer to her in the saddle, whether consciously or not. “Everyone around me is so certain of their place, and I’m...not.”
Her thoughts strayed to Edelgard and Dimitri, to their twin drives that - even misguided and corrupted as they were - strove for a better world at their roots. Byleth, who held no grand vision for the future, couldn’t help but feel unfit for the mantles they’d left behind.
(Truthfully, that was one of many reasons why Derdriu was her favorite capital, and spring her favorite season. Fhirdiad’s and Enbarr’s thrones still felt like someone else’s seats to her - someone else’s dreams.)
“I don’t think anyone expected to be where they are now,” Claude said, matching her volume. When Byleth shot him another ‘quit your bullshit’ look, he chuckled and corrected himself, “Okay. Maybe I did, but nobody else did.”
“Lorenz thought he’d be leading the Alliance, hitched to some noble lady. Hilda didn’t think she’d be doing anything.” Claude put up one finger for each example. “Marianne wanted to keep her head down. Ignatz thought he’d be barred from his passions.”
He rested his chin on the top of Byleth’s head. “Expectations and reality don’t always match up. Are you unhappy with where you are, Your Majesty?”
I’m exceedingly happy where I am, she thought, easing herself back to rest against him. And that’s the problem.
“No,” she answered simply. “I’m not.”
Claude, perhaps sensing the dishonesty in her words, hummed doubtfully. The sound rumbled deep in her chest. “Well - if you ever were unhappy, you know I’d help, right? No matter what it was.”
“I know,” she said, tilting her head to smile up at him. “And - I think you’re right.”
He shifted to accommodate her better, crossing his arms over her lap to grip the saddlehorn. “Oh? About expectations?”
“No, about flying.” She settled into their pseudo-embrace, resolving to enjoy it while it lasted. “I should learn.”
Claude made a small, happy noise in his throat. “I’ll teach you. It’ll be great.”
They drifted down the Edmund coastline in a comfortable quiet after that. If not for the Throat looming in the distance - a constant reminder of the hourglass hanging over their flight - Byleth would’ve been perfectly content. The longer they went, the more she wished he would just keep flying straight over the mountains - but the sun continued on its inexorable path through the heavens, and all things, even good things, must end.
Still, though, when he wheeled them around and began the journey back, Byleth thought she detected a resonant note of hesitation in him.
By the time they’d reached the bay of Derdriu, the sun hung low and the sky had turned to vibrant oranges and indigos; the frothy crests of waves, the metal fixtures on ships’ masts, and even the scaly tips of Sahar’s wings shone golden in the rich evening light. 
The palace’s white marble exterior reflected sunset-colors onto the streets and canal below. In any other instance, she’d find it beautiful, but right now it was no different than the Throat: an ominous, prohibitive barrier.
Claude guided Sahar to the balcony again, wincing as her claws ground fresh holes into the railing.
“- I’ll pay for that,” he reiterated sheepishly, then hopped down to offer Byleth a hand.
She took it, letting him assume her weight while she scrambled much less gracefully to the ground. The stone tiles, quickly cooling with the onset of night, chilled her bare feet on contact; she shivered, looking back wistfully at the evening sky. 
When she turned around again, Claude was watching her intently. Unreadably. 
“Did you enjoy the ride?” he asked.
“I did. Thank you.” She tried to match his tone, to hide her sadness - to appreciate the time they’d had together instead of mourning its conclusion. “I suppose you need to get going, then?”
“Mm, not quite yet,” he replied with a secretive smile, wrapping Sahar’s reins around her saddlehorn. He muttered a phrase to her in Almyran, to which the great wyvern nuzzled into his hand and took off in the direction of the aviary.
“Let’s get you warmed up, first.” He strode past her to the open balcony doors, jerking his head toward it encouragingly when she didn’t immediately follow. “Come on, it’s okay - I have time.”
Byleth trailed after him, instantly suspicious. He was using his ‘false sense of security’ voice again, like he had on the first night. “Claude, what are you planning?” she called out warily, stepping into her darkened bedchamber.
A spark struck in the hearth, setting the tinder inside ablaze and silhouetting Claude in a red-orange halo. “Why do I have to be planning something?” he countered, overly defensive, as he stoked the fire. “- You looked cold, is all.”
She gave him a skeptical once-over, then turned to grab a cloak from her wardrobe - and there on her dresser, shining in the firelight, was a lacquered ebony box the length of her arm.
It was decorated with glittering gold leaf along its edges, clearly meant to hold something valuable. Byleth whipped around to fix Claude with an accusing glare, but he just shrugged innocently and motioned for her to open it.
He had a long history of bequeathing strange gifts to his friends, always seeming to enjoy the reactions a little too much. Byleth wasn’t aware of any current holidays, though, either in Fodlan or Almyra.
She sighed and lifted the lid. “I swear, if this is another apron -” 
The breath caught in her throat. It most definitely was not an apron.
Nestled in a bed of burgundy velvet, only slightly smaller than the box itself, laid a porcelain-white wyvern egg dotted with flecks of pearlescent ivory. 
This time when she glanced back, it was in affectionate curiosity. “So this is why you were pushing flight training,” she said, gingerly touching the warm shell. “But - aren’t white wyverns only given to members of the royal family?”
Claude moved to stand next to her, drained of all his earlier mirth and bravado. In its place was a tense energy she hadn’t sensed in him since they’d last met at the Goddess Tower.
“Well, yeah, that’s the idea,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I was hoping you’d, uh, well - I wanted to ask you, since -”
He stopped and grunted, looking disgusted with himself. “Let me start over.”
Byleth nodded, absolutely baffled. What in Sothis’s name was he trying to say?
Claude ran a hand back through his hair and took a deep, steadying breath. “We both didn’t have the best experiences with family growing up. I mean, you had Jeralt and I had my mom, and they were great, but other than that it was…”
“Lonely,” she offered. They’d discussed their respective childhoods many times before - commiserated in the shared wounds of alienation and neglect.
Delicately, he took her hand and squeezed it. “Yeah. Lonely. And if I’m reading this correctly, so were the last five years, right?”
Byleth swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded again.
“Yeah,” Claude repeated softly. “For me, too. So, I thought - maybe neither of us has to be lonely anymore.”
His meaning dawned on her like a sunrise, blooming heat high in her cheeks. Her embarrassment fueled his, in turn, and they were left staring at one another in stunned silence; from an outside perspective, they must have looked - fittingly - like a pair of panicked deer.
“Claude,” she pronounced thickly, needing to verify her theory, “are you asking me to…?”
“Mhm,” he confirmed, a portion of his usual confidence flickering back to life in his smile. He tipped her chin upward with his index finger. “I want to be your family. I want you to be my family.”
Byleth had spent the first part of her life without adequate modes of expression. Before meeting Claude, she’d gotten by on curt gestures and a flat affect - and now, in the face of overwhelming emotion, she regressed right back to that state.
All she could do to communicate her answer was to jump and reach for him, just like she was leaping onto his wyvern - and, predictably, protectively, his arms closed around her. Anchored her.
Like always, she thought. A perfect catch.
“Woah - I’ll take that as a yes, then?” Claude asked, tentatively hopeful, laughing and stepping backward from the unexpected force.
Byleth buried her face in his shoulder and nodded, unable to speak; hot tears spilled from her eyes, soaking into Claude’s tunic collar, and her wrists trembled where they were clasped at his neck. Her heart had never beat, yet now it was overflowing, filling her chest with something happy and potent and home that she’d never dared to covet before.
In the glow of the hearth, to the crackling of logs and the faint rush of a sea breeze outside, Claude rocked them back and forth at a measured, soothing pace. He kissed her forehead, her temple, her cheekbone, wiping away her tears with his thumb and whispering in a shaky voice, “It’s okay, Bee. We’re going to be so happy, I promise. I promise.”
---Epilogue---
Lorenz understood the severity of the Airmid flooding - really, he did - but he did not understand why it needed to translate into a six-in-the-morning assembly. Anything the ministers discussed there could be handled just as easily, and with more lucidity, during their regular working hours.
Still, he trudged diligently up the stairs to the meeting rooms. If there were emergency measures to enact, then, by the goddess, he’d see them enacted. The peoples of Hrym and Ordelia had already suffered enough for several lifetimes.
He was just inside the threshold, blinking and stifling a yawn, when he saw them: Byleth and Claude, seated side by side at the head of the meeting table, the former digging into a plate of food and the latter grinning like a madman.
Lorenz’s yawn cut off abruptly; his jaw snapped shut with a click.
“You’re still here,” he grumbled, sliding into a chair on an empty side. “Somehow I doubt this is about the floods.”
Hilda and Marianne, who were sitting opposite him, giggled quietly together, their hands clasped on the tabletop. (Frankly, it made him jealous. Leonie hadn’t wanted to touch the office of royal minister with a ten-foot lance.)
“Nope,” Byleth said, pointing at Claude with her fork. “This is about the legality of our marriage.”
Hilda clapped frantically with excitement. “Congratulations! Ooh, this is going to be the biggest wedding ever - can you imagine the guest list? We’ll be curating it for months.”
“I think I’ll exclude my paternal cousins,” Claude mused. “Just to watch them squirm.”
Marianne nodded. “They deserve it.”
“Wait. Hold.” Lorenz slapped his daily ledger down on the table like a judge calling for order, and it worked just the same. The rabble died down, all eyes turning to him. “First of all: congratulations, you two. You’ve made me a marginally poorer man.”
Hilda snickered triumphantly.
“Second: this is going to be a legislative nightmare - and don’t you tell me differently, Claude von Riegan,” he added, holding up a finger when it looked like Claude would cut in. 
“I’ll abdicate,” Byleth suggested, stabbing into a sausage.
“No -!” all three ministers shouted in unison - even Marianne, who’d also half-stood from her chair, hands braced on the table.
(Meanwhile, Claude simply watched his new fiancee with moon-eyed adoration; Lorenz was sure he’d humor anything she said right now.)
“That - that won’t be necessary,” Lorenz said, clearing his throat and smoothing down his ascot. “I only mean that it will take time and collaboration. Claude, I insist that you stay another week while we draft something for you to take home. I’ll write to Nader.”
Byleth let out a rare exuberant gasp; beside her, Claude glanced down the table and gave Lorenz a sly, conspiratorial wink. 
“- Oh, try to act professionally about this, would you?” he insisted, but an infectious smile was already spreading across his own face. 
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Author’s Notes
candidates for game names:
byleth: better chess (rejected - judgmental)
claude: long chess (rejected - misleading)
hilda: chess 2 (considered but ultimately rejected - legality)
lorenz: tactician’s chess (rejected - boring)
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celosiaa · 4 years ago
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hi friend!!! PLEASE keep in mind there is NO RUSH or ANY REQUIREMENT TO WRITE THIS IF YOU DON'T FEEL LIKE WRITING I'M JUST GIVING PROMPT BECAUSE YOU SAID YOU FEEL LIKE WRITING AND I LOVE YOUR WRITING!! what about canon-era POTS Jon? infections can cause really bad POTS flares (my understanding is that it lowers your BP). it could be after any of his many injuries, but even just a cold can mess with it. and ONLY IF YOU FEEL BORED AND UP TO WRITING <3 TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!!
hello my dear!!!! you are going THROUGH IT right now!!!! I love you very very much and I hope that this fic will make your day a little brighter <3
So have a little Jon with the flu and a POTS flare up! And friends who love him!
CW nausea, fainting
This was a mistake.
Jon knows it, his body knows it—the entire train car probably knows it too. It’s barely a ten minute’s ride from his flat to the Institute, but it might as well have been an hour trapped in a boiler room for all he can tell. Suffocating, you’re suffocating—is the only message his brain will send him, as he sits squeezed in between two very unfortunate passengers on this snowy Monday morning, trying very hard both not to cough and to stop himself from tearing off his coat and scarf this instant.
Being ill always hits him hard—far harder than it has any right to; harder than he is willing to acknowledge, really—as it always seems to trigger his POTS in the most frustrating of ways. Last time he’d been ill, truly ill, Tim may have paid the price for his stubbornness more than he had himself. What with him refusing to do anything to look after himself, being caught by surprise by a fainting spell, and ending up dragging Tim to the A&E with him to be treated for a nasty head wound. This time around, he has actually taken several precautions, with his compression stockings on, a water bottle, and TENS unit in his bag, just in case the muscle aches from whatever hell bug he’s managed to catch compound the pain from his EDS.
Tim ought to be proud.
Mouth twisting in a smile in spite of himself, Jon resists the urge to bolt out of the train car as soon as the stop is announced, forcing himself instead to stand slowly and carefully before exiting.
As luck would have it, the lift had been broken down, forcing Jon to climb the flight of stairs up to the street. Legs nearly giving out on him before he could half-sit, mostly collapse onto the bench at the top, his chest heaves as he tries to convince his body not to faint. With somewhat limited success.
So long as the fading in and out of his vision is not followed by a lapse in awareness, he’ll be alright.
Suffocating suffocating
Whether rational or not, Jon has to pull of his coat and scarf right now, or he’s sure his brain will short out on him completely. He tears at it all as quickly as possible, fingers shaking over the large buttons of his peacoat. Anything to relieve the pressure on his chest, whether brought on by POTS or his congestion, he’s soon to find out. Preferably, he’d like to slow down his breathing a bit before coughing again, but there’s very little he can do to control that—and buries it all in the folds of his scarf, hoping to avoid as many stares from passers-by as possible.
The lightheadedness only bangs against his eyes again as the fit continues, forcing him to fold his legs beneath himself and bend forward in an effort to breathe, breathe. Surely it hadn’t been so bad this morning when he had stepped out of the door—he had been quite certain of his ability to control it enough to get by, and hopefully without raising the alarm about his health throughout the archives. By the sound of it, though, he just hadn’t been getting deep enough breaths to force it all out, as the crackling depth of it alarms even him.
All the same, after a few minutes of breathing deeply with marginally-clearer lungs, he feels finally able to look up again—even shuddering against the soft padding of snowflakes against his shoulders and greying hair, rather than panicking about being boiled alive by his own jacket.
He’ll take what improvement he can get.
Steeling himself to walk the block down to the Institute, Jon pulls up his compression stockings from where they had slipped a bit and pushes on.
“So I’m sitting there, right? I’m sitting there, barbecue sauce on my titties…”
“You were NOT!” Sasha bellows at Tim, struggling to raise her voice over the sound of Martin’s cackling. “Don’t encourage him, Martin, he always puts this in his fucking stories.”
“HEY! It’s true!! It could have happened more than once, you know.”
“God I hate you so much,” she shouts, sending both Martin and Tim for another round of uncontrollable laughter.
It’s the perfect opportunity for Jon—who exits the lift as quickly as he can, heading for his office with the all the single-mindedness of a particularly winded and dizzy man. Perfect, because no one saw him beyond a shadow darkening the doorstep. No one to raise the alarm as he sinks into his chair, trembling at the exertion of making the journey from the lobby to the basement.
Burying his face in his hands, he sniffs back against the congestion plaguing him, adjusts his position to take pressure off his throbbing legs, and tries to collect his scattered thoughts enough to get to work.
Spinning, spinning, spinning are the walls of his office around him, worsening with every cough he stifles into the sleeves of his cardigan. After the initial recovery period when he had finally been able to sit in his office, chest aching with exertion, he had truly felt alright for those first couple of hours—even finding himself able to get lost in statements for a while, barely noticing an hour tick by, two, three. Until his vision started to go out again, and he found himself leaning aching elbows on aching knees, feeling the nausea that had caused him to lose his breakfast that morning rise up again in his throat.
Please, not now. Please.
He’s got to get something in him, knows it would help to at least keep something with salt down, if he can manage it. Regretfully, the only way to stop the dizziness is sure to worsen it first—as his emergency Gatorade supply happens to be in the break room refrigerator.
Text Tim, the rational part of his mind supplies at once, the sound advice on it falling on entirely deaf ears.
Can manage this myself.
I put it there, I can go get it.
Wishing more than anything he had brought his walker, he moves slowly, ever so slow and careful to standing—and stars explode in his vision at once, driving him right back down to the chair again, head between his knees and panting.
Damn it damn it damn it
Calm, just—
Calm down.
Heart pounding in double time to the ticking of the clock on the wall, Jon does everything he can to slow it down, slow it down, ease the stabbing pain of his overworked heart in his chest with the deepest breaths he can manage. It’s not enough, can’t see, can’t breathe—
No no no—
Thud.
The sound drives Tim into Jon’s office at once, not for the first time—though never with any less worry or concern. Even knowing what happened, that Jon was almost certainly fine, would never truly take away the way his stomach clenches every time this happens, every time he sees Jon hit the ground, even if he’s able to catch him on the way. And today was especially worrying, with the damp coughing he had heard slipping beneath the office door since this morning.
Please be okay please be okay—
“Jon?” he calls gently, swinging the door open to find him on the ground, rolling onto his back with a groan. “Did you faint?”
“I—yeah,” he replies, more vague-sounding than Tim would like, rubbing the back of his head as he starts to sit up.
Not good.
“You hit your head?” Tim asks as he kneels next to him, already reaching forward to card through Jon’s hair, looking for any sign of swelling or bleeding.
“I don’t—not badly, if I—oh,” he trails off at once, eyes beginning to flutter.
“Alright, easy, now,” Tim mutters, supporting Jon’s head as he shifts back to lying flat again, eyes clenched again the returning dizziness. “It’s really bad today, huh? And you’re ill too.”
In response, all Jon will give is a sigh, draping an arm over his mouth as it turns into a cough, before placing it over his eyes. Something twinges in Tim’s chest at the sight—knowing how much Jon hates this, hates anyone fussing over him even more—and squeezes gently above his knee in acknowledgement.
“What can I do? Anything?”
Still nothing verbal from him for a few seconds—seconds Tim is willing to wait as Jon sorts through both his own unwillingness to ask for help, as well as through his own likely-scattered thoughts. It had taken a lot for Jon to tell him about his POTS in the first place—in fact, that trust had not been built until Tim had to take him to A&E after a particularly bad fall. Now that he thinks of it, Jon had been ill then too—and even grouchier than his current persona of “Boss-man.”
“Was trying to—ugh,” starts, cutting off for a moment to clutch at his stomach, against what is most likely rising nausea. “Was trying to get—get some Gatorade.”
“That’s what all this is about? Getting your nasty-ass purple Gatorade?”
When Jon huffs out a little laugh with a smile, Tim feels very much pumping his fist in the air for joy—but refrains, if only for Jon’s sake.
“Tastes good. Don’t know what you’re missing.”
And a joke?
Should I call an ambulance?
“Tastes like purple,” Tim replies, letting a smile filter heavily into his own expression now. “I don’t mess with shit that tastes like a color.”
A sharp gasp from behind alerts him to Martin’s presence in the doorway.
“Oh Jon, what happened? Are you alright?” he asks, with such deep concern that Jon immediately buries his face in his hands and groans.
“Just fainted, is all,” Tim says at once, waving a sharp hand by his throat to cut off his well-meaning sympathy.
“Right,” he replies with raised eyebrows, carefully schooling his expression in a way that Tim very much appreciates. “Right. Anything I can do?”
“Could grab him some Gatorade from the fridge, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“On it,” he nods at once, and sets off.
Just then, Jon starts up coughing again, so harsh and damp it sets Tim’s teeth on edge.
“That sounds rough, Jon,” he grimaces, reaching up to his desk to grab tissues from atop it and set them on the floor.
“It’s—fine,” comes the reply, of course, accented in between by a hitching at the back of his throat that drives him upwards to sitting.
“Right. Sure,” Tim mutters, rolling his eyes as he braces Jon, whose harsh coughing bends him double with effort.
When he begins to sway a bit, eyes fluttering again—Tim is already to prepared to push his head gently forward and between his knees.
“Easy, easy.”
“Fuck.”
“I’ve got you.”
The shaking beneath Tim’s hands is not altogether a rarity after a bad faint, but something tells him there might be another cause this time. A fever, namely.
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” he asks, after waiting for Jon’s breathing to come a bit back under control.
“Didn’t—don’t. Don’t feel well,” he whispers, bending even further forward, enough to have Tim reaching for the bin, just in case.
“Alright, that’s alright,” he whispers in response, feeling powerless to do anything but sit and rub his back.
“Tried,” he starts up again after a moment, altogether shocking an unsuspecting Tim with his verbosity.
“Tried? Tried what?”
“Tried to be careful,” he clarifies, coughing once more into his elbow, and letting it double him back down. “Promise, I—heh—tried. Thought I was fine.”
“I know, Jon,” Tim assures at once, rubbing at his back once again against the trembling, wishing it was doing anything to really help him. “I know, alright? Just save your breath. It’s not your fault.”
Thankfully, by the time Martin reappears with the Gatorade, he’s quite a bit steadier, after the coughing fit has reached it’s end. Much to Tim’s surprise, he even offers Martin a small smile as he cast a long shadow through the office, blocking out the fluorescent light of the hall behind him.
“Alright, time for electrolytes!” Tim cheers, as Martin opens the lid to the bottle before handing it to Jon, who begins sipping at it cautiously.
“You’re shaking—are you cold?” Martin asks, already removing his cardigan and kneeling to place it over Jon’s trembling shoulders.
“No,” he snaps sharply, pushing off the cardigan and shifting around, preparing himself to stand. “I’m alright, just—”
“Hang on, hang on,” Tim soothes, pressing back against Jon’s chest as gently as possible to stop his movement. “Just—hold on a second, alright? Let me get the cot set up in here before you try that.”
“Tim—”
“I know, I know, perish the thought. I get it.”
“You don’t—”
“BUT! But,” he cuts in loudly, holding up a hand to shush him. “You shouldn’t even be here, Jon. You’ve probably got the flu, or something, judging by whatever—whatever is clearly going on here. So please. Just have a lie down for, like, an hour. That’s all I’m asking.”
All I’m brave enough to ask, really.
Another pause, during which it’s Tim’s turn for his heart to pound, watching Jon try to formulate an argument against him with furrowed brows.
And then—everything that had been hunched and furrowed goes slack, as Jon starts to sway dizzily again.
“Oh—oh, Jon,” Martin gasps nervously, helping him slowly lower back to lying on the ground.
“M’fine, fine,” he assures, words slurring a bit as Martin checks his forehead for fever—and if the meaningful glance he gives Tim is anything to go by, he can be pretty certain of Martin’s findings.
“Right. Cot. I’m going to get it, and I’ll be back,” he says firmly, glancing back one more time to find Martin carefully placing his cardigan beneath Jon’s head.
Of course, Tim knows there is still a good deal of fighting to do on the “force Jonathan Sims to take care of himself” front, but this will do.
This will have to do for now.
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kazeofthemagun · 3 years ago
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What does Kaze's diet actually consist of? Curious minds want to know (and want him to eat better).
Miscellaneous asks
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[Hi! I'll answer this and also clarify some additional things since this is a good opportunity to do so. In short, it depends entirely on the period of his life. Most of his early childhood was spent on the streets so he'd steal and eat miscellaneous things, and eat fast. The easiest food to acquire would be common seasonal fruit (with hard shells tiresome to peel by hand, but an orphan needs to do what they can to survive) and bread. Trying to nab mpre expensive things would result in a much higher punishment if caught, which does not mean he did not try, and thankfully he avoided having his fingers removed. All in all, he had to be opportunistic and clever as a thief. That's how he developed survivalist feeding habits like eating anything edible and doing so quickly. During his life with the Wind Warriors he could get food more reliably and eat what he should be eating as a Windarian. Windarian biology is similar to human (duh haha! Ah, Final Fantasy alien races.) but leaning more carnivorous. Kaze finally got to eat meat more consistently, mostly what he and his warbandmates hunted themselves. Also various desert fruit, and Windarian flora contained very high amounts of capsaicin which also means he's impervious to spiciness. Fish was scarce in his diet because Windaria was mostly desert, seafood was extremely expensive. Obviously, he learned how to cook as part of survival training, but he never bothered with seasoning so his cooking is quite bland.]
[After Windaria's fall, during the events of the anime, he ate next to nothing as a result of mental health collapse, and the Magun kept him alive. He was immortal so even if he happened to starve to death he'd be right back up, sometimes running purely on processed Soil energy. During After, when he regained most of his memories, his Spiral magic, and was more or less on the road to recovery, he would mostly eat stuff from the Comodeen's supplies with the rest of the Comodeen crew, and so would Kumo. Not that he ate consistently, though, he still doesn't. Has a habit of running off to do things behind the scenes and all that.]
[In the current post-show verse, he spends most of his time in Wonderland which operates on a singular currency, gil (as well as singular language) which helps greatly with buying supplies. He typically stocks up on dried meat for travels and hunts when he needs to acquire more food. Being immortal and resistant to most poisons helps with consuming random things such as a sector's local edible plantlife. What's edible to the local inhabitants may not be edible to other races, after all.]
[Now some issues arise in the interactions that he ends up going to Outside Worlds (non-Wonderland worlds) which: a) do not have the same currency and b) whose people do not speak the same language so acquiring food becomes a problem. The language barrier is something I shoo away with the explanation that some form of "Common" is widely used, while local currency still needs to be obtained in some way. He and Kumo mostly travel together and me and @shiroi---kumo are in the process of coming up with some logistical headcanons still. What do they eat? How do they get food? They probably get their money + food in exchange for doing monster hunting jobs, but if that's impossible, and nobody has any small work fit for two random dimensional travelers with VERY suspicious weapons, I can also see a particularly desperate Kaze robbing someone of some of their cash simply because he'd rather steal than beg. Cue Kumo's extreme butthurt. Sorry Cloudy, Windy would rather not steal due to a gunmage's pride but if ya gotta revert to old habits, ya gotta. Even immortals cannot go too long without food or their efficiency is going to dwindle due to tiredness, fainting, pain, regen factor slowing down, etc etc.]
[Thanks for the ask! I turned it into a long one huh ^^, don't worry, Aura taught Kumo how to cook good food, and he's gonna make sure Kaze eats better. So will Cid, who took up the role of the Unlimited's doctor. Black Wind, you may be part machine but you're not ENTIRELY one.]
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fandomstuff67 · 4 years ago
Text
Mask
Written for Suptober20 day 5: Mask
Word Count: 1.7k
Read on Ao3 or below:
Dean shut the door of the Impala and fixed his mask around his face before adjusting his suit and tie. The passenger door slammed shut and Dean turned to face Charlie. 
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” he groaned as he ran a finger under his mask to quell an itch. 
“Because it’ll be fun, and you need to get out of the house,” Charlie replied as she pulled her golden mask down over her face. 
Dean sighed but let Charlie pull him towards the school entrance. Of all the kinds of dances for the school to decide to throw, a masquerade was the last one Dean would’ve expected. 
“This is stupid,” he mumbled as they neared the door.  “And I look ridiculous.” 
He tugged at his tie, but Charlie slapped his hand away. “You do not look ridiculous, and I think you’ll have a great time.” 
Dean spared one wistful glance behind him at his car, wishing that he could escape Charlie’s iron grip and dive back into the safety of his vehicle, but Charlie was adamant that he attend this dance, and so inside he went. 
He could already hear the music blaring from down the hall in the gymnasium where the dance was being held, and he reluctantly followed Charlie towards the table where some students were collecting tickets. After they’d handed over their tickets, Dean was pulled into the dark gym and Charlie dragged him to the center of the floor where she began to dance. 
“Come on, Dean! Dance!” Charlie encouraged as her fists pumped the air and her hair flowed around her face, red curls bouncing to her movements. 
Dean sighed, what did he have to lose? It wasn’t like anyone could see who he was anyway. Slowly, he began to sway to the music and Charlie let out a cry of joy. 
“See? It’s not so bad.” 
“I still think I look ridiculous,” he muttered. 
“You look handsome,” Charlie said with a smile.
 Dean stayed on the dance floor for another five minutes before he decided that he’d had enough dancing for the night. 
“I’m going to get something to drink,” he said as Charlie danced around him. 
“Okay! I think I’m gonna go see if I can find any fair maidens to dance with.” 
Dean chuckled to himself as Charlie went off into the swamp of people, searching for some poor girl to subject to her dance moves. 
But, as he turned towards the snack table, he hit something solid and he stumbled back in surprise. “Shit, sorry,” he apologized to the boy he’d just run into. 
The boy smiled at him, and Dean’s brain suddenly short circuited, because even in the dark gymnasium and with a mask on, he could still see the deep blue of this boy’s eyes and he was suddenly drowning in them. 
“My apologies as well,” the boy said, his voice was enough to make Dean feel like he wanted to collapse. It was deep and rich, not the voice you’d expect a sixteen year old to have. 
“Right, uh, well, excuse me,” Dean said. 
Dean tried to sidestep the boy, but he also tried to step around Dean and they went the same way, causing them to collide again. “I’m sorry,” the boy said, an embarrassed laugh accompanying his words. 
Dean couldn’t help but laugh as well and he smiled and reached out to put his hands on the boy’s shoulders to move him gently while they spun in a half circle. “There,” he said softly, clapping his hand on the boy’s shoulder, but he didn’t drop his hands. He just stood there, staring at this boy, who’s black hair was sticking up around the elastic band of his mask, a mask that was tan in color with a few dark blue flecks. It was kind of beautiful, much better than Dean’s simple black mask that he’d bought at the dollar store last night because Charlie had called and demanded he come to the dance. 
They stood there for a few moments, possibly minutes, as people moved around them to the beat of the music. “Dance with me.” 
The words were out of Dean’s mouth before he even realized he was saying them. He didn’t know this boy, but there was something about him that made Dean throw caution to the wind.
“Of course,” the boy replied. 
It wasn’t the answer Dean had been expecting, but somehow it suited the boy in front of him. Dean grinned and pulled the mysterious boy towards him, letting his hands fall to his hips while the boy placed his hands around Dean’s neck. 
They swayed to the music and with every brush of their bodies against each other, Dean felt his heart stutter in his chest. Dean should tell him his name. He should introduce himself, this wasn’t some fairy tale where you met the love of your life at a ball and forgot to exchange names, this was real life, and he should really give this boy his name. 
But he didn’t. 
Somehow he felt like it would be weird, like it would break the comfortable anonymity of this shared moment. They could be safe in this moment, drifting in the shadows, masks shading them from each other’s identities. 
Dean wanted to know who this gorgeous boy in front of him was, he wanted to pull the mask from his face and take in the full picture, because he was sure that he would like what he saw. But he pushed away his urges and let himself fall into an easy rhythm with the boy. They worked well together, matching each other’s movements, as if they were one person. 
As he danced, he forgot all about the drink he’d been going to get. The pinch of his too-tight shoes faded to a dull ache, the tightness of his tie around his neck fell away, the sweat beading on his forehead and seeping into his paper mask was nothing but a distant feeling. There was only this blue-eyed boy and the feeling of his hands on Dean’s shoulders, of his hair brushing Dean’s chin, of his deep voice as he hummed along quietly to the slow song that was now playing over the speakers. The song wasn’t one Dean recognized, but by the sound of it, the boy in his arms did. 
As the song was ending, the boy started to pull away, but Dean pulled him back, letting their eyes meet. They stared at each other for a moment, but then Dean closed the space between them, pressing his lips against the masked boy in front of him. 
The response was instantaneous, the boy kissed back and the gym disappeared, it was just them, nothing and no one else, it was perfect.
Dean wanted to stay in this moment forever, but all good things must come to an end, and eventually they had to pull away. The dance was over, and they had to go their separate ways.
“Uh, I’ll see you around,” Dean said. 
The boy smiled, it was gummy and Dean found it contagious. “Of course.” 
“Bye then,” Dean said as he ran a hand through his hair. 
“Goodbye.” 
“Ready to go?” Charlie asked as she suddenly appeared beside Dean, lipstick smeared and hair twisted in a few knots. 
“Uh, yeah,” Dean replied, tearing his eyes from the boy who was walking away towards the gym doors. He wanted to call after him, to give him his name, but he was frozen to the spot.
Charlie looked at him and smiled knowingly. “You two have a fun night?” she asked with a wink. 
“Yes,” Dean answered, a soft smile on his lips. He didn’t even care that he wasn’t going to hear the end of this the whole drive back to Charlie’s place. 
“I told you this dance wouldn’t be so horrible.” 
Dean rolled his eyes as they began to walk towards the exit. “Yeah yeah, shut up.” 
                                                  ****
On Monday, Dean found himself scanning the hallways, looking for a shock of messy black hair and blue eyes, but he saw nobody fitting that description. 
He went to his classes early, which earned him surprised looks from his teachers when they saw him sitting at his desk five minutes before class started instead of five minutes after the bell rang, but it was just so he could watch the door and take in every student that came into the classroom. But the boy from Friday didn’t seem to be in any of his classes. 
His classes went by slowly, and he itched to get out of his seat and scour every single classroom in this building until he found the mysterious boy who hummed to unknown songs and kissed like he was seeking oxygen and Dean’s lips were the only source. 
It wasn’t until the last period of the day when Dean found himself in the library, since it was his free period, that he saw the back of a familiar dark haired head sitting at a table by the line of computers. Dean’s stomach dropped for a brief moment, his nerves building up in his body. He took a steadying breath, and then approached the table. 
The boy was sitting alone, and he had about three textbooks open around him with a pencil in one hand while he scribbled notes on a piece of paper.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” Dean asked. His voice came out a lot more relaxed than he felt, which he was grateful for. 
The boy raised his head and Dean knew he’d found the right person when blue eyes met his. He saw the recognition spark in his eyes and he smiled.  “No, of course, not.”
“So uh, I’m Dean.” 
“Castiel.” 
Dean blinked at him in surprise, of all the names he thought this boy could have, Castiel was not even on the list. “That’s an interesting name,” Dean said as he sat down at the table. 
“Most people just call me Cas.” 
Dean smiled as he pulled his books out of his bag and met Cas’ blue eyes. “Hey Cas.” 
Cas smiled back, his work seemingly forgotten as he looked into Dean’s eyes. “Hello, Dean.”
Dean had been right, Cas looked much better without a mask.
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is-it-art-tho · 3 years ago
Text
This is Chapter 8!
Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7.
Medical instruments whirred and beeped, filling the sterile air of the private hospital room with a constant hum. Thankfully, Dick had been captured as a civilian and his body was not yet the dense matrix of scar tissue and old injuries that Bruce’s was, so taking him to the hospital was not as risky as it might have otherwise been. Typically, they would have taken him back to the Cave or to Dr. Thompkins, but after watching Jason practically will Dick’s heart back into rhythm, Bruce would have taken Dick to the hospital himself if the paramedics hadn’t arrived so quickly.
That had been three days ago. Since then, Dick had laid mostly unmoving, only waking for a few minutes here and there to blearily ask questions or hold short exchanges.
Bruce looked out the window. Dusk had begun to fall over the city, and soon the batsignal would light up the sky if there was anything pressing going on.
“Are you working tonight?” Bruce asked, and though he spoke in a low murmur, his voice still felt like a jarring intrusion in the stillness.
Barbara looked up from her book and glanced out the window then at the clock. Sighing, she laid the book on her lap and rubbed her eyes.
“You don’t have to,” he continued. “You know that.”
“I know.” She sighed again, turning her gaze to Dick and pushing his hair back from his face. “I should, though. He’d want me to. It’s safer for the others when I’m there.”
Bruce made a point of looking at his phone as she leaned forward to murmur something and kiss Dick’s forehead.
She paused beside his chair on her way out to ask, “What about you?”
“I’m staying.”
“That’ll be the third night in a row.”
“Someone should be here.”
“Right. Because the two dozen nurses on rotation and extra security personnel you had stationed on this floor don’t count.” On a normal day, there would have been a bit more of a bite to her sarcasm. Not mean spirited, but sharp and witty the way she usually was. But today those edges were dulled by exhaustion and the fact that she likely knew what he was saying, even if he wouldn’t say it aloud.
I will never take my eyes off him again.
“Just make sure you at least try to get a little sleep, okay?”
“Likewise.”
“Hm. Touché.” She patted his leg and wheeled away.
And then Bruce was alone, once again watching the slow rise and fall of Dick’s chest beneath the sheets. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees as his thoughts turned outward, to the streets of Gotham where the rest of the kids were out searching for those responsible for this.
Hunting.
“How is he?”
Bruce blinked, startled back to the present.
“Alive,” he answered. “Better.”
There was a deep sigh behind him followed by the sound of boots on tile as Jason entered the room, arms crossed. As far as Bruce knew, this was the first time he’d visited the hospital. In fact, this was the first Bruce had heard from him at all since it all happened.
Something occurred to him then, and he sat upright and took a breath before turning to look at Jason directly. “I owe you an explanation.”
Jason glanced at him with guarded surprise. There was so much tension in every inch of his being that he looked like he would sooner snap in a stiff breeze than bend.
“Tim spoke to me,” Bruce explained, though this was by far an understatement. Once it had become clear that Dick would be okay, Tim had cornered Bruce in the Cave and let him have it.
Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the boy so upset. He assumed that most of the outburst was likely fueled by the stress of the past few days, but he also knew that Tim had still meant every word.
Jason appeared uncertain, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Bruce continued.
“It was my idea to look into you as a person of interest.”
The younger man managed to go even more rigid. He turned his gaze to Dick. “We don’t have to talk about that.”
“I think we do. Tim told me how much it upset you–”
Jason scoffed. “‘Upset?’ I don’t give a shit what you think of me. I’m not twelve anymore, Bruce.”
Bruce could not begin to express how painfully aware of this he was. Sitting here, staring at the son who he had lost as a boy and had returned a man, Bruce felt almost as if he could count each lost year in the lines and scars on Jason’s face, like the rings in a tree.
“That’s true,” he allowed. “But even so, I want you to know that I regret it.”
“You regret it. Regret what, exactly?”
“Treating you like a suspect.”
“Why? If that’s what I was then why should you treat me any different.”
“Because you are different. You have to know that.”
Bruce could see the muscles working in Jason’s jaw. The younger man’s arms were still crossed, and his fingers were balled in the sleeve along his bicep.
“What are you trying to say.”
And again Bruce felt it, that old wound that had been with him for nearly seven years now. The wound that had opened in him the moment he had lifted Jason’s broken body in his arms and knew that he was gone. It had only grown when he’d found Jason alive again only to learn that there were certain things that even the Lazarus Pit could not resurrect.
It was an ache that reminded Bruce every day of the myriad ways he had failed Jason and continued to do so. He had failed to set him up with a better, healthier life as a child – one far away from Bruce’s own world. He had failed to keep the boy safe. Failed to give him the closure he craved. And now it seemed he had also failed to communicate even the simplest truth.
“You’re my son,” Bruce said, and it felt like an impossibly foolish thing to have to say out loud, like explaining that the sky was blue or grass was green. To think that Bruce had done something to call that into question, or that perhaps he had never made that clear to begin with, was a crushing realization.
He had let his own child down spectacularly. Nothing he could do in life would ever be a suitable restitution. Surely, Bruce would take this with him to his grave.
When Jason finally turned to him, he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. But there was something profoundly sad in his eyes.
“No,” he said after a while, “I’m not.”
“Jason–”
“Your son died, Bruce. He’s not… I’m not that person anymore.”
Bruce wanted to disagree, and he could feel that part of Jason wanted that, too. But this wasn’t entirely false. The Jason who had returned to Gotham was not the same Jason who had once fought by Bruce’s side. It had taken Bruce a while to accept that; he had been so grief-stricken and relieved to have his son back that he had been blind to the obvious fact that things had changed.
That Jason had changed.
Bruce couldn’t be sure how much of that change was due to the circumstances of his death or the passage of time and how much was a result of the Pit itself, but it didn’t matter to him. Not really.
Because when Bruce looked into those green eyes which had once been brown, when he studied the streak of white hair that dangled in the younger man’s face and noted the perpetually defensive set of his mouth and shoulders and all of the other things that had changed since his return, all Bruce saw was Jason.
His son.
And right now, his son was in pain.
“What have I told you about the time after my parents died?” Bruce asked.
“What? Not much, I guess.”
Bruce nodded, unsurprised but vaguely disappointed in himself all the same.
“I went to a dark place,” he explained. “Some kids grieve by lashing out. It’s a cry for help, obviously. They get loud, throw tantrums. I did the opposite. I collapsed in on myself. It was like there was a black hole in my chest, sucking up all of my emotions, my thoughts, my feelings. I didn’t laugh or even cry, really. I barely spoke. I don’t even remember really tasting anything during those days. I walked around for feeling like a shell. Or a ghost.”
Bruce paused. This was a period in his life that he didn’t often reflect on, and now that he was talking about it, the memories were rushing back, vivid and visceral as if he were reliving them.
“What are you–” Jason began, but he quieted when Bruce held up a patient hand.
“After a while, I started to accept that this would just have to be my new reality and I got better at masking it. I learned to smile and laugh at the right times. I talked more and did everything I thought I ought to do to be who I had been before. To be Bruce again. For one thing, I didn’t want Alfred to worry about me, but I was also scared that if I didn’t put on the act he would leave. He had agreed to care for the old Bruce, not whoever this new, damaged person was.
“Then one day – this had to be almost a year later – I was sitting in the den. Not thinking or doing anything, just sitting. I had started doing that a lot. Maintaining the facade was exhausting, so when I was alone sometimes I would just… sit. Only, this time Alfred had been watching me. I have no idea for how long, but eventually he came in and sat next to me and just put his arm around me and I knew in that moment that he knew, even though he didn’t say anything.
“And I was terrified. I expected to wake up the next the day to an empty house, but there he was in the kitchen making breakfast just like always. Still, I couldn’t even look at him and when I got up to leave he stopped me, tilted my face up so that he could look in my eyes, and all he said was ‘I see you, Master Bruce.’
“I see you,” Bruce repeated the phrase to himself, thinking of that moment, those words. How much they had meant to him back then. How much they still meant to him, even now.
“It was all he needed to say,” he continued. “And I realized then that I hadn’t fooled him for a second. He knew that things had changed, that I couldn’t be the boy I had been before. He saw all of that damage – those broken parts in me – and he stayed anyway. I didn’t have try to be something I wasn’t or worry about scaring him away. I could just be. And God, it was like I could breathe again.”
Bruce didn’t realize he’d begun to well up until he felt a tear hit his hand. He wiped his eyes, mildly surprised at himself, then looked to find Jason staring at him, wide-eyed. “What I mean is, I may not always understand you, and I know I’m not the perfect father or ally or whatever it is you see me as these days. But I see you, Jay. All of you. And I’ll never give you another reason to think otherwise.”
Jason’s face went red and he turned away, muttering, “Whatever,” before dragging a chair up near Bruce’s and dropping into it with a heavy flump. "Just stop."
Bruce risked clapping the younger man on the shoulder and giving him a quick squeeze. When Jason didn’t recoil from it, he let his hand linger there a second longer than necessary, struggling to remember the last time they had touched like this, before letting go.
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shinycorvidae · 4 years ago
Text
How Vic and Hiro Ended Up Sharing a Brain Tapeworm
(cowritten with @smilepal)
Part 6 of 6: In Which We Piss Off Our Pseudo-Father Figures
"Please proceed to insert the jack below the ear, although not too deep"
"... auxiliary neurosockets..."
"If I hit a vein by mistake..."
"...end up like Deshawn...fucking try me..."
"I think I have it."
"V! We're at viks, just..."
"... cannot...need...rest"
"Misty!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(I got stuck writing this for two weeks and I want to get to the rest of the story SO HERE HAVE SOME BULLET POINTS ✌️)
Vik taking V from Hiro's arms. He moves right into surgery and leaves a blood soaked Hiro to pace and listen to Delamain tell Vik that she’s going to die. Misty tries to convince him to go wash off the blood he’s covered in. Like hell is he leaving till Vs stable. She instead sits him down within eyesight of V and wraps up his torn palm. It’s cyberware, the best she can do is stop the leaking.
Hiro uses his anti-anxiety medication for the first time since he was a teenager. He doesn’t have time for panic attacks, he needs to be sharp, he’s got multiple people to protect.
Vik finally manages to stabilize V. He forces Hiro out of the clinic, V will be fine tonight, he needs to go home.
Hiro goes home to an empty, silent apartment. Watches V’s blood wash down the shower drain.
He doesn't sleep that night.
Hiro returns the next morning with three coffees. He’s not optimistic enough to bring one for Takemura or V.
Not that he’d bring one for the corpo anyway.
Vik is tired. There are dark circles under his eyes and he's slumped over on his stool staring into the distance. Hiro’s gut sinks, and he reflexively checks that V’s still breathing.
That’s Vik’s bad news face.
Hiro hands Vik the coffee and they sit in silence for a while. Watching V breathe.
Vik puts down his coffee and sighs.
“Do you want the good or the bad first?”
“Just tell me Vik”
“She’s stable. I removed the bullet from her head and she’ll recover fully from the wound. She’ll have a nasty scar and nothing else.”
“...but?”
“It’s hard to explain kid.”
“Vik.”
“The item V and Jackie were sent to filch? It’s a biochip, a Relic. Arasakas “upload a dead person” magic trick. But this one’s different, a prototype. Somehow it got slotted into Vs head.”
“What? Why would she do that? That...that makes no sense. Vic’s an idiot sometimes but...she wouldn’t do that.”
“Might not have been a willing choice kid. Might have been a desperate action. Maybe she was just reckless. I don’t know. Doesn’t change the end result. There’s a biochip in her head and I can’t get it out without killing her.”
“What? You can’t just unslot it?”
“When Deshawn shot her, she was dead. Just for a minute, maybe less. Then the nanites in the chip booted up and brought her back. That Relic is the only reason she’s breathing on that bed right now.”
“Fuck. Fuck, she...never mind, keep going Vik. Tell me all of it.”
“There’s only bad news left Hiro.”
“Keep going. Please.”
“...alright. That reboot, the bullet to the head? It activated the construct on the biochip. The virtual psyche of the person written on that chip. Johnny Silverhand.”
“...the rocker?”
“The terrorist more like. He’s...he’s overwriting V. He’s-It’s going to scoop out everything that makes her V and replace it with Silverhand. She has a couple weeks before there's nothing of her left, maybe a month at best.”
“How do we fix it?”
“There’s...-kid there’s nothing I can fix. I can slow it down a little with some medication, keep her a little more comfortable. But I-I can't fix this.”
The floor drops out from under him. No. Not now. She lived, she survived a bullet to the fucking head. A little piece of tech isn’t going to-
Fuck. FUck. Not another one, please not both of them, he cant-
And V. V who hates any loss of control, who’s so sure of who she is. Getting erased...he can’t think of a worst fear for her. A worse torture.
He leans against the counter heavily, the only thing supporting his weight. He can’t even look at her. He failed her. HE failed them both.
Vik's hand falls on his back. He can barely feel it. Barely hear him talk.
“I tried kid. I worked through every possible solution. Nothing works. The closest I got was splitting the engram but its not going to-”
Hiro will take anything. Any deal, any bargain to keep her here.
“Split it. How would you split it.”
Vik just looks at him. Keeps his mouth shut for a beat.
“Hiro-”
“NO! Vik, I refuse to- we won't lose her. We can’t, I can’t-. You aren't going to hold anything back from me, I swear-”
“Fine! Fine. If you split the engram, you might, MIGHT alleviate the load on Vic’s brain enough that she can fight off the engram, partially. Enough so she keeps control. It's a slim chance. More likely it will just buy her time, a couple months, and doom the second host to the same fate. And it might just outright kill her and the second host. I'm not going to take someone off the street and subject them to that. And I don't know anyone who'd do it willingly.”
“...I will. Use me. I’ll be the second host.”
“No.”
Viktor’s no is immediate. He's both horrified and shocked that Hiro would even offer. He watched him fight to survive as a teenager. To see him gamble his life on the slight chance to save Vic...
He won’t. He practically raised the kid, he’s not going to kill him on his own operating table.
Hiro gets right in his face, desperate and angry.
“We have a chance Vik! You're just too scared to take it!”
“It’s a fool’s chance! At best you buy her a couple months-”
“You said there's a chance it’d cure her completely.”
“A tiny one! It'd be like betting on a five year old in a one-on-one with Razor Hughes. Its suicide.”
“If V’s that five year old I’m taking that god damned bet.”
Vik just stares at him. He’s completely serious. He knew Jackie's death was affecting him, but he hadn't realized he'd lost his mind.
“Hiro-”
“I am BEGGING you Vik. I will get on my knees if that makes a difference, PLEASE. If you have an ounce of respect for me you'll do this, its my body, my fucking choice”
Hiro ups the ante at the sliver of weakness of resignation in Vik's face. He’s terrified and it’s making him desperate, making him mad.
“If you don't I will never forgive you, I fucking swear. You will never see my face again. You can’t not give me this chance to save her,-”
Vik's face goes hard. Stony. If the kid is going to guilt him with that, fine. He's an adult and obviously he doesn't care anymore. Let him risk his own damn life.
And. Hiro’s desperate enough, Vik KNOWS, he just knows that Hiro won't give up. He’ll find a different ripperdoc, one willing to do it. And they’ll fuck it up. No one willing to do that would be good at their job. He has to do it. Or put Hiro at even greater risk.
A little part of Vik hates Hiro for it. For backing him into this awful corner. For forcing him to be complicit in Hiro's death. In V’s.
“Alright. Alright. Go change into one of the scrubs, the sooner we do this, the better. For you and for V”
“Thank you-”
“DO NOT thank me for this Hiro. Do not. I don’t want to do this. It’s wrong and I’m pretty sure V would-”
“V lost the right to an opinion when she slotted this thing in her fucking skull in the first place.”
Vik performs the surgery. They both live. He makes sure Hiro is comfortable and asleep before opening up the scans of their brains. Of the Relic, still nestled in Vs head untouched. His stomach drops.
His prediction was mostly right. V isn't cured. Hiro bought her a couple more months, maybe 2 or 3. He's only delayed her death. Stretched out how long it will take Silverhand to devour her. Hiro has connected himself to her and the Relic but in a stroke of luck not her death. The relic isn't trying to scoop him out, but it will put stress on his synapses. He’ll have migraines, nausea, even possible seizures at the end of V’s life but when her final thread of self snaps, the bridge between their brains will collapse. He may be left with some permanent effects but he’ll live. Thank god he’ll live. He mourns for V but selfishly, awfully he's so grateful Hiro lived and will live. He will never say it out loud but he'd sacrifice V, a good friend, if it meant Hiro could live.
Hiro wakes up the next day. He refuses to believe Vik's final diagnosis. He’s bought V time, they’ll find some way to fix this.
He spends the week at Vik's, recovering and waiting for her to wake up. He tries to help around the clinic, but his relationship with Vik has been severely strained. Any conversation is awkward and stilted.
V wakes occasionally, short periods of not full awareness. Murmuring words, clenching her fists, eyes barely opening.
The first time she does it, Hiro's sitting right next to her bed, fiddling with the dismantled pieces of a shotgun to keep busy. He happens to look to his left. He’s shocked by the sight of V’s yellow brown eyes, staring at him lazy and warm.
“Hiro...”
“Hey V. Go back to sleep. It's too soon for you to be waking up.”
“K. G’night.”
A surge of deep want goes through Hiro as he pushes Vs hair back. He wants her.
Ohhhhh fuuuuuck he wants her. Not just as a friend. Or a roommate. Or a want for her to be safe. Oh no. oh nooooooo.
Apparently he’s not gay??? At least not completely. MAybe it's just men AND V. like an exception? Fuck this is bad. This is bad AND weird.
But he definitely wants V in his bed. He wants to know what her nails feel like on his back, her teeth on his lip. The playful look in her warm eyes as she drags her hand down his chest-
NOPE. NO. He’s not doing this right now. V is sick, V is DYING, he’s not- nope we aren't thinking about that.
It takes a couple hours for his ears to stop being bright red.
V wakes up late on the 6th day, Vik is sitting right there. Waiting for her to wake up.
V takes the news quietly. She's tired and obviously weak but her voice only wavers a little. She only begs Vik for a solution once, when she learns she’ll lose everything she is. She doesn't tear up or panic but examines every option she has. Looking for a way out. She can break down when she’s alone. Vik looks like he’s struggling with this enough. He doesn’t need to see her pain and fear too.
Hiro watches the whole thing from across the clinic. In a dark enough corner that V wouldn't immediately notice him. He watches her push down her feelings. Comforting Vik about her own fate for fucks sake.
He shouldn’t be here. Now that she’s lucid she probably hates him for not coming with them. He shouldn't creepily watch her be vulnerable without her consent. But he can't manage to drag himself away either.
Vik shakily wipes his face and delivers the final blow
"Hiro bought you sometime so you have a couple months instead of weeks. But you’re still dying V-"
"Wait Hiro? What did he do? Where is he?"
Fuck. Well now he really can't just sulk in the corner anymore. He comes out, walking up to her bed silently. He has no clue what to say to her.
V doesn't leave him drowning for long. She gives him a small smile, tired and pained but happy to see him anyway.
"It only took me dying to get you to learn to be sneaky, huh?"
A small choked laugh, suspiciously wet, escapes him. Only she would pull a laugh out of him right now, the brat.
Misty helps Hiro move her to a wheel chair so he can bring her home. Vik explains the meds to him too. He can tell her later. When she's not fast asleep in a wheelchair.
She's snoring and her hair is stuck around the handle. She's an idiot. She’s adorable.
Fuck.
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